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| Errata |
| 04.30.04 (7:33 pm) [edit] |
In the interest of journalistic integrity, two errors in a previous posting to this weblog need to be corrected. In that post, Mr. John Doyle of the Toronto Globe and Mail was referred to as the "television columnist" of the paper. Mr. Doyle is, in fact the "Entertainment" columnist. Also, the column seemed to suggest that Mr. Doyle's comments about Fox news could not be taken as humorous as he is a Canadian. This reporter has learned that Mr. Doyle was, in fact, born in the Republic of Ireland, therefore it is entirely possible that he was, in fact, making jokes (and riotously funny ones at that) at the expense of Bill O'Reilly and Fox news.
This weblog deeply regrets these errors.
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| Dick Speaks |
| 04.28.04 (8:27 pm) [edit] |
Chickenhawk-little Dick, somehow got out of his cage again. For some reason the Bushites can't seem to keep him penned up. You would think it would be easy: the guy's ancient and has heart disease. But Chickenhawk-little Dick the man with the golden sneer got out somehow. And when he did, for some reason he thought he was Winston Churchill. I guess Napoleon is already taken.
Yeah, Chickenhawk-little Dick tooled on down to Fulton Missouri, to make a "major policy speech." It was there at Westminster College that Winston Churchill warned the world that totalitarianism was not dead. That while World War II had succeeded in it's immediate task, new dictators were rising to enslave a large chunk of humanity.
There Dick was, at the very podium where Winston "Savior of Western Civilization" Churchill gave his famous "Iron Curtain" speech. It was obvious that Dick hoped some of the great man's aura would reflect on him. But Dick looked shrunken and shriveled as he tried to get into Churchill's suit and to shoulder that legacy. But oh, did Dick try. Frankly, I am surprised that he didn't pull out a three foot long cigar. I am not as surprised that he didn't raise his stubby little fingers in the famous "V" salute, people might have thought it was a peace sign.
That's right, Chickenhawk-little Dick mounted Churchill's podium, told Churchillian jokes and generally tried to wrap himself in the mantle of the great man. Let's hear how the chickenhawk-in-chief put it himself: "Churchill delivered what he called the most important speech of his career, applying the wisdom gained over a lifetime to the greatest challenge of the age." Yessir, Chickenhawk-little Dick tried to step into the big man's shoes. Ooops, them feet's too small, Dick!
Seemingly conscious of his feet swimming around in those big shoes, Chickenhawk-little Dick sought to send a warning to the world as well. About a danger far worse than worldwide communism, the enslavement of entire peoples, and the possibility of world wide conflagration. Yes, a danger far worse than any of those. I can only be referring to, of course, John Kerry.
That's right, Chickenhawk-little Dick warned the world that if Kerry is elected, civilization will end, Churchill's legacy will be destroyed, and Chickenhawk-little Dick and his sidekick, Napoleon Junior will be out of jobs. Well, he tried to gussy it up a little, but that was pretty much the gist of it.
That's right, John Kerry, the decorated war veteran, and sober middle of the road Senator is simply incapable of keeping America safe. Why is that you ask? Well, Dick and Junior feel that when the Pentagon bellies up to the taxpayer foodbar, they should mound up twelve trays with food. Kerry sometimes, under the right circumstances feels that ten trays is plenty, and that both Buffalo wings and barbecue wings may not be entirely necessary.
Chickenhawk-little Dick knows we need all the Bradley fighting vehicles, MX missiles, Apache helicopters, Phoenix missiles, F-15s, F-14s, Blackhawks and Predators we can lay our hands on. All that fancy hardware sure kept us safe from the bozos with boxcutters. And just look what good it is doing us in Iraq -- winning hearts and minds all over the place. So bring it on Dick exhorts, and some of that star wars stuff too! Anything less and the sky is falling!
Oh yes, Chickenhawk-little Dick was Fultonating in fine form warning us of the horrors to come. Man, he had that sneer working so hard he almost forgot he was Churchill and started channeling Elvis! "Don't nobody step on our Patriot Act!" "Down at the end of lonely street is a bank of Patriot missiles" "Kerry ain't nothin' but a Saddam lover" Yeah, shake that leg, Dick!
Unfortunately for Winston Chickenhawk, the good people of the Show Me state could see how far short of Churchill, the statesman and visionary, the Dickmeister had fallen. Rumor has it that the president of Westminster College was so dumbfounded by the lame, moronic and partisan nature of the speech that before it ended he got on his cellphone to call Kerry to apologize and offer him equal time. He also rang up all of the descendants of Churchill and apologized to them as well. Called Tony Blair and the Queen, just for good measure. He also recorded a public service announcement for the BBC, which is playing every half hour for the next three weeks.
So there was the latest Tricky Dick looking like a four year-old trying on his daddy's suit. With his leg a-twtiching and lip trembling. Churchill's legacy dropped down around his ankles and Dick tripped over it coming off the stage. Napoleon Junior thought Dick did a great job of course, and tried to pin a medal on him, but by that time the suit was empty.
By then the couple of the more conscious White House handlers had scooped up Chickenhawk-little Dick and tranquilized him enough to keep his leg from twitching. They shipped back to the bunker where the shadow government operates from -- well, the other shadow government anyway -- until he escapes again. I just wonder just who he'll think he is next time.
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| Fox Funny? Only in Canada |
| 04.28.04 (8:18 am) [edit] |
Before I really get started, let me express my admiration for the wonderful people of Canada. To me, Canada is like Mr. Rogers' Neighborhood, except that everyone there is Mr. Rogers. Canadians are consistently the nicest, most considerate people I have ever met. Worldwide, Canadians are admired for their thoughtfulness and civic mindedness. Perhaps no country is more universally respected. But, sadly, Canadians just are not funny.
I'm sorry I had to say it, but it's true. There is no distictive Canadian sense of humor, or at least none that has managed to escape the Great White North. Even the British, whose epic lack of a sense of humor is mocked even by Belgians, have managed to give to the world Monty Python, Peter Sellars, and Douglas Adams. I racked my brain for funny Canadians and only came up with Red Green, Celine Dion and Paul Shaffer. And as a serious musician, Shaffer doesn't really count. And, well, Red Green is more of a cult phenomenon.
I mention this as background for the little spat that erupted when the TV columnist for the Toronto Globe and Mail, one John Doyle, mentioned that he was looking forward to Fox News coming to cable systems in Canada. In fact what he said exactly was this: "Beauty. Bring it on, I say." So far, so good. Mr. Doyle then goes on to say, "The Fox News Channel is a kind of live theatre of the airwaves, with right-wing pundits playing journalists in an ongoing soap opera." Now coming from Dublin or London, that kind of statement might be considered ironic or satiric. But Mr. Doyle is Canadian, so it must be, as it is, a simple statement of fact. Mr. Doyle also wanted to know if "this Bill O'Reilly fella is as stupendously pompous and preening as he appears to be." Again, just a simple question. A calm seeking of the facts, Canadian style.
Then, of course, Fox had to get in to the act, lead by the warhorse, Bubba O'Reilly. Now, ole Bill has the same relationship to hard cold facts that Canadians have to comedy, that is to say, none. He immediately attacked Mr. Doyle, and the "the far-left Toronto Globe and Mail." Bill ranted on with his usual stream of invective mixed with total disregard for even the outlines of reality as the rest of us experience it. He ended with "Hey you pinheads up there, I may be pompous, but at least I'm honest." Now that's funny!
Now, Canadians may not have much of a sense of humor, but their sober analysis gives them a leg up on most Americans. Of course, "Bill O'Reilly" isn't real. He is simply a character on the Fox News Channel, which also isn't real. "O'Reilly" is a performance artist spinning Dada-esque monologues for the amusement of his audience -- hence the total disregard for any factual material. And Mr. Doyle understands this. Before Fox even reaches his TV set, he applied his razor sharp Canadian mind to Fox and saw through the whole thing. Snap! Just like that.
Fox is allegedly a news operation, but the person running it is one the the most virulently partisan political operatives to come out of the Republican party -- and has no journalism experience. The talking hairdos they have hired run on the political spectrum from Reagan Republicans to somewhere to the right of Attila the Hun. So when Mr. Doyle says: "The Fox News slogan is 'Fair and Balanced,' which it obviously isn't. It's a tip-off that you're not supposed to take it seriously. The slogan is a joke, a raspberry blown at every other news channel. It's tongue-in-cheek..." you can't possibly laugh, it's just a fact.
Yes, Mr. Doyle has seen through the whole enterprise. So much so that Fox had to send him hundreds of emails which looked as though they came from all over the United States. Emails which were full of invective, lame insults and incorrectly spelled expletives. Those boys at Fox just won't quit! No expense is too much to carry out their joke. You just know that in several years, Matt Groening and the other creators of the Simpsons are going to be writing a book about the brillant "News Channel" they created to pull the wool over the eyes of the unwashed.
But Mr. Doyle threatens to spoil the joke. He has recognized Fox News as "the most hilarious thing on American TV since Seinfeld." But then he goes to far and wonders "if, like Seinfeld, it's about nothing." Mr. Doyle, please! Don't spoil the fun. It's like telling people that American Idol is rigged! Please, Mr. Doyle, let us have our illusions for the sake of entertainment.
Canadians may not have much comedic inclination, but they get it. Get it right and get it fast. "Bill O'Reilly" hates that.
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| Dreams and the Field Thereof |
| 04.26.04 (12:16 pm) [edit] |
I have this friend. We talk frequently and when we do, we agree on many things. This is as it should be between friends. Perhaps the defining phrase of frienship itself is "I know what you mean." Or the telegraph version, "Me too." So I find it interesting and perhaps a bit disconcerting when we disagree, especially when the disagreement seems total.
One of my favorite movies is Field of Dreams. In fact, I often say that it is my second favorite movie of all time. However, whenever I mention this film or quote a line from it, my friend immediately points a finger to her open mouth and with tongue hanging out makes a universal gesture of cinematic disdain. It pains me to so violently disagree with a friend, but in the face of, well, such a face, it seems futile to discuss it further. But discuss I must.
First, let me point out that while I disagree with my friend, I can understand her point of view. In my more cynical moments I can see that Field of Dreams is sappy, hokey and emotionally manipulative. For me, the main plot of Ray Kinsella trying to reach a rapprochement with his father actually doesn't resonate too deeply with me as I love my Dad, always have and always will. So, if that is true, why do I tear up during the opening credits? The answer, my dear friend, lies in three supporting characters and the performances that brought them to life.
The first of these is the reclusive writer, Terrance Mann, played by James Earl Jones. Jones gives a wonderful performance ranging from his anger and outrage when first approached by the possibly deranged Ray Kinsella, to his childlike joy at being asked to go "out" with the players. Jones gets most of the movie's good lines and knocks them for homeruns. If the hair on the back of your neck isn't standing at attention when he extols baseball's place in American culture, you don't understand America or baseball. It's a tour de force. At the end of that speech he also gets to deliver one of the most devastating critiques of modern American culture ever. He explains to Ray that people will come to see the baseball field, and they will hand over twenty bucks to do so because "it is money they have, and peace they lack." Cut! Wrap! Print! Just nine words to accurately sum up where we stand as a people. And when James Earl Jones says it, it almost sounds like the Almighty himself.
Jones may get the great lines, but it is Burt Lancaster who puts the lump in my throat. Lancaster plays the elderly Doc Graham, so elderly in fact that when Kinsella and Mann turn up in his home town of Chisolm, Minnesota, he has been dead six years. After talking to just about the whole town, all our two heroes can come up with is that Doc Graham was a great guy. Like Will Rogers with a black bag, Graham never met anyone he didn't like, or didn't help in some way. Always there, always generous with his time and money, Doc was the soul and conscience of his town.
Finally, the magic intervenes and Ray Kinsella gets to meet Doc Graham on a moonlit night. What the former baseball player, "Moonlight" Graham, has to say grounds the entire movie. Yes, he loved baseball, his lifelong dream. Yes, he only played for five minutes in the major leagues. After a beautiful speach describing the beauty of the game and his aching desire to play it, he tells Ray that he would not do his life over to be a baseball star. As Ray tries to understand how a man can come so close to his dream and not attain it, Graham lets him know what life is really about. "Ray," he says plainly "if I had only gotten to be a doctor for 5 minutes, that would have been a tragedy."
For me, the emotional climax of the movie is when "Moonlight" comes off the Field and morphs into Doc Graham to save Ray's daughter Karen. Once again, Graham gives up a boy's game for his higher calling. I can't help but wince that I have never felt a calling so strongly or one as noble. As Doc Graham leaves the field, the players compliment him in the understated way that men playing games have, and I always find myself whispering with them "Wayda be Doc."
Even as Doc Graham shows once again what is really important, and it ain't baseball, he doesn't make the movie. The character that makes the movie is Ray's wife Annie. Without Annie, there would be no Field of Dreams. Without hearing the voice, without seeing the vision, it is Annie who believes. She believes in the dream even more than Ray does, because she believes in Ray even more than he can.
Every person deserves an Annie in their life. It is Annie's unflinching devotion to Ray and his dream that gives Ray the courage to continue. Not only her belief, but her encouragement and support are key to the realization of Ray's dream. Where would Ray be without her telling him to do it? Who takes care of the family while he is off chasing phantoms? If you have an Annie in your life, consider yourself blessed, your dreams are within reach.
At the end of the movie, Ray's father asks if he is in heaven. Ray replies in his corny way, "No, it's Iowa." But this time he is not satisfied with such an obvious truth. Ray asks what heaven is, and he is informed that "heaven is the place where dreams come true." When Ray answers "maybe this is heaven, then" the camera cuts to Annie and Karen sitting on the front porch. Heaven, then, is in Annie's arms, for it is there that the dreams came true. If you have found your Annie, fall into their arms, whomsoever they may be, and let them make your dreams come true.
And that Charlie Brown, is what the movie is all about.
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| Review: Need For the Bike by Paul Fournel |
| 04.22.04 (8:02 pm) [edit] |
If you are a serious cyclist, and you know if you are, then you want this book. Trust me. It says everything there is to know about the "real" cyclist in prose that reads like poetry. Go get it -- now.
Now that the "real" cyclists have left I can talk to the rest of you. If you are the significant other of a cyclist you need this book. This book reveals more about the thinking of cyclists than any other I have ever read. Trust me. Reading this book is perhaps the best way to get inside the head, to look behind the curtain of someone who is cycling obsessed. If you already know your significant other has a serious cycling problem, then go get this book -- now. If you are not sure, here are some warning signs of advanced bicycling disease.
One note of caution, I can only describe the male of the species Cyclist moronicus. Although I have met and talked to several serious females of the sport, my understanding of female behavior and motivation ranks slightly below my fluency in ancient Sanskrit. So it will be the more common male C. moronicus described here.
Clothing: A typical male thinks that $15 is alot to spend on a pair of dress pants, cyclists think even that is too much. But a cyclist will gladly fork over $120 for a pair of black lycra shorts. Black lycra shorts with suspenders built-in. Black lycra shorts with suspenders whose legs come to the top of the knee. Certainly an attractive look for a middle-aged man.
Generally, cyclists will launch into a rant at the mere mention of Exxon-Mobil, Microsoft or any other large corporation. But we will gladly pay $60 and more for a shirt (excuse me, I mean "jersey", of course) which amounts to a slab of gaudy polyester fabric slathered with advertising. Advertising for such well known and totally cool companies as Banesto and Credite Agricole. With pockets in the back. I'll spare you the discussion of shoes.
Diet: Mention "Atkins" to a cyclist and they will start twitching and foaming at the mouth. A "real" cyclist's diet consists of between 75 and 95 percent carbohydrates. More, if they can get them. If your significant other comes back from the grocery store with 96 boxes of spaghetti noodles, three cans of tomato sauce and a crate of bananas, he probably is a cyclist. Especially if he says this is just to hold him for a couple of days, until he can "do some real shopping." I once read an interview with a semi-pro cyclist who said he put orange juice instead of milk on his Froot Loops at breakfast. "I need the carbs," he explained. I am not making this up.
General Health: Fortunately for the simple mind of C. moronicus his state of health boils down to one number: Resting Pulse Rate. Cycling is one of the most aerobically demanding sports and even moderate cycling will give you the cardiovascular system of an bull elephant. Even a fat, lazy, slob such as myself can achieve a resting pulse in the low 40s (around 70 is normal). Once achieved the number becomes an obsession. A five beat per minute rise over this abnormally low reading can convince a cyclist to spend the day in bed fearing either the onset of illness or the dreaded "over-training syndrome."
Cyclist's Tan: The tan is absolutely distinctive and diagnostic. A cyclist gets a deep dark tan from spending so many hours outdoors. Unfortunately the tan has a, well, unusual pattern. The tan extends from 4 inches below the shoulder to the wrist, from just above the knee to the ankle and the back of the neck. Everything else is almost bleached white. You do not want to see a cyclist in a swimsuit. Not that they would be caught dead in one, unless they are competing in a triathalon to "get some extra miles."
Scheduling How is it that a guy who has trouble getting his eyes open for a nine o'clock meeting in February, is out the door at 5:30 a.m. in May? Then when you get home, you see his car in the driveway. You worry: is he sick? He hasn't been home early in months. As you open your car door he rolls in on his bike. "Didn't I hear you go out this morning?" you ask. Looking like a catburglar in the beam of a flashlight, he'll mumble something like "Ummm, yeah, well, I just felt like I needed a few extra miles..."
Following the Pros Try reading these names to your significant other, don't worry about the pronounciation, he'll correct you: Cippolini, Ullrich, Indurain, Merckx and Hinault. He'll probably reel off about a hundred more. He'll probably start with one name I left out: Armstrong. Even non-cyclists know of Lance Armstrong, but if you want to double check to see how sick he is, just say "What was it with Lance on Sestriere?" (If your cyclist is not handy as you read this I will briefly relate the story. At the 1999 Tour de France, Armstrong was making a comeback, a comeback literally from the door of death itself. Just two years earlier he had been diagnosed with cancer, which had metastisized to his lungs and brain. Now he was leading the world's greatest bicycling race, but it was early. Climbing the mountain leading to the ski resort at Sestriere, Armstrong suddenly accelerated and left behind not only his rivals, but seemingly the laws of gravity itself. He not only hit a home run, but the ball tore through the roof of a domed stadium. A real cyclist seeing this doesn't stand up and cheer, but rather sits with mouth agape in silent awe, wondering if maybe, if you look hard enough, you can see the angels, or alien spaceship -- you make the call -- that carried him to the peak that day. Back to the story in progress.)
If your significant other exhibits two or more of the above signs and symptoms, you already know you are in trouble. Fournel's beautiful little book Need for the Bike will let you know more about the disease and maybe even help you to understand your pitiful cyclist. The books fits in the palm of you hand like a hymnal and in 150 pages Fournel expounds extremely lucidly about all the mysteries of the bike.
Fournel's work is translated wonderfully from the French by Alan Stoekl, who writes in the introduction "... Fournel presents a world, a very personal one, whose axis is the bicycle. It is world of communication, of connection where all people and things pass by way of the bike." We are walking on hallowed ground here, believe me.
The book is a series of short essays ranging from one to three pages in length on a wide variety of subjects about and related to cycling. Although written in prose, the words are dripping with meaning, symbolism and feeling. The sensation of reading it is much closer to poetry. As Dylan once sang "Every one of them words rang true and flowed like burning coals, pouring off of every page like they were written in my soul." Not grammatical perhaps, but you get the point.
There is no cyclist alive who did not feel as Fournel writes in "Light Weight:"
Sitting on the seat, not carrying the weight of one's body, makes bike riding something like swimming, something like flying. The saddle carries you along, like water, like air: it's the saddle, but also the frame, and the tires and the compressed air in the tires that give you wings.
The difference between bike and flight is that the bike is possible and flight isn't, yet. Every bike fanatic's journey begins there.
Once started Fournel explores so many aspects of cycling it is hard to encapsulate. On every page there is a moment where the response can only be "yes, exactly" Every cyclist who has ridden more than a couple of times a week has felt this way:
In the morning I'm completely stiff, a rusty old wreck; I have trouble getting down the stairs. Without strength or desire I get on my bike, and pedal like an old robot. Ten kilometers later, that's all gone. I feel fine. I feel even better than the day before...
Yes. Exactly.
Every cyclist who has ridden for several years, especially years beyond their thirties has felt this way as well:
Getting old with the bike means gaining endurance and wisdom. It's having the ability to go further more calmly, to train better, and, in general, get more out of it. Therefore I've entrusted my bike with the mission of notifying me of my aging. It's doing nicely.
I'll only quote one more nugget from this rich vein, there are many, many more between the covers of this slim volume:
Riding is absurd -- climbing to descend, going in circles, behind this mountain there's another, why hurry? ...Riding is absurd like peeling vegetables, skiing, thinking deeply or living.
Fournel says that thinking this thought on the bike is a sure sign of fatigue, but in my easy chair, I know and understand.
Yes, if you have a cyclist sicko in your life you need this book. Read it and you will understand them a bit, no, much more. Or better yet, get the book and read it out loud to your partner. Yes, out loud. Just one or two essays a night. Hearing your voice expounding and explaining the mysteries and majesties of cycling will work a deeper magic. Giving voice to these elegantly stated deep truths will make your partner feel that you really understand The Need For The Bike. And maybe you will.
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| M'ugly Bike |
| 04.20.04 (5:45 pm) [edit] |
I have an ugly bike and a beautiful bicycle. They are both in my garage waiting for me.
I bought the ugly bike first. It was my first bike as an adult. It is black. Not jet black and sleek. The paint is flat and now chipped in many places. A spot or two of dark orange rust have erupted. Small flecks of gray show where stones have chipped the paint. My ugly bike was made in a factory, but not for a mass market. Tens of thousands like it were made, but not millions.
A few years later I bought the beautiful bicycle. It was made in Italy, in a small shop where people still assemble steel tubing into bicycles by hand. It was not custom made, but hundreds of bicycles are made there, not thousands. My beautiful bicycle is blue. Not just blue, but cerulean blue. The color of very deep water on a clear day. I bought a small sleeve to protect the chainstay from chips.
My ugly bike is not a road bike. It looks like a wimpy mountain bike. It has smooth wide tires, as opposed to the aggressive nobbies of real mountain bikes. It came with a plain straight handlebar, but I replaced it with a curving monstrosity that comes to a single point, making the bike look like a cyclops. The saddle is covered with nylon, now torn. Even the chain and chainrings are black, with bits of gray wear showing through.
My beautiful bicycle is a thoroughbred road machine. The handlebars curve down in the classic ram's horn shape, and are covered with a thick, soft blue tape. The tape is held in place by shiny chrome buttons which fit in the handlebar ends. The front fork curves gently as it cradles the thin, strong front wheel. An impossibly small number of shiny spokes levitate the rim of the wheel. Even when greased, the chain is silver and glides almost silently around a sculpted chainring.
My ugly bike creaks and groans when I ride it. No amount of adjusting can keep the chain from rubbing the derailleur. If you listen carefully you can almost hear the ghostly echo of a boy running with a stick along a picket fence. The brakes chuff and hum when you apply them hard. Changing gears is awkward, twisting handgrips like revving a motorcycle. The sound is worse, beginning with a "click" from the shifter and ending with the "clunk" of the chain falling in place.
My beautiful bicycle is graceful in a way that I am not. On the road, the wind is louder than the tires and the tires louder than the chain. Changing gears requires the flick of a finger, less effort than it takes to redirect a pencil on the page. Gear changes are instantaneous, with the chain "snicking" into place without hesitation. Hitting the brakes is like pulling the reins on a smart horse, quickly and surely the bike stops itself without disturbing the rider.
My ugly bike is a cantankerous ride. The smallest gear is too small and leads to my feet uselessly spinning the pedals. Even its biggest gear is too small, leaving me to coast down large hills. A comfortable position is hard to find, with no good place to put my hands. There is no position that allows me to stretch my back just right. I lean too far forward on the saddle. Even with the correct saddle height my legs feel cramped and pedalling never seems smooth.
My beautiful bike is a joy to ride. The first time I rode it, I thought it was nice, but was afraid I had wasted my money. It fit better, yes, but pedallng on the flats seemed the same. Then the road turned upward. Each pedal stroke snapped the back wheel around as if an extra lever were doing the work. Full power was transferred from my back and buttocks directly to the pavement. I felt as though the law of gravity had been altered just for me. On the downhill, I found the biggest gear. I still felt a reassuring pressure on my legs as I pedalled downhill. The bicycle didn't wobble in the slightest as the speedometer approached 40 miles an hour -- too fast for my heart.
Now it is spring. After a long winter I stand in my garage looking at my two machines. I will clean them and grease them and prepare them for the days and nights that lie ahead. As I look ahead, I remember. Remembering those days and miles they have given me.
I remember the day I bought my ugly bike. It was like being a kid again. Sitting on the saddle, but feeling the wind lash my face was like flying. I remember the first time I went ten miles. Ten whole miles! The hours alone on the backroads, thinking that I was a Tour contender. The first time I rode with a group and got dropped like a rock. The first time I bonked, feeling that I couldn't turn the crank one more time, even though I was miles from home.
I remember the first time I crested the hill at the front of the group. The first time I had to wait for the rest of my comrades to make it to the water stop. The first time I rode in the rain. In the snow. The first time I rode all day, 12 full hours all the way across Indiana. The first time I rode for charity, the first time I actually raced someone. The most important firsts of all came on that bike as well. The first time I pulled my daughter in her trailer, the first time she rode beside me on her own bike.
All those firsts and many, many miles on that ugly bike. I now consider how the lower gears will be easier on my winter softened legs. I think how the upright position will be easier on my stiff, neglected back. Even as I look longingly at my beautiful machine, it is my ugly bike I am throwing my right leg over. It is my ugly bike that glides down the driveway to the street. It is the pressure of the pedals of the ugly bike that bite into my legs as the hill looms in front me. It is my ugly bike that brings back that feeling, that glow of good health that riding brings. The clearing of the mental cobwebs, the invigoration of the spirit.
All traces of winter depression disappear as the pedals turn and then turn some more. The road stretches to infinity just beyond my front tire. The first bead of sweat forms on my brow, only to be evaporated by the fresh breeze. My bike and I are flying in the winds of spring, laden with potential. I look down and admire the machine that carries me, the one that multiplies my efforts into supple forward motion. I just can't believe it. I can't believe I called my best friend "ugly." It must have been Winter talking.
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| Pox Americana Marches On |
| 04.18.04 (7:41 pm) [edit] |
It is becoming clear that perhaps, just maybe, there were a few flaws in the plan. In Afghanistan, warlords have taken over as much as a third of the country, and the Taliban and Al Queda are described as "resurgent." In Iraq, well, don't get me started. Suffice to say those ain't flowers they're throwing in Fallujah. It's kinda ugly out there, with no end in sight. But amazingly enough the boys at BushCo are in fact planning yet another operation! Through documents obtained by the 9/11 Commission, inside information sources (OK, source, one lousy stinking source, if you want real journalism try Knight-Ridder) and a few wild guesses, I believe I have identified the target of the next invasion: Canada. That's right, let it sink in: Canada. The evidence is circumstantial, but strong.
Involvement in 9/11: There is no direct evidence linking Canada to 9/11, just like Iraq. But then again, why was Canadian airspace closed after the attacks? What did Chretien know and when did he know it? And when did he tell Bush? And when will Bush tell us? And does Bush actually know who the current Prime Minister of Canada is? If so, when will he tell us? And where was the New York Times during all of this? So many unanswered questions.
Weapons of Mass Destruction Who has more weapons of mass destruction, Iraq or Canada? 'Nuff said.
Terrorists Everyone knows that the lax standards of Canada leads to infiltration by terrorists. There is the now famous case of the terrorist who was arrested in Washington state. It is not as well known that a number of groups that threaten our way of life are active north of the border. Secret documents (not documents I have seen or read, of course, give me a break here) show that cells of the ever dangerous group, Non-Extremists for Gradual Change in Sweden are rampant in Canada, along with Responsible Citizens for Sensible Plastic Recycling. When will they crack down on these groups?
Drugs It is clear that Canada is becoming a major drug supplier to America. Why just last week in McDonalds, right there where children could see it, I saw a brochure for a Canadian Drug Club -- with chartered buses! No crack house was ever this blatant. Even the Taliban at least tried to pretend they were not in the drug business. But not Canadians.
Targets After the 9/11 attacks Donald Rumsfeld mentioned that attacking Iraq would make sense because they had "better targets." (Parable time: Man walks into a dentist's office and says, "Doc, help me, I think I'm a moth!" Dentist says, "You don't need a dentist you need a psychiatrist, why did you come in here?" Man says, "Because your light was on" Back to the story in progress) Better targets? My goodness Canada is full of beautiful, clean, crime free cities (how unAmerican!). Targets galore, eh?. Rummy must be drooling just thinking about it.
Vital Resources In the buildup to the Iraq attack, the administration kept saying "Noooooo, it is not about the oil. We, ummmmmm, never gave a thought to the the fact that they sit on the second largest oil reserve in the world." Yeah, right, and I'm Eleanore Roosevelt. Let's see, after the fighting in Afghanistan ended, things were relatively peaceful and to rebuild that war torn country Bush pledged a portion of his bottle cap collection and a rusty '63 Buick. In Iraq they haven't even stopped shooting at us and we have already started tossing around billion dollar "reconstruction" contracts. Not about the oil my ear. But be that as it may, ever tried to drink heavy crude? Not very nice on the throat. Canada has 20 percent of the world's fresh water supply. That's right, one out of every five glasses of water has a maple leaf on the side. And what are those pigs doing with it up there? Just trying to keep it clean, maybe canoeing on it once in a while. Such selfish greed! Well, pretty soon, we'll be putting that water to good use, filling swimming pools in Phoenix pal, you can count on that!
Remember you heard it hear first. Soon all this and more will be on the front page of every paper and 24/7 on Faux News as the war machine cranks up again, this time to distract from Iraq. Soon the drums of war will start beating, louder and louder before they reach a crescendo, timed perfectly for, I don't know, an election maybe? And this time, rather than marching in the streets with my "Inspections Not Invasion" sign, I'll be signing up. That's right I will take my pacifist little self right down to the recruiting station to sign up for the 82nd Airborne. I feel strongly about this, because there are medical students to rescue.
That's right, in the middle of the god-foresaken prairie of Canada huddles a group of shell-shocked students, just like in Grenada. The tortures they have endured are legendary. First of all they are in Saskatoon -- Saskatoon, Saskatchewan. Try saying that three times fast. Bet you can't even spell it without looking it up. Imagine their pain. Further, my source tells me that the medical students there are "trapped in a monastary from hell." (Well, that is not exactly what she said, but does this look like the Washington Post?) The godless heathens even force the students to work on Sunday! Further, after many years of endless torment they are then forced to provide medical care to those who need it, not just those who can afford it! Socialized medicine! Oh the horrors! Their plight has so touched my heart that I have set aside my abhorrance to military solutions and my tremendous fear of heights to parachute in and rescue them. Should be good for a laugh anyway.
If I am not accepted for that mission, I do have another plan. If we took a mere $10 billion (a fraction of the $80 billion downpayment in Iraq!) we could send 200,000 families on a secret mission. Each family would be given $50,000 seed money to move to Canada, and begin the process of "Americanizing" the Canadians. I can guaruntee a very low casualty count on both sides and it is very likely that many of these "troops" will, in fact, be greeted with flowers. Or at least doughnuts.
Now, I will admit, in a way that those in Washington are unwilling, that my plan has no exit strategy. We are talking quagmire wiht a capital "Q." It may not help recruiting to say this, but our "troops" could be there for five, ten or fifty years. Maybe longer with full access that good healthcare they have up there. Now, even with this little hitch in the recruiting pitch, I am sure that if Bush is not re-defeated and is selected as President for four more years, we will have no problem with people volunteering for this mission. Even without the seed money I'd be first in line. Beats the hell out of parachuting in.
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| The S-Word |
| 04.07.04 (11:29 am) [edit] |
It has been reported that Wisconsin Public Radio has recently bleeped the "S-word" from two of their programs. One was even a re-run that wasn't bleeped the first time. Jeez louise! What the heck is this fricking country coming to when we can't even use even one gosh darn Anglo-Saxon word on the radio? Good gravy, it isn't as though WPR was being fecking obscene. Come on people, it's just a word.
All of this is because of the filthy dastards at the FCC, who, upon seeing one piece of body jewlery lost their freaking minds. And every gosh darned programming planner got themselves all fupped duck as well as they rushed to "clean up the airwaves." What a load of bullcrud. Then a bunch of regressive Senators, who don't know from shinola, introduced a bill to outlaw the seven dirty words -- you know the ones. Can you imagine a bigger bunch of dipsticks?
These sons of biscuits wouldn't know a freaking obscenity if it bit them on the behind. For some inexplicable reason these bloody minded dastards of moral rectitude insist on looking for obscenity on TV and radio. It ain't there you freaking morons! Look out the gosh darned window and see the real obscenity.
How about starting with the fact that millions of people can't see a fricking doctor when they need one, because their freaking poverty level paying jobs don't have any gosh darn benefits. Infant mortality among the poor is still at third world levels, even though we spend more fricking money on our goll darned healthcare "system" than any other freaking country in the world. Now that's obscene.
How about the fact that we just about spend more on our military than the rest of the world spends on theirs -- combined! That's right more freaking taxpayer money goes to the sons of biscuits at the Pentagon than the whole rest of the freaking world spends! No wonder our lameash foreign policy amounts to "If you son of a biscuit suicide terrorists don't knock it off, we'll kill you all and obliterate your freaking countries." Sounds bassackwards to me.
I could go on and on, but there is one more example that gripes me most of all. Right there in the Oval Office, sits the biggest freaking pile of festering bullcrud that I have ever seen. No, I am not talking about the President, but rather his hypocrisy. This son of a biscuit signed over 130 death warrants in Texas, continues to doom poor children through lack of health care, and unnecessarily unleashed the dogs of war. After all of that, the freaking dastard has the stupid audacity to call himself "pro-life." And a good number of people in this country believe him. They must have sheepdip for brains.
With the country awash in this kind obscenity the FCC is worried about someone uttering the "S-word"? What a bunch of schmucks.
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| Coulda, Shoulda, Woulda |
| 04.06.04 (1:30 pm) [edit] |
I'll admit it, I have re-write disease. I always want one more chance to say what I should have said. Or could have said, but didn't.
Like many writers I fear the blank page. Will I express my thoughts clearly? Will anyone understand or appreciate what I am trying to say? Thoughts that seem so elegant and organized inside my head, come out so ragged on the page. Constantly my typing fingers seem to disappoint my thinking brain. But the words do come out, some good, many not so good and then the real work -- and re-write disease -- begins.
Rewriting, reworking and editing. Can this word be changed? Does this sentence say what I really mean? Can I leave this sentence out? Why doesn't this paragraph sound like it did in my head? There must be a better way of saying this. And on and on it goes. It can be an obsession. Even after publication, sometimes I hate to read my writing, because even then I think, "oh, that is not quite right..." Some writers hate to have their words changed by an editor -- I usually slap my forehead and think "Oh that's better! Why didn't I come up with that?"
Unfortunately, life is pretty much a first draft. Well, maybe more like a weblog, in that some things can be edited. But for the most part once you open your mouth, it's published. It's over and done with, on to the next scene. Or it is for most people. People with re-write disease want another shot. As the conversation replays in my head later, I fill in all the things I should have said. Sometimes I think of clever witticisms, jokes and puns that would have been perfect. The French call this the "spirit of the staircase," the perfect bon mot that occurs just as you reach the top of the stairs.
Of course, if it stopped there it wouldn't be a disease. Not only do I want to liven up my own discourse, I have to re-write the whole scene. First I replace the things I did say with those I should have said. Of course, those changed responses would have changed what the other person said. Soon I am re-writing their dialogue as well. Pretty soon the whole conversation and the emerging re-write are streaming through my mind -- an unstoppable train of words.
Hurtful things I said are morphed into helpful, well meaning advice. Angry words are formed into logical arguments. Distant, disconnected thoughts are focused. Awkward silences transformed into knowing glances. Arguments are not so much won or lost, but are found to be problems to be solved. And they are always solved to everyone's satisfaction.
In my re-writes I say "I love you" much more often. "How can I help?" more easily comes to my lips. I just smile and say "Thanks." There is a lot more hugging. In the re-writes there is no need for the regrets of the first draft. Hopefully, my first drafts are getting better, and I always appreciate those that give me chance to do at least a partial re-write.
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| From the Archives |
| 04.05.04 (12:26 pm) [edit] |
Being that my brain has been under quite a bit of duress and any sort of logical thinking has really been out of the question, I figured maybe I would go into the archives to try and keep up some semblance of a blog. I was hoping to find something both witty and deep, but being as how I was only looking at things I have written, I found the following two pieces (of what, you can decide.)
Hopefully I can get back to at least the normal level of weak boring output you are accustomed to here and there will be no need to dredge up the older boring material.
Thanks for reading!
Bill
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| In "Defense" of Children's Music |
| 04.05.04 (12:19 pm) [edit] |
First, let me say that Children's Music needs no defense. It is, in and of itself a perfectly valid form of musical expression and like "adult" music ranges from the wonderful to garbage. I think that, perhaps, what needs to be defended is the place of children's music in adult lives.
It was St. Paul who said in his famous epistle to the Corinthians, "When I was a child, my speech, my outlook and my thoughts were all childish. When I grew up I was finished with childish things." For some people this perfectly expresses their attitude toward children's music (or books or art). But interpreting Scripture can be difficult. If by childish, Paul meant something like playing the Disney Princess Collection over and over again until parents want to have John Henry, that steel driving man, drive a railroad prybar through the engine block of Michael Eisner's Jaguar, then by all means we must give that up. But must we also give up the wistful nostalgia John McCutcheon conjures up for the freedom of outdoor skating or bicycling? Must we give up the exhuberance of Pete Seeger's story telling? Or the inventive, silly and comical word play of Woody Guthrie? I think not.
Perhaps I simply have not matured in the way that Paul was able, but those experiences still appeal to me. When my daughter was about two years old, I went looking for some music that she might enjoy. We had been through several horrible lullaby and nursery rhyme records and I was pretty much ready for anything listenable. It was then I first heard John McCutcheon's "Wintersongs." I loved it. Still do. From begining to end he captures just about everything that is great about being a kid in a northern climate. Grandma's soup. Hot chocolate. Skating. Just when nostalgia was about to carry me away, he sang about the flu so realistically, that I had the chills by the end.
John's (or should I say Mr. McCutcheon?) album is brilliant because he (and his co-writer Si Kahn) are not really writing for kids. He is writing from his childhood, letting his inner child out, to get a bit "new agey." Bad children's songs start with "Hmmmm what do the kids today want to hear?" Perhaps that is the way that almost all bad songs start out. John starts with "What was (is) it like to be a kid?" Or even what is it like to be a groundhog? "Wintersongs" was a revelation for me and I decided right then and there that parenting was not going to be so bad.
Next came "Summersongs." Another masterpiece as far as I am concerned, if for nothing else for the song "I'm the Kid Who Hates Summer." If you think that summer is just 3 months of bad skiing (sledding, etc.) then this song is for you. If his song about getting a first bike does not bring back just a bit of that heady rush of freedom, mixed with just the right amount of fear of falling that your first bike brought you, check your pulse. Now I will admit that John's Spring and Autumn Songs are a step behind the first two, but spring and fall just don't have as strong an identity (especially for kids) as do summer and winter. So is it immaturity to remember fondly parts of my childhood and to want to share those experiences with my children? I don't believe so.
Since discovering John McCutcheon I have found that Wisconsin is a hotbed of children's singers. Real people writing real songs for kids. Not some corporation cranking out "product." Tom Pease and Stuart Stotts write wonderful songs together. Tom tends to lean towards little family dramas filled with humor and family togetherness. Stuart seems to lean towards message songs, without being preachy. Tom Pease is a wonderful performer who really connects with kids, plus he can do great things with his voice. He often sings from the point of view of the child and does a perfect whiny pre-adolescent voice. Tom and Stuart's songs are just as much about parenting as they are for kids. If you don't believe me, just take a listen to "Daddy Starts to Dance" (the song, not the album).
Also from Wisconsin we have Ken Lonnquist, whose "jungle" songs are second to none. He may have have put "Time Vacuum" (i.e., T.V. is a...) and "Garbage" on his kids albums, but the messages are for all of us. Ken's retelling of the "Legend of Belfana" is absolutely magical, perhaps the best half hour of live theater I have ever seen. If it doesn't make you take another look at your kids -- once again, check your pulse. There are many other talented hard working performers here, David Drake, Robbie Clement, Hans Meyer, Corrine Rockow (who is really from the U.P., but close enough) and lots of others. They prowl the libraries, schools and festivals and are well worth hearing.
If I have not yet convinced you that children's music is a legitimate art form -- for everyone, not just kids -- let me pull out the big guns. Woody Guthrie and Pete Seeger. Two of the biggest people in the folk music movement. Serious guys. Out on the picket line, fighting the system, taking on the rich and powerful, championing the underdog. Putting out kids albums? You betcha. Woody wrote wonderful kids songs, ranging from the silly to the sublime. Inventive looping language, strong morals (without preaching) invoking hard work, fair play, sharing, etc. and wonderful vocal performances. Woody's "Take you Riding in My Car" has got to be one of the most impressive vocal performances I have ever heard. You listen to it, then try and do it. I have heard plenty of singers take a crack that song (even Bruce Springsteen!), but none can hold a candle to Woody.
While Woody was adding a whole new vocabulary to children's music, just as he did with his "adult" music, Pete Seeger was preserving and teaching, as well as he did with his "adult" music. Pete recorded lots of children's music, both live and in the studio. He tells stories, sings songs, makes up songs, teaches games and hand motions. As ever, a one man folk festival. Why would these two titans (actually three, if you include John McCutcheon, who I see as their spiritual heir) of folk music, who so desparately wanted a better world spend so much time on children's music? First, because they understood that to have a better world we need to begin with our children. Second (I think) because it was fun, and third, just the opposite of the Grinch, because their hearts were just so darn big.
It has been said that true measure of a society can be found in how they treat their children. When real people sing for children from their heart you can hear how big their heart is. If B.B. King can not make you smile while he sings the "Rainy Day Blues," then maybe you are missing something. I often find tears welling up in my eyes when I hear kids songs because those with big hearts reach out in a special way to children. You can hear the hearts of all of the performers I have mentioned, and many more that I have not. Woody called a special group of his children's songs "Grow Big Songs." One listen will tell you that he did not mean physically. Yes, I love kids songs just for what they are.
Paul may want to leave childish things behind, but I see no reason not to embrace them occaisionally. Perhaps even more than occaisionally.
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| Them Poems |
| 04.05.04 (12:18 pm) [edit] |
THE JONESES IS KILLING ME
Here I am a man on the go,
I buy everything real and not a thing faux.
My cars are all German, and watches all Swiss.
Hey Mr. Jones, come look at this!
Look at me! Look at me! Look at me now!
It's fun to spend money, and boy, I know how!
With a house on the hill and the kids all in Jordans,
Everyone can see I'm a man of impordans.
With laptops and faxes and cellular phonses,
Everyone know I'm as good as those Jonses!
Look at me! Look at me! Look at me now!
You've got to keep up, and boy, I know how!
Suits by Armani, jaunts to St. Croix
Show how far we are from hoi polloi
A chateau on the lake, for the kids an au pair
The Joneses and we, so darn debonaire!
Look at me! Look at Me! Look at me now!
I have to spend more, but how?
I have the finest heart surgeon, a bowel ulcerated,
By my kids, who I've not seen, I am still hated.
I've worked and I'm spent, worn to my bones,
But I don't know why, Do you Mr. Jones?
Look at me! Look at me! Look at me now!
I'm old and I'm broke, I should have stopped spending -- but how?
THE CONTINUING SEARCH FOR INTELLIGENT LIFE IN THE UNIVERSE
The Earth would be a perfect plonit
If there were-en't any people on it.
ROAD HAZARD
At any place you can fill 'er up
From Bangor to Encino
Comes a brew in a white foam cup
Best described as crappuccino
WHAT'S IN A NAME?
Kids are named after states, cities and persons historical,
But shouldn't things be fair? I'm just asking rhetorical.
To keep things fair, for every boy named Cody,
There really should to be a girl called Oakley.
Sisters for the boys Dakota, Austin and Dallas
Should be Missourah, Boston and West Allis.
And although I've encountered a Cheyenne or two,
I've yet to meet a boy named Sioux.
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