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| ARCHIVES: July, 2004 |
The Agenda:Testing the Premise: Are Gays a Threat to Our Children? What the "Dutch Study" Really Says About Gay Couples Federal Hate Crime Statistics: Why The Numbers Don't Add Up Favorites:
Photo Essays:The Anasazi Ruins of Chaco Canyon, New Mexico Now Showing / Reflection on Hayden, Arizona
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Careers
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Robert F. Bukaty / AP |
Larry Downing / Reuters |
A change is gonna come...
And that completes one work week in which I came closest to posted something every single day. I missed Tuesday, and I wouldn't count on this pace going on forever if I were you – I'm spent.
Have a great weekend, everybody.
Chris noticed this when we were watching the Democratic Convention last night.
| Gary Hershorn / Reuters | EOnline | |
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| Gen. John Shalikashvili | Grampa Munster |
Scary, ain't it?
And when did Barack Obama marry Claire Huxtable?
| Gary Hershorn / Reuters | MPTV.net | |
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| Michelle and Barack Obama | Cliff and Claire Huxtable |
Why didn't anybody tell me about all of this?
I never was much interested in sports. But now that the Olympics are almost upon us, and after seeing pictures like these of the athletes competing for slots on the team, I think maybe it is time to rethink this whole not-liking-sports thing.
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Unfortunately, we won't be seeing Kevin Clements on the Olympic swim team. He was unable to qualify today.
This showed up on CNN's coverage of the Democratic convention this evening:
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Hmmmm.... Let me see. That looks familiar. I know I've seen this somewhere before. Where was it?
As Wonkette would say, "MUST CREDIT LOOKINGFORSAM!!! MUST CREDIT LOOKINGFORSAM!!!"
We must also extend credit to Dan Lee. And congratulations to Scooter.
UPDATE: Here's the official transcript of Anderson Cooper interviewing Ana Marie Cox of Wonkette.com.
COOPER: I've got to ask you about something you put on Wonkette.com, you put a picture of me, I think we have it, comparing me to a little dog, wasn't even my own dog. What was that about?.
COX: That’s Scooter.
COOPER: That’s Scooter..
COX: You’re both very beautiful animals..
COOPER: All right.
COX: Good breeding.
COOPER: You left me – you’re leaving me blushing. We’re going to leave it here. Ana Marie Cox, well, hope to talk to you later in the week.
COX: Thank you.
Our two local newspapers were very excited last Friday. The Arizona Daily Star carried this very large headline across the front page, and the Tucson Citizen ran a prominent graphic of this footnote to Chapter 7 of the 9/11 Commission report on its front page:
58. Al Qaeda figures at the university or in Tucson included Mubarak al Duri, reportedly Bin Ladin’s principal procurement agent for weapons of mass destruction; Muhammad Bayazid, an al Qaeda arms procurer and trainer; Wadi al Hage, an operative convicted for the East Africa bombings; and Wail Julaidan, a Saudi extremist with ties to al Qaeda.
The articles go on to say that the CIA wrote a classified analysis entitled, “Arizona: Long Term Nexus for Islamic Extremists.” That’s a very catchy title, don’t you think?
Maybe it’s the hick in me, but my heart cannot help but swell with pride whenever my town gets mentioned in the news. I guess this goes back to the fact that my childhood hometown, Portsmouth, Ohio, very rarely got mentioned when I was growing up. But whenever it happened, it was a really big deal – regardless of whether the news was good or bad.
When a private plane ditched itself in the Ohio River and the pilot drowned while trying to swim to shore, we were on both channels out of Huntington, West Virginia. Yes, the news was tragic, poor guy drowning and all, but did you see the film taken from in front of the police station? Where was that other shot taken? Did you see anybody you know in the background? What about that guy who was jumping up and down and waving?
Portsmouth was in the news again in 1981 when CBS did a lengthy story about shuttered steel mills in Ohio. Portsmouth was briefly mentioned with a quick shot of Greenlawn Cemetery. Dan Rather said that the cemetery’s population exceeded that of the town. This was CBS News, mind you! That’s national – home of Walter Cronkite! We were on the map!
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Unfortunately, Portsmouth's moment in the spotlight was very brief, maybe seven seconds at the most. All told, they're still owed some 14½ minutes of fame.
Things changed for me when I went to college in Cincinnati (bigger city, more happening) and co-op’ed in Washington, DC (even bigger city, lots more happening). In fact, it was in the nation’s capital where my fascination with my home being in the news flipped its perspective. Before, where I got to see a small glimpse of what my home looked like to the outside world, I now saw a strangely detached reflection of my home in the news.
When you live in a place where the Watergate is just an expensive office and condominium complex, your take on the news is a little different. Having your town in the news every day makes you realize that they’re not telling the whole story, and the story they’re telling is different from the one you’re experiencing.
Important things may happen in the Pentagon and State Department, but we still had to drive around truck-bomb barricades in rush hour traffic while keeping a sharp lookout for a parking space. In 1982, when Air Florida flight 90 went down in the Potomac after hitting the 14th Street Bridge in a snowstorm, traffic sucked for days afterwards. Oh yeah, and 178 people died.
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When I graduated from college and moved to Dallas, I learned that the news can cast a long shadow over a city. Dallas is extremely hypersensitive to any sort of blemish on its image, a fact that can be directly attributed to the 1963 Kennedy assassination. Native Dallasites told me that the entire nation held a grudge against them for the next decade. Whenever they traveled, they routinely ran into expressions of anger, as though each and every resident pulled the trigger. This gave the entire city a collective neurosis which exists to this very day.
Forty years later, the trauma is still palpable. Go to
the corner of Elm and Houston anytime, day or night, and there are still clumps
of people standing around, pointing to the 6th floor or the
grassy knoll. You’d think it had happened just moments ago.
Dallas today is a huge pile of very shiny buildings, wide streets, plenty of free parking, and signs of progress everywhere. The flashy architecture, bustling airport, fabulous shopping and trendy neighborhoods accompany the constant reminders from local boosters that Dallas is a “world-class city”. These are ongoing evidences of the terrible pain that the city continues to try to cover. You know, a real world-class city never has to remind anyone that it is a world-class city.
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Dallas is like a heavily made-up dowager, wearing lots of costume jewelry while hiding its blemishes under an extra-thick layer of pancake. Famous Dallasite Mary Kay Ash could not be a more fitting icon. Not only did she look the part, but she played her part by fighting to have the Texas Schoolbook Depository demolished instead of turning it into a museum. She lost, much to the sorrow of many longtime residents.
The popularity of the television series Dallas finally brought some much-needed relief among the locals. At last, there was something else for people to think about when they thought of Dallas. As one longtime resident asked me, “How would you feel if I told you the first thing that comes to mind when I think about Ohio is Kent State?”
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I moved to Tucson five years ago, which is barely ninety miles from Tombstone, site of the famous shootout at the OK Corral. Tombstone – “the town too tough to die” – is now a Disneyland-like tourist destination with gunfights on the hour every hour. But in other parts of town away from the tourists, people still shake their fists at each other whenever the touchy subject is raised. The local historical society has a display in the old courthouse which shows three different versions of what really happened. It’s still controversial among the descendants of those who settled here when the frontier was new and lawless. It really wasn’t all that long ago when you think about it.
Now that Tucson has a new claim to notoriety, we might be able to exploit it the way Tombstone did. Unfortunately we have some pretty tough competition. Hijackers trained in Phoenix, Minneapolis and Florida, and that’s just for starters. We’d have a real tough time challenging Boston, Washington and Newark, from where the planes took off. And then there’s that whole New York City Ground Zero thing. We all may end up in a huge ugly fight over who can rightly claim to be the birthplace of terrorism, the way Ohio (home of the Wright Brothers) and North Carolina (home of Kitty Hawk) fight over the bragging rights to being the "birthplace of aviation."
But we have one thing going for us – the CIA already gave us a really cool slogan for the tourism brochures: “Arizona: Long Term Nexus for Islamic Extremists.” Awesome! We’re on the map!
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Here is another installment of advice from the Editors of Sexology, November 1956.
Editor, Sexology:
I am married and have children. My wife and I love each other very much. We indulge in many gratifying caresses before marital relations.
We wonder whether we are doing something wrong or unhealthy in participating in pre-coital caresses.
Mr. J. P. R., Florida
Answer:
In sexual matters, each individual usually decides for himself or herself what is right or wrong.
A universal church has stated: “The secondary purpose in marriage is satisfaction of the sexual instincts. To this end any act, position and method may be considered good and permissible.”
Most sexologists consider that there is nothing unhealthy about preliminary caresses before and leading to the marital act providing they are mutual and not a substitute for marital relations.
Editor, Sexology:
I have been married twice. While living with a wife I have always been nervous and mentally disturbed. I like to wear women’s garments.
Recently I had become friendly with a man and am happier when having such an association. I think I am a homosexual. Your advice will be appreciated.
Mr. V. C., California
Answer:
Evidently homosexual desires (and the desire to dress as a female) were instilled in you by experiences which had a profound sexual effect in your early life.
Many who have given serious study to homosexuality believe that the condition is more of a sociological than of a medical nature. Other scientists believe that homosexuality is a mental aberration or a symptom of neurosis.
Read the article Can Homosexuality Be Cured by the famous English psychiatrist Dr. Clifford Allen in the February 1956 issue of Sexology.
© 1956, Sexology Corp
We have certainly come a long way in the past 48 years, haven't we?
“What they do in the privacy of their house, consenting adults should be able to do,” Mr. Bush said during a campaign stop in Pennsylvania on Friday, seeking to distinguish between private behavior and giving legal sanction to same-sex marriages. “This is America. It's a free society. But it doesn't mean we have to redefine traditional marriage.”
The more I think about what the President had to say about it, the more I agree with him. That is why I am now coming out against same-sex marriage.
First of all, same-sex marriage is completely unnecessary. I have found my inability to marry to be utterly inconsequential to my ability to have sex. And besides, while sex is often a key ingredient in bringing two people together, it makes an incredibly poor foundation for marriage – or any type of relationship for that matter. Same-sex marriage would completely miss the point of marriage.
Any marriage based on sex would be extremely weak and bad for any family that would come about as a result. So yes, it’s pretty clear that same-sex marriage would be bad for families and a dangerous weakening of an institution that has sustained civilization for thousands of years.
Besides, Lord knows we don’t need to get married in order to have sex. And if you’re looking for marriage to place some sort of stamp of approval on the sex you’re having, then it’s a pretty poor reason to get married.
I’m against opposite-sex marriage for the same reasons.
I’m also not too sure about this “gay marriage” thing either. What is it exactly? Nobody has offered a good explanation as to what gay marriage would look like as opposed to regular marriage.
As I see it, the word “gay” serves as an adjective, a modifier to the term “marriage,” and as a modifier it changes the meaning of the word somehow. But nobody has adequately explained how “marriage” is modified by the word “gay.” But whatever it is, it can’t be good. After all, if marriage as been so beneficial for so much of human history, why would anybody want to modify it?
In fact, it looks like that’s exactly why the opponents of gay marriage are so upset. They keep talking about gay marriage changing the very definition of marriage altogether. Grammatically they’re right, but I’m not sure what it would mean exactly.
So I’m against gay marriage too. If there were such talk about “straight marriage,” I’d have some serious questions about that as well.
Frankly, I have no intention of redefining traditional marriage. In fact, I’d like to see more people traditionally married than ever before. It sure beats what Britney Spears has been up to lately.
Unfortunately, I notice that many of my fellow homosexuals have fallen into the trap of advocating either same-sex marriage or gay marriage. But you see, the language is all wrong. We should just talk about marriage and leave the adjectives out of it. The discussion is simply about allowing gays and lesbians to marry.
So here’s what I’m advocating: marriage. Just marriage. You know, the traditional bedrock of families, the bond which strengthens the steadfastness between two people in love, the recognition of a lifelong commitment, the source of stability in families, communities and society, and the institution that has nourished civilization for thousands of years. As I see it, the more people who participate in the plain old-fashioned traditional concept of marriage, the better off we all will be. That’s all I’m saying.
We see this happen time and time again with so many people we know: there are those who go through one transient relationship after another. They sleep around, moving from bed to bed, party to party, lover to lover, recklessly and irresponsibly sowing their wild oats to the four winds. It’s a pretty disgusting sight. But then one day, they meet “the one.” They spend time together, hang out, get to know each other, and come to appreciate each other as two individuals brought together by a mutual bond.
That’s when they decide to get married and leave the party behind, forsaking all others. And when they get married, they suddenly have much more important and satisfying things to do, like building a family and participating in the community in constructive ways.
We all know that couples who get married tend to have more stable and enduring relationships on average than those who simply live together. It’s common sense, really. When you’re married, it’s too hard to split up so you work harder at making it work. When you’re not married, it’s too easy to split. This is why marriage is important. It is downright counterproductive to leave cohabitation as the only viable option for some people.
So maybe the conservatives are right – if cohabitation is an avenue for the continued breakdown of morals in our society, we might be able to counter it by encouraging more people who love each other and are willing to commit to each other to get married. It’s not good enough to stand on the sidelines and tisk-tisk the perceived promiscuity of people who aren’t married. The gay ones can’t marry. I don’t know what excuse the straight ones have.
"We stand for institutions like marriage and family which are the foundations of our society," he said, drawing thunderous applause from the partisan crowd.
I, too, applaud the President’s sentiment on marriage, but not his exclusion of gay people. Because the reasons he gives for supporting marriage are exactly the same reasons gays and lesbians and straight people all want to get married. Sex has precious little to do with it. The very term “same-sex marriage” is silly. And “gay marriage?” I’m still not clear as to what that would mean.
If marriage is good, then it is good for everybody. Not just for straight people.
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Sam’s birthday was last Saturday, July 17. He was born in 1900 and we are here to celebrate his memory. I do this even though I have never met him.
I am glad that I’m not the only one remembering someone whom I’ve never met. I gotten a several E-mails in the past few weeks from readers who had stumbled upon this site and read about Sam. One blogger wrote to tell me that he’ll be thinking about Sam from now on. Another reader said he shed a few tears on reading the story about Sam. I was very touched to receive such sweet messages from otherwise perfect strangers. It’s very gratifying to know what Sam is not forgotten.
This endeavor is what it’s all about – remembering Sam and others like him in the world. Over the past couple of months, I have come to understand that I have been using this exercise of remembering Sam as a means of exploring a several much larger themes. But the principle theme that seems to be recurring (as far as this website is concerned at least) is this:
The Persistence of Mutable Memory.
Most of my posts lately have been about some aspect of remembering, whether it is in recording actual events or just stuff I make up. In the process, I've come to understand some fascinating characteristics of memory, principally its impermanence, its mutability, and at the same time, its very persistence – however different it may be from the original reality or experience.
You see, I remember things that you have never known. You remember things that I cannot imagine. And if someone else sees something that I didn’t see and tells me about it, his memory is implanted in me. I remember it even though I was never there, but sometimes I might remember it as though I was. But the memory is inevitably changed when it is handed off like that, even though it may be handed off with extraordinary vitality.
On the other hand, we may both look at the same thing and each remember that thing completely differently. If someone else is there also and takes pictures of it, we may both remember it more and more through the images that someone else captured rather than through our own experiences.
And, truth be told, sometimes we both remember things which never were.
Memory is mutable, changeable, and malleable. Yet it remains persistent regardless of its quality.
I offer a few examples...
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Once upon a time, a very long, long time ago when things were very different from today, my great-grandmother Easter (Sam’s brother) was getting ready to do some housework, but she couldn’t find her washboard. She was searching high and low for it so she could do the laundry. It was Monday, and there was some laundry that needed to be done. Not much – it really didn’t need to be done right away but the weather was nice and sunny, not too hot, and if you had nice and sunny weather that wasn’t too hot, there was no sense in saving laundry for a day when maybe it would be too hot to work comfortably, or too humid or rainy for the clothes to dry. This day was perfect laundry weather, but she had misplaced the washboard and couldn’t find it anywhere. Besides, the washtub had rusted and there were holes in it.
Well, there was only one thing to do. “Get the mule and hitch him up to the buckboard. I need to go to town and get a washboard and tub”, she said to me.
This was in 1975.
But in her moment, it was 1905 all over again. And she tried to take me back into time with her. It was a fascinating door to walk through. I remember glimpsing 1905 like it was last week. She remembered 1905 because it was today.
It is sometimes startling how persistent memories can
be.
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Just before my senior year of high school, I participated in a Sister Cities summer exchange program in Orizaba, Mexico, in the state of Vera Cruz, not far from Puebla. In downtown Orizaba there was a large appliance store, Super Su Casa, which sold brand-new treadle Singer sewing machines, brand-new Maytag washing machines with wringers, and a whole line of brand-new Telefunken Hi-Fi sets that looked like they came straight out of a Doris Day movie set from 1962.
I emphasize that these were brand new, factory-direct. They were not second-hand items or the result of some bizarre discover in a forgotten warehouse. This store was like a strange time-warp, and it wasn't confined to just that store.
A cousin of the family I stayed with had one of those Telefunken Hi-Fi’s in the corner of their living room, a really nice one with a walnut cabinet and tiny gold flecks embedded into the loosely woven speaker cloth. It sounded wonderful, in that mellow, deep boomy way that Hi-Fi’s had. Vikki Carr never sounded so fabulous, and neither did Carlos Santana.
This was in the summer of 1978. They hadn’t sold Hi-Fi’s in like these in the U.S. for fifteen years or more. The Maytags and treadle Singers, who knows how long it’s been since they appeared in a Sear’s catalogue? Who knows how long it’s been since there was a Sear’s catalogue?
By the way, the family I stayed with had one of those Maytag wringer-washers in a corner of the laundry room, between the sink and the electric dryer.
When time and place are mutable, how can memory not be?
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I can remember this, but just barely. I'm on the couch at my paternal grandparent's house. My grandfather is holding me as I look through the window behind the couch. I can see the Christmas tree which is set up on their enclosed front porch. I can see the lights, tinsel and ornaments through the window. I reach out towards it and I hear a voice behind me. It is my father. He wants to take a picture, but I don't like the flash and I'd rather look at the Christmas tree.
I am just shy of one year old. This is my only memory of my dad's father.
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But of course, here's the real question. What do I really remember? I was eleven month's old, after all. This picture has been in the photo album for as long as I can remember, and I looked at that album a lot when I was little. Do I really remember what happened when this picture was taken? Or did the picture revive a latent memory when I looked at it again, say, when I was five years old? Or did I reconstruct this scenario entirely from seeing the picture throughout my childhood?
Maybe my memory is real. After all, I remember other things from extremely early childhood without the aid of pictures. I remember the thrill of learning to walk, for example. I remember throwing my mother's watch into the toilet. I remember the layout of the apartment we lived in until I was three years old. I remember sleeping in a crib and eating in a high chair. I remember all of these things very well.
But this is the only memory I have of my grandfather, and he was buried on my third birthday. With all of the other things I can remember from very early childhood, why is this my only memory of him? What role did this picture play in my ability to remember? Without it, would I still remember?
To be honest, I can't answer this. While this memory is unshakable in its persistence, the source is considerably less certain.
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Led Zeppelin had a pretty big hit in the early seventies with the song Nobody’s Fault But Mine. It was originally recorded by Blind Willie Johnson on a cold December day in 1927 in Dallas’s Deep Ellum district. I’m listening right now to that original raw, electrifying recording from way back when, and the power of that performance leaves me with a feeling of awe.
Many people know his music without knowing anything about him. Led Zeppelin’s version of Nobody’s Fault But Mine has gotten plenty pf airplay. I prefer the original myself, even though Zep’s cover is pretty good. Blind Willie’s other great recording, Dark Was The Night – Cold Was The Ground is often heard in the background on television documentaries whenever slavery or sharecropping is mentioned. It too was recorded on that same cold Saturday in 1927. NASA included that recording on a disc placed aboard Voyager 1 in 1977 to be sent to the endless reaches of space as one of planet Earth's representative sounds.
His recordings were intended for short-term consumption by a marginalized race. He died at around 1950 (nobody knows exactly when) in obscurity and poverty. It is now some fifty-five years after his death – seventy-five years after he recorded these gems – and I am listening to him on my computer as I write this. He died poor and forgotten, but after his death his presence has inspired the work of an entire generation of musicians that he could not have imagined. And he thrills me right here in this nice air-conditioned home as I listen to his digitally-sampled recording that I keep stored on my hard drive.
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From Easter’s memory to mine… From 1905 to 2004… From a blind man playing a guitar and groaning into an acoustical recording horn in Deep Ellum to an mp3 file racing across the Internet…
I can remember my Dad's father, although I may only remember him because of the picture. I remember my Dad very well too, After all, I was 22 years old when he died. I have several pictures of him, but not enough to replace his absence. But I grew up with him around, so I know exactly what he looked like, his personality, his expressions and mannerisms. I sometimes find myself using many of his same mannerisms. I don't need any sort of recorded image to remember him.
But sometimes I have trouble remembering the sound of his voice. I have a recording of a blind man from Deep Ellum to know what he sounded like, but I sometimes can't remember what my own father sounded like.
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Time out. Hold on a second. I just realized something…
Easter couldn’t have been remembering a time she took the buckboard into town to buy a washboard. She was old, but not old enough to have ever done such a thing. You see, her family moved to town in 1908, when she was ten years old. And as an adult, she herself would have never used a buckboard to go into town. She was already in town. She spent all of her adult life in a town where she would have walked, taken a streetcar or, later, gotten someone to drive her in a car.
She wasn't remembering something she did when she was younger. She was remembering her mother’s solution to needing a washboard. She was drawing on her mother’s experience from a time when they were still living in the Kentucky hollows.
She carried me back not to her memory, but to another generation further back, to that of her mother, my great-great grandmother.
It just goes to show how mutable an exceptionally persistent memory can be.
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So now here I am, telling you – total strangers mostly – about Sam. Just so you know, these stories come mostly from Easter to me to you. But sometimes, it’s just from me – like when I said earlier that I know exactly why Sam rode the rails. There are some things that I don’t need anyone’s explanation in order to understand, and these things I add to his story. I can’t help but fill in the gaps with the great many things that I know about his family, because they are my family too. That’s how all of the great traditions are enriched and made real to the listeners of each new generation.
Memory is mutable that way. It doesn’t sit still on the cold rock-hard facts. It floats on top of a flood of experiences which continue to flow downstream long after the storms have ended.
I remember Sam, even though I never met him. I remember him because he was my great-great uncle, the kid brother of my great grandmother. I remember him because she told me about the time he didn’t come home.
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Sam’s birthday was July 17th, and his mother’s birthday was the following day. Where Sam went when he hopped the trains, nobody knew. But wherever he went, whenever he went, he was always, always, home for his mother’s birthday.
But one year, sometime in the mid 1930’s (nobody can remember exactly when anymore), her birthday came and went, and he didn’t come home.
On that day, their mother awoke from a dream:
Me and Sam, we were walking along this road out in the country. He was holding my hand while we were going up this hill and we were talking. I was telling him how much I loved him and he was telling me all about how happy he was. When we got to the top of the hill, he just let go of my hand and kept on walking without saying a word, but I couldn’t go no further. I just stood there and watched him as he kept walking. He never looked back. I called out to him, but he couldn’t hear me and I couldn’t follow him.
She knew that she would never see him again. I have my great-great grandmother’s memory of her dream, passed down through the generations, to remind me of him.
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Thretching Rapoko (Jakwara, Nhimbe)
1) People are carry rapoko to the place where threatching is going to take place.
2) Some are carrying sticks for threatching rapoko.
3) They are now threatching the rapoko.
4) Some are singing threatching the rapoko dancing are the place where the rapoko is heaped.
5) The other woman is now removing the wastes from the rapoko putting clear rapoko in a nice bowel.
6) Some are drinking beer because they are thirsty so they trying to make the throat cool and gaining back the power which they had lost during the time they were threatching the rapoko.
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I read the broken English which was carefully written on a scrap of paper glued to the back of the painting. The lady who ran the shop only knew that it came from Namibia, but other than that, she didn’t have anything more to say about it.
These third world shops were becoming quite trendy in Dallas in the early 1990’s, but they left a lot to be desired in terms of quality and depth. Most of the items in this shop were look-alike third-world trinkets that upper middle class Dallasites could buy to add some funky decorative interest to their tacky big-haired McMansions. The drums and masks and Guadalupe shrines had a mass-produced quality to them, quite anonymous, one looking pretty much like the next. Third World Art was on the threshold of becoming the next big thing, and artisans (or, more likely, factories) and traders everywhere were cashing in.
But this painting was very different. This was the real McCoy, and it was exquisite. The primary colors splayed across the plywood animated the scene with their brilliance. Each carefully placed brush stroke told an important part of the story that was too large to fit on the panel. The scenery spilled beyond the flat surface of plywood, and even the frame itself could not contain the forest and the sky.
I was captivated by its liveliness and its loveliness. The composition was wonderful, and the great care in detailing each element – each leaf, brick, and the patterns on the clothing – drew me deeper and deeper into the scene. I picked it up from off the shelf, where it was propped against the wall behind it, and held it close for a better look. I turned it over, and that’s when I saw the handwritten description on the back.
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The artist, Margret, must have known that her work was going to be sent very far away to America. She guessed that whoever ended up with this painting may not understand its meaning, which evidently was very important to her. The communal sharing of work, the songs, the food and beer, these were her touchstones that shaped her world. In order for a stranger to appreciate this painting – to really appreciate what it meant to her – she had to write it down. She was not willing to leave it to chance.
She wrote her description on a scrap of paper, using the best English, spelling and handwriting she could muster. It was obviously difficult for her, but it was equally obvious that the effort was important. The carefully worded explanation of the scene was glued to the back of the plywood and sent across the ocean like a message tied to a balloon. And there I stood, reading the message on a hot summer afternoon in a trendy shop in the exclusive Dallas suburb of Highland Park.
I was touched at the effort that this woman made to tell me about her world. She made a deliberate effort to speak to me – as one who lives in a world she didn’t understand – in order to explain the world she knew I wouldn’t understand.
But as much as I was touched by her efforts, I really wasn’t in much of a buying mood. The price was just a little too steep, and besides, I was just passing time. So I put the painting back in its place on the shelf and proceeded to look around some more. Maybe, I thought to myself, I’ll think about it and come back and get it if I decide I really want it.
Soon, a young North Dallas couple pulled up to the curb in their shiny metallic blue BMW. The blonde wife got out of the car and came inside the shop. The dashing young husband in a white Polo dress shirt and Ray-Bans went to the trunk and pulled out an antique-looking four-legged cast iron stand and brought it inside.
The wife explained to the shopkeeper that the antique stand was missing its top. She wanted to make it into a little side table for the patio, and was looking for something interesting to use as a table top. They walked around the store together, the wife and the shopkeeper, with the husband walking behind them, carrying the stand from one spot to the next. The wife picked up several different platters and trays and tile mosaics, and laid them on the stand one by one. Nothing seemed to be quite what she was looking for.
Suddenly, the wife looked up and saw Margret’s painting. “Ooh! Look at that!” she exclaimed as she ran over to it, grasped it with both hands, ran back to where the stand was sitting and clumsily plunked it down on top of it. She took a step back, cocked her head to one side and placed her right hand on her hip. She brought her left index finger to her lips in an approving gesture and pronounced, “Well now, that looks really nice! Honey, what do you think?”
I was horrified. I saw glasses of iced tea sweating on it on a hot summer’s day. I saw over-watered pots of Boston ferns dripping muddy water onto it. I saw the brilliant Texas sun beating mercilessly upon the paint, and the rain and ice destroying the plywood underneath.
I saw Margret’s careful work ruined. I saw Margret’s crestfallen face – after all the trouble she took to explain her hard work to me…
How could this happen? This philistine in yellow capri pants and a pink scrunchy in her hair was about to commit a terrible crime. How can anybody look at a piece of art like that – or any other artwork for that matter – as a mere commodity to do with it whatever one feels like? Couldn’t she see the very sacredness of the object before her?
The nerve! She doesn’t deserve the chance to ruin Margret’s creation just to add a touch of interest to her trendy eclectic décor. She has no right to sacrifice this sublime work to her misbegotten “taste”. She’s not worthy of owning it. There ought to be a law…
As these thoughts raced through my mind, I must have had a terribly pained look on my face. The wife, looking just past her husband’s right shoulder, caught my expression.
“Oh, I’m sorry. Were you going to buy this?”
The husband and the shopkeeper turned to look at me.
“Yes.”
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Margret, I don’t know who you are or where you are. There are so many people in this world who touch lives that they never have a chance to know, and you touched mine. So, wherever you are, please sleep well. Your painting is in good hands and is safe from harm. I’ll see to it, I promise.
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Monsoon season is about to start. Don’t laugh. This isn’t some sort of exaggeration. Monsoon is the official designation for the weather phenomenon we are now experiencing in Tucson. The National Weather Service declares the start of the monsoon season when the average daily dewpoint is 54 degrees or greater for three consecutive days. The first of those three days is retroactively declared to be the start of monsoon season. Tucson was chosen to be the center for monsoons studies in a joint research project of the National Weather Service and the Mexican Weather Service.
The desert is notoriously dry throughout most of the
year, with humidity remaining in the single digits. But at about early July,
moisture from the Gulf of Mexico starts to slowly work its way up through
Mexico and into southern Arizona. This moisture, often aided by storms
moving inland from the Sea of Cortez, is the seed from which half of our
annual average twelve-inch rainfall comes.
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Monsoon season is my favorite time of the year, simply because I am a lightning storm freak. And I’m not the only one – it is a favorite of most desert dwellers. Some people will even host monsoon-watching parties. Others build specifically designed houses to take advantage of the spectacular lightning shows. My own house was laid out to take advantage of the views of the storms as they sweep across the Catalinas and out into Oro Valley. I love to sit on the back porch and watch the thunderstorms roll across the valley.
There is a daily rhythm to the season that is very reassuring. On a good day, the morning will break somewhat cloudy, but the clouds will typically burn off very quickly as the sun rises in the sky. If the cloud cover is too heavy, then the desert floor won’t get hot enough to warm the humidity and there won’t be any rain that day. For optimal conditions, the sun needs to be able to warm the desert floor, causing the expanding moist air to rush up the mountainsides and gather above the mountains. The coolness at the higher altitudes will cause the humid air to form great thunderheads above the mountains. Then upper level winds will begin to nudge those clouds from above the mountains just as the rain begins to fall, drenching the west faces of the mountains and the valley floor below. It all comes to a roiling fury late in the afternoon, with the storms normally spent at sunset or shortly after.
Then it starts all over again the next day.
We got our first really good thunderstorm last Saturday, but we haven’t put together enough days of average dew point above 54 degrees yet to declare an official start of the season. While the monsoon season may not be official, it is here nevertheless.
Last night's storm was especially spectacular. It was late in developing and it lasted well into the night. It was nice to sit on the back porch after the sun went down, watching the lightning strikes in the valley below, hearing the low rumble of thunder, and experiencing the nice cool refreshing breeze that emanates from the center of the storm cells. The storms often pack a powerful punch, and last night's lightning show was among the more spectacular in recent years. We sat there on the porch, watching the dance of lightning and bracing ourselves for the tremendous crashes of thunder as the storms raged around us. There we were, Chris and I, taking in all of its spectacular majesty while sipping our Micheladas and finishing up a very tasty barbecued chicken.
This is the life!
UPDATE: I totally missed the announcement that the National Weather Service declared that Thursday, July 8 was the official start of the season. That declaration was made Sunday morning.
Just so you know, in my spare time I've made a few updates to my "About" page and my "Links" page. And also, just so you know, posting may be a little more sporadic during the Monsoon season. Between work and storm-watching, it leaves precious little time to write.
The New York Times reports that I am about to be the center of attention again as the proposed Federal Marriage Amendment (FMA) comes up for a vote in the Senate. We all know that this thing doesn’t have a snowball’s chance of passing. And with so many other things which require Congress’ attention, one must wonder why the leadership feels it is something which must be taken up right at this very moment.
Well, the simple answer can be found by looking at the calendar. The Democratic convention is July 26-29, the Olympics will be held August 13-29, followed almost immediately by the Republican Convention August 20 through September 2. So, basically it’s now or late fall. And it looks like the Republicans have called “double down” for this hand. The Senate is due to vote this week, and the House leaders indicated earlier this week that they will schedule their vote for the fall.
By why do it? Again the answer is simple. I am about to become a wedge issues for the fall elections. There is a strategy afoot here. The more people they can make afraid of me, the more people who will turn out for the Republicans on Election Day.
It is just that simple. And it’s not just Democrats who are in the gun sights on this one. Republicans are being held to account as well. Heterosexual Activist Tony Perkins, President of the Family Research Council says bluntly, “Social conservatives are looking at this issue so we know who needs to be educated on this issue or removed if that is possible.” And conservative commentator and avowed heterosexual Paul Weyrich, on commenting on the prospect of gay Republicans breaking ranks and refusing to vote for Bush over the issue, responded, “Good riddance.”
He’s talking about me, you know. They are ecstatic about the prospect of flushing out fellow Republicans. The purge is on, and as a former Republican voter, I could not possibly be more offended.
And in case there is any doubt about it, I’ll say it loudly: I’m taking this personally!
But what about the admirably moderate lineup of speakers at the Republican Convention? California Gov. Schwarzenegger, Arizona Sen. McCain, New York Gov. Pataki, and former New York mayor Giuliani are all moderates. Why are they being given such prominence?
Well, think back to the disastrous 1992 Houston convention. The culture wars played out on prime time for everyone to see. It was startling because it didn’t appear that Bush Senior was nearly that conservative. And to tell the truth, I don’t think he was. But the tone of that convention scared a lot of people away from the ticket, denying him the traditional post-convention “bump” that most candidates can count on.
Bush Junior is eager to avoid that same mistake. But he’s in danger of make the reverse mistake. Openly straight Tony Perkins, President of the Family Research Council says, “The party seems poised to keep some of its most articulate spokesmen such as Senators Sam Brownback and Rich Santorum and Representatives Henry Hyde and Mike Pence and other leaders on life and family issues behind the scenes… they have missed a chance to emphasize the real heart of the party...”
But folks – and this is important – now is not the time to take the eye off the ball. Just because it looks like the President is downplaying me as a wedge issue, there is still a lot going on behind the happy veneer that will take place in New York’s Madison Square Garden. The “real heart” of the party is very much at work, and the president is in the very thick of it. It just won’t be televised, if he has his way about it.
In case there was ever any doubt as to President Bush’s stand on the issue (and surprisingly enough, there are those who have argued that he really doesn’t support it all that strongly), he devoted last Saturday’s radio address exclusively to urging the House and Senate to pass the FMA, saying, “to defend marriage, our nation has no other choice.” He goes on to say that if marriage is cut off “from its cultural, religious and natural roots, then the meaning of marriage is lost and the institution is weakened”.
Folks, the fight is on over me right now, and the president has taken a strident interest on the subject. Sure, nobody will speak my name directly. The president even managed to get through the entire address without mentioning the words homosexual, gay, or lesbian. But let’s face it. We all know exactly who he’s talking about.
It sure beats talking about Iraq.
My horoscope yesterday on yahoo.com read: "It's one of those days when you feel like dying your hair pink and growing wheatgrass."
Yes, it was one of those days.
I left for work dreading the day, thinking that what I'd really rather do was something, I dunno, creative. I'm an engineer. Worse yet, I'm an engineering manager, which means I don't get to be creative at all.
When I was living in Dallas, I used to enjoy my hobby as a potter. It was something I indulged every Sunday at a local community college. Part of my enjoyment was the sensuous feeling of putting your hands into the depths of wet clay as it spun on the wheel, but most of the enjoyment I got was from the Raku firing process.
You see, Raku is a very chaotic process. It involves putting glazed pots in the kiln and firing it rapidly to a temperature of about 1750° F (or 950° C for you metric types). When the pots turn red-hot, the kiln is opened. I would pick up the pots one by one using a long set of tongs, and place the pots into buckets or trash cans filled with shredded newspaper or sawdust. The combustible material would suddenly burst into flame, which I would smother with wet newspapers. Then I'd let the pots cool for about a half-hour, then unwrap them and see what turned up.
Raku is a completely uncontrollable process. You never know what you're going to get. In one firing, you may get the most incredibly beautiful pieces; the next, everything will turn out butt-ugly. The unique mixture of fire, smoke, oxygen, flames, and the imprint of burnable material against the clay body has the potential of generating the most incredible colors and smoke marks you will ever find. Or it may result in something destined for the trash heap. Raku is very Zen that way.
I loved the chaos, the unpredictability, the intensity, and the pyrotechnical dangers of Raku firing. And when the Raku gods rewarded me with an object of beauty, it was a very good day indeed.
I got pretty good at it, but not good enough to make a living. That was okay by me. It was just how I spent my Sundays. It was how I relaxed. I was interested in making, not selling.
I feel that way about writing as well. I've enjoyed creative writing since High School. I've discovered that like in most arts, there are two participants in writing: the creator (writer) and the observer (reader). Each brings with him his own set of perspectives, experiences and prejudices. I set mine in writing, the reader reads my words, and understands them in the context of his point of view. Good writers are able to get inside the head of a reader and open the writer's world to the reader. I find it's a good exercise for me because I live in my own head so much, sometimes I find it difficult to see inside someone else.
While I enjoy writing, I'm not good enough to make a living at that either. Or at the very least, I'm too lazy. That's okay. I do it more for my benefit. Besides, I can't even begin to imagine the pressures that must be involved in having to be creative while hoping someone will pay for it.
But as I sat in my 7:30 meeting this morning, I couldn't help wishing I were somewhere else, doing something much more creative. My Left Brain is burned out, and my Right Brain is impatient.
Later that morning when I was back at my desk, Chris called. He had just met our brand-new next-door neighbor. Turns out the guy is a writer for the Lonely Planet travel guides.
He gets paid to write.
And travel.
Tell me, can you grow wheatgrass in the desert?
First, it was BoiFromTroy, then it was the Famous Author. They've taken this personality quiz and posted the results on their web sites. Normally I find these quizzes to be puerile and self-absorbed, but today I'm feeling a little self-absorbed myself. (What? A self-absorbed blogger? Get! Out!). So I've decided to take yet another one of these silly quizzes which seem to pop up more often than useless Homeland Security alerts.
Here are my results. I actually think that this one hit a little close to home.
Wackiness: 56/100
Rationality: 28/100
Constructiveness: 44/100
Leadership: 56/100
You are a WEDL--Wacky Emotional Destructive Leader. This makes you an anarchist. You don't give a damn. When push comes to shove, you just forget about it--it's just not worth the heartache. What this means for others is that dealing with you can be aggravating, because they find they can't get you motivated about things they care about. What this means for you is that you are happier, calmer, and saner then they are on their best days.
You are near-immune to criticism, and those who know you well acknowledge and respect that. You may come across as lazy, but the truth is that you find little to get worked up about. Regardless, you have slews of friends, because they are fascinated by your world view, jealous of your lifestyle, and drawn to the fact that you are hilarious to be around.
You are a pillar in a sea of hot-bloodedness. You have a sweet tooth.
I think this explains a lot.
By the way, I still don't like Memes.
And
speaking of memes, I don't need to take an online test to know that, today
at least, I am
obviously France. I'm self-absorbed, stuck-up and bitchy.
But I'll get over it and will be a nice laid-back New Zealander by the weekend.
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Hey! How you doing? … Good, good. Those your grandkids? Great… Well, hello there Allison, yes I remember you – you won the sack race yesterday! … Going in for a bite to eat? ... Yep, keeping busy... I’ll be workings fulltime down at the Fire Department starting next Monday… Yes, next week… The hours aren’t too bad, two days on and four days off… Yes, well you too, and you have a good lunch... Uh-hug… Take care now… Bye Allison, bye Cory…
Mike! Julie! … Good, you? …You get back in town last night? …I stopped by earlier but you weren’t home yet… Sure, anytime, just let me know when’s good for you… Well, I looked it over and we can do the landscaping in phases, that way we can keep it to maybe a hundred here, a few hundred there… Sure, I think we can work it out and get it in in just a few weeks… Good… Well, give me a call and we’ll go over it… Trip went well?... Great… Sure, good to see you… So long! Bye, bye, now!
Bob! Hi, Leda! Great to see you! How you doing? … Aw, not much… You still working with the team?… Yeah, I don’t know either. The home games aren’t so bad but the away games really take a lot out of ya, all that traveling… Yeah, I’ve taken the team bus a couple of times, but it’s still a lot of time it takes up... Yeah, two days sometimes, depending…
Charlie! How you doing?... Great, great… Yeah, the fireworks were pretty good… Yeah, well what happened was, was a corner of a cardboard box got a cinder on it and it burned and then the fireworks inside all went off… Yeah, well what we were really worried about was Sam was over there just a few moments before, and we didn’t see him walk over to the truck and we didn’t know where he was… No nobody was hurt… Yeah last year they were burned a little, but not too bad… Can’t be too careful… Sure… Take care… Say hi to Terri for me… She’s good?... Great… Well, sure, maybe tomorrow evening… Sure… See you then… Yeah, I’ll call… Great… Bye now.
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Advice from the Editors of Sexology, November 1956.
Editor, Sexology
I am unmarried, 28 years old, 6 feet 4 inches tall and weigh 240 pounds. My testicles are small. I have never had intercourse. Testosterone has not increased the dimensions of my testicles.
Is it true that testicles can be removed and replaced with healthy ones?
Mr. K. T. W., Arizona
Answer:
A doctor may implant pure crystals of testosterone beneath the skin in cases such as yours and they may last for weeks or months.
Testicles cannot successfully be “grafted”; it is impossible to establish permanent natural circulation and nerve supply at present.
The dimensions of a man’s testicles have nothing to do with his potency. Eunuchs (men without testicles) are potent.
Has anyone else noticed this?
CNN |
Courtesy Dan Lee |
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CNN's Anderson Cooper |
Scooter |
Cooper, meet Scooter. Scooter, Cooper.
Thanks to Scooter's owner, Chicago filmmaker Dan Lee, for sending Chris the E-mail and alerting the world..
UPDATE: Must credit Lookingforsam! Must credit Lookingforsam!
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