Running Man: You may recall my adventures getting a bike from a couple of months back. It's worked out well. I've spent more than a few afternoons tooling around on it in addition to taking a number of more serious rides. But summer is winding down, and that means I need to turn to something else. Luckily running has re-emerged as a viable alternative thanks to some wonderful new shoes from Nike.
I used to run a fair amount. Even did some 5k and 5 mile races. But the years took their toll on my poor feet and legs. Technically speaking, I have high arches and I suppinate (tend to walk or run with too much emphasis on the out edges of my feet). Non-technically, that means I am simply not well constructed for bearing weight or absorbing impact. The fact is I never in my life got beyond five miles and the fact that my legs are on the short side meant that I never really increased my speed all that much.
So decades went by and the only running I did was a brief warm ups and maybe some interval drills in a boot camp class -- never much over a mile, and even then I felt the impact pretty seriously. But I was thinking I probably should give running longer distances one last shot before I get to old, so on a recommendation from a friend I tried a pair of Nike Vomeros. Easily the most comfortable shoe I have ever put on. They feel like you have pillows on your feet.
First test: I hop on treadmill figuring I'll knock off a mile or so just to see how I feel. Next thing I know I've covered 5k without a stitch of pain. I had to make myself stop. Next test: I tell myself I'll burn off another 5k this time out on the road and see how they do. Zoom, I ripped off four miles just because I was having such a good and easy run. Imagine that: no running for many, many years and suddenly I can knock off three or four miles without a second thought. That's incredible. I would have thought I would be working my way back up to my previous five mile limit but I can get there almost instantly.
If you run and your feet are like mine, or you just want a nice comfy cushioned shoe, you need Nike Vomeros. They list for about $125 but I have found them at Nike Outlet stores for $89. I bought two pair, just in case. Seriously, go out and buy them now. They're that good. You can thank me later.
Sunday, September 07, 2008
Alien Olympics
Alien Olympics: I was entirely unmoved by the Olympics. Olympians are, by and large, inhuman. 12-year old Chinese gymnasts aside, even the older gymnasts are outliers. Grow much higher than five feet, or find that your spine doesn't quite curve into a perfect semi-circle? You're better off trying out as a Cirque du Soleil extra. Swimming, volleyball, basketball? If you're under 6'4", you're a dwarf. The skills and talents they display are impressive, but it can be like watching science fiction about a race of superior aliens.
There are some holdout sports. Certainly the ones that don't specialize so heavily -- decathletes are fairly normally structured because they can't afford to be to freakily specialized for one thing. Boxers are still boxers (I would argue that boxing is the most physically challenging sport) and their weight classes keep them looking fairly pretty normal. Sports that require rackets or more complex machines such as archery, rowing, or sailing are still accessible folks of normal dimensions, but those aren't big ticket events. The glory events are the domain of those in the 99.999th percentile of certain genetic predispositions. I realize that they put enormous effort into training and they wouldn't be there without all the hard work, but the freak-of-nature aspect makes it a spectacle rather than something to identify with.
But that's hypocritical of me. I am a huge NFL fan, and those guys are not exactly everyday ordinary specimens are they? So what is it? Why don't I care about the Olympics? Maybe because it seems so manufactured. Maybe because of all the treacley superlatives that emanate from every corner. Maybe simply because the whole mess seems like a multi-year PR campaign to make everyone stand up and shout "This is a beautiful and important thing!!!" and actually believe it. Then at the very end, we set the stage for the next one in four years by making Jimmy Page look like a doofus.
I do hope that Dexter, MI never wins an Olympic bid.
There are some holdout sports. Certainly the ones that don't specialize so heavily -- decathletes are fairly normally structured because they can't afford to be to freakily specialized for one thing. Boxers are still boxers (I would argue that boxing is the most physically challenging sport) and their weight classes keep them looking fairly pretty normal. Sports that require rackets or more complex machines such as archery, rowing, or sailing are still accessible folks of normal dimensions, but those aren't big ticket events. The glory events are the domain of those in the 99.999th percentile of certain genetic predispositions. I realize that they put enormous effort into training and they wouldn't be there without all the hard work, but the freak-of-nature aspect makes it a spectacle rather than something to identify with.
But that's hypocritical of me. I am a huge NFL fan, and those guys are not exactly everyday ordinary specimens are they? So what is it? Why don't I care about the Olympics? Maybe because it seems so manufactured. Maybe because of all the treacley superlatives that emanate from every corner. Maybe simply because the whole mess seems like a multi-year PR campaign to make everyone stand up and shout "This is a beautiful and important thing!!!" and actually believe it. Then at the very end, we set the stage for the next one in four years by making Jimmy Page look like a doofus.
I do hope that Dexter, MI never wins an Olympic bid.
Detroit Follies
Detroit Follies: Documenting the ultimate demise of the city of my birth...
•The dead are fleeing Detroit along with everybody else. No, zombification has not occurred, but people are moving their deceased loved ones out to the suburbs mostly so they don't have to go into Detroit to visit their graves. That is how desperate people around here are to never have to set foot in Detroit.
•Our black-Irish mayor Kwame Kilpatrick finally got tossed into the pokey for real. He admitted to lying under oath, which is probably the least of his actual crimes, got a 120-day sentence, and resigned as Mayor, claiming that he was now set up for a comeback. Despite destroying the careers of numerous people and wasting tens of millions in public money, I have no doubt the people of Detroit will re-elect him in the next election. They deserve him.
•Every NFL season comes along with a healthy dose of unintentional comedy, but it's entirely possible that this season has peaked early. Rudi Johnson signed as a running back with the Lions just before the start of the season. So he shows up at camp, drops his bag outside GM Matt Millen's office and goes inside to meet with the boss. He comes out and his bag is missing. Well, the place is watched by surveillance cameras so they just go to the tape to see what happened. It turns out the guy he was replacing, one Tatum Bell, stole his bag. So they get in contact with him and explain that they have him on tape taking the bag and he claims it was a mistake, he thought it was someone else's and he dropped it as his girlfriends house. They retrieve the bag, minus Rudi's ID, Credit Cards, Cash and "some undergarments." Bell makes a public statement in response: "I ain't no thief!" but the double negative speaks volumes. You can't make this stuff up.
•One bit of good news. Detroit Metro Airport is getting a new terminal. Detroit Metro (DTW) is a Northwest hub and a few years back to built a brand new terminal for them, which turned things around 180 degrees. The previous terminal was horrendous -- like some kind of third world hell hole transplanted into the Midwest. The new terminal in contrast was a stunner. Really one of the finest airport terminals I've been in, and I've been in a few. Now they have new one for the non-hub airlines set to open mid-September. This is great news for all travelers around these parts, which includes me.
By the way, DTW is not even near the city; it's a good 20 miles west so even if you fly into Detroit Metro, you still don't have to go into Detroit. So we got that going for us.
•The dead are fleeing Detroit along with everybody else. No, zombification has not occurred, but people are moving their deceased loved ones out to the suburbs mostly so they don't have to go into Detroit to visit their graves. That is how desperate people around here are to never have to set foot in Detroit.
•Our black-Irish mayor Kwame Kilpatrick finally got tossed into the pokey for real. He admitted to lying under oath, which is probably the least of his actual crimes, got a 120-day sentence, and resigned as Mayor, claiming that he was now set up for a comeback. Despite destroying the careers of numerous people and wasting tens of millions in public money, I have no doubt the people of Detroit will re-elect him in the next election. They deserve him.
•Every NFL season comes along with a healthy dose of unintentional comedy, but it's entirely possible that this season has peaked early. Rudi Johnson signed as a running back with the Lions just before the start of the season. So he shows up at camp, drops his bag outside GM Matt Millen's office and goes inside to meet with the boss. He comes out and his bag is missing. Well, the place is watched by surveillance cameras so they just go to the tape to see what happened. It turns out the guy he was replacing, one Tatum Bell, stole his bag. So they get in contact with him and explain that they have him on tape taking the bag and he claims it was a mistake, he thought it was someone else's and he dropped it as his girlfriends house. They retrieve the bag, minus Rudi's ID, Credit Cards, Cash and "some undergarments." Bell makes a public statement in response: "I ain't no thief!" but the double negative speaks volumes. You can't make this stuff up.
•One bit of good news. Detroit Metro Airport is getting a new terminal. Detroit Metro (DTW) is a Northwest hub and a few years back to built a brand new terminal for them, which turned things around 180 degrees. The previous terminal was horrendous -- like some kind of third world hell hole transplanted into the Midwest. The new terminal in contrast was a stunner. Really one of the finest airport terminals I've been in, and I've been in a few. Now they have new one for the non-hub airlines set to open mid-September. This is great news for all travelers around these parts, which includes me.
By the way, DTW is not even near the city; it's a good 20 miles west so even if you fly into Detroit Metro, you still don't have to go into Detroit. So we got that going for us.
Tuesday, August 05, 2008
The Month That Was - July 2008
The Month That Was - July 2008: A couple of short trips this month. NYC is described below. I also assisted in the annual ritual of dropping Miss Anna off at camp in Cheboygan, MI with the requisite trip to Mackinac Island which I probably won't describe since it was a very short and relatively uneventful trip. It's amazing how efficient we have become at the annual Mac Island trips. We know which ferry to take, we know where to stay, we know what to do on the island, we know where to stop for last minute camp supplies, it's really become a no brainer. Kind of a shame this could be the last year for it.
More importantly you can finally read about my Newfoundland adventure. Some of the pics are great.
Lastly, check out this (somewhat slow loading) picture of a moth that spent a couple of days on the wall just outside my door. It's freaky looking, yes, but the real kicker is that the thing was enormous. Wingspan of 7 inches easily. It took up residence in that spot and literally didn't move for two days. I took to calling it Mothra and offering a friendly greeting as I passed. After a couple of days, it just disappeared in the dark of night, never to be seen again. Vaya con Dios, Mothra.
Chelsea Schmelsea (an NYC 4th)
Quickie Reviews
It's Not Happening in Detroit
The Return of the Little Black Book (or The Horror of Motorola Phone Tools)
More importantly you can finally read about my Newfoundland adventure. Some of the pics are great.
Lastly, check out this (somewhat slow loading) picture of a moth that spent a couple of days on the wall just outside my door. It's freaky looking, yes, but the real kicker is that the thing was enormous. Wingspan of 7 inches easily. It took up residence in that spot and literally didn't move for two days. I took to calling it Mothra and offering a friendly greeting as I passed. After a couple of days, it just disappeared in the dark of night, never to be seen again. Vaya con Dios, Mothra.
Chelsea Schmelsea (an NYC 4th)
Quickie Reviews
It's Not Happening in Detroit
The Return of the Little Black Book (or The Horror of Motorola Phone Tools)
Chelsea Schmelsea (an NYC 4th)
Chelsea Schmelsea (an NYC 4th): It had been a couple of years since I was in Manhattan so I went back for the 4th. Rather than my usual midtown locale, I stayed in Chelsea -- dirty and smelly, like NYC from the 70s, I can only assume. Back to midtown next time.
I didn't really have much of a plan. I wanted to see the Waterfalls. I had hoped to catch the fireworks. Beyond that, I figured a bit of time in Central Park, a visit to one or two museums, and some foodie stuff.
I started with a mistake: The Empire State Building. As soon as I checked in I hit the street and got all excited about being in Manhattan again so I went in the ESB on impulse. I should have known better. It's a ridiculous wait (45 minutes in my case, which is relatively short) for a few minutes of a pretty view among a thick crowd of people. Totally annoying -- like waiting an hour for a two minute roller coaster ride, only not as exciting. I would have been better off finding a jazz club.
The next morning I cabbed it to the Seaport early for a harbor boat tour on the Zephyr. A+. Highly recommended. A full measure of local history and it passes all the Waterfalls. The boat is big and comfy with plenty of room. (I have heard plenty of good things from a number of sources about the various boat tours around Manhattan. Just FYI.)
From then on, it was one head-slapper after another as I tried to find some lunch. You see, on the rare occasions I am in Manhattan, I like my meals to be something special. Not necessarily expensive or fancy. Just something I can't do elsewhere. In my head I have a litany of places I have liked in the past and a few I have heard of to try. These experiences are key to an NYC visit for me.
From the Seaport I walked back to Chinatown hoping to get a Bahn Mi at Saigon Bakery. It was closed for the 4th. Since when are Vietnamese restaurants closed on the 4th? Every other place in Chinatown was open. Fine. Screw the Bahn Mi. I hopped the subway to midtown for my traditional greasy lunch at the Hidden Burger Joint in Le Parker Meridien. The line was out the door and into the lobby -- not so hidden after all. All right, forget the cheap eats. Over to the MOMA and get something high-end at The Moderne. Sorry sir, we're closed for the afternoon, open again at 5:30. OK, well, I'll just go in the MOMA at troll around for a couple of hours until you're open. Can't do that either because it's just turned 4 o'clock and the MOMA is free on Fridays from 4-8 and the line is literally (yes, literally) around the block.
By this time lunch has turned into dinner and I am getting really cranky. What I should have done was hit the falafel cart across the street for some lamb and rice. Instead, I darted over to Columbus Circle and the Blue Ribbon Sushi Bar and Grill. Finally. I got a nice glass of wine and some delicious, if seriously expensive, Korean Fried Chicken. I spent an entire afternoon ping-ponging around Manhattan looking for the right grub. There's something very wrong with me.
Then I headed back to MOMA, with the crowd thinned out I was able to get to the Dali exhibit, which was only so-so, although I may have been spoiled by the Dali Museum in St. Pete, FL. Otherwise the MOMA remains the MOMA.
Lastly back in the subway and down to the South Pier in the hopes of catching the fireworks. Crowd was ridiculous -- millions and millions. Then it started to rain. I watched about 15 minutes then beat a hasty retreat and called it a night -- exhausted. A full day, if frustrating.
The next day I wanted to rent a bike and ride though Central Park, but it was raining of course. It has rained, or threatened to rain so as to alter my plans, during all of my travels this summer (Newfoundland, Chicago, NY, Mackinac). Next vacation will have to be the desert. Sheesh.
I stopped for a bagel and lox breakfast at Lindy's, but it was clear the rain was not going to let up so I subwayed over to the Met Museum. There is a rather well-publicized Jeffery Koons exhibit on the rooftop. Naturally, it was closed thanks to the weather. So I wandered around a bit -- there was a cute exhibit on superhero costumes: interesting and fun, but not exactly art. I spent some time in the Contemporary Asian galleries, mostly because fewer people were there. I kept checking for a break in the rain so I could at least hang in Central Park for a while, but no.
At this point I was frustrated as hell because I couldn't seem to get done anything that I wanted to do. Worse, every failure was starting to grind on my poor feet as I ended up standing around and walking from subway stop to stop. So I decide to treat myself to a straight razor shave and a little pampering. There was a new high-end barber shop/spa-for-men, called Spiff, that had just opened this year so I made the hoof over to 3rd avenue to see if they'd take a walk in. Guess what? They were closed. Their hours on the door said they were open on Saturday until 4. It was Saturday and well before 4, yet the place was closed. This was getting ridiculous. Art of Shaving was just around the corner, so I checked with them: Sorry, no openings until Monday. We'd gone beyond ridiculous to absurd.
Now I was hungry again, so I walked a couple blocks further and hit Zenburger for a burger fix since since I couldn't get near the Hidden Burger joint the previous day. Closed. They decided to close July 4th and 5th. I swore an oath never to visit NYC on a holiday again. Un-freakin'-believable.
It so happens that right next door to Zenburger is a place called Homme Spa, a very nice looking day spa. It had to be a sign. Instantly, I decided that I deserved a massage. Dammit, I did.
Homme Spa was, well, interesting -- an Asian-run very stylish space, with extremely attentive staff. Unlike most spas where you are handed a robe slippers and given a few minutes to undress and shower, an attendant (a nice middle aged Asian fellow) undresses you, and drys you off after the shower (fortunately he does not soap you up or scrub you down). The massage was excellent, best Swedish style massage I have ever had. I was going use the sauna and shower again afterwards but suddenly the place became coed -- there was only one set of showers and lockers -- and the nice middle-aged Asian fellow was trying to arrange activities so me and a female guest were not exposed to each other. I decided to leave -- good massage, but very strange place. (By the way, in case you are wondering, I got no vibe that is was the sort of place you could get a "happy ending".)
Feeling somewhat better I made my way over to Columbus Circle and snagged a delicious dinner at Robuchon Bakery -- a casual alternative to Joel Robuchon's 8-star (or whatever) restaurant. I had a cheesesteak knockoff -- a Panini made with Waygu - which was awesome. I finished the evening with a Jamba Juice nightcap in Times Square on the way back and got my evening's entertainment by watching the baristas try to fend off a pigeon that decided to roost inside the shop.
The next day I had to fly out around dinner time so I took the opportunity for a visit to the JCC gym on the Upper West Side for a class called "Melting." Melting involves using hard plastic foam rollers to apply serious, even painful, pressure to the connective tissue (ligaments and tendons and such). The theory is that this stuff can get loosened up through what is effectively a form of massage and that leads to generally improved flexibility and ease of movement. If you have ever heard of something called Rolfing, it is essentially a poor man's version of that. It was worth a try. I am always looking for things that will stop me from becoming a hunched up old man, and this definite goes into the bag of tricks. In truth, it was just nice to be off my feet for a while.
With only a couple hours left, and sunny skies at last, I took a quick walk through Central Park, snagged a pretzel, and chilled out for a while on the lawn outside Tavern on the Green.
And that was that. I stupidly scheduled my flight out from Newark and so faced an hour long, $70 cab ride to get out. A good weekend in retrospect, but frustrating. But New York isn't supposed to be easy is it?
A smattering of pics:
•Waterfall under the Brooklyn Bridge
•Same waterfall up close
•The Manhattan skyline beyond the Brooklyn Bridge
•The Staten Island Ferry
•Ellis Island
•A classic schooner sailing under the Statue of Liberty
•Statue of Liberty
•The Manhattan skyline from the southwest
•I found this light fixture to be oddly fascinating
•Little Italy in full swing (no sign of Don Fanucci)
•For some reason, the Chinatown Starbucks makes me smile
I didn't really have much of a plan. I wanted to see the Waterfalls. I had hoped to catch the fireworks. Beyond that, I figured a bit of time in Central Park, a visit to one or two museums, and some foodie stuff.
I started with a mistake: The Empire State Building. As soon as I checked in I hit the street and got all excited about being in Manhattan again so I went in the ESB on impulse. I should have known better. It's a ridiculous wait (45 minutes in my case, which is relatively short) for a few minutes of a pretty view among a thick crowd of people. Totally annoying -- like waiting an hour for a two minute roller coaster ride, only not as exciting. I would have been better off finding a jazz club.
The next morning I cabbed it to the Seaport early for a harbor boat tour on the Zephyr. A+. Highly recommended. A full measure of local history and it passes all the Waterfalls. The boat is big and comfy with plenty of room. (I have heard plenty of good things from a number of sources about the various boat tours around Manhattan. Just FYI.)
From then on, it was one head-slapper after another as I tried to find some lunch. You see, on the rare occasions I am in Manhattan, I like my meals to be something special. Not necessarily expensive or fancy. Just something I can't do elsewhere. In my head I have a litany of places I have liked in the past and a few I have heard of to try. These experiences are key to an NYC visit for me.
From the Seaport I walked back to Chinatown hoping to get a Bahn Mi at Saigon Bakery. It was closed for the 4th. Since when are Vietnamese restaurants closed on the 4th? Every other place in Chinatown was open. Fine. Screw the Bahn Mi. I hopped the subway to midtown for my traditional greasy lunch at the Hidden Burger Joint in Le Parker Meridien. The line was out the door and into the lobby -- not so hidden after all. All right, forget the cheap eats. Over to the MOMA and get something high-end at The Moderne. Sorry sir, we're closed for the afternoon, open again at 5:30. OK, well, I'll just go in the MOMA at troll around for a couple of hours until you're open. Can't do that either because it's just turned 4 o'clock and the MOMA is free on Fridays from 4-8 and the line is literally (yes, literally) around the block.
By this time lunch has turned into dinner and I am getting really cranky. What I should have done was hit the falafel cart across the street for some lamb and rice. Instead, I darted over to Columbus Circle and the Blue Ribbon Sushi Bar and Grill. Finally. I got a nice glass of wine and some delicious, if seriously expensive, Korean Fried Chicken. I spent an entire afternoon ping-ponging around Manhattan looking for the right grub. There's something very wrong with me.
Then I headed back to MOMA, with the crowd thinned out I was able to get to the Dali exhibit, which was only so-so, although I may have been spoiled by the Dali Museum in St. Pete, FL. Otherwise the MOMA remains the MOMA.
Lastly back in the subway and down to the South Pier in the hopes of catching the fireworks. Crowd was ridiculous -- millions and millions. Then it started to rain. I watched about 15 minutes then beat a hasty retreat and called it a night -- exhausted. A full day, if frustrating.
The next day I wanted to rent a bike and ride though Central Park, but it was raining of course. It has rained, or threatened to rain so as to alter my plans, during all of my travels this summer (Newfoundland, Chicago, NY, Mackinac). Next vacation will have to be the desert. Sheesh.
I stopped for a bagel and lox breakfast at Lindy's, but it was clear the rain was not going to let up so I subwayed over to the Met Museum. There is a rather well-publicized Jeffery Koons exhibit on the rooftop. Naturally, it was closed thanks to the weather. So I wandered around a bit -- there was a cute exhibit on superhero costumes: interesting and fun, but not exactly art. I spent some time in the Contemporary Asian galleries, mostly because fewer people were there. I kept checking for a break in the rain so I could at least hang in Central Park for a while, but no.
At this point I was frustrated as hell because I couldn't seem to get done anything that I wanted to do. Worse, every failure was starting to grind on my poor feet as I ended up standing around and walking from subway stop to stop. So I decide to treat myself to a straight razor shave and a little pampering. There was a new high-end barber shop/spa-for-men, called Spiff, that had just opened this year so I made the hoof over to 3rd avenue to see if they'd take a walk in. Guess what? They were closed. Their hours on the door said they were open on Saturday until 4. It was Saturday and well before 4, yet the place was closed. This was getting ridiculous. Art of Shaving was just around the corner, so I checked with them: Sorry, no openings until Monday. We'd gone beyond ridiculous to absurd.
Now I was hungry again, so I walked a couple blocks further and hit Zenburger for a burger fix since since I couldn't get near the Hidden Burger joint the previous day. Closed. They decided to close July 4th and 5th. I swore an oath never to visit NYC on a holiday again. Un-freakin'-believable.
It so happens that right next door to Zenburger is a place called Homme Spa, a very nice looking day spa. It had to be a sign. Instantly, I decided that I deserved a massage. Dammit, I did.
Homme Spa was, well, interesting -- an Asian-run very stylish space, with extremely attentive staff. Unlike most spas where you are handed a robe slippers and given a few minutes to undress and shower, an attendant (a nice middle aged Asian fellow) undresses you, and drys you off after the shower (fortunately he does not soap you up or scrub you down). The massage was excellent, best Swedish style massage I have ever had. I was going use the sauna and shower again afterwards but suddenly the place became coed -- there was only one set of showers and lockers -- and the nice middle-aged Asian fellow was trying to arrange activities so me and a female guest were not exposed to each other. I decided to leave -- good massage, but very strange place. (By the way, in case you are wondering, I got no vibe that is was the sort of place you could get a "happy ending".)
Feeling somewhat better I made my way over to Columbus Circle and snagged a delicious dinner at Robuchon Bakery -- a casual alternative to Joel Robuchon's 8-star (or whatever) restaurant. I had a cheesesteak knockoff -- a Panini made with Waygu - which was awesome. I finished the evening with a Jamba Juice nightcap in Times Square on the way back and got my evening's entertainment by watching the baristas try to fend off a pigeon that decided to roost inside the shop.
The next day I had to fly out around dinner time so I took the opportunity for a visit to the JCC gym on the Upper West Side for a class called "Melting." Melting involves using hard plastic foam rollers to apply serious, even painful, pressure to the connective tissue (ligaments and tendons and such). The theory is that this stuff can get loosened up through what is effectively a form of massage and that leads to generally improved flexibility and ease of movement. If you have ever heard of something called Rolfing, it is essentially a poor man's version of that. It was worth a try. I am always looking for things that will stop me from becoming a hunched up old man, and this definite goes into the bag of tricks. In truth, it was just nice to be off my feet for a while.
With only a couple hours left, and sunny skies at last, I took a quick walk through Central Park, snagged a pretzel, and chilled out for a while on the lawn outside Tavern on the Green.
And that was that. I stupidly scheduled my flight out from Newark and so faced an hour long, $70 cab ride to get out. A good weekend in retrospect, but frustrating. But New York isn't supposed to be easy is it?
A smattering of pics:
•Waterfall under the Brooklyn Bridge
•Same waterfall up close
•The Manhattan skyline beyond the Brooklyn Bridge
•The Staten Island Ferry
•Ellis Island
•A classic schooner sailing under the Statue of Liberty
•Statue of Liberty
•The Manhattan skyline from the southwest
•I found this light fixture to be oddly fascinating
•Little Italy in full swing (no sign of Don Fanucci)
•For some reason, the Chinatown Starbucks makes me smile
Quickie Reviews
Quickie Reviews: Just some short comments on recently consumed art.
Superbad: There is raunch -- which I usually hate, for instance I didn't much care for Something about Mary or American Pie -- and there is Superbad which is brilliant. Seriously, one of the few teen comedies worth watching in the long and pathetic history of teen comedies. Funny, but with a purpose. Great nerd performances. The awkward raunch and profanity is sourced from adolescent pain, not from pointless toilet humor. Please do NOT make a sequel.
Mad Men: The new season just started and it could be awesome. Clearly this season is going to be about change and age vs. youth. As much as I loathe sentimental '60s hippie worship, it was a time of great change (not all for the better). As Gregg Easterbrook once pointed out, American Grafitti was made in 1971 out of nostalgia for 1960 (11 years in the past). Would anyone notice much different between today and 1997, never mind have nostalgia about it? At this point, it looks like we are going to get a take on that change from Mad Men. I hope this season moves me enough to write about it in full when it's over.
Burn Notice: Nothing but lightweight entertainment coolness. A throwback to '80s shows like Magnum, P.I. -- vacuous pseudo-action/detective-style plots, but perfect paced and executed with good humor. The shows are contrived especially to not require any thought (and if you did think about them, they probably wouldn't make any sense). It gets by on the good natured charisma and chemistry of the lead actors, including the redoubtable Bruce Campbell and the insanely hot Gabrielle Anwar. It's good to eat healthy, but sometimes you just need some ice cream. Burn Notice is perfect Pecan Praline.
Devil May Care: This book has been heralded as the return of "literary" James Bond. Sebastian Faulks, a well respected mainstream novelist, took up the mantle of Ian Fleming in an attempt to reboot the book series as Casino Royale did for the movie series. It works, to a point. First off, having read a number of Fleming's Bond novels I don't know that I would consider them "literary". They are exceedingly well crafted thrillers -- there isn't a thriller writer alive who couldn't benefit from Fleming's economy and sentence craftsmanship -- but it's a stretch, I think to call the "literary" if the implication of literary is something like "artistic insight into humanity". Anyway, what Faulks has done is write a Bond novel that Fleming would be proud of, in the style of Fleming himself. (In fact the cover says "Sebastian Faulks writing as Ian Fleming," which is precisely what is going on.) It is set in 1967, just after the last Fleming novel. It makes use of all the trappings of Fleming -- in fact, many of the events can be thought of as variations on Fleming-penned scenes -- without stepping into the cartoonism that so few can resist with Bond (although the pat ending where the arch villain returns to get his revenge for Bond foiling his plan plays out very over-the-top). Worth reading if you like the original Bond series. Not a reason to start if you don't.
Beautiful Jazz: Written in the Stars and Live from the Village Vanguard from the unbelievable Bill Charlap, are perhaps the most beautiful piano performances I have ever heard. Throw in Hey, Look Me Over by the Harry Allen-Joe Cohn Quartet for some exquisite saxophone and guitar work and it adds up to some of wonderful jazz listening. The thing about these two performers is that they have not forsaken beauty as the ultimate goal of music. So much music (especially jazz) seems to exist just to prove how far out of the mainstream it can go. Aesthetics are sacrificed for boundary pushing or technical flash, mopstly for the sake of self-definition. Both these performers find ways to be creative within the context of making beautiful melodious music and being true to the soul of the standards they play. The song comes first. Awesome. I hope it becomes a trend.
Superbad: There is raunch -- which I usually hate, for instance I didn't much care for Something about Mary or American Pie -- and there is Superbad which is brilliant. Seriously, one of the few teen comedies worth watching in the long and pathetic history of teen comedies. Funny, but with a purpose. Great nerd performances. The awkward raunch and profanity is sourced from adolescent pain, not from pointless toilet humor. Please do NOT make a sequel.
Mad Men: The new season just started and it could be awesome. Clearly this season is going to be about change and age vs. youth. As much as I loathe sentimental '60s hippie worship, it was a time of great change (not all for the better). As Gregg Easterbrook once pointed out, American Grafitti was made in 1971 out of nostalgia for 1960 (11 years in the past). Would anyone notice much different between today and 1997, never mind have nostalgia about it? At this point, it looks like we are going to get a take on that change from Mad Men. I hope this season moves me enough to write about it in full when it's over.
Burn Notice: Nothing but lightweight entertainment coolness. A throwback to '80s shows like Magnum, P.I. -- vacuous pseudo-action/detective-style plots, but perfect paced and executed with good humor. The shows are contrived especially to not require any thought (and if you did think about them, they probably wouldn't make any sense). It gets by on the good natured charisma and chemistry of the lead actors, including the redoubtable Bruce Campbell and the insanely hot Gabrielle Anwar. It's good to eat healthy, but sometimes you just need some ice cream. Burn Notice is perfect Pecan Praline.
Devil May Care: This book has been heralded as the return of "literary" James Bond. Sebastian Faulks, a well respected mainstream novelist, took up the mantle of Ian Fleming in an attempt to reboot the book series as Casino Royale did for the movie series. It works, to a point. First off, having read a number of Fleming's Bond novels I don't know that I would consider them "literary". They are exceedingly well crafted thrillers -- there isn't a thriller writer alive who couldn't benefit from Fleming's economy and sentence craftsmanship -- but it's a stretch, I think to call the "literary" if the implication of literary is something like "artistic insight into humanity". Anyway, what Faulks has done is write a Bond novel that Fleming would be proud of, in the style of Fleming himself. (In fact the cover says "Sebastian Faulks writing as Ian Fleming," which is precisely what is going on.) It is set in 1967, just after the last Fleming novel. It makes use of all the trappings of Fleming -- in fact, many of the events can be thought of as variations on Fleming-penned scenes -- without stepping into the cartoonism that so few can resist with Bond (although the pat ending where the arch villain returns to get his revenge for Bond foiling his plan plays out very over-the-top). Worth reading if you like the original Bond series. Not a reason to start if you don't.
Beautiful Jazz: Written in the Stars and Live from the Village Vanguard from the unbelievable Bill Charlap, are perhaps the most beautiful piano performances I have ever heard. Throw in Hey, Look Me Over by the Harry Allen-Joe Cohn Quartet for some exquisite saxophone and guitar work and it adds up to some of wonderful jazz listening. The thing about these two performers is that they have not forsaken beauty as the ultimate goal of music. So much music (especially jazz) seems to exist just to prove how far out of the mainstream it can go. Aesthetics are sacrificed for boundary pushing or technical flash, mopstly for the sake of self-definition. Both these performers find ways to be creative within the context of making beautiful melodious music and being true to the soul of the standards they play. The song comes first. Awesome. I hope it becomes a trend.
It's Not Happening in Detroit
It's Not Happening in Detroit: It's been awhile since we looked in on Detroit's black Irish mayor, Kwame Kilpatrick. As if he wasn't in enough trouble already for perjury, corruption, and generally modeling himself after Robert Mugabe, he has now (allegedly) assaulted a state trooper who was in the course of delivering a subpoena. Most interesting to me is that in the story the cop is trying to serve a warrant to some clown named Bobby Ferguson who is a friend of the Mayor (distantly related through marriage) and a big time city contractor. He is also a felon. So outside of the assault charges, we have a felon who just happens to be a close to the mayor, getting major city contracts. And that is not even the issue everyone is concerned with. Apparently, that's par for the course.
Detroit is a lost cause. Its ultimate destruction is inevitable now, partially because no force for good governance could possibly resist the degenerate culture of the city administration. Oh you may get a brief respite occasionally, but then it will start sliding down the side of toilet bowl again in short order. Detroit's ultimate fate will come when the city consists of a couple dozen loin-clothed inhabitants waging war on each other with stone knives and clubs only to find there are not enough of them left to form a viable gene pool.
I can sit back and say that with a certain bemusement because, despite Detroit being the place of my birth, I got out before any emotional attachment was formed. Others can't do that. Detroit Blog, for example, is dedicated to telling stories of the city out of affection. They are fine little vignettes of the city from the beautiful architecture in the abandoned buildings to the people left desperately clinging to hope and memory. The fellow behind Detroit Blog clearly has a love for the city and is a talented writer. But I can't help but see Detroit Blog as a deathbed memoir. Try this one, for example.
If you don't see the connection between Kwame Kilpatrick feeding taxpayer money to his felon friends and these folks barely breathing on Michigan Avenue, you need to clean your glasses.
Detroit is a lost cause. Its ultimate destruction is inevitable now, partially because no force for good governance could possibly resist the degenerate culture of the city administration. Oh you may get a brief respite occasionally, but then it will start sliding down the side of toilet bowl again in short order. Detroit's ultimate fate will come when the city consists of a couple dozen loin-clothed inhabitants waging war on each other with stone knives and clubs only to find there are not enough of them left to form a viable gene pool.
I can sit back and say that with a certain bemusement because, despite Detroit being the place of my birth, I got out before any emotional attachment was formed. Others can't do that. Detroit Blog, for example, is dedicated to telling stories of the city out of affection. They are fine little vignettes of the city from the beautiful architecture in the abandoned buildings to the people left desperately clinging to hope and memory. The fellow behind Detroit Blog clearly has a love for the city and is a talented writer. But I can't help but see Detroit Blog as a deathbed memoir. Try this one, for example.
If you don't see the connection between Kwame Kilpatrick feeding taxpayer money to his felon friends and these folks barely breathing on Michigan Avenue, you need to clean your glasses.
Return of the Little Black Book? (or The Horror of Motorola Phone Tools)
The Return of the Little Black Book?: (This is a long cathartic rant. Consider yourself warned.) Just in case any search engines are paying attention, let me say this: Motorola Phone Tools is a festering pile of crap. Here's the story.
I have a Motorola RAZR V3. All I wanted to do was back up my phone book. I don't use the phone for any other nonsense except to make calls and text, and I have a bunch of numbers in there that I have nowhere else. If I dropped the thing in the lake or something, I would be days trying to round up all the numbers I'd lost. Doesn't seem like an unreasonable request. I can't imagine everyone not wanting to do this. I'm not looking for anything special, just a dump to a text file would be fine. So how does one back-up a RAZR?
Well, you have to buy a copy of Motorola Phone Tools (MPT) which costs in excess of $30. That will give you everything you need to sync your contacts, manage you MP3 library, and fiddle with your ringtones. Oh and it will backup your phone book too, if that's the sort of thing you're into.
Now the phone itself cost me $99 so essentially we are talking about a 30% premium just to back up the phone numbers I have stored. I'd take the time to write them out by hand before I'd pay that. Fortunately, MPT is selling for a couple of bucks on eBay (which says something right there), so I ordered a copy.
It arrives. I load up the CD and do the install. Fire up the program and it asks if I want to get any updates. I do. So it downloads the updates. I now have the latest verison of MPT. So far so good. But no farther.
Now I fire it up and it tells me to plug in the phone so it can configure it. I do so, but after a minute it tells me it can't identify the phone, and asks if I want to check for updates to the software. Since it's either that or nothing, I tell it to check for the software updates. It comes back and tells me I am up to date, which I already know, and then asks me if I would like to try to set my phone up manually. Now, the RAZR V3 has to be one of the most common, if not the most common, phones in existence, but the Motorola's own phone tools cannot identify it. OK, fine. I'll try to configure it manually. Except any attempt to do so causes the app to simply crash. Sheesh.
So I do the usual: uninstall, reintstall, reboot, etc. No good: it still doesn't recognize the phone, still makes me check for updates, and still crashes on any attempt to manually configure.
So it's out to the Motorola site for support where I find Motorola has outsourced the creation of MPT to a company called Avanquest. So I hit the Avanquest site. Avanquest doesn't seem to reference its affiliation with MPT and simply offers a completely useless FAQ.
Great. Next up: Google. I start trolling the various page results from Google and I begin to piece together the situation from a variety of different pages on a variety of different internet forums filled with MPT complaints.
The first thing to do is to get the latest handset drivers from Motorola. So I go back to the Motorola site and stagger through pages until I find the driver downloads. Except you can't download the drivers unless you are registered as a Motorola Developer. I have no idea what it means to be a Motorola Developer and I certainly never will be one in my life, but registration is free so I register, meaning Motorola gets to send me some sort of spam now I suppose. In a few minutes, the registration information arrives via email and I go back to the Motorola site with my login credentials and download the latest handset driver.
Sadly, no change in my results when trying to run the app. Still doesn't identify the phone, still crashes when I try to configure manually. So, more forum trolling. I find one sharp-eyed poster has discovered that the Avanquest software installation omits downloading two essential files. You have to go to the CD and copy them over to your installation folder yourself. So I do that. Still no change.
Yet more trolling turns up the suggestion that instead of just running the app, right-click it and "Run as Administrator". Bingo! It doesn't blow up. It still doesn't recognize the phone still (the most common freakin' phone in the world) but at least it's allowing me to do a manual configuration. The manual configuration requires me to identify the phone model by some sort of model number designations that I don't understand. Luckily I manage to guess the right answer. I now have the actual MPT software up and running.
The software itself is abysmal. The interface is inscrutable. It is slow. The messages are cryptic. Fortunately, I just need to do the one task, back-up my phone book entries, and then I can pretend it doesn't exist until I build up some new phone numbers to save.
Finally, I have my phone book entries in a file (.csv) so I can reconstruction them in case of disaster.
Speaking as someone who is a 15-year professional software developer, I am absolutely stunned that this situation can exist in this day and age. 1) I understand the charging your customers for bells and whistles and extras, but a simple back up of your sim card should not cost any money. This is just responsible computing 101. Managing Mp3s mixing ringtones, syncing contacts, sure -- but simply backing up data? What kind of business expects its users to pay extra for the ability to back up their data? 2) The utter lack attention to user experience blows my mind. That anyone would think that Motorola Phone Tools is useable piece of software is unthinkable. If I tried to release software like this I would be cleaning toilets in McDonalds in about two seconds flat. 3) The complete lack of anything resembling support is outright negligence, plain and simple.
It took me a couple of hours to get software running for the simple purpose of backing up phone data. Never, even in the darkest days of MS-DOS config.sys files, did I ever have such an experience before. They made me, their customer, feel like an idiot for using their product instead of just taking the twenty minutes or so it would have taken to copy the numbers into a little black book.
Imagine what this would have been like for someone who payed the $30+ dollars to Motorola for this. Or even for someone without the experience and resources I have. Motorola should be deeply, deeply ashamed of themselves. I will remember this experience whenever I see the Motorola name on any product in the future.
I have a Motorola RAZR V3. All I wanted to do was back up my phone book. I don't use the phone for any other nonsense except to make calls and text, and I have a bunch of numbers in there that I have nowhere else. If I dropped the thing in the lake or something, I would be days trying to round up all the numbers I'd lost. Doesn't seem like an unreasonable request. I can't imagine everyone not wanting to do this. I'm not looking for anything special, just a dump to a text file would be fine. So how does one back-up a RAZR?
Well, you have to buy a copy of Motorola Phone Tools (MPT) which costs in excess of $30. That will give you everything you need to sync your contacts, manage you MP3 library, and fiddle with your ringtones. Oh and it will backup your phone book too, if that's the sort of thing you're into.
Now the phone itself cost me $99 so essentially we are talking about a 30% premium just to back up the phone numbers I have stored. I'd take the time to write them out by hand before I'd pay that. Fortunately, MPT is selling for a couple of bucks on eBay (which says something right there), so I ordered a copy.
It arrives. I load up the CD and do the install. Fire up the program and it asks if I want to get any updates. I do. So it downloads the updates. I now have the latest verison of MPT. So far so good. But no farther.
Now I fire it up and it tells me to plug in the phone so it can configure it. I do so, but after a minute it tells me it can't identify the phone, and asks if I want to check for updates to the software. Since it's either that or nothing, I tell it to check for the software updates. It comes back and tells me I am up to date, which I already know, and then asks me if I would like to try to set my phone up manually. Now, the RAZR V3 has to be one of the most common, if not the most common, phones in existence, but the Motorola's own phone tools cannot identify it. OK, fine. I'll try to configure it manually. Except any attempt to do so causes the app to simply crash. Sheesh.
So I do the usual: uninstall, reintstall, reboot, etc. No good: it still doesn't recognize the phone, still makes me check for updates, and still crashes on any attempt to manually configure.
So it's out to the Motorola site for support where I find Motorola has outsourced the creation of MPT to a company called Avanquest. So I hit the Avanquest site. Avanquest doesn't seem to reference its affiliation with MPT and simply offers a completely useless FAQ.
Great. Next up: Google. I start trolling the various page results from Google and I begin to piece together the situation from a variety of different pages on a variety of different internet forums filled with MPT complaints.
The first thing to do is to get the latest handset drivers from Motorola. So I go back to the Motorola site and stagger through pages until I find the driver downloads. Except you can't download the drivers unless you are registered as a Motorola Developer. I have no idea what it means to be a Motorola Developer and I certainly never will be one in my life, but registration is free so I register, meaning Motorola gets to send me some sort of spam now I suppose. In a few minutes, the registration information arrives via email and I go back to the Motorola site with my login credentials and download the latest handset driver.
Sadly, no change in my results when trying to run the app. Still doesn't identify the phone, still crashes when I try to configure manually. So, more forum trolling. I find one sharp-eyed poster has discovered that the Avanquest software installation omits downloading two essential files. You have to go to the CD and copy them over to your installation folder yourself. So I do that. Still no change.
Yet more trolling turns up the suggestion that instead of just running the app, right-click it and "Run as Administrator". Bingo! It doesn't blow up. It still doesn't recognize the phone still (the most common freakin' phone in the world) but at least it's allowing me to do a manual configuration. The manual configuration requires me to identify the phone model by some sort of model number designations that I don't understand. Luckily I manage to guess the right answer. I now have the actual MPT software up and running.
The software itself is abysmal. The interface is inscrutable. It is slow. The messages are cryptic. Fortunately, I just need to do the one task, back-up my phone book entries, and then I can pretend it doesn't exist until I build up some new phone numbers to save.
Finally, I have my phone book entries in a file (.csv) so I can reconstruction them in case of disaster.
Speaking as someone who is a 15-year professional software developer, I am absolutely stunned that this situation can exist in this day and age. 1) I understand the charging your customers for bells and whistles and extras, but a simple back up of your sim card should not cost any money. This is just responsible computing 101. Managing Mp3s mixing ringtones, syncing contacts, sure -- but simply backing up data? What kind of business expects its users to pay extra for the ability to back up their data? 2) The utter lack attention to user experience blows my mind. That anyone would think that Motorola Phone Tools is useable piece of software is unthinkable. If I tried to release software like this I would be cleaning toilets in McDonalds in about two seconds flat. 3) The complete lack of anything resembling support is outright negligence, plain and simple.
It took me a couple of hours to get software running for the simple purpose of backing up phone data. Never, even in the darkest days of MS-DOS config.sys files, did I ever have such an experience before. They made me, their customer, feel like an idiot for using their product instead of just taking the twenty minutes or so it would have taken to copy the numbers into a little black book.
Imagine what this would have been like for someone who payed the $30+ dollars to Motorola for this. Or even for someone without the experience and resources I have. Motorola should be deeply, deeply ashamed of themselves. I will remember this experience whenever I see the Motorola name on any product in the future.
Tuesday, July 08, 2008
The Month That Was -- June 2008
The Month That Was -- June 2008: Hoo boy am I late this month! I'm not really sure why. I spent a mess of evenings running my pile of Newfoundland pics through my Photoshop routine; spent a fair amount of time sick (for the first time in over a year a think); spent a weekend in Chicago (more below); was attempting to keep up a social life (with only marginal results); and finally, I had a bunch stuff written up to post but I had to do somewhere other than my home computer so I saved it to my flash drive, only to lose my flash drive before I got it copied over. That last one caused me to curse my luck, my life and pretty much the entirety of existence. So I guess a really do know why I'm so late.
Last month I promised to have the trip report on Newfoundland and possibly do a literature round-up. Well, Newfoundland is not ready, so I lied a little bit. But I am going to feed you a whopping four book reviews in addtion to the usual nonsense.
Tender is the Night
Thus Was Adonis Murdered
Smile When You're Lying
Unknown Quantity
Still My Kinda Town
Politics Free Zone
The End of the End of the Sopranos
The Big Lolbowski
Last month I promised to have the trip report on Newfoundland and possibly do a literature round-up. Well, Newfoundland is not ready, so I lied a little bit. But I am going to feed you a whopping four book reviews in addtion to the usual nonsense.
Tender is the Night
Thus Was Adonis Murdered
Smile When You're Lying
Unknown Quantity
Still My Kinda Town
Politics Free Zone
The End of the End of the Sopranos
The Big Lolbowski
Tender is the Night
Tender is the Night: I took my time reading Tender is the Night, and I'm glad I did. It merits a lot of thought. At the risk of eliciting an Oh-my-god-we-know-what-the- book-is-about-from-freshman-literature-just-get-on-with-it reaction, let me do a quick synopsis.
Dick Diver is prodigal young psychiatrist starting his career in Europe just after WW1. A handsome alpha-male, he is admired by all. He's is practicing at a plush sanatorium, when a beautiful schizophrenic named Nicole comes into his care; her illness having been brought on by an act of incest. In time, he commits an egregious violation of ethics by falling in love with Nicole and marrying her and taking her away under his personal care.
Nicole it seems is enormously wealthy. They fall in with a well-heeled party crowd; rich but damaged revelers who swarm around Dick and Nicole as their ideal. However, privately Nicole needs constant attention and always seems to be teetering on the brink of a meltdown. The combination of the hedonistic life and neediness of his wife begins to act as a drain on Dick. His work -- his psychiatric theories, his writing -- gets thrown by the wayside.
Into this mix appears Rosemary, a naive, teenage flavor of the month actress who develops an intense crush on the rather older Dick. The attraction in mutual and immediately obvious to Nicole. Although they don't consummate their mutual attraction the Dick/Rosemary relationship in combination with other events takes its toll on Nicole and she breaks down, and seems to be regressing.
More and more Dick's facade of masterfulness starts to slip away, accelerated by the death of his father. He subsequently does meet up with Rosemary again and they make love, but there is no follow through emotionally. Dick is left feeling beaten and unhappy and worst of all, he begins to see himself as a kept man. He frequently over drinks and engages in embarrassing behavior.
Meanwhile, perhaps in response to Dick's degradation, Nicole becomes more and more self-assured. She slowly comes to term with her past. She even takes a certain cruel pleasure in the image of Dick as a kept man. In time she takes her own lover. She and Dick finally divorce.
A dry description such as that makes it seem like the stuff of bad soap operas, but each flex point in the plot carries an stunning amount of emotional complexity, and when considered as a whole I cannot think of a more fully realized piece of humanity. It is on the face of it one of the purest tragedies ever written. It is the story of a man who is drained of life by his own idealism.
At the outset of his adult life Dick is brimming with intellectual energy and the power of his youth as he begins his career in psychiatry. He has high minded revolutionary ideas that he wants to pursue. He is clearly accustomed to being personally impressive. In fact, he is said to think of this time as his "heroic period."
Then comes the encounter with Nicole and subsequent romance and marriage. We try to discern what it is about Dick that would make him take such unethical actions -- what was it about Nicole that triggered them? Fitzgerald doesn't take the clear and easy road. We are left with a raft of possibilities: 1) Her physical beauty, 2) The professional challenge she offers, 3) Her money (we are forced to wonder if Dick isn't such a hero and is motivated by easy leisure as much as anyone else), 4) His chivalric instinct (he does see himself as heroic, after all).
Any one alone would be the stuff of boilerplate. Fitzgerald gives us all of them -- subtly, sometimes not until well after the fact. Character and motivations proceed to feed off each other and while we are left with uncertainty about the specifics, we are more certain of the character in full.
At each turn of the plot we are offered similar open-ended options -- the fateful meeting with Rosemary; interactions with the crowd of flawed and damaged hangers-on who circle the couple; an ultimate attempt to preserve his marriage and resume his career; the final betrayals. All of which continually build Dick's humanity through half-understood hints about motives.
At the end of the book, the point of view shifts to Nicole. She is now fully "cured" and has no need for Dick's attention any longer. Now it's she who is fully alive while Dick is spiritually drained. She has begun an affair and wants divorce. Perhaps she resents his affair with Rosemary. Perhaps she is simply a different person from when they met and no longer loves him. Perhaps it's an affirmation of independence. Perhaps she feels a debt of guilt to him for his years of care and it manifests as hostility. Again we don't know the specifics but the character is fuller for them.
Some reviewers, on full contemplation, think that end came because of Dick's ultimate success in curing Nicole, which was, at least superficially, his goal. Thus, there is a certain happy aspect to the ending. His work is done, so he can ride off into the sunset. That is, I think, way too easy. It may also be important to remember Fitzgerald, was in a real-life disaster of a marriage to a nut case. I doubt he found anything happy in such situations.
The end of the book is, in its way, as harrowing as any horror story. We stay in Nicole's point of view as her communication with Dick dwindles. In time, he no longer writes or asks for time with their children. He moves to from small town to small town, each more remote than the last. Eventually, she only knows what she hears piecemeal from rumor. At the end, she only thinks of him in passing once in awhile. The heroic young man, who so many loved when it was to their benefit, has ceased to exist except as an occasional musing in the mind of disinterested soul.
I wish I could do that. I wish I could write a character and story so complete. I wish I could find the perfect balance between the vague and the complex. It takes incredible talent, something Fitzgerald had in excess.
I'm going way out on a limb here, but upon consideration, I think it beats Gatsby.
Dick Diver is prodigal young psychiatrist starting his career in Europe just after WW1. A handsome alpha-male, he is admired by all. He's is practicing at a plush sanatorium, when a beautiful schizophrenic named Nicole comes into his care; her illness having been brought on by an act of incest. In time, he commits an egregious violation of ethics by falling in love with Nicole and marrying her and taking her away under his personal care.
Nicole it seems is enormously wealthy. They fall in with a well-heeled party crowd; rich but damaged revelers who swarm around Dick and Nicole as their ideal. However, privately Nicole needs constant attention and always seems to be teetering on the brink of a meltdown. The combination of the hedonistic life and neediness of his wife begins to act as a drain on Dick. His work -- his psychiatric theories, his writing -- gets thrown by the wayside.
Into this mix appears Rosemary, a naive, teenage flavor of the month actress who develops an intense crush on the rather older Dick. The attraction in mutual and immediately obvious to Nicole. Although they don't consummate their mutual attraction the Dick/Rosemary relationship in combination with other events takes its toll on Nicole and she breaks down, and seems to be regressing.
More and more Dick's facade of masterfulness starts to slip away, accelerated by the death of his father. He subsequently does meet up with Rosemary again and they make love, but there is no follow through emotionally. Dick is left feeling beaten and unhappy and worst of all, he begins to see himself as a kept man. He frequently over drinks and engages in embarrassing behavior.
Meanwhile, perhaps in response to Dick's degradation, Nicole becomes more and more self-assured. She slowly comes to term with her past. She even takes a certain cruel pleasure in the image of Dick as a kept man. In time she takes her own lover. She and Dick finally divorce.
A dry description such as that makes it seem like the stuff of bad soap operas, but each flex point in the plot carries an stunning amount of emotional complexity, and when considered as a whole I cannot think of a more fully realized piece of humanity. It is on the face of it one of the purest tragedies ever written. It is the story of a man who is drained of life by his own idealism.
At the outset of his adult life Dick is brimming with intellectual energy and the power of his youth as he begins his career in psychiatry. He has high minded revolutionary ideas that he wants to pursue. He is clearly accustomed to being personally impressive. In fact, he is said to think of this time as his "heroic period."
Then comes the encounter with Nicole and subsequent romance and marriage. We try to discern what it is about Dick that would make him take such unethical actions -- what was it about Nicole that triggered them? Fitzgerald doesn't take the clear and easy road. We are left with a raft of possibilities: 1) Her physical beauty, 2) The professional challenge she offers, 3) Her money (we are forced to wonder if Dick isn't such a hero and is motivated by easy leisure as much as anyone else), 4) His chivalric instinct (he does see himself as heroic, after all).
Any one alone would be the stuff of boilerplate. Fitzgerald gives us all of them -- subtly, sometimes not until well after the fact. Character and motivations proceed to feed off each other and while we are left with uncertainty about the specifics, we are more certain of the character in full.
At each turn of the plot we are offered similar open-ended options -- the fateful meeting with Rosemary; interactions with the crowd of flawed and damaged hangers-on who circle the couple; an ultimate attempt to preserve his marriage and resume his career; the final betrayals. All of which continually build Dick's humanity through half-understood hints about motives.
At the end of the book, the point of view shifts to Nicole. She is now fully "cured" and has no need for Dick's attention any longer. Now it's she who is fully alive while Dick is spiritually drained. She has begun an affair and wants divorce. Perhaps she resents his affair with Rosemary. Perhaps she is simply a different person from when they met and no longer loves him. Perhaps it's an affirmation of independence. Perhaps she feels a debt of guilt to him for his years of care and it manifests as hostility. Again we don't know the specifics but the character is fuller for them.
Some reviewers, on full contemplation, think that end came because of Dick's ultimate success in curing Nicole, which was, at least superficially, his goal. Thus, there is a certain happy aspect to the ending. His work is done, so he can ride off into the sunset. That is, I think, way too easy. It may also be important to remember Fitzgerald, was in a real-life disaster of a marriage to a nut case. I doubt he found anything happy in such situations.
The end of the book is, in its way, as harrowing as any horror story. We stay in Nicole's point of view as her communication with Dick dwindles. In time, he no longer writes or asks for time with their children. He moves to from small town to small town, each more remote than the last. Eventually, she only knows what she hears piecemeal from rumor. At the end, she only thinks of him in passing once in awhile. The heroic young man, who so many loved when it was to their benefit, has ceased to exist except as an occasional musing in the mind of disinterested soul.
I wish I could do that. I wish I could write a character and story so complete. I wish I could find the perfect balance between the vague and the complex. It takes incredible talent, something Fitzgerald had in excess.
I'm going way out on a limb here, but upon consideration, I think it beats Gatsby.
Thus Was Adonis Murdered
Thus Was Adonis Murdered: The first of four mysteries by the late Sarah Caudwell will make you want to read the rest. A ludicrous murder mystery set in Venice is solved long distance by a pack of dry and droll English barristers in a somewhat Rumpolian vein -- delightfully lighthearted, more than a bit randy, and exquisitely written in a quasi-Edwardian style (despite its setting in the 1980s). Highly recommended if you need something trivial and fun, yet clever and sharp.
Let me describe it another way, I picture this book being read by elegant women in beachside cabanas who grin slyly at the more witty passages. And yet I enjoyed it to pieces.
(That doesn't make me gay, does it? Um, no, it doesn't.)
Let me describe it another way, I picture this book being read by elegant women in beachside cabanas who grin slyly at the more witty passages. And yet I enjoyed it to pieces.
(That doesn't make me gay, does it? Um, no, it doesn't.)
Smile When You're Lying
Smile When You're Lying: Chuck Thompson spent years in the trenches churning out those fluffy, content-free pieces that seem to recycle through glossy travel mags, including the ones in the seat pocket in front of you next to the air sickness bag. I can't imagine anyone thinking those represent the actual process and experiences of travel any more than Hogan's Heroes represents Nazi prison camp life. Real travel stories, while occasionally interesting, would piss off advertisers and so magazines and guidebooks actively omit them. The traditional travel writing industry is really in the fantasy business.
Apparently some people feel the veneer must be maintained because, in Smile When You're Lying, when Thompson explained how a lot of this nonsense simply amounts to re-summarizing other articles and doing web research, the industry took umbrage. Press releases flew about and a minor scandal (precious to any writer) was born.
To his credit, Thompson came out and said that the passages in question were really just a small part of the book -- which is true -- and really aren't such a big deal -- which is also true. The book as a whole is something of jumble -- part travel expose, part trip reporting, but mostly autobiographical. We are treated to extended sections on Thompson's adolescence in Juneau and his early adulthood as an ESL teacher in Japan. We then move on to his experiences with the standard travel industry as described above. He discusses some of this trips and then goes on to provide a long and rather tiresome explanation on what is the matter with Americans and their travel habits and how it is all related somehow to Bush/Cheney/Evil Corporations.
There is a class of travel writing, which can be thought of as "counter-travel." These sorts of books turn the fluffy stuff on its head, by writing about bad experiences, rip-offs, ugly hotels, and surly natives, with heavy doses of irony and snide humor. There are always semi-dangerous or quasi-illegal activities going on. Colorful expats play a crucial role. There is even a subclass of this sort of writing about white westerners opening bars in exotic foreign locales and, while they didn't make any money, they sure had a great time. Understand: these are real experiences. They are genuine. Your last trip to Cancun was pathetic by comparison.
The problem with counter-travel writing is that it's really just as bad as the fluff it counters, it simply defines itself by a different set of cliches. Instead of being studiously detached, it is personal to the point of a rant (it's all about Chuck). Instead of being carefully neutral and bland, it imbues each scene with opinion and judgment and sarcasm (that Chuck is quite a character). Instead of coddling, it is designed to challenge -- but one suspects it only challenges the appropriate sort of people (these would be the people who wish they could do the cool things Chuck does). You see, Chuck is a guy who has been there. Maybe one day, you will get there too. It's still a fantasy being sold.
If you are the right sort of people, you'll get a kick out of this book. Thompson has a solid fundamental game. He tells good stories. He shares my feelings about the Caribbean (overrated). His prose is lively and concise. He manages a just the right amount of self-depreciation when he's getting to be a bit too full of himself. In fact, chances are you are the right sort of person. You don't get a book contract without the publisher being confident in the size of the audience, and that means it probably includes you. So please, don't take my negativity as a reason not to buy the book. In fact, at the risk of contradicting everything I have just written, I hope Thompson keeps plugging away. He's clearly smart and funny guy and I would approach his next book with an open mind.
But I had hopes for an original voice in travel writing and I didn't get it. I got the cool cliche‚ instead of the square one. Interestingly, in my favorite chapter (the one on the Caribbean), he recounts a confounding comment made to him by David Swanson, a Caribbean guide book writer:
Apparently some people feel the veneer must be maintained because, in Smile When You're Lying, when Thompson explained how a lot of this nonsense simply amounts to re-summarizing other articles and doing web research, the industry took umbrage. Press releases flew about and a minor scandal (precious to any writer) was born.
To his credit, Thompson came out and said that the passages in question were really just a small part of the book -- which is true -- and really aren't such a big deal -- which is also true. The book as a whole is something of jumble -- part travel expose, part trip reporting, but mostly autobiographical. We are treated to extended sections on Thompson's adolescence in Juneau and his early adulthood as an ESL teacher in Japan. We then move on to his experiences with the standard travel industry as described above. He discusses some of this trips and then goes on to provide a long and rather tiresome explanation on what is the matter with Americans and their travel habits and how it is all related somehow to Bush/Cheney/Evil Corporations.
There is a class of travel writing, which can be thought of as "counter-travel." These sorts of books turn the fluffy stuff on its head, by writing about bad experiences, rip-offs, ugly hotels, and surly natives, with heavy doses of irony and snide humor. There are always semi-dangerous or quasi-illegal activities going on. Colorful expats play a crucial role. There is even a subclass of this sort of writing about white westerners opening bars in exotic foreign locales and, while they didn't make any money, they sure had a great time. Understand: these are real experiences. They are genuine. Your last trip to Cancun was pathetic by comparison.
The problem with counter-travel writing is that it's really just as bad as the fluff it counters, it simply defines itself by a different set of cliches. Instead of being studiously detached, it is personal to the point of a rant (it's all about Chuck). Instead of being carefully neutral and bland, it imbues each scene with opinion and judgment and sarcasm (that Chuck is quite a character). Instead of coddling, it is designed to challenge -- but one suspects it only challenges the appropriate sort of people (these would be the people who wish they could do the cool things Chuck does). You see, Chuck is a guy who has been there. Maybe one day, you will get there too. It's still a fantasy being sold.
If you are the right sort of people, you'll get a kick out of this book. Thompson has a solid fundamental game. He tells good stories. He shares my feelings about the Caribbean (overrated). His prose is lively and concise. He manages a just the right amount of self-depreciation when he's getting to be a bit too full of himself. In fact, chances are you are the right sort of person. You don't get a book contract without the publisher being confident in the size of the audience, and that means it probably includes you. So please, don't take my negativity as a reason not to buy the book. In fact, at the risk of contradicting everything I have just written, I hope Thompson keeps plugging away. He's clearly smart and funny guy and I would approach his next book with an open mind.
But I had hopes for an original voice in travel writing and I didn't get it. I got the cool cliche‚ instead of the square one. Interestingly, in my favorite chapter (the one on the Caribbean), he recounts a confounding comment made to him by David Swanson, a Caribbean guide book writer:
[Swanson said,] "In the middle of Curacao is a big oil refinery that belches soot all day. Right next to the oil refinery is the oldest Jewish cemetery in the new world...It sends chills up my spine. Because of all the soot the gravestones are eroding so badly you can't even read a lot of the names."Now there's a guy who should be writing a book; someone with that point of view has to be worth hearing out. Unfortunately, nobody has fantasies about soot-covered cemeteries.
David put a bow on this enchanting package by saying something I immediately made him repeat...
"It's one of the coolest places I've been in the Caribbean."
Unknown Quantity
Unknown Quantity: I didn't make it. I didn't make it through. Unknown Quantity is a pop math history of algebra, by John Derbyshire who previously authored Prime Obsession, which was the story of the search for a solution to the Reimann Hypothesis with sidelights on the nature of prime numbers. I liked Prime and was able to follow it pretty well. Unknown Quantity lost me.
Some folks cannot understand the first level of abstraction where x and y variables are used to solve simple equations. Others can go further. Some mental mutants even find new levels of abstraction. It is, I suspect, built into our wiring. Algebra is, simply put, abstraction in its purest form. In the discipline of Algebra, new fields open up when someone comes along and finds a new level of abstraction. From simple x and y unknowns, to classes of numbers and equations represented by other symbols and operators, to classes of classes given yet newer gadgety symbols, to classes of classes of classes... Derbyshire does his best to explain this, and if you are an equation tinkerer or you spend your spare time doing IQ tests you might get a kick out of the samples and examples. But I got to the point where I would cringe when he would casually toss out a "You can easily calculate from table 12.1..." or an "As is obvious from figure 16.3..." My days of trying to understand higher math are long past. I will have to go to my grave unable to find the root of a matrix, or whatever is going on.
More importantly, I found the historical sketches a bit less compelling this time around. Frankly, the personalities involved in the history of Algebra are less interesting than the ones from Prime. So, no, I didn't make it to the end. Approach this book with caution. You'll need paper, pencil and maybe an HP-15C calculator.
Some folks cannot understand the first level of abstraction where x and y variables are used to solve simple equations. Others can go further. Some mental mutants even find new levels of abstraction. It is, I suspect, built into our wiring. Algebra is, simply put, abstraction in its purest form. In the discipline of Algebra, new fields open up when someone comes along and finds a new level of abstraction. From simple x and y unknowns, to classes of numbers and equations represented by other symbols and operators, to classes of classes given yet newer gadgety symbols, to classes of classes of classes... Derbyshire does his best to explain this, and if you are an equation tinkerer or you spend your spare time doing IQ tests you might get a kick out of the samples and examples. But I got to the point where I would cringe when he would casually toss out a "You can easily calculate from table 12.1..." or an "As is obvious from figure 16.3..." My days of trying to understand higher math are long past. I will have to go to my grave unable to find the root of a matrix, or whatever is going on.
More importantly, I found the historical sketches a bit less compelling this time around. Frankly, the personalities involved in the history of Algebra are less interesting than the ones from Prime. So, no, I didn't make it to the end. Approach this book with caution. You'll need paper, pencil and maybe an HP-15C calculator.
Still My Kinda Town
Still My Kinda Town: Chicago was tugging my sleeve. This was spur of the moment weekend, just to break routine, and it was sweet.
I took the train. If you can take the train without adding time to your trip, you should. Amtrak advertises four and a half hours. In my case I drive the fifteen minutes into Ann Arbor, pick up my ticket at the station, and I'm ready to go. Contrast this to a half hour drive to DTW, a wait for the parking lot shuttle, a wait to check my bag and get my boarding pass, a wait to get through security...why rehash it, you know the score. Even when a storm knocked out the train signals, forcing us to complete a long stretch at a speedy fifteen mph, we still completed the trip in a little over five hassle-free hours. If everything went perfect (as if) it's four hours via air. The choice is clear.
So, I had a day and a half in Chi-town and first up was an extended visit to the Taste of Chicago. Most cities have a "Taste" and Chicago is one of the best. I had shark-on-a-stick, a spicy cup of gazpacho, and I got my deep dish fix from the Lou Malnati's booth. Then I sat for a while listening to Lovers in Arms, a funky hot little outfit that deserves better than quick set at a food festival.
In the afternoon I wandered over to Millennium Park -- still a great place -- and snagged a seat at the bar in the Park Grill to watch battle of Chicago: Cubs vs. White Sox. Like always, the crowd in Chicago is was friendly and everyone was chatting about whether they were south side or north side fans. Case in point, I had a nice conversation with the girl next to me, a trial lawyer raised on an Iowa farm, who was so trusting she left me (almost a complete stranger) in charge of her purse while she hit the ladies' room. The Cubs got slaughtered, by the way.
In the evening I headed down to Navy Pier where a Tony award winning production of Shakespeare's Comedy of Errors was staged, but they had the temerity to sell out before I got there. So I wandered down to the beer garden and had a ludicrously delicious Italian beef sandwich, followed by a nightcap and some excellent jazz at Joe's Be Bop.
The next day I stopped for Jamba Juice breakfast then immediately rented a bike for a nice long ride along the lakeshore. I headed north towards the beaches, seemingly along with half the population. Folks were generally lazing in the sun. One thing I noticed was a small course set up for open water swimming and the triathletes were out in force. Further north you come to the big beach bar where all the volleyball nets are set up. They were full. My next visit will involve some extended time at the beach.
Finally I turned south down and headed all the way down to museum campus. I made my habitual pilgrimage to the Tsavo Lions exhibit at the Field Museum, had a bite to eat, trolled some of the other exhibits, then headed back to turn in my bike. I made a final stop at Hotel Sax and had snack in their high end bowling alley / ultra lounge called 10 pin. Nothing special about the lounge, but it looks like it could be fun with a group. Then it was time to leave.
Just about the perfect weekend in my kind of town.
I took the train. If you can take the train without adding time to your trip, you should. Amtrak advertises four and a half hours. In my case I drive the fifteen minutes into Ann Arbor, pick up my ticket at the station, and I'm ready to go. Contrast this to a half hour drive to DTW, a wait for the parking lot shuttle, a wait to check my bag and get my boarding pass, a wait to get through security...why rehash it, you know the score. Even when a storm knocked out the train signals, forcing us to complete a long stretch at a speedy fifteen mph, we still completed the trip in a little over five hassle-free hours. If everything went perfect (as if) it's four hours via air. The choice is clear.
So, I had a day and a half in Chi-town and first up was an extended visit to the Taste of Chicago. Most cities have a "Taste" and Chicago is one of the best. I had shark-on-a-stick, a spicy cup of gazpacho, and I got my deep dish fix from the Lou Malnati's booth. Then I sat for a while listening to Lovers in Arms, a funky hot little outfit that deserves better than quick set at a food festival.
In the afternoon I wandered over to Millennium Park -- still a great place -- and snagged a seat at the bar in the Park Grill to watch battle of Chicago: Cubs vs. White Sox. Like always, the crowd in Chicago is was friendly and everyone was chatting about whether they were south side or north side fans. Case in point, I had a nice conversation with the girl next to me, a trial lawyer raised on an Iowa farm, who was so trusting she left me (almost a complete stranger) in charge of her purse while she hit the ladies' room. The Cubs got slaughtered, by the way.
In the evening I headed down to Navy Pier where a Tony award winning production of Shakespeare's Comedy of Errors was staged, but they had the temerity to sell out before I got there. So I wandered down to the beer garden and had a ludicrously delicious Italian beef sandwich, followed by a nightcap and some excellent jazz at Joe's Be Bop.
The next day I stopped for Jamba Juice breakfast then immediately rented a bike for a nice long ride along the lakeshore. I headed north towards the beaches, seemingly along with half the population. Folks were generally lazing in the sun. One thing I noticed was a small course set up for open water swimming and the triathletes were out in force. Further north you come to the big beach bar where all the volleyball nets are set up. They were full. My next visit will involve some extended time at the beach.
Finally I turned south down and headed all the way down to museum campus. I made my habitual pilgrimage to the Tsavo Lions exhibit at the Field Museum, had a bite to eat, trolled some of the other exhibits, then headed back to turn in my bike. I made a final stop at Hotel Sax and had snack in their high end bowling alley / ultra lounge called 10 pin. Nothing special about the lounge, but it looks like it could be fun with a group. Then it was time to leave.
Just about the perfect weekend in my kind of town.
Politics Free Zone
Politics Free Zone: I've developed a minor obsession with reading Tyler Cowen's blog Marginal Revolution. Cowen is the author of the pop economics book Discover Your Inner Economist, and he writes about just about anything that comes into his purview from a market economics perspective.
I came across one passage in a .pdf of an old paper he had linked up that absolutely perfectly describes why I do not engage in discussions on the politics of the day. To wit:
I came across one passage in a .pdf of an old paper he had linked up that absolutely perfectly describes why I do not engage in discussions on the politics of the day. To wit:
Just about everyone thinks that their political views are better than the views of smarter or better trained others. On economic issues, few voters defer to the opinions of economists. Nor does this appear to be a well-grounded suspicion of experts. Many citizens are deliberately dismissive, stubborn and irrational. At the same time these individuals maintain a passionate self-righteousness. They are keener to talk than to listen, the opposite of what an information-gathering model would suggest. Individuals tend to believe that their private self-interest coincides with the national self-interest. Debates and exchange of information tend to polarize opinion rather than producing convergence.I'll add something to that. Right now I would wager you are telling yourself that it is true, that people do that sort of thing all the time. What you are not saying is, "I do that all the time." That should tell you something.
Individuals often continue to hold their political views even when a contrary reality stares them in the face....[There is significant] self-deception in human behavior and in politics. By self-deception I mean individual behavior that disregards, throws out, or reinterprets freely available information. Individuals frequently treat their personal values as a kind of ideal point, and assume that the pursuit of those values also yield the best practical outcome.
The End of The End of The Sopranos
The End of The End of The Sopranos: When The Sopranos ended last year I developed a fascination with the famous black ending. Specifically, I found it interesting that everybody was debating whether Tony was dead, when in fact it didn't really matter. That wasn't the point. Still, just to finally put the matter to rest, we now have the definitive answer. Tony is dead and here is the evidence. There are lots of good points in this essay, but the POV evidence and the timing of the shots of the Tony looking up at the door are incontrovertible to me.
The Big Lolbowski
The Big Lolbowski: Profound genius. The Big Lebowski/LOLcat mash-up. You will need to know the tale of the Dude well and be down with LOLcats. If you are, you will see genius. If not, your nose will scrunch up and you'll say, "Huh?"
Saturday, June 07, 2008
The Month That Was - May 2008
The Month That Was - May 2008: I managed to knock off one of the trips from my list for 2008 (previously), specifically: Newfoundland. I just returned from ten days of exploration of that far-off and have copious notes and many hundreds of photos, but it's going to take me a while to get it all together. Coming next month.
Also, I finished Tender is the Night, then spend a couple of days obsessively thinking about it -- it's that kind of book. I have lots of thoughts and opinions, but I haven't had a chance to sort them into something presentable. Maybe next month we'll do a big reading roundup too.
A couple of quick site housekeeping notes: 1) Clicking on the links to individual posts should now take you to a page with that post alone on it, whereas previously it just took you to the month's post and positioned you as near the post you selected as it could. 2) The RSS feed title should now be the same as the post title. It gets duplicated since the first words of the post are the title, but it's better than (title unknown). Both these changes are from now going-forward, unless I find a clever way to reto fit them without going through every post in the past five years.
Hooray Bikes!
To Serve (a) Man
Flick Notes
Music Appreciation
Music Unappreciated
Michigan Life Imitates Cable TV
Howl of Tom Wolfe
Stop Killing Hitler
Also, I finished Tender is the Night, then spend a couple of days obsessively thinking about it -- it's that kind of book. I have lots of thoughts and opinions, but I haven't had a chance to sort them into something presentable. Maybe next month we'll do a big reading roundup too.
A couple of quick site housekeeping notes: 1) Clicking on the links to individual posts should now take you to a page with that post alone on it, whereas previously it just took you to the month's post and positioned you as near the post you selected as it could. 2) The RSS feed title should now be the same as the post title. It gets duplicated since the first words of the post are the title, but it's better than (title unknown). Both these changes are from now going-forward, unless I find a clever way to reto fit them without going through every post in the past five years.
Hooray Bikes!
To Serve (a) Man
Flick Notes
Music Appreciation
Music Unappreciated
Michigan Life Imitates Cable TV
Howl of Tom Wolfe
Stop Killing Hitler
Hooray Bikes!
Hooray Bikes!: That's what the sign says on the street outside one of the local bike shops, Great Lakes Cycling. You see, I bought a bike. It is my intent to get more outside exercise this summer. I looked at a review in Outside magazine and they identified the Schwinn Le Tour as a top notch entry level road bike -- by that they mean inexpensive but with quality components. A web search quickly revealed to me that the best price was to be had by ordering online from Nashbar via Amazon. Cool so far.
The bike arrived boxed and unassembled, as expected. On the outside of the box there was a list of the tools that would be required to assemble it. A set of metric box wrenches, various screwdrivers, and a few sizes of hex wrenches. No problem, I had all that stuff. So one afternoon I set out to put the thing together. Problem: there were no assembly instructions. Each component (crankset, handlebars, seats, brakes, etc.) came with a detailed manual about how to use it but not how to attach it to the frame. The bike itself came with an owner's manual that suggested I always ride with a helmet, and other anti-liability information, but no "insert part a into slot b and tighten" directions. It took me about 15 seconds to realize there was no way I would be able to just figure it out. Apparently assembling a bike is something you can only do if you already know how to assemble a bike. Thus, the call was placed to Great Lakes Cycling and arrangements were made for assembly and a "fitting".
One week later, I stood by as a very bike-ish dude attached my now fully assembled bike to a trainer (kind of like a treadmill for bikes) and told me to get on and start pedaling and he would commence with the fitting. I had expected that he would take some quick measurements and make some adjustments and send me on my way. Forty-five minutes later, with me nice and sweaty and out of breath, we finally decided that the bike fit. Let's just say it was a very thorough fitting. But I was proud of myself for not letting the bike-ish dude get the best of me -- I pedaled right on through without a complaint.
I have since purchased a trunk rack so I can safely transport the thing wherever. Now I need to invest in a lock, a set of clipless pedals, and, most annoyingly, a helmet.
My problems with helmets are twofold. First, there is no human being on Earth, however self-possessed, that does not look like he is on the way home from special ed. when wearing a bike helmet. I am absolutely dumbfounded that, in a world where fashion and coolness are prized above all else, bike helmets even exist. I would gladly invest in any company that comes up with a way to make a non-dorky-looking bike helmet. That would be found money.
Second, and more importantly, as a child I rode around many, many miles in the most rambunctious, irresponsible way imaginable, all without a helmet and all without injury. Suddenly I have a moral obligation to wear a helmet? My life is in jeopardy if I don't? I'm a mortal lock for brain damage? When did the world turn into a nervous old lady? I may be 47, but I'm still a boy, you know.
I am resigned to buying a helmet because a dear friend of mine, who will likely be a riding partner, has told me she will not permit me to ride without one and that, in fact, there are some places where you can get a ticket (presumably from a cop on a bike) for doing what you did every day when you were nine years old.
The older I get the more clearly I see that this is not my world anymore. It's moved past me, or at least, gone off in a different direction. Oh well; at least I get to bitch about it.
So, yeah, I have a new bike.
The bike arrived boxed and unassembled, as expected. On the outside of the box there was a list of the tools that would be required to assemble it. A set of metric box wrenches, various screwdrivers, and a few sizes of hex wrenches. No problem, I had all that stuff. So one afternoon I set out to put the thing together. Problem: there were no assembly instructions. Each component (crankset, handlebars, seats, brakes, etc.) came with a detailed manual about how to use it but not how to attach it to the frame. The bike itself came with an owner's manual that suggested I always ride with a helmet, and other anti-liability information, but no "insert part a into slot b and tighten" directions. It took me about 15 seconds to realize there was no way I would be able to just figure it out. Apparently assembling a bike is something you can only do if you already know how to assemble a bike. Thus, the call was placed to Great Lakes Cycling and arrangements were made for assembly and a "fitting".
One week later, I stood by as a very bike-ish dude attached my now fully assembled bike to a trainer (kind of like a treadmill for bikes) and told me to get on and start pedaling and he would commence with the fitting. I had expected that he would take some quick measurements and make some adjustments and send me on my way. Forty-five minutes later, with me nice and sweaty and out of breath, we finally decided that the bike fit. Let's just say it was a very thorough fitting. But I was proud of myself for not letting the bike-ish dude get the best of me -- I pedaled right on through without a complaint.
I have since purchased a trunk rack so I can safely transport the thing wherever. Now I need to invest in a lock, a set of clipless pedals, and, most annoyingly, a helmet.
My problems with helmets are twofold. First, there is no human being on Earth, however self-possessed, that does not look like he is on the way home from special ed. when wearing a bike helmet. I am absolutely dumbfounded that, in a world where fashion and coolness are prized above all else, bike helmets even exist. I would gladly invest in any company that comes up with a way to make a non-dorky-looking bike helmet. That would be found money.
Second, and more importantly, as a child I rode around many, many miles in the most rambunctious, irresponsible way imaginable, all without a helmet and all without injury. Suddenly I have a moral obligation to wear a helmet? My life is in jeopardy if I don't? I'm a mortal lock for brain damage? When did the world turn into a nervous old lady? I may be 47, but I'm still a boy, you know.
I am resigned to buying a helmet because a dear friend of mine, who will likely be a riding partner, has told me she will not permit me to ride without one and that, in fact, there are some places where you can get a ticket (presumably from a cop on a bike) for doing what you did every day when you were nine years old.
The older I get the more clearly I see that this is not my world anymore. It's moved past me, or at least, gone off in a different direction. Oh well; at least I get to bitch about it.
So, yeah, I have a new bike.
To Serve (a) Man
To Serve (a) Man: Customer service observations...
The coolest thing about flying Air Canada is that they have in-seat entertainment systems in coach. It's like having your own personal a miniature version of On-Demand. Very cool. (I watched Cloverfield -- discussed below). Awesome way to pass the time. Also the seats seemed cushy and comfortable and had a reasonable amount of legroom for coach. I'm liking Air Canada. Good on ya, Canucks.
Contrast that to American Airlines which has just announced that they are going to charge for every checked bag. If you fly American Airlines your checked baggage allowance has gone from 2 to 0 in less than a year. This means boarding the plane will become an eleven letter word beginning with 'cluster' as everyone tries to wedge as much as they can into the overheads and under the seats to save money. American has officially ceased to be a serious airline. They may survive, and perhaps eventually turn a profit, but they should be deeply ashamed at the course they have taken. Two-bit is the best description for them.
Eddie Bauer, on the other hand, just got me as a loyal customer for life. While in Newfoundland I found myself in dire need of a windbreaker/rain jacket. So I stopped in the Eddie Bauer in St. John's and picked one up for $69. In the course of my trip -- actually in the Toronto airport on the way home -- the breast pocket zipper got snagged and pulled right off. After cursing the hateful universe for my fate, I figured I'd just stop in the local Eddie Bauer in Ann Arbor to see if they had a repair service. They don't, but they replaced the jacket on the spot, no questions asked, and even gave me a refund for the price difference of $25 (it was way cheaper here at home). Amazing. I walked in hoping to not pay too much for a repair, and I walked out with a completely new jacket and $25 in my pocket. And they will win in the long run, because Eddie is going to get my default business for just about any products they may carry from now on.
The coolest thing about flying Air Canada is that they have in-seat entertainment systems in coach. It's like having your own personal a miniature version of On-Demand. Very cool. (I watched Cloverfield -- discussed below). Awesome way to pass the time. Also the seats seemed cushy and comfortable and had a reasonable amount of legroom for coach. I'm liking Air Canada. Good on ya, Canucks.
Contrast that to American Airlines which has just announced that they are going to charge for every checked bag. If you fly American Airlines your checked baggage allowance has gone from 2 to 0 in less than a year. This means boarding the plane will become an eleven letter word beginning with 'cluster' as everyone tries to wedge as much as they can into the overheads and under the seats to save money. American has officially ceased to be a serious airline. They may survive, and perhaps eventually turn a profit, but they should be deeply ashamed at the course they have taken. Two-bit is the best description for them.
Eddie Bauer, on the other hand, just got me as a loyal customer for life. While in Newfoundland I found myself in dire need of a windbreaker/rain jacket. So I stopped in the Eddie Bauer in St. John's and picked one up for $69. In the course of my trip -- actually in the Toronto airport on the way home -- the breast pocket zipper got snagged and pulled right off. After cursing the hateful universe for my fate, I figured I'd just stop in the local Eddie Bauer in Ann Arbor to see if they had a repair service. They don't, but they replaced the jacket on the spot, no questions asked, and even gave me a refund for the price difference of $25 (it was way cheaper here at home). Amazing. I walked in hoping to not pay too much for a repair, and I walked out with a completely new jacket and $25 in my pocket. And they will win in the long run, because Eddie is going to get my default business for just about any products they may carry from now on.
Flick Notes
Flick Notes: I actually watched two complete movies this month, which is rare. First was Rocky Balboa, the sixth installment of the saga of the Stallion. I was careful not to say "sixth and final" because I'm holding out hope for a Rocky VII wherein he fights the cold-hearted retirement home head nurse to a heroic and inspirational draw. In truth I must say that I thought Rocky Balboa was a decent film. Here's the thing about Stallone: in the right situation, he can act extremely well. Go back and watch the original Rocky. Stallone did a helluva job with that character. No, playing Rocky Balboa doesn't involve the same level of challenges as playing King Lear, but Stallone got three dimensions and lot of humanity out of a brain dead palooka. Then, regrettably, came the sequels.
In Rocky Balboa you get flashes of that affecting, original-Rocky Stallone. The plot involves Rocky feeling the need to fight one more time in the face of loss and loneliness over the death of Adrian and also some frustration over the distance his now adult son is keeping from him. There is a terrific scene where these feelings come to the surface during a conversation with Paulie, moving Rocky to the point of tears, and Stallone pulls it off just like in the old days.
The fight itself is somewhat an anti-climax. The circumstances are contrived and the outcome exactly as expected. Luckily, it's only a small part of the film. Rocky Balboa is worth a look and might give you a good idea why Stallone is still around, both in the artistic and commercial sense. Even old and worn out in a ludicrous situation you still gotta root for Rocky. In the same vein, I'm really hoping that even at this late stage, Stallone finds a role that will let him show what he can do again.
Cloverfield is intense. So much so that I was riveted even though I was watching it on the el cheapo four-inch LCD screen wedged in the back of the seat in front of me on an Air Canada jet from St. John's, Newfoundland to Toronto. In terms of tension, Cloverfield is awesome. The problem is that tension is really all there is. It's an exercise in "can't-look-away-ness".
I feel silly describing the plots of movies since by the time I see them they have pretty much slid into the backlist on Netflix and everyone else is reciting dialogue, but for the sake of good form Cloverfield is a about a big scary monster devouring Manhattan. Armed with nothing but a handheld video camera, a frightened band of painfully arch hipsters journey from somewhere near the financial district all the way to midtown to rescue a friend who has been trapped in a collapsing building while scary monster attacks loom around every corner.
Cloverfield is effectively The Blair Witch Project scaled up. That's not a slam. It's really the first non-gimmicky enhancement to the successful first person webcam paradigm that Blair Witch started. And it's an effective technique in this setting. But that's all it is. I really had no interest in the characters involved in the search. And the plot is, presumably intentionally, empty and unresolved. There is nothing more than the search and rescue and then that's it. I don't think I'm spoiling too much by saying that in the end, there is no resolution of any sort.
You could draw any number of thematic connections to any number of current events here. Seriously, name your socio-political hobby horse and you can make Cloverfield a metaphor for it. I'll pass on the exercise in self-validation, and if you choose to also, what you are left with is a cleverly conceived and exquisitely produced mega-chase without much of a human story. Fun to watch -- more so than most other thrillers -- but ultimately hollow and unsatisfying.
In Rocky Balboa you get flashes of that affecting, original-Rocky Stallone. The plot involves Rocky feeling the need to fight one more time in the face of loss and loneliness over the death of Adrian and also some frustration over the distance his now adult son is keeping from him. There is a terrific scene where these feelings come to the surface during a conversation with Paulie, moving Rocky to the point of tears, and Stallone pulls it off just like in the old days.
The fight itself is somewhat an anti-climax. The circumstances are contrived and the outcome exactly as expected. Luckily, it's only a small part of the film. Rocky Balboa is worth a look and might give you a good idea why Stallone is still around, both in the artistic and commercial sense. Even old and worn out in a ludicrous situation you still gotta root for Rocky. In the same vein, I'm really hoping that even at this late stage, Stallone finds a role that will let him show what he can do again.
Cloverfield is intense. So much so that I was riveted even though I was watching it on the el cheapo four-inch LCD screen wedged in the back of the seat in front of me on an Air Canada jet from St. John's, Newfoundland to Toronto. In terms of tension, Cloverfield is awesome. The problem is that tension is really all there is. It's an exercise in "can't-look-away-ness".
I feel silly describing the plots of movies since by the time I see them they have pretty much slid into the backlist on Netflix and everyone else is reciting dialogue, but for the sake of good form Cloverfield is a about a big scary monster devouring Manhattan. Armed with nothing but a handheld video camera, a frightened band of painfully arch hipsters journey from somewhere near the financial district all the way to midtown to rescue a friend who has been trapped in a collapsing building while scary monster attacks loom around every corner.
Cloverfield is effectively The Blair Witch Project scaled up. That's not a slam. It's really the first non-gimmicky enhancement to the successful first person webcam paradigm that Blair Witch started. And it's an effective technique in this setting. But that's all it is. I really had no interest in the characters involved in the search. And the plot is, presumably intentionally, empty and unresolved. There is nothing more than the search and rescue and then that's it. I don't think I'm spoiling too much by saying that in the end, there is no resolution of any sort.
You could draw any number of thematic connections to any number of current events here. Seriously, name your socio-political hobby horse and you can make Cloverfield a metaphor for it. I'll pass on the exercise in self-validation, and if you choose to also, what you are left with is a cleverly conceived and exquisitely produced mega-chase without much of a human story. Fun to watch -- more so than most other thrillers -- but ultimately hollow and unsatisfying.
Music Appreciation
Music Appreciation: My appreciation of Classical music is fairly stunted. I know the basics -- Beethoven Symphonies, Mozart Concertos, etc. And I know enough to know I like Bach above everyone (I have the Gould's Goldbergs, Tureck's Well-Tempered Clavier, and Orch. of the Enlightenment's Brandenbergs, and Julliard String Quartet's Art of the Fugue -- all on my Zune). Beyond that, I'm pathetic. Over the course of the month I stumbled on a couple of articles that caused me to wonder if any classical had even been created in my lifetime, 'cause I sure couldn't name anything.
Well the first idea that came up was that Classical music as an accessible product now exists almost solely for film scores. Certainly, I'd heard of John Williams, hadn't I? But there are many others: Bernard Herrmann scored numerous Hitchcock flicks among others, Enrico Morricone did the Clint Eastwood Westerns among others, Aaron Copland did some astounding work for film, but that was a bit before my lifetime. I just never made the connection in my brain that I was hearing modern Classical music. So there you go.
But of non-film based classical music one CD consistently showed up on recommended lists far and wide: Steven Reich's Different Trains. So I snagged a copy. It is absolutely mesmerizing. Different Trains uses a string quartet wherein the different instruments repeat a melody based on a spoken phrase that is related to train travel. The actual spoken phrases are interwoven with the melodies played on the instruments. The work is divided into three movements 1) America-before the war, 2) Europe-during the war, and 3) After the war. The phrases, and even the speakers, are connected to those time periods. It is virtually impossible to describe this work, other than to say it works very well and it is a remarkably appropriate and coherent use of sampling, which is rare in Classical works.
But it does beg the question, what makes this Classical music? Given the use of sampling why is this not considered some variation of the Electronica or Ambient genres. It uses sampled spoken words, sound effects and standard instrumentation in combination. It certainly eschews what might be considered traditional musical formats. How does this become classical music as opposed to, say, avant-garde electronica. I don't know? I don't doubt that there is a reason, which may be beyond my musical understanding. I'd just be curious to know what it is.
Fabulous piece of music, whatever it is.
Different Trains is usually combined on CD with another work, Electric Counterpoint, which is also quite beautiful. A looping mesh of guitars; bass and tenor, live and sampled. Also recommended.
P.S. Microsoft came through with an update to the Zune player software that allows for gapless playback (see last month's complaint), which is needed to for these pieces. Great timing MS!
Well the first idea that came up was that Classical music as an accessible product now exists almost solely for film scores. Certainly, I'd heard of John Williams, hadn't I? But there are many others: Bernard Herrmann scored numerous Hitchcock flicks among others, Enrico Morricone did the Clint Eastwood Westerns among others, Aaron Copland did some astounding work for film, but that was a bit before my lifetime. I just never made the connection in my brain that I was hearing modern Classical music. So there you go.
But of non-film based classical music one CD consistently showed up on recommended lists far and wide: Steven Reich's Different Trains. So I snagged a copy. It is absolutely mesmerizing. Different Trains uses a string quartet wherein the different instruments repeat a melody based on a spoken phrase that is related to train travel. The actual spoken phrases are interwoven with the melodies played on the instruments. The work is divided into three movements 1) America-before the war, 2) Europe-during the war, and 3) After the war. The phrases, and even the speakers, are connected to those time periods. It is virtually impossible to describe this work, other than to say it works very well and it is a remarkably appropriate and coherent use of sampling, which is rare in Classical works.
But it does beg the question, what makes this Classical music? Given the use of sampling why is this not considered some variation of the Electronica or Ambient genres. It uses sampled spoken words, sound effects and standard instrumentation in combination. It certainly eschews what might be considered traditional musical formats. How does this become classical music as opposed to, say, avant-garde electronica. I don't know? I don't doubt that there is a reason, which may be beyond my musical understanding. I'd just be curious to know what it is.
Fabulous piece of music, whatever it is.
Different Trains is usually combined on CD with another work, Electric Counterpoint, which is also quite beautiful. A looping mesh of guitars; bass and tenor, live and sampled. Also recommended.
P.S. Microsoft came through with an update to the Zune player software that allows for gapless playback (see last month's complaint), which is needed to for these pieces. Great timing MS!
Music Unappreciated
Music Unappreciated: While we are on the topic of my musical confusion. Three bands that have enormous and loyal followings, but I can't stand:
- U2 -- Boy came out in, what was it, '79? '80? I remember listening to it in my fraternity and finding no attraction whatsoever. Now nearly thirty years later, Bono is rich and obnoxious beyond any rock star's dreams but my feelings haven't changed. Every song of theirs I've heard over the years sounds utterly conventional and soulless to my ears.
- Radiohead -- OK, Computer is often spoken of as one of the greatest albums ever. I can't even force myself to listen to the previews of the songs on Amazon. It just sounds so dreary to me. But its success spawned a tidal wave of equally dreary "alt rock" that completely dominated the airwaves in the '90s and early '00s. I suppose I should thank them and their spawn for driving me to the loving arms of Sirius.
- Dave Matthews -- This guy has an enormous live following, on the same scale as the Grateful Dead in their heyday. I really can't explain why I don't like Dave Matthews except to say his voice and lyrics make me think (irrationally, perhaps) of a perfect, sensitive hipster. I bet this is what the folks from Cloverfield listened to. Makes me press seek.
Michigan Life Imitates Cable TV
Michigan Life Imitates Cable TV: For the past few months I have been making snide comments about how closely Detroit Mayor Kwame Kilpatrick's scandals mirror something that would go on in The Wire. Now we have a new story.
Out near me in Ann Arbor, a civilian clerk at the Ann Arbor police department has been righteously busted:
Well, I'll give you two reasons. 1) The money. 2) She thought Weeds was an instructional video. (Although why this would be a cry-out and not a laugh-out escapes me.)
Now all we need is a serial killer in Flint who only kills murderers or a Grand Rapids mob boss who is in therapy and our lives here will be complete.
Out near me in Ann Arbor, a civilian clerk at the Ann Arbor police department has been righteously busted:
[H]er co-workers were stunned to learn the popular employee's Hamburg Township home was raided, where authorities say they found 30 pounds of marijuana, more than 40 pot plants and guns.
...
"Sometimes, people have double lives,'' said Jones, who added he had a "cry out'' in his office with many of Hamell's co-workers when the news broke. "We are still stunned. ... People want to know, 'Why?'''
Well, I'll give you two reasons. 1) The money. 2) She thought Weeds was an instructional video. (Although why this would be a cry-out and not a laugh-out escapes me.)
Now all we need is a serial killer in Flint who only kills murderers or a Grand Rapids mob boss who is in therapy and our lives here will be complete.
Howl of Tom Wolfe
Howl of Tom Wolfe: A five part video interview with Tom Wolfe (1, 2, 3, 4, 5). I happen to think Tom Wolfe is the finest cultural commentator we have; although that's not saying much, he is likely the only one that matters. He's the only one I know of who doesn't walk in lock step with one op-ed ideology or another and one who actually does his research and reporting rather than just scan the zeitgeist. Here's the money quote: "The biggest problem is all the people who see a problem. It's very fashionable to think that the end is near."
Stop Killing Hitler
Stop Killing Hitler: Just for pure laughs, if you have ever been involved with any online communities or discussion forums you will crack-up over this piece about going back in time to kill Hitler. It's perfect.
Wednesday, May 07, 2008
The Month That Was - April 2008: Another month with no travel. There are two reasons for that. 1) Work. The day job. Been hellacious, and I have just not been in a position to take time off. But more importantly, 2) I've actually been making good progress with fiction. Misspent Youth keeps going and going, but I finally feel like I am getting somewhere. I have known for a while how I wanted it to end, but I was stuck dead in the middle. Now I have a decent sense of how it's all going to pull together which has given me new motivation. Plus, I have started a new writing project -- something that I have never tried before, and so am not ready to discuss yet. The point is that however much I want to get back on the move, I don't want to break whatever routines have gotten me back into the swing of writing. Thus, I remain geostationary for the moment.
Another problem I have been having is that I fall asleep at the drop of a hat lately -- that is, unless I'm trying to fall asleep. What's been happening is that I've been coming home in the evening, sometimes directly after work, sometimes after hitting the gym or a drink with friends, and I start to sort out everything I have to do, then I sit back on the couch and fall asleep for an hour or so, then I can't get to sleep later when I really need to. I can't seem to break the cycle. I bet travel would do it.
I hope to pull out of this and have something more substantial for next month. Maybe even a trip report.
Art Consumption Down
Detroit Apocalypto
Your Five Years Are Up
Ann Arbor Snaps
Fairness, Idealism, and Other Atrocities
Another problem I have been having is that I fall asleep at the drop of a hat lately -- that is, unless I'm trying to fall asleep. What's been happening is that I've been coming home in the evening, sometimes directly after work, sometimes after hitting the gym or a drink with friends, and I start to sort out everything I have to do, then I sit back on the couch and fall asleep for an hour or so, then I can't get to sleep later when I really need to. I can't seem to break the cycle. I bet travel would do it.
I hope to pull out of this and have something more substantial for next month. Maybe even a trip report.
Art Consumption Down
Detroit Apocalypto
Your Five Years Are Up
Ann Arbor Snaps
Fairness, Idealism, and Other Atrocities
Art Consumption Down: Reading, Movies, TV, all seemed to dissipate of late. I can't think of a single movie or TV show I saw this month worth mentioning.
For months now, I've been reading bits and pieces of Tender is the Night and will likely finish it this month. I certainly understand why it has always had such a mixed reputation. Fitzgerald's drawn a very compelling lead character that has really hit home strongly for me. But the story and structure are something of a jumble, and if you don't identify as strongly with the lead, I doubt there would be much of interest.
I've also been struggling through John Derbyshire's Unknown Quantity, which is a history of algebra for the layman. Of course, by layman I mean someone who can still solve quadratic equations and can grasp concepts as abstract as matrices and fields and all sorts of stuff that I have not encountered since undergrad. It's a mental challenge, certainly. Derbyshire makes the valid point the algebra = abstraction in its purest form and even in a layman's tome like this, your powers of abstract thinking will be challenged to the utmost. Derbyshire writes exceeding well and clearly and interjects biographical stories of the key algebraists to humanize the topic, but unless you're the kind of person who solves brain teasers for kicks, you may find yourself in over your head. I know I have.
My reading list is quite full. Next up will certainly be less intellectual reads. I have my eye on a mystery (Thus Was Adonis Murdered, by Sarah Caudwell) and a spy thriller (The Devil's Alternative by William Forsyth).
Actually, what I said above is not entirely true. HBO re-ran the entire series of John from Cincinnati in a marathon (it was only nine episodes, I think) and I watched it. The show's problems were not diminished on a second viewing and, frankly, it deserved cancellation, but I liked it even more than I did the first time. It helps to view it as an absurdist ensemble comedy, which it was, at least as much as anything else. I still think Ed O'Neill deserved an Emmy.
For months now, I've been reading bits and pieces of Tender is the Night and will likely finish it this month. I certainly understand why it has always had such a mixed reputation. Fitzgerald's drawn a very compelling lead character that has really hit home strongly for me. But the story and structure are something of a jumble, and if you don't identify as strongly with the lead, I doubt there would be much of interest.
I've also been struggling through John Derbyshire's Unknown Quantity, which is a history of algebra for the layman. Of course, by layman I mean someone who can still solve quadratic equations and can grasp concepts as abstract as matrices and fields and all sorts of stuff that I have not encountered since undergrad. It's a mental challenge, certainly. Derbyshire makes the valid point the algebra = abstraction in its purest form and even in a layman's tome like this, your powers of abstract thinking will be challenged to the utmost. Derbyshire writes exceeding well and clearly and interjects biographical stories of the key algebraists to humanize the topic, but unless you're the kind of person who solves brain teasers for kicks, you may find yourself in over your head. I know I have.
My reading list is quite full. Next up will certainly be less intellectual reads. I have my eye on a mystery (Thus Was Adonis Murdered, by Sarah Caudwell) and a spy thriller (The Devil's Alternative by William Forsyth).
Actually, what I said above is not entirely true. HBO re-ran the entire series of John from Cincinnati in a marathon (it was only nine episodes, I think) and I watched it. The show's problems were not diminished on a second viewing and, frankly, it deserved cancellation, but I liked it even more than I did the first time. It helps to view it as an absurdist ensemble comedy, which it was, at least as much as anything else. I still think Ed O'Neill deserved an Emmy.
Detroit Apocalypto: As my birth city continues its devolution into primitivism, over at the Wall Street Journal they have written up a good summary of the current situation. It's nothing you haven't already read right here, but it's an excellent quick intro. Here's a telling prognostication:
That's about 18,500 people leaving every year. I still maintain that the end for Detroit will come when the population is reduced to about a dozen people wearing rat pelt loin cloths who, in turn, die out when they finally have to resort to cannibalism. At the current rate of population loss, it could happen in my lifetime. Alternatively, we could wall off the city into a big prison and send in Kurt Russell to rescue any innocents.
A perfectly telling video is now available on YouTube. City Councilwoman Monica Conyers derogatorily referred to the (noticeably bald) president of the city council as "Shrek," because that's what mature, reasonable council members do in the course of policy debate. For doing this, she got a dressing down from a 13-year-old school girl, Kierra Bell, about her bad manners, so she then proceeded to engage the child in strident lawyerly debate. Mind you, this is the same woman who has threatened to have her "brothers" attack council members who have crossed her. Good god, what a horrible woman.
Conyers eventually backed off and even arranged for Kierra to get some sort of award, which I'm sure was totally sincere and had nothing to do with damage control. Kierra seems like a sharp cookie; the kind of citizen the City of Detroit needs. Here's hoping she gets out ahead of the cannibals.
A recent study by the Southeast Michigan Council of Governments estimated that, if current trends continue, the city's population will shrink to 770,000 in seven years, from about 900,000 when Mr. Kilpatrick became mayor.
That's about 18,500 people leaving every year. I still maintain that the end for Detroit will come when the population is reduced to about a dozen people wearing rat pelt loin cloths who, in turn, die out when they finally have to resort to cannibalism. At the current rate of population loss, it could happen in my lifetime. Alternatively, we could wall off the city into a big prison and send in Kurt Russell to rescue any innocents.
A perfectly telling video is now available on YouTube. City Councilwoman Monica Conyers derogatorily referred to the (noticeably bald) president of the city council as "Shrek," because that's what mature, reasonable council members do in the course of policy debate. For doing this, she got a dressing down from a 13-year-old school girl, Kierra Bell, about her bad manners, so she then proceeded to engage the child in strident lawyerly debate. Mind you, this is the same woman who has threatened to have her "brothers" attack council members who have crossed her. Good god, what a horrible woman.
Conyers eventually backed off and even arranged for Kierra to get some sort of award, which I'm sure was totally sincere and had nothing to do with damage control. Kierra seems like a sharp cookie; the kind of citizen the City of Detroit needs. Here's hoping she gets out ahead of the cannibals.
Your Five Years Are Up: The adage about technology is that we overestimate what can be done in one year and underestimate what can be done in five. It's remarkable to think back on how many things have changed forever since back when the internet consisted of a handful of nerds with 9600 baud modems. Entire industries have withered, or at least been completely redefined, in this light. For example, does anybody remember Tower Records? Border's Books is close to bankruptcy. Paper newspapers are dropping like flies, destined to survive as vanity toys for rich egos. Landfills are chock full of fax machines. Try to buy film for your old camera and see how many options you have left.
What brought all this to mind was dealing with my father's finances. He is no longer capable of managing his investments so we are working to keep on top of things. In the course of this I've had a lot of interaction with his stockbroker. Now, I haven't used a stockbroker in close to ten years. I manage all my investments online through accounts on E-trade and Fidelity. His stockbroker is a very good sort of fellow -- attentive, a good listener, doesn't seem to shill for easy commissions. If I was going to have a stockbroker, he would be the guy. But it's worth asking the question: Is the stockbroker's five years up?
Your basic run-of-the-mill old school stockbroker is no more. The kind of guy who you called every once in a while to place a buy or sell order is toast. A robot can place a stock order, and they do so much more cheaply and accurately than some yuppie Peter Lynch wannabe. If you are old enough to remember Olde Discount Brokers, who were the kings of the discount brokerage houses way back when, you know the type of clowns I'm talking about. It's good that they are gone, they were pretty much useless and often dirtbags to boot.
So placing the order is of zero value. What about providing company/industry/market research and information? Well I can get the same information from Google Finance and MSN Moneycentral, gratis, 24/7, no strings attached. Unless you've been living in a cave, Osama, providing financial info is of zero value.
What about opinions and advice? I suppose it is possible that you could find a broker who is a true wizard of stock picking, but I feel completely safe in saying you won't. That's because there is the statistical equivalent of zero such people in the world. It would be like adopting a random Chinese baby in the hopes of him growing into Yao Ming. Advice is better weighed in the aggregate than from one individual and, as with information, you can get an ocean of advice for free on the web.
Furthermore, as study after study shows, the best and safest way to get long term gains is to buy index funds and hold them for years. Anything else is a gamble that, historically speaking, is not worth the risk. So however you happen to get advice, it may not be in your best interest to listen.
Where does that leave us? However kind and supportive a stockbroker is, what is the value in retaining one?
If you just never got comfortable with online life, well, you need one for all those reasons I don't. (Interestingly this is where my father and my family fall.) If you have a great mountain of money you don't really need a stock broker, but an investment manager -- a kind of super stock broker, and a well connected to get you in on large scale deals, IPOs, etc., as well as handling your transactions. That's about it.
Actually there is one other class of people who do need stockbrokers: Verbalists. There are people for whom communication needs to be verbal, and often, person-to-person direct. You can hand them perfectly written documents in any form, but the mere act of having to read decreases its effectiveness. The written word in any form just doesn't register. This is not a criticism; it is just a way a brain can be wired. I am the exact opposite. The written word is my preferred means of acquiring information. Talk, to me, is inexact; a roadblock to understanding. A phone call is the most tedious, unproductive thing I can imagine. I'll respond instantly to email, but a phone call goes right to voice mail because it's extra psychic energy for me to grasp. Verbalists are my opposites; the sorts of folks who still call travel agents, movie theatre hot-lines, and 411. They need stockbrokers too.
In deference to my family we are keeping the stockbroker on. That's fine. Who knows, maybe the day will come when I have a big mountain of cash I need help with. (Sure...)
By the way: One occupation whose demise I am looking forward to is car salesmen. Horrendous, mealy-mouthed, four flushers, the whole lot of 'em. Why do we need these people? Anybody can check the web and find out exactly how much a car is worth, what the dealer paid for it, the average time it has been sitting in inventory, get carfax repair reports, determine resale value -- so you are not going to squeeze and extra few hundred out of some poor sap just by jawboning him anymore. Not to mention the insulting customer experience they provide. It's a wonder any dealerships have repeat customers. These guys should be out on the street hustling for loose change within a year or two. I will snicker at them as I pass.
What brought all this to mind was dealing with my father's finances. He is no longer capable of managing his investments so we are working to keep on top of things. In the course of this I've had a lot of interaction with his stockbroker. Now, I haven't used a stockbroker in close to ten years. I manage all my investments online through accounts on E-trade and Fidelity. His stockbroker is a very good sort of fellow -- attentive, a good listener, doesn't seem to shill for easy commissions. If I was going to have a stockbroker, he would be the guy. But it's worth asking the question: Is the stockbroker's five years up?
Your basic run-of-the-mill old school stockbroker is no more. The kind of guy who you called every once in a while to place a buy or sell order is toast. A robot can place a stock order, and they do so much more cheaply and accurately than some yuppie Peter Lynch wannabe. If you are old enough to remember Olde Discount Brokers, who were the kings of the discount brokerage houses way back when, you know the type of clowns I'm talking about. It's good that they are gone, they were pretty much useless and often dirtbags to boot.
So placing the order is of zero value. What about providing company/industry/market research and information? Well I can get the same information from Google Finance and MSN Moneycentral, gratis, 24/7, no strings attached. Unless you've been living in a cave, Osama, providing financial info is of zero value.
What about opinions and advice? I suppose it is possible that you could find a broker who is a true wizard of stock picking, but I feel completely safe in saying you won't. That's because there is the statistical equivalent of zero such people in the world. It would be like adopting a random Chinese baby in the hopes of him growing into Yao Ming. Advice is better weighed in the aggregate than from one individual and, as with information, you can get an ocean of advice for free on the web.
Furthermore, as study after study shows, the best and safest way to get long term gains is to buy index funds and hold them for years. Anything else is a gamble that, historically speaking, is not worth the risk. So however you happen to get advice, it may not be in your best interest to listen.
Where does that leave us? However kind and supportive a stockbroker is, what is the value in retaining one?
If you just never got comfortable with online life, well, you need one for all those reasons I don't. (Interestingly this is where my father and my family fall.) If you have a great mountain of money you don't really need a stock broker, but an investment manager -- a kind of super stock broker, and a well connected to get you in on large scale deals, IPOs, etc., as well as handling your transactions. That's about it.
Actually there is one other class of people who do need stockbrokers: Verbalists. There are people for whom communication needs to be verbal, and often, person-to-person direct. You can hand them perfectly written documents in any form, but the mere act of having to read decreases its effectiveness. The written word in any form just doesn't register. This is not a criticism; it is just a way a brain can be wired. I am the exact opposite. The written word is my preferred means of acquiring information. Talk, to me, is inexact; a roadblock to understanding. A phone call is the most tedious, unproductive thing I can imagine. I'll respond instantly to email, but a phone call goes right to voice mail because it's extra psychic energy for me to grasp. Verbalists are my opposites; the sorts of folks who still call travel agents, movie theatre hot-lines, and 411. They need stockbrokers too.
In deference to my family we are keeping the stockbroker on. That's fine. Who knows, maybe the day will come when I have a big mountain of cash I need help with. (Sure...)
By the way: One occupation whose demise I am looking forward to is car salesmen. Horrendous, mealy-mouthed, four flushers, the whole lot of 'em. Why do we need these people? Anybody can check the web and find out exactly how much a car is worth, what the dealer paid for it, the average time it has been sitting in inventory, get carfax repair reports, determine resale value -- so you are not going to squeeze and extra few hundred out of some poor sap just by jawboning him anymore. Not to mention the insulting customer experience they provide. It's a wonder any dealerships have repeat customers. These guys should be out on the street hustling for loose change within a year or two. I will snicker at them as I pass.
Ann Arbor Snaps: I did my first spring walkthrough of Ann Arbor a couple of weeks ago. Hit all the basics. Spent the afternoon writing at Sweetwater's, then wandered up to Zingerman's for a sandwich with some nasal cavity clearing mustard (Zing's is still overrated, and still delicious), then back to the heart of town and a visit to the original Borders. I'm pretty sure I am going to make a Sunday tradition of this. Here're a handful of snaps taken with my el cheapo Kodak point-and-shoot.
• We still have brick streets in the historic district (I used to live on this street many years ago).
• There is a street performer downtown who sets up his boom box and cranks Thriller-era Michael Jackson while moonwalking and otherwise getting funky. Sometimes the sorority girls join in.
• Painfully hip signage for the Metro Cafe and the Monkey Bar.
• The last vestiges of hippie-dom survive in stores and street art.
• Soon, these vines will be green.
• Zingerman's outside seating is just gearing up.
• What's playing at our historic Michigan Theatre; also viewed from Border's across the street.
• We still have brick streets in the historic district (I used to live on this street many years ago).
• There is a street performer downtown who sets up his boom box and cranks Thriller-era Michael Jackson while moonwalking and otherwise getting funky. Sometimes the sorority girls join in.
• Painfully hip signage for the Metro Cafe and the Monkey Bar.
• The last vestiges of hippie-dom survive in stores and street art.
• Soon, these vines will be green.
• Zingerman's outside seating is just gearing up.
• What's playing at our historic Michigan Theatre; also viewed from Border's across the street.
Fairness, Idealism, and Other Atrocities: It's graduation time, so all around the country poor, unsuspecting shlubs are being given sheepskins and maudlin advice from semi-famous people. As usual, you can't do better than P.J. O'Rourke. My favorite lines:
and
I wish I could sum things up so perfectly.
Idealists are also bullies. The idealist says, "I care more about the redwood trees than you do. I care so much I can't eat. I can't sleep. It broke up my marriage. And because I care more than you do, I'm a better person. And because I'm the better person, I have the right to boss you around."
and
I am here to advocate for unfairness. I've got a 10-year-old at home. She's always saying, "That's not fair." When she says this, I say, "Honey, you're cute. That's not fair. Your family is pretty well off. That's not fair. You were born in America. That's not fair. Darling, you had better pray to God that things don't start getting fair for you."
I wish I could sum things up so perfectly.
Friday, April 04, 2008
The Month That Was - March 2008: It's starting to get warm. Well, warmer. We twice had brutal snowstorms after the vernal equinox, which really pisses people off. Seriously, if you don't live in the north, you can't imagine how tired everyone is of winter by this time. It was a cold and snowy winter and it didn't let up until the last second, but the flip side of being sick of winter is the rush you get when you finally realize it's over and you can breathe without your lungs freezing over. Your first hint that it is coming is when you leave work at 6pm and it's still light out. Then that first splash of green appears and you start making plans for summer activities. Then Mother Nature slaps you back with one final blizzard.
Oh well, this time it really is over. For sure. The Dairy Queen just reopened.
My Blue Heaven
Toob Notes
'Bout a Hundred Dollars
Luggage is the Enemy
Ain't So Bad
Oh well, this time it really is over. For sure. The Dairy Queen just reopened.
My Blue Heaven
Toob Notes
'Bout a Hundred Dollars
Luggage is the Enemy
Ain't So Bad
My Blue Heaven: Four nights in Key West probably deserves its own trip report, but I just don't have the energy at the moment. This being my third (and certainly not final) visit to the Conch Republic, I'm getting close to being knowledgeable enough to do some sort of guide in the future, but for now a few stray observations and pics will have to serve.
My big concern was that it was spring break time. I feared a pack of drunken frat boys may have turned Duvall St. into Bourbon St. Not to worry. Maybe it was because we arrived late Saturday night and so our active time span was Sunday through Tuesday, but for the most part Duvall Street was very subdued. Crowds picked up when the cruise ships were docked, but other than that, it seemed like any other time.
My second concern was getting in and out of Miami International. I had arrived a couple of days earlier and made a quick run across the state to Sarasota for family stuff. My plan was to dash back across Alligator Alley to pick up Miss Kate, HRH Miss Anna, and Anna's beau at MIA around dusk then make a nighttime dash to Key West. I was worried about traffic and construction around the airport. I was worried about maneuvering through the Keys in the dark. I needn't have worried. Everything went smoothly and we arrived a little before midnight.
We stayed at the Santa Maria Suites and I cannot recommend this place highly enough. Nicely styled, a sweet little pool area, nightly turn down service, they leave you with all manner of sweets in the room -- muffins, ice cream treats, a bottle of water or two -- all gratis. Friendly helpful staff. Big screen TVs in every room. Located just a block or so off the southern end of Duvall Street, maybe three or four blocks from the Southernmost Point. The more southerly shops and restaurants are an easy walk, getting all the way down to Mallory Square and back would be a full day's wander.
Sunday was set aside for exploring and getting our bearings; that and a good bit of pool time. By the time the sun started to drop we were on a sunset dinner cruise aboard the gaff-rigged schooner Liberty Clipper. This is a nice gentle little cruise out into the Gulf, and it really does involve actual sailing -- wind permitting. The food and drink was pretty standard, but the crew were very genial and the captain a bit of cut up. The sunset was exquisite. Highly recommended is the Liberty Clipper.
Pics:
A smaller schooner sharing our wind and barreling toward the sun.
Amazing sunsets: 1, 2, 3, 4
The next day was going to be our big time on the water. We booked a day long "Power Adventure" through Sebago -- a major day tour outfitter on the island. The itinerary was to sail out to the coral reef to snorkel around for a while, then have lunch onboard, then sail back into the Gulf and tie up to a platform where we would get our chance at activities such as jet skiing and parasailing.
I'm going to have to label this process a disappointment. You sail out to the reef at which point you are given an area of about 40 square yards in which you are allowed to snorkel. The snorkel gear provided was awful, clearly designed for the bathtub -- you are given full coverage masks and then told not to breathe through your nose or you'll fog up the mask. Anti-fog spray? Sorry not available. I gave up on snorkeling and just swam around in the water for a while. But even just swimming around, they make you wear an annoying floatation vest. I'm lucky they didn't require a permission slip from my Mom. The best part of this segment was feeding a mean-looking three-and-a-half-foot long barracuda off the side of the boat.
My guess is you got about a half hour to forty-five minutes to snorkel and then it's everyone back in the boat to head into the Gulf. With the wind up, the sailing was a blast. The big catamaran sliced through the rollers drenching everyone on deck. I crawled up as close to the bow as possible to get deluged to full effect.
Next we tied up to a platform where there were a couple of jet skis waiting and a trampoline and a banana boat. We were divided into two groups: one starts on the jet skis and one goes parasailing, then we switch half way through. But parasailing got cancelled due to the high winds. And the jet skis -- well, you had a circle of about a hundred yard radius in which you were allowed to stay and your ride needed to be limited to 5 minutes or so. So as it turned out, there was actually very little to do. I was able to get in three separate 5-minute trips on the jet ski, by the last of which I had that 100-yard radius circle pretty well memorized. As a result, in the height of the afternoon everyone was flopped about on the boat getting badly sunburned (especially the fair Miss Anna) and wondering when we were going to head back to port and get on with our lives.
I can't recommend Sebago's Power Adventure. Even if the parasailing had been available, the whole process is too regimented. "Quickly now, have heavily monitored fun so we can rush somewhere else and have a different kind of heavily monitored fun." If you want to snorkel, arrange a leisurely snorkeling trip. If you want to parasail, catch a specialty boat in port for a longer ride. If you want to jet ski, find somewhere to rent jet skis on your own schedule. Give Sebago's Power Adventure a miss.
At least we were back in time to catch the famous sunset at Mallory Square, where the street performers turned out in full. The standout was Dominique and his trained cats. Dominique is a certified eccentric who in any other context would probably be locked in a padded room or living over a heating grate in a refrigerator box, but in Mallory Square he fits right in. His act is difficult to describe, but you can catch video snippets at YouTube and AOL. "Hurry up take your time!" is now a catch phrase among us.
The next day, our last full day, we had discussed going out on the water again, but I was in no condition for another day in the sun. Miss Anna was even worse. I felt bad about it, because I knew I should have tanned up before the trip but I just never got the chance -- lesson re-learned. As a result I had to leave the ferry to the Dry Tortugas on my to do list for the future. Instead, and perhaps to our benefit, Kate and I rented bikes and had our own little island safari.
Key West is not big and there are a variety of options for getting around. A car is bulky and expensive. Most folks opt for scooters or electric carts. But unless you are completely out of shape, I'd recommend a plain old bicycle. It's cheaper, can go anywhere, and you get exercise which means you're allowed an extra boat drink with dinner.
We trolled along the west end of the island, eventually making our way to Ft. Zachary State Park, which has the best beach on the island. Best is relative -- it isn't bad, although it seems like it's a bit on the rocky side. The fact is, there are really no great beaches on Key West. But the park itself is nice and wooded and sparsely decorated with odd sculptures and signs warning you to avoid attack turtles and scooter riding pelicans and so forth. From there we barreled back across town to the heart of residential Key West and rode pleasantly along the narrow, shady streets and through their crypt-laden cemetery.
Pics:
Dog totem at Ft. Zack
Why ask Y?
Manatee mailbox
Sunset Key (a private island just off Key West)
A stately pelican
Key West Gothic
I wonder what goes on in there?
In his song Blue Heaven Rendezvous, Jimmy Buffet sings of Key West: "There's still some magic left in this tourist town." I have been all over Florida, up and down both coasts and all through the Mouse House. I have seen all the various ways in which Florida has imposed an orderly, commercial skin over its swampish innards, from St. Armand's Circle to South Beach. But Key West, while equally commercial, is more genuine and more organic. They put up the tawdry t-shirt shops and the tacky theme restaurants, but they don't bother trying to hide the oddballs and corner dives and local color. Jimmy's right. There's still plenty of magic to go around.
My big concern was that it was spring break time. I feared a pack of drunken frat boys may have turned Duvall St. into Bourbon St. Not to worry. Maybe it was because we arrived late Saturday night and so our active time span was Sunday through Tuesday, but for the most part Duvall Street was very subdued. Crowds picked up when the cruise ships were docked, but other than that, it seemed like any other time.
My second concern was getting in and out of Miami International. I had arrived a couple of days earlier and made a quick run across the state to Sarasota for family stuff. My plan was to dash back across Alligator Alley to pick up Miss Kate, HRH Miss Anna, and Anna's beau at MIA around dusk then make a nighttime dash to Key West. I was worried about traffic and construction around the airport. I was worried about maneuvering through the Keys in the dark. I needn't have worried. Everything went smoothly and we arrived a little before midnight.
We stayed at the Santa Maria Suites and I cannot recommend this place highly enough. Nicely styled, a sweet little pool area, nightly turn down service, they leave you with all manner of sweets in the room -- muffins, ice cream treats, a bottle of water or two -- all gratis. Friendly helpful staff. Big screen TVs in every room. Located just a block or so off the southern end of Duvall Street, maybe three or four blocks from the Southernmost Point. The more southerly shops and restaurants are an easy walk, getting all the way down to Mallory Square and back would be a full day's wander.
Sunday was set aside for exploring and getting our bearings; that and a good bit of pool time. By the time the sun started to drop we were on a sunset dinner cruise aboard the gaff-rigged schooner Liberty Clipper. This is a nice gentle little cruise out into the Gulf, and it really does involve actual sailing -- wind permitting. The food and drink was pretty standard, but the crew were very genial and the captain a bit of cut up. The sunset was exquisite. Highly recommended is the Liberty Clipper.
Pics:
A smaller schooner sharing our wind and barreling toward the sun.
Amazing sunsets: 1, 2, 3, 4
The next day was going to be our big time on the water. We booked a day long "Power Adventure" through Sebago -- a major day tour outfitter on the island. The itinerary was to sail out to the coral reef to snorkel around for a while, then have lunch onboard, then sail back into the Gulf and tie up to a platform where we would get our chance at activities such as jet skiing and parasailing.
I'm going to have to label this process a disappointment. You sail out to the reef at which point you are given an area of about 40 square yards in which you are allowed to snorkel. The snorkel gear provided was awful, clearly designed for the bathtub -- you are given full coverage masks and then told not to breathe through your nose or you'll fog up the mask. Anti-fog spray? Sorry not available. I gave up on snorkeling and just swam around in the water for a while. But even just swimming around, they make you wear an annoying floatation vest. I'm lucky they didn't require a permission slip from my Mom. The best part of this segment was feeding a mean-looking three-and-a-half-foot long barracuda off the side of the boat.
My guess is you got about a half hour to forty-five minutes to snorkel and then it's everyone back in the boat to head into the Gulf. With the wind up, the sailing was a blast. The big catamaran sliced through the rollers drenching everyone on deck. I crawled up as close to the bow as possible to get deluged to full effect.
Next we tied up to a platform where there were a couple of jet skis waiting and a trampoline and a banana boat. We were divided into two groups: one starts on the jet skis and one goes parasailing, then we switch half way through. But parasailing got cancelled due to the high winds. And the jet skis -- well, you had a circle of about a hundred yard radius in which you were allowed to stay and your ride needed to be limited to 5 minutes or so. So as it turned out, there was actually very little to do. I was able to get in three separate 5-minute trips on the jet ski, by the last of which I had that 100-yard radius circle pretty well memorized. As a result, in the height of the afternoon everyone was flopped about on the boat getting badly sunburned (especially the fair Miss Anna) and wondering when we were going to head back to port and get on with our lives.
I can't recommend Sebago's Power Adventure. Even if the parasailing had been available, the whole process is too regimented. "Quickly now, have heavily monitored fun so we can rush somewhere else and have a different kind of heavily monitored fun." If you want to snorkel, arrange a leisurely snorkeling trip. If you want to parasail, catch a specialty boat in port for a longer ride. If you want to jet ski, find somewhere to rent jet skis on your own schedule. Give Sebago's Power Adventure a miss.
At least we were back in time to catch the famous sunset at Mallory Square, where the street performers turned out in full. The standout was Dominique and his trained cats. Dominique is a certified eccentric who in any other context would probably be locked in a padded room or living over a heating grate in a refrigerator box, but in Mallory Square he fits right in. His act is difficult to describe, but you can catch video snippets at YouTube and AOL. "Hurry up take your time!" is now a catch phrase among us.
The next day, our last full day, we had discussed going out on the water again, but I was in no condition for another day in the sun. Miss Anna was even worse. I felt bad about it, because I knew I should have tanned up before the trip but I just never got the chance -- lesson re-learned. As a result I had to leave the ferry to the Dry Tortugas on my to do list for the future. Instead, and perhaps to our benefit, Kate and I rented bikes and had our own little island safari.
Key West is not big and there are a variety of options for getting around. A car is bulky and expensive. Most folks opt for scooters or electric carts. But unless you are completely out of shape, I'd recommend a plain old bicycle. It's cheaper, can go anywhere, and you get exercise which means you're allowed an extra boat drink with dinner.
We trolled along the west end of the island, eventually making our way to Ft. Zachary State Park, which has the best beach on the island. Best is relative -- it isn't bad, although it seems like it's a bit on the rocky side. The fact is, there are really no great beaches on Key West. But the park itself is nice and wooded and sparsely decorated with odd sculptures and signs warning you to avoid attack turtles and scooter riding pelicans and so forth. From there we barreled back across town to the heart of residential Key West and rode pleasantly along the narrow, shady streets and through their crypt-laden cemetery.
Pics:
Dog totem at Ft. Zack
Why ask Y?
Manatee mailbox
Sunset Key (a private island just off Key West)
A stately pelican
Key West Gothic
I wonder what goes on in there?
In his song Blue Heaven Rendezvous, Jimmy Buffet sings of Key West: "There's still some magic left in this tourist town." I have been all over Florida, up and down both coasts and all through the Mouse House. I have seen all the various ways in which Florida has imposed an orderly, commercial skin over its swampish innards, from St. Armand's Circle to South Beach. But Key West, while equally commercial, is more genuine and more organic. They put up the tawdry t-shirt shops and the tacky theme restaurants, but they don't bother trying to hide the oddballs and corner dives and local color. Jimmy's right. There's still plenty of magic to go around.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)