This year's five Kennedy Center Honorees--Mel Brooks, Grace Bumbry, Dave Brubeck, Robert De Niro, and Bruce Springsteen--represented the kind of eclecticism that these selections have manifested over the years. It does seem that the producers are having a harder time coming up with performances truly responsive to the particular outstanding characteristics of the honorees, but all in all, it was a pleasant evening. I'm also continually amazed--and pleased--that tv is willing to put on without censoring the production numbers of "Springtime for Hitler" from The Producers. It's also something in D.C. when controversial people get picked for things like this: I recall watching the Pete Seeger documentary on PBS last year and hoping he might be selected, only to learn a few moments later that he had been so Honored in 1994. No one ever looked less comfortable in black tie than Pete. At the other end of the spectrum, Charlton Heston was included in 1997, well after he had become a prominent right-wing spokesman.
That said, a word is needed about one of this year's Honorees, because her career peaked so many years ago that I suspect few watching had much awareness of how great she was. I refer of course to Grace Melzia Bumbry, who built a stellar reputation in the leading opera houses of Europe in the 1950s and 1960s before being acclaimed here in her own country. It was wonderful seeing the black-and-white tapes of her performance at the White House during the Kennedy years.
Bumbry excelled in almost every kind of opera: the bio film at the Honors began by showing how she conquered Bayreuth with her Venus in Wagner's Tannhauser, a role until then reserved--even after World War II--for "Nordic" performers. You could also see from the old footage how absolutely beautiful she was. She was one of the pathbreakers in showing the operatic world that singers could look the part in terms of increasing their dramatic effect.
One had to put the operatic equivalent of two and two together watching the program, however, top discern one of the most amazing aspects of Bumbry's magnificent career. They had clips of her singing the Habanera from Carmen and Vissi d'arte from Tosca. The first is probably the greatest role on the operatic stage for a mezzo-soprano; the latter is a major role for a soprano--Bumbry could do both. Not only that, the Tannhauser excerpt showed she could sing Wagner as well. This demonstrates a range of capabilities that should amaze anyone. And everything she sang was performed in a first-rate manner.
As for the others, Jon Stewart probably was the funniest in his presentation of The Boss. Who knew that the maestro of the Daily Show was from Jersey? Herbie Hancock was able to convey some of the sheer pleasure that all the performing musicians exuded as they played variations on Brubeck's Take Five. Carl Reiner, the straight man for the 200-Year-Old Man routine, was totally straight in introducing Mel Brooks, who was starting to look more like his 2000-year-old character. Meryl Streep, whom I just saw in It's Complicated over the weekend, presented De Niro and made us realize that it is only a matter of time before she is Honored at this event.
Some years ago, I attended this event on a couple of occasions, accompanying my father, who was invited in his capacity of supervisor of benefits for the entertainment unions. They used to have the five Honorees appear together on the stage in those days and it wasn't a great idea--James Cagney, near the end of his life when Honored, was only slightly more mobile than the ageless but 95-year-old leading lady Lynn Fontanne, and one longed for the time when he would dance up the side of the proscenium in Yankee Doodle Dandy.
Wednesday, December 30, 2009
Tuesday, December 29, 2009
What Kind of Year?
Getting together with some people who just returned from overseas gave me a chance to ask them how our situation is now seen from abroad. I expect to be out of the country myself in just about a month from now--and one gift I always receive from travel outside the U.S. is to get a far clearer picture of what the world is thinking of what we're doing.
Not surprisingly, the rest of the world thinks Obama has done a lot more than people in the U.S. seem to think. My view is that he's trying to change things and it's far far easier to work to keep the status quo. However, it does also seem that his campaign, which ran like clockwork, has faltered and sputtered this year. Yes, there's a health bill. Could it have been better? Did he really stay out of it and let Congress take the lead so he could be held up by Joe Lieberman and Ben Nelson?
But the rest of the world sees how hard it is to get out two places we never should have committed large-scale forces to: Iraq and Afghanistan. Iraq is simple. The past administration defiantly expanded on the truth of even the sleazy intelligence they had. I think they lied. As for Afghanistan, we should have been chasing Ben Laden and Co., not trying to create a democracy where none has ever existed and trying to control a place where the Russians and the British failed miserably. (Actually, one might even say that Alexander the Great couldn't do it...and he met his death nearby.)
We have to continue to rebuild our alliances and relationships, not taking the position that we will always be the military intervention arm. Example from where my friends just came: Nepal. I was there a few years ago, too. The Maoists--namely, Communist rebels--are winning because the government is corrupt and unrespected. But no one has ever tried to send forces into that unwelcoming terrain at the top of the world. (Yes, the Chinese took over Tibet over the mountains, I know.)
Instead of our organizing some assemblage to go in there, we will likely leave it to India. As well we should. They share a religion, and to some extent, a language, and in many respects, a culture. It's also directly in India's interest not to have a Communist-run state in addition to China on its border. India has been doing far better economically and can also afford to get involved if necessary.
Indonesia has been showing us how it effectively deals with terrorists. We do not need to intervene there. In fact, we will create hatred for the U.S. where little exists in the world's largest Muslim country if we were so short-sighted as to go in there. There are columnists in the Philippines who think the U.S. is poised to take back that country as a colony again. Little do they realize that the U.S. has far greater problems facing us to deal with--beyond taking responsibility for a country that economically remains in trouble because it is run by oligarchs. There has been some cooperation on terrorism. At least that makes sense--since terrorists have hung out down in the south of the Philippines where it is closer to Indonesia than to Manila.
Back home, the media might cut Obama some slack. The market is up significantly. Companies are doing better. Jobs are not. The damage done to our economy by the giveaways of NAFTA perpetrated by Clinton, as well as the corporate international affinity Reagan and both Bushes had have all combined to do a number on our middle class. No country like ours survives without a strong middle class. Roosevelt saved it in the 30s, no matter what some naysayers say now.
Even a watered-down Employee Free Choice Act would help revive the union sector and through it, the middle class. With the number of antiunion people in Congress, Obama will not get the whole thing through--but anything here is better than nothing. Bush 2 slashed away at the middle class, or let corporate America do so, with a Louis XV apres moi, le deluge attitude. It's going to take a good while to undo the damage, and some of it will never be undone. But it can only happen if we keep Obama and the Democrats in and begin to get our fellow citizens to see what the rest of the world does about us.
Not surprisingly, the rest of the world thinks Obama has done a lot more than people in the U.S. seem to think. My view is that he's trying to change things and it's far far easier to work to keep the status quo. However, it does also seem that his campaign, which ran like clockwork, has faltered and sputtered this year. Yes, there's a health bill. Could it have been better? Did he really stay out of it and let Congress take the lead so he could be held up by Joe Lieberman and Ben Nelson?
But the rest of the world sees how hard it is to get out two places we never should have committed large-scale forces to: Iraq and Afghanistan. Iraq is simple. The past administration defiantly expanded on the truth of even the sleazy intelligence they had. I think they lied. As for Afghanistan, we should have been chasing Ben Laden and Co., not trying to create a democracy where none has ever existed and trying to control a place where the Russians and the British failed miserably. (Actually, one might even say that Alexander the Great couldn't do it...and he met his death nearby.)
We have to continue to rebuild our alliances and relationships, not taking the position that we will always be the military intervention arm. Example from where my friends just came: Nepal. I was there a few years ago, too. The Maoists--namely, Communist rebels--are winning because the government is corrupt and unrespected. But no one has ever tried to send forces into that unwelcoming terrain at the top of the world. (Yes, the Chinese took over Tibet over the mountains, I know.)
Instead of our organizing some assemblage to go in there, we will likely leave it to India. As well we should. They share a religion, and to some extent, a language, and in many respects, a culture. It's also directly in India's interest not to have a Communist-run state in addition to China on its border. India has been doing far better economically and can also afford to get involved if necessary.
Indonesia has been showing us how it effectively deals with terrorists. We do not need to intervene there. In fact, we will create hatred for the U.S. where little exists in the world's largest Muslim country if we were so short-sighted as to go in there. There are columnists in the Philippines who think the U.S. is poised to take back that country as a colony again. Little do they realize that the U.S. has far greater problems facing us to deal with--beyond taking responsibility for a country that economically remains in trouble because it is run by oligarchs. There has been some cooperation on terrorism. At least that makes sense--since terrorists have hung out down in the south of the Philippines where it is closer to Indonesia than to Manila.
Back home, the media might cut Obama some slack. The market is up significantly. Companies are doing better. Jobs are not. The damage done to our economy by the giveaways of NAFTA perpetrated by Clinton, as well as the corporate international affinity Reagan and both Bushes had have all combined to do a number on our middle class. No country like ours survives without a strong middle class. Roosevelt saved it in the 30s, no matter what some naysayers say now.
Even a watered-down Employee Free Choice Act would help revive the union sector and through it, the middle class. With the number of antiunion people in Congress, Obama will not get the whole thing through--but anything here is better than nothing. Bush 2 slashed away at the middle class, or let corporate America do so, with a Louis XV apres moi, le deluge attitude. It's going to take a good while to undo the damage, and some of it will never be undone. But it can only happen if we keep Obama and the Democrats in and begin to get our fellow citizens to see what the rest of the world does about us.
Saturday, December 26, 2009
Race
It shouldn't surprise anyone that I'm a terrific fan of David Mamet. He's the only contemporary writer I can think of who puts out there how he sees the world--totally unvarnished, highly cynical, and predictable only to the extent that there appears to be no limit to the venality of many of his best characters. Icing the cake is their extraordinary ordinariness. For example, the real estate salesmen in Glengarry Glen Ross are nothing special. They are caught in a no-escape situation and when so trapped, behave like carnivorous hamsters in the cage.
His only weak moments are when he tries to convey an idealistic character such as Karen, played in the original Broadway production of Speed-the-Plow by none other than Madonna. Added to Mamet's seemingly difficulty with capturing the essence of his women characters, Karen never achieves full-dimensional reality.
In his latest, Race, which I saw this afternoon at the wonderful Ethel Barrymore theatre on West 47th St., N.Y., he gives us two lawyers who resemble his usual mainstays--one's white, the other's black, they are partners, and they both seem expert at cutting through all illusions in the best Mamet manner. The other two characters are problem characters--a young black woman lawyer who works with them and has different views of the work, and a white client who poses all the usual problems criminal defendants muster up for their lawyers.
The play has a nice tight plot and some decent interchanges among the characters on the subject most would recognize as the most difficult for any of us to confront. Reviewers have been hard on Mamet, for some reason insisting that he is either too cynical or too presumptuous or too something or other. I felt he tackled a really tough issue and gives us a decent exposition by employing his well-honed ability to cut through a lot of pettifogging and euphemism.
For those of us with a legal background, he also throws around a whole bunch of points and issues, but he subordinates them to the underlying and overarching title subject. This does tend to give the legal side an aura of perhaps less importance and there's some room for argument about how the legal issues relate to the racial ones. Mostly, he is just entirely cynical about the law. Suffice it to say that hardly any party--present on stage or unseen--behaves with any hint of ethics. Law thus to Mamet is merely another field on which the big questions of race may be contested.
His only weak moments are when he tries to convey an idealistic character such as Karen, played in the original Broadway production of Speed-the-Plow by none other than Madonna. Added to Mamet's seemingly difficulty with capturing the essence of his women characters, Karen never achieves full-dimensional reality.
In his latest, Race, which I saw this afternoon at the wonderful Ethel Barrymore theatre on West 47th St., N.Y., he gives us two lawyers who resemble his usual mainstays--one's white, the other's black, they are partners, and they both seem expert at cutting through all illusions in the best Mamet manner. The other two characters are problem characters--a young black woman lawyer who works with them and has different views of the work, and a white client who poses all the usual problems criminal defendants muster up for their lawyers.
The play has a nice tight plot and some decent interchanges among the characters on the subject most would recognize as the most difficult for any of us to confront. Reviewers have been hard on Mamet, for some reason insisting that he is either too cynical or too presumptuous or too something or other. I felt he tackled a really tough issue and gives us a decent exposition by employing his well-honed ability to cut through a lot of pettifogging and euphemism.
For those of us with a legal background, he also throws around a whole bunch of points and issues, but he subordinates them to the underlying and overarching title subject. This does tend to give the legal side an aura of perhaps less importance and there's some room for argument about how the legal issues relate to the racial ones. Mostly, he is just entirely cynical about the law. Suffice it to say that hardly any party--present on stage or unseen--behaves with any hint of ethics. Law thus to Mamet is merely another field on which the big questions of race may be contested.
Friday, December 25, 2009
Patience
It's not easy for someone who used to have a sign on his desk that said "If I wanted it tomorrow, I'd ask for it tomorrow" to counsel patience. But I've been watching as the pundits and various talking heads keep complaining that the President hasn't done this or that already. There are some excellent reasons why he hasn't and I wish we'd hear more about them instead of this carping.
First of all, he inherited an unholy economic mess. We now have a bunch of worriers about the federal debt who never muttered a word during his predecessor's budget busting. We have Wall St. types still aiming to do business the old-fashioned way--by selling crap, dressed up so most people don't understand what it is.
Most important, he inherited a war that was started on lies and weakened the U.S. ability to fight a real war--against Al Quaeda, not Iraq or even Afghanistan. He's in both of those places, stuck because despite his belief that the war was wrong, he won't just pull up stakes.
Next, the Democratic Party doesn't function the way the Republicans do, for better or worse. The GOP is intent on pure destruction. Democrats are usually afraid to stand up for their principles. They are phony populists--if only because they look to big money for their campaigns and there is none in populism. That's why people like Rubin and Summers and Geithner are still around. They weren't actually crooks like Ken Lay and the Enron-ers but they really don't care if Wall Street lays still more eggs that sink the economy.
Bill Maher put it best: we have two partys, a center-right party called the Democrats and a totally crazy party called the Republicans. Democrats were afraid to really go after Bush II or Reagan, despite the expressed intent of both to wreck everything the Democratic Party supposedly stands for. I'll give Obama credit for trying to work with Republicans and look what he's gotten for it. He might as well get ready to unload on them with both barrels--it seems that they do that and everyone expects it. Today is the ultimate day to preach turn the other cheek but I'm afraid it doesn't work in American politics.
I'm slightly disappointed in Obama myself because I thought he stood for something. He doesn't seem to want to get out there and get his hands dirty fighting for anything except to get the bill passed. The Clintons were not very different, as it turned out. I'm starting to think that change is hard to produce in this country today because (1) no one really says how hard it is to attain, given the money needs of political campaigns and the lobbying and (2) there are too few Democrats of the Hubert Humphrey-Ted Kennedy type who will really fight. I'd certainly take LBJ today in view of how he knew how to work the Hill and his own dedication to principles that he wanted advanced, like civil rights--even though he knew it would lose the South for the Democrats for a generation.
Kennedy made political mistakes (I really care little about his or any of their personal lives.) such as going along with S.1, the crime bill. It took a fairly conservative Supreme Court to give federal judges back the sentencing power that bill took away from them and gave to prosecutors. It also ensconced ridiculously low levels in the law for conviction on drug crimes so we still have prisons filled with people who don't belong there, at huge cost. Yet Kennedy was almost always there for the good fight and he won a lot of them.
It's sort of sad now when the only folks who aren't afraid to come out strong and tell the real facts about so many things are people perceived as so far out they don't get taken seriously in Washington, such as Bernie Sanders or Alan Grayson.
First of all, he inherited an unholy economic mess. We now have a bunch of worriers about the federal debt who never muttered a word during his predecessor's budget busting. We have Wall St. types still aiming to do business the old-fashioned way--by selling crap, dressed up so most people don't understand what it is.
Most important, he inherited a war that was started on lies and weakened the U.S. ability to fight a real war--against Al Quaeda, not Iraq or even Afghanistan. He's in both of those places, stuck because despite his belief that the war was wrong, he won't just pull up stakes.
Next, the Democratic Party doesn't function the way the Republicans do, for better or worse. The GOP is intent on pure destruction. Democrats are usually afraid to stand up for their principles. They are phony populists--if only because they look to big money for their campaigns and there is none in populism. That's why people like Rubin and Summers and Geithner are still around. They weren't actually crooks like Ken Lay and the Enron-ers but they really don't care if Wall Street lays still more eggs that sink the economy.
Bill Maher put it best: we have two partys, a center-right party called the Democrats and a totally crazy party called the Republicans. Democrats were afraid to really go after Bush II or Reagan, despite the expressed intent of both to wreck everything the Democratic Party supposedly stands for. I'll give Obama credit for trying to work with Republicans and look what he's gotten for it. He might as well get ready to unload on them with both barrels--it seems that they do that and everyone expects it. Today is the ultimate day to preach turn the other cheek but I'm afraid it doesn't work in American politics.
I'm slightly disappointed in Obama myself because I thought he stood for something. He doesn't seem to want to get out there and get his hands dirty fighting for anything except to get the bill passed. The Clintons were not very different, as it turned out. I'm starting to think that change is hard to produce in this country today because (1) no one really says how hard it is to attain, given the money needs of political campaigns and the lobbying and (2) there are too few Democrats of the Hubert Humphrey-Ted Kennedy type who will really fight. I'd certainly take LBJ today in view of how he knew how to work the Hill and his own dedication to principles that he wanted advanced, like civil rights--even though he knew it would lose the South for the Democrats for a generation.
Kennedy made political mistakes (I really care little about his or any of their personal lives.) such as going along with S.1, the crime bill. It took a fairly conservative Supreme Court to give federal judges back the sentencing power that bill took away from them and gave to prosecutors. It also ensconced ridiculously low levels in the law for conviction on drug crimes so we still have prisons filled with people who don't belong there, at huge cost. Yet Kennedy was almost always there for the good fight and he won a lot of them.
It's sort of sad now when the only folks who aren't afraid to come out strong and tell the real facts about so many things are people perceived as so far out they don't get taken seriously in Washington, such as Bernie Sanders or Alan Grayson.
Friday, December 4, 2009
What to Do This Month
Reading Friday's edition of the Washington Post's Weekend section made me think about how much there is to do this month and how hard it is to get organized in time to do a lot of those things. So here's a rundown in no particular order of stuff that, given my druthers, I'd make sure to be on hand for this December:
1. The Messiah sing-along at Kennedy Center December 23. I haven't attended this in several years. They used to make you line up in the early morning hours about three weeks ahead on a Saturday to get the free tickets. Now they hand them out at 6 P.M. on the performance night, and advise you to be there somewhat earlier. It's a lot of fun, especially if you, like me, was thrown out of chorus in the fourth grade for singing out of tune or key--I think the real reason was that I had just moved from being a boy soprano to my now-natural baritone. Can I carry a tune? Who knows, but I love singing the bass part.
2. Christmas lights at Gunston Hall. Gunston Hall is the partially restored home of George Mason, another one of the Founders who declined to sign the Constitution, for, I believe, the reasons given by a fellow non-signer, Patrick Henry, that the document had no Bill of Rights. James Madison did draft one soon thereafter, but that's another story. Now George Mason has his name represented by an up and coming university and his old home is lit by candlelight in this holidayseason. They now serve candle- lit dinners for a couple of nights soon. It's a kick.
3. The Metropolitan Museum of Art in New York has a new show called Velaszquez Rediscovered. Seems that a painting in the Met's collection as to which the attribution has long been unclear has now been declared by various experts to be a true Velaszquez. This is another small show, I gather, of the kind the Met put together for Vermeer's The Milkmaid (see my blog on that). It's always worth seeing a "new" Velaszquez or even the Met's finest holding by him, Juan de Pareja's portrait.
4. I hope to attend my first Metropolitan Opera live broadcast in a local movie theater--which will occur on Saturday, December 19, and is none other than one of my all-time faves, naturally, Les Contes d'Hoffman, or Tales of Hoffman. This is a new production opening soon at the Met and has been highly touted in advance. I also hear that the sound and video quality of the transmission is great.
5. The Kennedy Honors on TV, sometime right around Christmas. Yes, years ago I was lucky enough to be taken to this show (which probably will occur this weekend, I believe) by my dad, who was a regular invitee through his position at Theatre Authority. In fact, my fondest memory was at the same time seeing both an ancient James Cagney on stage, where the once-nimble Yankee Doodle Dandy was barely able to make it but steel-faced, made his way without a misstep and afterwards, at the dinner in the Kennedy Center lobby, sat with his old sidekick Frank McHugh and others, and then the by-then legendary Lynn Fontanne, the she of the Lunts, who also managed to make her way--at 95--as a trouper.
And I'm probably the last of us to have seen, just last night, the road company that played the National here with Jersey Boys. What a total delight! As noted, I doubt I need to tell you what fantastic fun it was--all the songs, and the nicely-stitched plot presented in turn by each of the original foursome. It's only here another week and it may even be sold out for that--if any of you have waited this long, as I did, to enjoy such completely delightful entertainment!
1. The Messiah sing-along at Kennedy Center December 23. I haven't attended this in several years. They used to make you line up in the early morning hours about three weeks ahead on a Saturday to get the free tickets. Now they hand them out at 6 P.M. on the performance night, and advise you to be there somewhat earlier. It's a lot of fun, especially if you, like me, was thrown out of chorus in the fourth grade for singing out of tune or key--I think the real reason was that I had just moved from being a boy soprano to my now-natural baritone. Can I carry a tune? Who knows, but I love singing the bass part.
2. Christmas lights at Gunston Hall. Gunston Hall is the partially restored home of George Mason, another one of the Founders who declined to sign the Constitution, for, I believe, the reasons given by a fellow non-signer, Patrick Henry, that the document had no Bill of Rights. James Madison did draft one soon thereafter, but that's another story. Now George Mason has his name represented by an up and coming university and his old home is lit by candlelight in this holidayseason. They now serve candle- lit dinners for a couple of nights soon. It's a kick.
3. The Metropolitan Museum of Art in New York has a new show called Velaszquez Rediscovered. Seems that a painting in the Met's collection as to which the attribution has long been unclear has now been declared by various experts to be a true Velaszquez. This is another small show, I gather, of the kind the Met put together for Vermeer's The Milkmaid (see my blog on that). It's always worth seeing a "new" Velaszquez or even the Met's finest holding by him, Juan de Pareja's portrait.
4. I hope to attend my first Metropolitan Opera live broadcast in a local movie theater--which will occur on Saturday, December 19, and is none other than one of my all-time faves, naturally, Les Contes d'Hoffman, or Tales of Hoffman. This is a new production opening soon at the Met and has been highly touted in advance. I also hear that the sound and video quality of the transmission is great.
5. The Kennedy Honors on TV, sometime right around Christmas. Yes, years ago I was lucky enough to be taken to this show (which probably will occur this weekend, I believe) by my dad, who was a regular invitee through his position at Theatre Authority. In fact, my fondest memory was at the same time seeing both an ancient James Cagney on stage, where the once-nimble Yankee Doodle Dandy was barely able to make it but steel-faced, made his way without a misstep and afterwards, at the dinner in the Kennedy Center lobby, sat with his old sidekick Frank McHugh and others, and then the by-then legendary Lynn Fontanne, the she of the Lunts, who also managed to make her way--at 95--as a trouper.
And I'm probably the last of us to have seen, just last night, the road company that played the National here with Jersey Boys. What a total delight! As noted, I doubt I need to tell you what fantastic fun it was--all the songs, and the nicely-stitched plot presented in turn by each of the original foursome. It's only here another week and it may even be sold out for that--if any of you have waited this long, as I did, to enjoy such completely delightful entertainment!
Monday, November 30, 2009
Random Sports Notes
Way way back when I frequented the golf course, I recall someone older confiding to me that he found his enjoyment increased when he began playing for good shots rather than fret about his score. This was not enough to keep me out there trying to acquire a passable game. All I concluded was that great golfers may have varying personalities and approaches to the game but whatever I was doing wasn't working.
So last night I found myself absolutely enthralled with a wonderful book called The Match, in which Mark Forst, the author, tells the amazing story of a four-man match that took place at the spectacularly scenic Cypress Point golf course out on the Monterey Peninsula near the very famous Pebble Beach layout. It was the two great Texas pros--Byron Nelson and Ben Hogan--against the last two real amateurs in U.S. golf--Ken Venturi and Harvie Ward. The story makes that day on the course rank right up there with the day in 1913 when Francis Ouimet managed to best two English greats, Harry Vardon and Ted Ray, and maybe Arnold Palmer's most famous last-day chase at Cherry Hills in the 1960 U.S. Open. It was the perfect foursome, the perfect day and the perfect course. And it's true that with the way sports are run and covered today, it never could occur now.
But back to the great shots, or better, great moments. I turned on the TV last night in time to see a Ravens defensive rookie, Paul Kruger, haul down an intended pass by the Steelers' sub quarterback in overtime to set up a Ravens win by a field goal. I'm also hoping that the Texas Longhorns drop their final game so with the fact that either Florida or Alabama will not remain undefeated after they clash for the Southeastern Conference title, the TCU Horned Frogs might slip into the BCS national championship game.
Yes, you love to see an underdog have its day, or even moment. And I imagine about as many fans root for the Bowl people--the BCSers--as root for baseball owners. Every time I hear that players are overpaid, I recall someone, probably Howard Cosell, who asked who ever rooted for an owner. What makes it fun to see Texas Christian back up there is that they haven't been undefeated since the days of Sammy Baugh and Davey O'Brien in the 1930s. And of course this is all happening in a year when some ask whether they still play football in South Bend. And it will be fun to see which Oregon team gets to beat Ohio State in the Rose Bowl this year.
Growing up in the Hudson Valley region, I did cheer for the Black Knights of the Hudson as a boy. That was before I experienced the Army first-hand, not at West Point, thank you, but Fort Polk, Louisiana. I've now lived in Navy territory for three decades and although I'm delighted to see them return to the success column in college football, I'm not sure I can root strongly for them, except of course when they managed to show this year that their win two years ago at South Bend was no fluke.
To quote Mark Twain, we will draw the curtain of charity over the Ivy League as a football conference. The level of play has degenerated significantly since I used to cover the sport as an undergrad, not forgetting how much it had already dropped by the time I was around to observe the proceedings. Maybe I'm just not imaginative enough: after all, I should have realized that Cornell's winning at the Yale Bowl really presaged not the extinction of the age-old jinx the Big Red encountered on that field but instead the reality that Cornell would drop all its other League games this year following that win on opening day. And no, I wasn't at Franklin Field Saturday before last. I wasn't there either a few years ago when they restored that game to its Thanksgiving Day tradition, albeit at 10 in the morning. It had snowed the night before and there were about 500 fans on each side of the 60,000 capacity stadium.
So last night I found myself absolutely enthralled with a wonderful book called The Match, in which Mark Forst, the author, tells the amazing story of a four-man match that took place at the spectacularly scenic Cypress Point golf course out on the Monterey Peninsula near the very famous Pebble Beach layout. It was the two great Texas pros--Byron Nelson and Ben Hogan--against the last two real amateurs in U.S. golf--Ken Venturi and Harvie Ward. The story makes that day on the course rank right up there with the day in 1913 when Francis Ouimet managed to best two English greats, Harry Vardon and Ted Ray, and maybe Arnold Palmer's most famous last-day chase at Cherry Hills in the 1960 U.S. Open. It was the perfect foursome, the perfect day and the perfect course. And it's true that with the way sports are run and covered today, it never could occur now.
But back to the great shots, or better, great moments. I turned on the TV last night in time to see a Ravens defensive rookie, Paul Kruger, haul down an intended pass by the Steelers' sub quarterback in overtime to set up a Ravens win by a field goal. I'm also hoping that the Texas Longhorns drop their final game so with the fact that either Florida or Alabama will not remain undefeated after they clash for the Southeastern Conference title, the TCU Horned Frogs might slip into the BCS national championship game.
Yes, you love to see an underdog have its day, or even moment. And I imagine about as many fans root for the Bowl people--the BCSers--as root for baseball owners. Every time I hear that players are overpaid, I recall someone, probably Howard Cosell, who asked who ever rooted for an owner. What makes it fun to see Texas Christian back up there is that they haven't been undefeated since the days of Sammy Baugh and Davey O'Brien in the 1930s. And of course this is all happening in a year when some ask whether they still play football in South Bend. And it will be fun to see which Oregon team gets to beat Ohio State in the Rose Bowl this year.
Growing up in the Hudson Valley region, I did cheer for the Black Knights of the Hudson as a boy. That was before I experienced the Army first-hand, not at West Point, thank you, but Fort Polk, Louisiana. I've now lived in Navy territory for three decades and although I'm delighted to see them return to the success column in college football, I'm not sure I can root strongly for them, except of course when they managed to show this year that their win two years ago at South Bend was no fluke.
To quote Mark Twain, we will draw the curtain of charity over the Ivy League as a football conference. The level of play has degenerated significantly since I used to cover the sport as an undergrad, not forgetting how much it had already dropped by the time I was around to observe the proceedings. Maybe I'm just not imaginative enough: after all, I should have realized that Cornell's winning at the Yale Bowl really presaged not the extinction of the age-old jinx the Big Red encountered on that field but instead the reality that Cornell would drop all its other League games this year following that win on opening day. And no, I wasn't at Franklin Field Saturday before last. I wasn't there either a few years ago when they restored that game to its Thanksgiving Day tradition, albeit at 10 in the morning. It had snowed the night before and there were about 500 fans on each side of the 60,000 capacity stadium.
Sunday, November 15, 2009
Goetterdaemerung
It's the fourth and final opera in Wagner's Ring and it was performed in concert version today, this afternoon, by the Washington National Opera at the Kennedy Center. I almost forgot to say that it was absolutely superb. I had not realized before how amenable to a concert production this opera is. We always kid about Wagner's stage directions--at the finale, he calls for the Rhine to overflow its banks as Valhalla and other buildings topple.
The singers were fine--Irene Theorin got huzzahs as Brunnhilde, but Gidon Saks as Hagen and Alan Held as Gunther were two old pros at their best. Jon Fredric West played the hero of all heroes, Siegfried, and his voice was good; he's a bit difficult to envisage in the role because he's short and stout--yet another good reason for the concert performance. Bernadette Flaitz got raves from the Washington Post reviewer as Gutrune and I agree she was good but the part is a small one.
Philippe Auguin, the conductor was fantastic. The music of course is the overwhelming part of the opera and he brought the orchestra to a marvelous height. What's wonderful about Goetterdaemerung is how Wagner does bring everything together--especially all the themes, (known as leitmotifs by the connoisseurs) for the Valkyrie Brunnhilde, for the Rhinemaidens and the Rhine, for Siegfried the conquering hero, for the fire and Loge the fire god, the dark chords for the villains, and the warm, reconciling wonderful themes as the opera closes.
The concert version makes some of the improbabilities of a story featuring gods, dwarfs, giants, and dragons a bit easier to deal with. No one has to worry if the stage dragon is realistic in Siegfried, the preceding opera, for example. So I for one was delighted that Maestro Domingo decided to take advantage of having a production ready to go save for the funding that the downturn eliminated.
I'm not exactly a Washington party circuit-rider but it was also nice to run into more than a half dozen folks whom I know well at the opera today. One old friend came in from New York to attend. I ran into three senior judges I know--I think all that says is that I know a lot of judges.
The singers were fine--Irene Theorin got huzzahs as Brunnhilde, but Gidon Saks as Hagen and Alan Held as Gunther were two old pros at their best. Jon Fredric West played the hero of all heroes, Siegfried, and his voice was good; he's a bit difficult to envisage in the role because he's short and stout--yet another good reason for the concert performance. Bernadette Flaitz got raves from the Washington Post reviewer as Gutrune and I agree she was good but the part is a small one.
Philippe Auguin, the conductor was fantastic. The music of course is the overwhelming part of the opera and he brought the orchestra to a marvelous height. What's wonderful about Goetterdaemerung is how Wagner does bring everything together--especially all the themes, (known as leitmotifs by the connoisseurs) for the Valkyrie Brunnhilde, for the Rhinemaidens and the Rhine, for Siegfried the conquering hero, for the fire and Loge the fire god, the dark chords for the villains, and the warm, reconciling wonderful themes as the opera closes.
The concert version makes some of the improbabilities of a story featuring gods, dwarfs, giants, and dragons a bit easier to deal with. No one has to worry if the stage dragon is realistic in Siegfried, the preceding opera, for example. So I for one was delighted that Maestro Domingo decided to take advantage of having a production ready to go save for the funding that the downturn eliminated.
I'm not exactly a Washington party circuit-rider but it was also nice to run into more than a half dozen folks whom I know well at the opera today. One old friend came in from New York to attend. I ran into three senior judges I know--I think all that says is that I know a lot of judges.
Saturday, November 14, 2009
Bismarck on the Fly
I'm not sure what I expected from my first trip to North Dakota but a few days in Bismarck made me realize that it's a different kind of place. Yes, there are shopping malls and chain restaurants and stores just as there are everywhere else in the U.S. But then there's a local concoction called knoepfla soup that turned up first in a well-known local diner (where people "buy it by the bucket") and then in the cafeteria in the State Capitol. It's basically a chicken broth base with small dumplings. The dumplings are solid and pretty heavy. No feathery gnocci here. This was something the pioneers needed on the frozen northern Plains.
And then I learned that some towns have Sauerkraut Day when they bring out vats of the stuff. There was also a Reuben soup, with, yes, corned beef, cheese, and sauerkraut, or maybe it was bacon instead of the corned beef. It made me recall the Army--where cookbooks are based on the use of bacon as a garnish.
I had heard of the famous Hall of Honor in the State Capitol where there are portraits of famous North Dakotans. Most know that high among the honored are Lawrence Welk and Roger Maris. I had not heard about Peggy Lee or Phil Jackson being North Dakotans, but they are. It turned out that you didn't have to be born there to qualify, well, at least not if you were Teddy Roosevelt, who ran some ranches in the state in his early days.
Next to the Capitol, however, is a fine museum called the Heritage Center. It has superb re-creations of dinosaurs and mammoths from bones found in the state as well as extensive exhibits about pioneer days and Indian tribes. There are several reservations in the state and one occupies an entire county. I especially liked the exhibits on how people fared in the 1930s, which don't seem all that long ago right now.
North Dakota, to point out something you may not have heard, is one of the few states running a surplus these days. This is mostly attributable to the significant oil deposits being extracted in the northwestern corner of the state known as the Williston Basin. Williston apparently is the closest place there to a wide open town, with lots of oil workers coming up from Texas, Oklahoma, and the Southwest. So the state runs a surplus but the legislature is very conservative and is not appropriating much to support state operations.
The Capitol is by far the tallest building in Bismarck. Things were quiet inside as the legislature convenes only every other year and was not now in session. The building is about 12 storeys high. Bismarck is on the Missouri River, which crosses the western part of the state from northwest to south central on its way from Montana to the Mississippi in Missouri. The Missouri is fairly wide at Bismarck and was the route taken by Lewis and Clark in 1804-05, well before permanent settlements arose.
The population center is on the eastern border with Fargo at its center and Grand Forks, 80 miles north of Fargo, is where the University of North Dakota, the Fighting Sioux of college hockey fame, is located. While I was in Bismarck--named after the Iron Chancellor in order to encourage German financiers in the 1870s and 1880s to invest in the state--the weather was delightful, hitting 60 degrees Fahrenheit, which I was told was most unusual for this time of year. As I was waiting to leave at the airport (four gates), there was a brisk breeeze and it was clear that when the wind and other elements pick up, there's nothing on the flat plains to get in their way.
And then I learned that some towns have Sauerkraut Day when they bring out vats of the stuff. There was also a Reuben soup, with, yes, corned beef, cheese, and sauerkraut, or maybe it was bacon instead of the corned beef. It made me recall the Army--where cookbooks are based on the use of bacon as a garnish.
I had heard of the famous Hall of Honor in the State Capitol where there are portraits of famous North Dakotans. Most know that high among the honored are Lawrence Welk and Roger Maris. I had not heard about Peggy Lee or Phil Jackson being North Dakotans, but they are. It turned out that you didn't have to be born there to qualify, well, at least not if you were Teddy Roosevelt, who ran some ranches in the state in his early days.
Next to the Capitol, however, is a fine museum called the Heritage Center. It has superb re-creations of dinosaurs and mammoths from bones found in the state as well as extensive exhibits about pioneer days and Indian tribes. There are several reservations in the state and one occupies an entire county. I especially liked the exhibits on how people fared in the 1930s, which don't seem all that long ago right now.
North Dakota, to point out something you may not have heard, is one of the few states running a surplus these days. This is mostly attributable to the significant oil deposits being extracted in the northwestern corner of the state known as the Williston Basin. Williston apparently is the closest place there to a wide open town, with lots of oil workers coming up from Texas, Oklahoma, and the Southwest. So the state runs a surplus but the legislature is very conservative and is not appropriating much to support state operations.
The Capitol is by far the tallest building in Bismarck. Things were quiet inside as the legislature convenes only every other year and was not now in session. The building is about 12 storeys high. Bismarck is on the Missouri River, which crosses the western part of the state from northwest to south central on its way from Montana to the Mississippi in Missouri. The Missouri is fairly wide at Bismarck and was the route taken by Lewis and Clark in 1804-05, well before permanent settlements arose.
The population center is on the eastern border with Fargo at its center and Grand Forks, 80 miles north of Fargo, is where the University of North Dakota, the Fighting Sioux of college hockey fame, is located. While I was in Bismarck--named after the Iron Chancellor in order to encourage German financiers in the 1870s and 1880s to invest in the state--the weather was delightful, hitting 60 degrees Fahrenheit, which I was told was most unusual for this time of year. As I was waiting to leave at the airport (four gates), there was a brisk breeeze and it was clear that when the wind and other elements pick up, there's nothing on the flat plains to get in their way.
Friday, November 6, 2009
Early Morning in Istanbul
If it wasn't strange enough waking up extra early in Istanbul to catch a plane back, it was even wilder to turn on the tv and see the Yankees-Phils 6th game picking it up in about the 6th inning. To me, the climax of the game was Damaso Martes striking out the two top Philly batsmen on six pitches. Rivera came in and did his usual (the only time he ever fluffed was that seventh game in Phoenix) and even this non-Yankee fan enjoyed the outcome. For one thing, how could I cheer for Philly--as a National League fan--it would be like rooting for Brooklyn (as a Giant follower). Hearing that they were stealing signs, though, brought back memories of the classic National League manager of all time: Leo.
Istanbul looks fantastic in the morning. The cab drove to the airport the old traditional way, down the main road along the Bosphorus to Karakoy and over the Galata Bridge, past Serkici station, where the Orient Express arrived, and around the historic peninsula past Topkapi Palace and out to Ataturk airport along the Sea of Marmara. It was a bit misty that early but the ferries were plying their way across the channels and early commuter trains and trams were already under way.
Now I have lots of reading to do to catch up on learning more about where I was--beginning with Orhan Pamuk's recollections of his native city in the eponymous book he wrote about and then one of the newer biographies of Ataturk, recalling having been recently told by another friend that Churchill bemoaned what he felt was the truth that Ataturk was the greatest man of the 20th century. Another friend has put me on to General Lew Wallace's account of the conquest of Constantinople--"better than his Ben Hur" was the recommendation.
Not only does Turkey have an incredible culture and attractions for visitors, of which I barely scratched what was a very rainy surface, but visiting there made one realize that the Europeans need to recognize their need to include the Turks in European affairs. As was noted in local media during my visit (and possibly because of the presence of Bill Clinton and Gerhard Schroder as well), there needs to be progress on human rights in the country, but one might recall that Bulgaria and Rumania were allowed into the EU before they really satisfied anyone with true reforms, especially in their judicial sectors.
Not to let grass grow under my feet I'm off again Sunday for a two-day stay in Bismarck, ND. Having never been to either part of the old Dakota Territory, I'm certainly looking forward to a new place and maybe seeing the hall of fame I understand they have for famous North Dakotans such as Lawrence Welk and Roger Maris.
Istanbul looks fantastic in the morning. The cab drove to the airport the old traditional way, down the main road along the Bosphorus to Karakoy and over the Galata Bridge, past Serkici station, where the Orient Express arrived, and around the historic peninsula past Topkapi Palace and out to Ataturk airport along the Sea of Marmara. It was a bit misty that early but the ferries were plying their way across the channels and early commuter trains and trams were already under way.
Now I have lots of reading to do to catch up on learning more about where I was--beginning with Orhan Pamuk's recollections of his native city in the eponymous book he wrote about and then one of the newer biographies of Ataturk, recalling having been recently told by another friend that Churchill bemoaned what he felt was the truth that Ataturk was the greatest man of the 20th century. Another friend has put me on to General Lew Wallace's account of the conquest of Constantinople--"better than his Ben Hur" was the recommendation.
Not only does Turkey have an incredible culture and attractions for visitors, of which I barely scratched what was a very rainy surface, but visiting there made one realize that the Europeans need to recognize their need to include the Turks in European affairs. As was noted in local media during my visit (and possibly because of the presence of Bill Clinton and Gerhard Schroder as well), there needs to be progress on human rights in the country, but one might recall that Bulgaria and Rumania were allowed into the EU before they really satisfied anyone with true reforms, especially in their judicial sectors.
Not to let grass grow under my feet I'm off again Sunday for a two-day stay in Bismarck, ND. Having never been to either part of the old Dakota Territory, I'm certainly looking forward to a new place and maybe seeing the hall of fame I understand they have for famous North Dakotans such as Lawrence Welk and Roger Maris.
Wednesday, November 4, 2009
It's Raining in Istanbul
Not too sure how to describe Istanbul on this visit—unlike some of the places I’ve been, this remains a popular spot for tourism, so many of you likely have been here and can readily tell me the great hidden places I’ve missed or others that I’ve overrated. No matter. And more than that, I’m here for a conference, which just limits my roaming time as much as a bad cell phone contract.
Nevertheless…there’s no getting around it: this is a wonderful, exciting, fascinating city. Sure, there are sections that are hardly auspicious, but this is no third world location. The nice parts—the hilltops, the places by the Bosphorus, the views from the hilltops of the Bosphorus, the Sea of Marmara , and the Golden Horn —make you appreciate why people have fought over this prime spot for centuries.
The U.S. papers may have been full of accounts of Hillary Clinton’s trip to Pakistan but you may not have noticed that at the same time, Bill Clinton decided to stop by here yesterday, with Gerhard Schroeder in tow. Since they both told the Turks they belong in the European Union, the accounts in the English-language press were glowing. I’m not sure where Bill decided to step out later for some fun, but he was in the right place.
Probably more than New York , this is the city that never sleeps. I’ve never seen or read about as many restaurants and bars and clubs that stay open until morning—or never bother to close at all. The only dampening influence was something totally out of control—it’s been both cool and rainy most of the week.
One high point was a chance to see the Çirağan Palace , an Ottoman grand building by the Bosphorus that has been revived as a hotel—but most of the rooms are in a new annex that leaves the public rooms in the palace part, lovingly restored. The Turkish Ministry of Justice picked this place to host a celebratory dinner for the conference, so beneath the massive chandeliers, we dined on traditional Turkish meze, the first courses now popular in the U.S. , and then some good fish—not surprisingly this turns out to be a great place for seafood of all kinds.
Despite the irony of this 99% Muslim country being a haven for serious drinking, my recollection of local love for cherry juice has been confirmed. Turkish Airlines must have run out on the late flight to New York by the time I boarded for its return here but I’ve been making up for it ever since I got here. As with every other country at this end of Europe , one may imbibe all the raki you want but I’ve been steering clear of it. It seems that it originally made its way to the Balkans from here, another benefit conferred by the Ottoman Empire .
The beauty of Ottoman architecture is evident from many of the old and thus beautifully stone-carved mosques, not at all like the modern ones I recall from Pakistan and Indonesia that have all the charm of most contemporary religious buildings. Dolmabahçe Palace , right up the road from the one where we dined, is overwhelming right from the massive carved gates that greet you at the entryway. This is where the sultans came to escape the summer heat of the old part of the city, Sultanahmet (naturally), although today you would probably say they left to get away from all the tourists and grifters at Hagia Sophia and the Blue Mosque, and inside their old in-town hangout, Topkapi Palace .
This is also heaven for transportation buffs—you have your choice of a new Metro, not completed, so it operates in isolated sections, modern trams, old trolleys, two funiculars, and ferries of all kinds connecting the two continents, even though there now are two bridges tying them together across the Bosphorus. The city itself is vast—with many different distinct sections, some quite swell—especially the ones by the water, on the Bosphorus. Just like everyplace else.
My timing hasn’t been the best: next week they have a major international film festival, Filmekimi, here where Woody Allen debuts his latest, Whatever Works, a return to Manhattan featuring Larry David. There’s also lots of art and music of all kinds around. And although I’ve mostly been on the European side, the traffic is totally Asian, relentless and forcing to remember that the motorist always has the right of way.
The conference I’ve been attending is totally up my alley, in that it’s on court administration, and I’ve met up with people with whom I’ve worked all over, from a young lawyer from Georgia (the country) who’s now deputy on a project there, to other consultants with whom I’ve labored from Macedonia to Tulsa. It’s also impressive to see that other countries are as advanced or even ahead of us in some areas—the Turks, for example, demonstrated a fantastic computer system that almost is able to lean up and spit in your eye, among other capacities.
I also missed Republic Day, which was last week, commemorating the founding of the Turkish Republic and yet another occasion to remember Ataturk, whose picture graces many stores and offices—including the hotel where I’m staying—and appears in displays along at least one major thoroughfare on which I traveled yesterday. In one of the English-language papers today, a woman recalled the day in 1937 when he turned up at her history class. Lots of Turkish flags remain hanging above many streets.
Not too much chance to shop or tour, mostly because it’s been raining most of the time—which did wonders for conference attendance. But I explored the markets and shops yesterday—particularly enjoying the mountains of spices for sale. In addition to the fabled Grand Bazaar—the world’s largest salesroom—there now are about 15 major shopping malls hereabouts, emphasizing upscale British stores like Harvey Nichols as well as Marks & Spencer.
Enjoyed a chance in a brief sunny interval (to use one of the BBC ’s favorite expressions for weather) to join an American student here whose parents are friends of friends and hear about his adventures while we looked out across the Bosphorus at a delightful little village called Ortakoy, which is hard by the first bridge built over the famous strait. With many meals included in the conference schedule, I’ve also been less rangy in my explorations on the dining front, but I did savor gulbroken, which are Turkish pancakes, sometimes filled with spinach or other vegetables. On the dumpling front, the Turkish version of manti are small dumplings on the order of small Siberian pelmeni, as compared by the larger-sized manti found in Kyrgyzstan or the even larger khinkhali of Georgia.
The streets along the Bosphorus are particularly upscale, with small shops and restaurants that are more reminiscent of the well-heeled sections of European cities: think the quais of Paris . This is also a city of hills—sometimes I’ve seen references to the Seven Hills, which is yet another bow to Rome , whose equal this town originallybecame when the Roman Empire was divided. I trudged up and down a few steep ones yesterday—thinking of doing “hill work” preparing for a race—in an area called Karakoy, which is at one end of the Galata bridge that goes across the Golden Horn to the “Historic Peninsula,” which is the old city. This section was a lot scruffier, with the auto and electrical parts stores and huge old solidly-built bank buildings that had been constructed in the early 20th century by the Greeks and Jews who settled in this part of town and became major merchants. The Galata bridge itself is unusual, in that it has a lower deck that is populated largely by cheap but excellent fish restaurants.
In case you thought the rest of the world had given in because the NFL played in Wembley last weekend, they won’t be watching the World Series here tonight: football, i.e., soccer, still rules, and Liverpool v. Lyon is scheduled to be on the screen in the bar.
Nevertheless…there’s no getting around it: this is a wonderful, exciting, fascinating city. Sure, there are sections that are hardly auspicious, but this is no third world location. The nice parts—the hilltops, the places by the Bosphorus, the views from the hilltops of the Bosphorus, the Sea of Marmara , and the Golden Horn —make you appreciate why people have fought over this prime spot for centuries.
The U.S. papers may have been full of accounts of Hillary Clinton’s trip to Pakistan but you may not have noticed that at the same time, Bill Clinton decided to stop by here yesterday, with Gerhard Schroeder in tow. Since they both told the Turks they belong in the European Union, the accounts in the English-language press were glowing. I’m not sure where Bill decided to step out later for some fun, but he was in the right place.
Probably more than New York , this is the city that never sleeps. I’ve never seen or read about as many restaurants and bars and clubs that stay open until morning—or never bother to close at all. The only dampening influence was something totally out of control—it’s been both cool and rainy most of the week.
One high point was a chance to see the Çirağan Palace , an Ottoman grand building by the Bosphorus that has been revived as a hotel—but most of the rooms are in a new annex that leaves the public rooms in the palace part, lovingly restored. The Turkish Ministry of Justice picked this place to host a celebratory dinner for the conference, so beneath the massive chandeliers, we dined on traditional Turkish meze, the first courses now popular in the U.S. , and then some good fish—not surprisingly this turns out to be a great place for seafood of all kinds.
Despite the irony of this 99% Muslim country being a haven for serious drinking, my recollection of local love for cherry juice has been confirmed. Turkish Airlines must have run out on the late flight to New York by the time I boarded for its return here but I’ve been making up for it ever since I got here. As with every other country at this end of Europe , one may imbibe all the raki you want but I’ve been steering clear of it. It seems that it originally made its way to the Balkans from here, another benefit conferred by the Ottoman Empire .
The beauty of Ottoman architecture is evident from many of the old and thus beautifully stone-carved mosques, not at all like the modern ones I recall from Pakistan and Indonesia that have all the charm of most contemporary religious buildings. Dolmabahçe Palace , right up the road from the one where we dined, is overwhelming right from the massive carved gates that greet you at the entryway. This is where the sultans came to escape the summer heat of the old part of the city, Sultanahmet (naturally), although today you would probably say they left to get away from all the tourists and grifters at Hagia Sophia and the Blue Mosque, and inside their old in-town hangout, Topkapi Palace .
This is also heaven for transportation buffs—you have your choice of a new Metro, not completed, so it operates in isolated sections, modern trams, old trolleys, two funiculars, and ferries of all kinds connecting the two continents, even though there now are two bridges tying them together across the Bosphorus. The city itself is vast—with many different distinct sections, some quite swell—especially the ones by the water, on the Bosphorus. Just like everyplace else.
My timing hasn’t been the best: next week they have a major international film festival, Filmekimi, here where Woody Allen debuts his latest, Whatever Works, a return to Manhattan featuring Larry David. There’s also lots of art and music of all kinds around. And although I’ve mostly been on the European side, the traffic is totally Asian, relentless and forcing to remember that the motorist always has the right of way.
The conference I’ve been attending is totally up my alley, in that it’s on court administration, and I’ve met up with people with whom I’ve worked all over, from a young lawyer from Georgia (the country) who’s now deputy on a project there, to other consultants with whom I’ve labored from Macedonia to Tulsa. It’s also impressive to see that other countries are as advanced or even ahead of us in some areas—the Turks, for example, demonstrated a fantastic computer system that almost is able to lean up and spit in your eye, among other capacities.
I also missed Republic Day, which was last week, commemorating the founding of the Turkish Republic and yet another occasion to remember Ataturk, whose picture graces many stores and offices—including the hotel where I’m staying—and appears in displays along at least one major thoroughfare on which I traveled yesterday. In one of the English-language papers today, a woman recalled the day in 1937 when he turned up at her history class. Lots of Turkish flags remain hanging above many streets.
Not too much chance to shop or tour, mostly because it’s been raining most of the time—which did wonders for conference attendance. But I explored the markets and shops yesterday—particularly enjoying the mountains of spices for sale. In addition to the fabled Grand Bazaar—the world’s largest salesroom—there now are about 15 major shopping malls hereabouts, emphasizing upscale British stores like Harvey Nichols as well as Marks & Spencer.
Enjoyed a chance in a brief sunny interval (to use one of the BBC ’s favorite expressions for weather) to join an American student here whose parents are friends of friends and hear about his adventures while we looked out across the Bosphorus at a delightful little village called Ortakoy, which is hard by the first bridge built over the famous strait. With many meals included in the conference schedule, I’ve also been less rangy in my explorations on the dining front, but I did savor gulbroken, which are Turkish pancakes, sometimes filled with spinach or other vegetables. On the dumpling front, the Turkish version of manti are small dumplings on the order of small Siberian pelmeni, as compared by the larger-sized manti found in Kyrgyzstan or the even larger khinkhali of Georgia.
The streets along the Bosphorus are particularly upscale, with small shops and restaurants that are more reminiscent of the well-heeled sections of European cities: think the quais of Paris . This is also a city of hills—sometimes I’ve seen references to the Seven Hills, which is yet another bow to Rome , whose equal this town originallybecame when the Roman Empire was divided. I trudged up and down a few steep ones yesterday—thinking of doing “hill work” preparing for a race—in an area called Karakoy, which is at one end of the Galata bridge that goes across the Golden Horn to the “Historic Peninsula,” which is the old city. This section was a lot scruffier, with the auto and electrical parts stores and huge old solidly-built bank buildings that had been constructed in the early 20th century by the Greeks and Jews who settled in this part of town and became major merchants. The Galata bridge itself is unusual, in that it has a lower deck that is populated largely by cheap but excellent fish restaurants.
In case you thought the rest of the world had given in because the NFL played in Wembley last weekend, they won’t be watching the World Series here tonight: football, i.e., soccer, still rules, and Liverpool v. Lyon is scheduled to be on the screen in the bar.
Sunday, November 1, 2009
The Milkmaid
There are important things that one needs to enjoy when in New York, and it becomes more incumbent on one to make sure to enjoy them when visits to Gotham-on-the-Subway are less frequent. One is a stop at the reincarnated Second Avenue Deli, now located on 32nd between 2nd and 3rd. In the grandest of New York deli traditions, they know well how to charge but they do present you with the absolute best.
And another spot that does both is the Met--the Metropolitan Museum of Art, that is. Granted, they still (in very small print) honor the pay-what-you-like policy, but it gets harder to convince yourself every year that you are still the student who found it easy to pay the least. When they have something wonderful to see, too, one spoiled by the last place with free museums--Washington, D.C.--also becomes more willing to ante up.
What they have--and only through the 29th of November--is a rare visit by Vermeer's The Milkmaid, on its first trip to the U.S. since the 1939-40 New York World's Fair. The Met put together a good little group of ostensibly related paintings, including its own five Vermeers, two of which are outstanding. Since there are only 36 extant in the world, and 13 in the U.S., getting to see any Vermeer you have not seen before is an opportunity to be seized.
Two years ago, the Frick Collection down Fifth Avenue from the Met put its three Vermeers on exhibit at the same time. Four years ago, the Philadelphia Art Museum secured a short-term loan of A Young Lady Seated at the Virginals, owned by a private collector with obvious good reason to remain anonymous. The Art Museum, as it is known there (as are The Orchestra and The University), placed the small painting on display in one of many existing rooms of paintings related to it by style, origin, and time. That was an equally good way to arrange its exhibition. Fourteen years ago, the National Gallery of Art in Washington managed to gather 21 of the 36 survivors, attracting record crowds despite a government shutdown during the exhibition (there is a price for those free musuems). All these shows tend to be short and limited in their travels: the National Gallery behemoth was only otherwise displayed at the Mauritshaus in The Hague.
The Met provided a nice service, along with The Milkmaid itself. One wall contains small repros of all 36 known Vermeers. It's fascinating to compare how often he addressed the same subjects, frequently fully-dressed young ladies, and where the paintings may be found. As always in Vermeers, the light is key to the whole presentation. There is a magical rendition of light from windows in many of the Vermeers that no one seems to have replicated.
Vermeer, despite the regard in which he is now held, was unappreciated for centuries. Marcel Proust, who visited an exhibit in Paris that included View of Delft and Girl With Pearl Earring just before his death, was an early 20th-century admirer, focused on the former painting through his character, the writer Bergotte:
At last he came to the Vermeer which he remembered as more striking, more different from anything else he knew, but in which, thanks to the critic's article, he noticed for the first time some small figures in blue, that the sand was pink, and, finally, the precious substance of the tiny patch of yellow wall. His dizziness increased; he fixed his gaze, like a child upon a yellow butterfly that it wants to catch, on the precious little patch of wall. "That's how I ought to have written," he said. "My last books are too dry, I ought to have gone over them with a few layers of colour, made my language precious in itself, like this little patch of yellow wall."
And another spot that does both is the Met--the Metropolitan Museum of Art, that is. Granted, they still (in very small print) honor the pay-what-you-like policy, but it gets harder to convince yourself every year that you are still the student who found it easy to pay the least. When they have something wonderful to see, too, one spoiled by the last place with free museums--Washington, D.C.--also becomes more willing to ante up.
What they have--and only through the 29th of November--is a rare visit by Vermeer's The Milkmaid, on its first trip to the U.S. since the 1939-40 New York World's Fair. The Met put together a good little group of ostensibly related paintings, including its own five Vermeers, two of which are outstanding. Since there are only 36 extant in the world, and 13 in the U.S., getting to see any Vermeer you have not seen before is an opportunity to be seized.
Two years ago, the Frick Collection down Fifth Avenue from the Met put its three Vermeers on exhibit at the same time. Four years ago, the Philadelphia Art Museum secured a short-term loan of A Young Lady Seated at the Virginals, owned by a private collector with obvious good reason to remain anonymous. The Art Museum, as it is known there (as are The Orchestra and The University), placed the small painting on display in one of many existing rooms of paintings related to it by style, origin, and time. That was an equally good way to arrange its exhibition. Fourteen years ago, the National Gallery of Art in Washington managed to gather 21 of the 36 survivors, attracting record crowds despite a government shutdown during the exhibition (there is a price for those free musuems). All these shows tend to be short and limited in their travels: the National Gallery behemoth was only otherwise displayed at the Mauritshaus in The Hague.
The Met provided a nice service, along with The Milkmaid itself. One wall contains small repros of all 36 known Vermeers. It's fascinating to compare how often he addressed the same subjects, frequently fully-dressed young ladies, and where the paintings may be found. As always in Vermeers, the light is key to the whole presentation. There is a magical rendition of light from windows in many of the Vermeers that no one seems to have replicated.
Vermeer, despite the regard in which he is now held, was unappreciated for centuries. Marcel Proust, who visited an exhibit in Paris that included View of Delft and Girl With Pearl Earring just before his death, was an early 20th-century admirer, focused on the former painting through his character, the writer Bergotte:
At last he came to the Vermeer which he remembered as more striking, more different from anything else he knew, but in which, thanks to the critic's article, he noticed for the first time some small figures in blue, that the sand was pink, and, finally, the precious substance of the tiny patch of yellow wall. His dizziness increased; he fixed his gaze, like a child upon a yellow butterfly that it wants to catch, on the precious little patch of wall. "That's how I ought to have written," he said. "My last books are too dry, I ought to have gone over them with a few layers of colour, made my language precious in itself, like this little patch of yellow wall."
There's a feeling of delight in seeing the great Vermeers such as The Milkmaid. We have grown away from appreciating craft applied in small works, trending away from the miniatures of the past as well as the masterpieces of jade carvers and the Middle Ages. Vermeer attracts our gaze on every part of his often small-sized canvases. And it's fascinating that despite their full-clad costumes, Vermeer may have intimated some degree of ardor in his mere selection of the character of a milkmaid--or so say the commentators.
Thursday, October 22, 2009
Kill the Ump
It's not as if the playoffs so far have lacked exciting moments so that all we can talk about are the umpires. Jimmy Rollins comes in to knock a dinger in the bottom of the ninth to not only put the Red Quakers on top for the first time in the game but walk off with a snatched victory. TV no doubt is already mourning the demise of the Dodgers and the consequent lack of a highly profitable Yankee-Dodger Series. With all the calumny the Phils have borne these many years, they now suffer as being seen as a small-market team--heck, when I was first watching baseball, Philly was the 3rd largest city and had two teams--and the other one, the A's, had had far more success historically. Don't tell me you don't recall Connie Mack's Million-Dollar Infield?
For about the millionth time in a row, the umpires are being blasted for bad calls. McClelland's mishap at third with Posada and Cano was a real doozy, as the late Johnny Most might have put it if he could slow down enough to even do baseball games. And then he admitted he had blown it, as umps are wont to do these days. It's easy for me to take this all calmly--being no fan of Dodgers, Yankees, Phils or Angels. And now there will be instant replay review of balls going over the fence. We've come a long, long way from Bill Klem's days: remember "Son, when you throw a strike, Mr. Hornsby will let you know about it" or "They ain't anything until I calls them"?
Reggie Jackson materialized to say that McClelland was a good ump. And I guess he is. So now it is accepted that umpires making mistakes is just another part of the game. Heck, they always did make them. Now they admit it. Soon we'll have a 12-step program for them. (They needed one after a moron who was their lawyer self-destroyed their union and their jobs a few years ago.) I do agree, however, with the side that says the best umps should be rewarded by being assigned post-season play and the accompanying extra pay.
The last time I lost my cool over an umpire's call was when Richie Garcia permitted that little punk Maier to steal a catch from Tony Tarasco of the O's in the "old" Yankee Stadium. I would have sent that kid on the first New York Central flyer to Elmira Reformatory (I know, wrong railroad--and there was no stop at the Stadium in those days.). I also sincerely believe that the new Curse of Coogan's Bluff that afflicted the Mets for ignoring their (my) Giant heritage in favor of the Dodgers turned around and probably bit this year's Dodgers too. Don't ever underestimate jinxes.
It's also time to remember that as written by Douglas Wallop, whose The Year The Yankees Lost the Pennant became the musical Damn Yankees, the Devil--Mr. Applegate portrayed on stage and in film by the inimitable Ray Walston--turned out to be, naturally, a Yankee fan. He tries to win back his departed Faustian ballplayer by urging him--this was 1954--to return to the now-lustreless Senators because otherwise the Dodgers would be favored in the Series. And in 1954, he could still truthfully say, "Those Dodgers have never won a World Series!"
The Yankees came back to almost close down the Angels last night but now after that great finish, all remains up for grabs. That's the best thing about baseball. Don't take anything for granted. And of course it turns out that the Phils want to play the Yanks--last year's win over Tampa Bay didn't elevate them to the heights of baseball renown. However you feel about the Yanks--while not a Yankee fan, I don't feel too strongly either way about them because I grew up a National League fan--that ancient cry hurled at any promising club: "When do you play the Yankees?" remains extant.
For about the millionth time in a row, the umpires are being blasted for bad calls. McClelland's mishap at third with Posada and Cano was a real doozy, as the late Johnny Most might have put it if he could slow down enough to even do baseball games. And then he admitted he had blown it, as umps are wont to do these days. It's easy for me to take this all calmly--being no fan of Dodgers, Yankees, Phils or Angels. And now there will be instant replay review of balls going over the fence. We've come a long, long way from Bill Klem's days: remember "Son, when you throw a strike, Mr. Hornsby will let you know about it" or "They ain't anything until I calls them"?
Reggie Jackson materialized to say that McClelland was a good ump. And I guess he is. So now it is accepted that umpires making mistakes is just another part of the game. Heck, they always did make them. Now they admit it. Soon we'll have a 12-step program for them. (They needed one after a moron who was their lawyer self-destroyed their union and their jobs a few years ago.) I do agree, however, with the side that says the best umps should be rewarded by being assigned post-season play and the accompanying extra pay.
The last time I lost my cool over an umpire's call was when Richie Garcia permitted that little punk Maier to steal a catch from Tony Tarasco of the O's in the "old" Yankee Stadium. I would have sent that kid on the first New York Central flyer to Elmira Reformatory (I know, wrong railroad--and there was no stop at the Stadium in those days.). I also sincerely believe that the new Curse of Coogan's Bluff that afflicted the Mets for ignoring their (my) Giant heritage in favor of the Dodgers turned around and probably bit this year's Dodgers too. Don't ever underestimate jinxes.
It's also time to remember that as written by Douglas Wallop, whose The Year The Yankees Lost the Pennant became the musical Damn Yankees, the Devil--Mr. Applegate portrayed on stage and in film by the inimitable Ray Walston--turned out to be, naturally, a Yankee fan. He tries to win back his departed Faustian ballplayer by urging him--this was 1954--to return to the now-lustreless Senators because otherwise the Dodgers would be favored in the Series. And in 1954, he could still truthfully say, "Those Dodgers have never won a World Series!"
The Yankees came back to almost close down the Angels last night but now after that great finish, all remains up for grabs. That's the best thing about baseball. Don't take anything for granted. And of course it turns out that the Phils want to play the Yanks--last year's win over Tampa Bay didn't elevate them to the heights of baseball renown. However you feel about the Yanks--while not a Yankee fan, I don't feel too strongly either way about them because I grew up a National League fan--that ancient cry hurled at any promising club: "When do you play the Yankees?" remains extant.
Wednesday, October 21, 2009
The American Songster
Last night enjoyed another delightful musical evening at the Smithsonian--well, it was at the Freer auditorium, and it was Robert Wyatt again, this time covering the amazing career, through CD clips, flim clips, and lecture without notes, of Irving Berlin. I finally appreciate the oft-quoted Jerome Kern line: "Irving Berlin has no place in American music. Irving Berlin is American music." The man's productivity and mastery of every form of song still amazes me.
He makes us realize that the key to any song is the melody. He never could even read music but eventually, he could even put some rather complex contrapuntal harmonies together on the piano and have his musical secretaries transcribe them. This was one of those programs from which I learned quite a bit. Alexander's Ragtime Band isn't a ragtime song, it's jazz. His favorite singers were Ethel Merman (naturally) and Fred Astaire (just enough voice to present a song with great style).
He loved to use contractions in his songs--my favorite of all, What'll I Do, stands as a fine example. Just like Cole Porter he doubted his own ability to write an integrated show, that is, one in which the songs advance the plot; then he goes and writes Annie Get Your Gun and outdoes everyone else, as he always did. Porter also managed to do it with Kiss Me, Kate in even less conventional form.
And Always, there were the endless list of songs: How Deep is the Ocean, Say It Isn't So, Puttin' on the Ritz, Isn't It a Lovely Day, Remember, Let's Have Another Cup of Coffee, and often he came up with an unexpected song that made you think it had to written by someone else, such as Let's Face the Music and Dance.
The man encountered some tragedy in his 101 years on earth. He lost his first wife a few months after they married, to typhoid she picked up on their Havana honeymoon. His only son (he had three daughters by his second wife) died within a month of his birth. And Wyatt intimated that his last years were lonely and not particularly happy. I recall a Jimmy Breslin column in which Breslin hurled invective at Berlin for not allowing him to use some lyrics in a novel. It sounded like the man of a thousand melodies had lost his tune.
He makes us realize that the key to any song is the melody. He never could even read music but eventually, he could even put some rather complex contrapuntal harmonies together on the piano and have his musical secretaries transcribe them. This was one of those programs from which I learned quite a bit. Alexander's Ragtime Band isn't a ragtime song, it's jazz. His favorite singers were Ethel Merman (naturally) and Fred Astaire (just enough voice to present a song with great style).
He loved to use contractions in his songs--my favorite of all, What'll I Do, stands as a fine example. Just like Cole Porter he doubted his own ability to write an integrated show, that is, one in which the songs advance the plot; then he goes and writes Annie Get Your Gun and outdoes everyone else, as he always did. Porter also managed to do it with Kiss Me, Kate in even less conventional form.
And Always, there were the endless list of songs: How Deep is the Ocean, Say It Isn't So, Puttin' on the Ritz, Isn't It a Lovely Day, Remember, Let's Have Another Cup of Coffee, and often he came up with an unexpected song that made you think it had to written by someone else, such as Let's Face the Music and Dance.
The man encountered some tragedy in his 101 years on earth. He lost his first wife a few months after they married, to typhoid she picked up on their Havana honeymoon. His only son (he had three daughters by his second wife) died within a month of his birth. And Wyatt intimated that his last years were lonely and not particularly happy. I recall a Jimmy Breslin column in which Breslin hurled invective at Berlin for not allowing him to use some lyrics in a novel. It sounded like the man of a thousand melodies had lost his tune.
Tuesday, October 13, 2009
Round the Nation
I've been travelling again for work, this time to do some court assessments, last week in Coeur d'Alene, Idaho, and this week in Rutland, Vermont. Both very nice places--especially now that the trees on the Green Mountains are about half-turned for autumn. Coeur d'Alene was lovely too -- mostly evergreens around the huge lake and river. And today I'm in Trenton, NJ, to discuss improving caseflow management with criminal court judges tomorrow.
This morning I found myself somewhat amazed to see an obituary in both the Washington Post and New York Times for someone who was doubtless my richest law school classmate, Bruce Wasserstein. This will not be one of those warm (or cool) recollections because, yes, I had met him now and again, but no, I didn't know him very well. What can I add to the lengthy descriptions of his rather unusual career?
Two things stand out. I felt he had followed some similar paths (early on--way before the bucks rolled in) to mine. He'd been a college editor at Michigan and then stayed on an extra year in Cambridge to finish a joint law-business degree. Apparently, having been an SDS-er, he "justified" spending time over at the B-school, after spending a summer in Ralph Nader's crew, by citing the need to know the enemy, so to speak. I had similar feelings about starting out with a Wall Street law firm, wanting to learn something about how they practiced law before going in other directions.
So he started out at Cravath, then on the 57th floor of One Chase Manhattan Plaza, and I was at a far smaller outfit (then called Reavis & McGrath, now absorbed by Fulbright & Jaworski) on the 39th floor, same building. There the parallel ends. Apparently he learned enough about Wall St. to become an investment banker with First Boston and just about take over everything on the Street that wasn't in the hands of Goldman Sachs. And it doesn't sound like he looked back in any kind of anger from atop his billions.
His generosity extended to adopting his late sister Wendy the playwright's child, on its face an admirable step and one that we would hope all such billionaires would do. I for one found his sister's plays absolute delights, having seen most of them--The Heidi Chronicles and others--in New York--I even think I'd still enjoy them should I see them revived.
He also contributed most munificently to Harvard Law School, which despite the recent decline in the university's endowment by 30 percent, remains part of the richest academic institution in the world. I gather he may have been the largest giver. Perhaps he had other charitable interests and maybe some of them will emerge as his affairs are put in order.
Apparently he will be remembered for leading the great corporate takeover movement, which began the process of saddling many of the target companies with huge debts that they then needed to shed many their assets, especially the human ones, in order to finance. I'll give him credit for not peddling derivatives--which seemed to be a crooked operation from its very start. But it wasn't very healthy for our economy to engage in takeovers that mainly enriched only the financiers, such as him, and left the companies stripped of most of their value. All the gain was transactional. It was reported that he didn't like the nickname--Bid 'em Up Bruce--which does sound like one of those nicknames that never quite caught on, anyway, as it hardly flows trippingly from the tongue.
It almost seemed he had reverted to his days as a student editor when he acquired a bunch of publications--New York magazine, The American Lawyer, and others--but it must have all been for either vanity or influence, because none of them reflected his personality or views. This was no Hearst or Rupert Murdoch.
So except for the sheer size of his deals and his fortune, it was an all too familar tale: young radical finds himself as a capitalist and outdoes the scions of inherited wealth--and almost everyone else--in his new incarnation. End of story?
There was that second thing that I said stood out. The obits said he went to a hospital with irregular heartbeats earlier this week. No other details of his illness or death were given. Such are the privileges of the very rich--at least until the pursuers of what inquiring minds want to know turn up. The limited information probably is illustrative of the discretion the well-off can enforce, yet in today's milieu, my first thought was that perhaps even such a mighty titan of finance might have been misdiagnosed or worse: that foul play may have entered into the story.
This morning I found myself somewhat amazed to see an obituary in both the Washington Post and New York Times for someone who was doubtless my richest law school classmate, Bruce Wasserstein. This will not be one of those warm (or cool) recollections because, yes, I had met him now and again, but no, I didn't know him very well. What can I add to the lengthy descriptions of his rather unusual career?
Two things stand out. I felt he had followed some similar paths (early on--way before the bucks rolled in) to mine. He'd been a college editor at Michigan and then stayed on an extra year in Cambridge to finish a joint law-business degree. Apparently, having been an SDS-er, he "justified" spending time over at the B-school, after spending a summer in Ralph Nader's crew, by citing the need to know the enemy, so to speak. I had similar feelings about starting out with a Wall Street law firm, wanting to learn something about how they practiced law before going in other directions.
So he started out at Cravath, then on the 57th floor of One Chase Manhattan Plaza, and I was at a far smaller outfit (then called Reavis & McGrath, now absorbed by Fulbright & Jaworski) on the 39th floor, same building. There the parallel ends. Apparently he learned enough about Wall St. to become an investment banker with First Boston and just about take over everything on the Street that wasn't in the hands of Goldman Sachs. And it doesn't sound like he looked back in any kind of anger from atop his billions.
His generosity extended to adopting his late sister Wendy the playwright's child, on its face an admirable step and one that we would hope all such billionaires would do. I for one found his sister's plays absolute delights, having seen most of them--The Heidi Chronicles and others--in New York--I even think I'd still enjoy them should I see them revived.
He also contributed most munificently to Harvard Law School, which despite the recent decline in the university's endowment by 30 percent, remains part of the richest academic institution in the world. I gather he may have been the largest giver. Perhaps he had other charitable interests and maybe some of them will emerge as his affairs are put in order.
Apparently he will be remembered for leading the great corporate takeover movement, which began the process of saddling many of the target companies with huge debts that they then needed to shed many their assets, especially the human ones, in order to finance. I'll give him credit for not peddling derivatives--which seemed to be a crooked operation from its very start. But it wasn't very healthy for our economy to engage in takeovers that mainly enriched only the financiers, such as him, and left the companies stripped of most of their value. All the gain was transactional. It was reported that he didn't like the nickname--Bid 'em Up Bruce--which does sound like one of those nicknames that never quite caught on, anyway, as it hardly flows trippingly from the tongue.
It almost seemed he had reverted to his days as a student editor when he acquired a bunch of publications--New York magazine, The American Lawyer, and others--but it must have all been for either vanity or influence, because none of them reflected his personality or views. This was no Hearst or Rupert Murdoch.
So except for the sheer size of his deals and his fortune, it was an all too familar tale: young radical finds himself as a capitalist and outdoes the scions of inherited wealth--and almost everyone else--in his new incarnation. End of story?
There was that second thing that I said stood out. The obits said he went to a hospital with irregular heartbeats earlier this week. No other details of his illness or death were given. Such are the privileges of the very rich--at least until the pursuers of what inquiring minds want to know turn up. The limited information probably is illustrative of the discretion the well-off can enforce, yet in today's milieu, my first thought was that perhaps even such a mighty titan of finance might have been misdiagnosed or worse: that foul play may have entered into the story.
Thursday, October 1, 2009
Sending Out the Nats
Thinking positively about the Nationals? Am I kidding? 103 losses and three games left in Atlanta to push that even higher. I've managed to see them twice this week--Sunday when they had the game tied up through the 9th and then let the bullpen pull its usual tricks to blow it in the 10th, but then there was yesterday...
A "businessman's special," as they used to call those late-afternoon starts in New York, and the last home game of the season, against the now lowly New York Mets, who had managed to drop the first two games of the series, no less. A good friend secured some Annie Oakleys that let us into the Diamond Club, which features a terrace where you can sit outside and watch the game from a nice vantage point up behind the plate. It was the 5th before we stopped chowing down and moved down to the seats, also well situated behind the plate.
Game was close all the way, with neither team ever ahead by more than two runs. Zimmerman showed his stuff with a homer and in the climactic 9th, the Nats slowly clambered back -- having had numerous men on base throughout the game who failed to score -- with some nice hits. There were also plenty of errors on both sides-- neither of these teams got where they stand in the bottom of the standings without some.
Zimmerman couldn't repeat so Adam Dunn came up with bases loaded -- and two outs. The high-paid reliever for the Mets, Francisco Rodriguez, walked him to cut the Met lead to 4-3. Then Justin Maxwell, a 25-year-old rookie who had come in to pinch hit earlier, was up. Not much info on him either in the paper or on the big screen. He might as well have been Cornbread Maxwell on the Celtics some years ago.
He pops a long ball from an unexpected fastball that Rodriguez let loose and it goes just over Pagan's glove in left field into the stands out there -- no one back where we were truly knew it was a homer until the left-field contingent began standing up and shouting. The team runs out to greet him at home after the walk-off grand slam on the last pitch of the game.
Satisfaction for a season where the club won about a third of its games? Of course not, but of such marvelous moments is baseball still our most delightful sporting event. The owners may be cheapskates (something that going back to the Griffith-owned Senators has been a D.C. tradition), the seats are expensive (usually), the food costs a lot too, the Metro station hasn't been expanded yet, and on a warm Sunday as this past one was, no beer vendor appeared for about eight innings, even in the high-priced seats.
And the middle of the infield is still suffering from injury-caused absences, the pitching staff has one reliable starter, the bullpen at long last has one decent operative, and no one has much confidence in management even with the pitching phenom they drafted and signed on deck for next season. All true. But then you have that one moment that sends everyone home with a smile because for at least a few minutes, baseball has put you on top of the world.
A "businessman's special," as they used to call those late-afternoon starts in New York, and the last home game of the season, against the now lowly New York Mets, who had managed to drop the first two games of the series, no less. A good friend secured some Annie Oakleys that let us into the Diamond Club, which features a terrace where you can sit outside and watch the game from a nice vantage point up behind the plate. It was the 5th before we stopped chowing down and moved down to the seats, also well situated behind the plate.
Game was close all the way, with neither team ever ahead by more than two runs. Zimmerman showed his stuff with a homer and in the climactic 9th, the Nats slowly clambered back -- having had numerous men on base throughout the game who failed to score -- with some nice hits. There were also plenty of errors on both sides-- neither of these teams got where they stand in the bottom of the standings without some.
Zimmerman couldn't repeat so Adam Dunn came up with bases loaded -- and two outs. The high-paid reliever for the Mets, Francisco Rodriguez, walked him to cut the Met lead to 4-3. Then Justin Maxwell, a 25-year-old rookie who had come in to pinch hit earlier, was up. Not much info on him either in the paper or on the big screen. He might as well have been Cornbread Maxwell on the Celtics some years ago.
He pops a long ball from an unexpected fastball that Rodriguez let loose and it goes just over Pagan's glove in left field into the stands out there -- no one back where we were truly knew it was a homer until the left-field contingent began standing up and shouting. The team runs out to greet him at home after the walk-off grand slam on the last pitch of the game.
Satisfaction for a season where the club won about a third of its games? Of course not, but of such marvelous moments is baseball still our most delightful sporting event. The owners may be cheapskates (something that going back to the Griffith-owned Senators has been a D.C. tradition), the seats are expensive (usually), the food costs a lot too, the Metro station hasn't been expanded yet, and on a warm Sunday as this past one was, no beer vendor appeared for about eight innings, even in the high-priced seats.
And the middle of the infield is still suffering from injury-caused absences, the pitching staff has one reliable starter, the bullpen at long last has one decent operative, and no one has much confidence in management even with the pitching phenom they drafted and signed on deck for next season. All true. But then you have that one moment that sends everyone home with a smile because for at least a few minutes, baseball has put you on top of the world.
Tuesday, September 22, 2009
Haiti Viewpoint
So far the best thing about being in Haiti for the past few days has been the absence of any predictions of serious tropical storms despite this being the time of year for them. This is not to say that it doesn’t rain here. It does. And it happens every day at about 7 P.M. except for when the rain came pouring down in truly hard tropical style at 3 P.M. As in the U.S., it always seems to happen when people are leaving to enjoy the weekend.
I’ve begun to see even Port-au-Prince in the few days I’ve been here as we’ve driven through the city numerous times on the way to appointments, and have seen the endless Third World sights of people setting up small stands to sell anything on the street, rows of small stores, crowds of people—from tattered homeless to starched uniformed school children, and plenty of just plain squalor.
Here there are differences. Many tiny homes are made of cinder blocks rather than corrugated metal and planted almost or actually on top of each other on steep hillsides with some small degree of terracing. The gaily painted taptaps that carry most of the public around resemble the Philippine jeepneys and similar wildly colored vehicles in South Asia. As in Africa, you see many people carrying large burdens on their heads—from crocks to large containers. There are masses of people everywhere and driving is consequently wild, much like it is in large Asian cities.
I’m here on a project that is trying to improve both the caseflow management in the courts and the capacity of the system to include pretrial release of eligible defendants as a means to reduce the prison population drastically. Yesterday we visited the national penitentiary in Port-au-Prince which is everything you would expect: wildly overcrowded, without adequate sanitary fixtures, steamily hot, and totally squalid. We met the previous day with a deputy minister who seemed interested in working with us to get together a reliable database that would permit ready determination of who should be released if only because they already had been locked up for longer than the prison sentence they might eventually receive.
There is a flat plain of the city directly in the centre of the V-shaped bay that points into the heart of Port-au-Prince. North and south of the plain, the city is totally hilly with the hills seeming to achieve mountainous dimensions quickly. The elite neighborhood still above us on the hills is the suburb of Pétionville. As you drive up the hills, there are more walls along the rocky streets until it seems that all the streets are enclosed by walls. Many of the walls protect properties from view or trespass—their construction reflects the many civil uprisings over the years in Haiti. Some of the walls also resemble the urban conurbations of France, Paris especially, when homes focused on closed courtyards behind high walls.
Both the office used by the project and the apartment for scholars I’m using that the owner of both, who is a professor, lets to the project are some ways up the hills. We also are treated to traditional Haitian cuisine—this usually includes rice and beans, served separately, with the beans in some kind of sauce, plaintains, and some kind of meat, be it chicken or beef, in limited quantities. Last night we had a soup that was somewhat sweet and may have been made from cassava. You’re as likely to get spaghetti coated with a light sauce for breakfast as you are pancakes—I’ve already had both, as well all kinds of soups that are hard to identify but generally tasty. Fruit juices are common at home and on menus. My old favorite from Asia—watermelon juice—appeared yesterday. Lambi, or conch, is a local specialty commonly found on menus and not just in fancy places. And the local beer, Prestige, is excellent, as is Barbancourt, the best-known Haitian rum, especially in a rum punch.
Roads in general are poorly paved and turn to dirt and stone when you least expect it. There are craters aplenty waiting to snag your tires. We drove out of the city to visit an orphanage run by a regular interpreter for the project and passed some of the worst parts of Port-au-Prince such as Cité Soleil. The main difference is the garbage on the streets and in vacant lots and alleyways. The children seemed bright-eyed and eager to learn—the same interpreter is running a school nearby.
Many old elaborate houses and buildings remain in the city, and are often referred to as “gingerbread” for their extensive ornamentation. We lunched—very simply—near our office in the Pacot section on the veranda of the Hotel Oloffson, in its faded glory probably the finest example of this early 20th century architectural style, and which was the model for the hotel in Graham Greene’s The Comedians. My rarely-employed French has started to come back in terms of reading the relatively (compared to most American newspapers) literate dailies here, although my speaking ability remains limited and anyway, most of the population speaks Creole, which is an offshoot of French with African and native tribal influences. My capability to grasp menu French remains superb.
Pétionville is the fancy area, although many of the streets look far from luxurious. We met a local official who has been helpful in providing us with insights on the justice system at a moderately priced restaurant there and the atmosphere was French—the cuisine was a combo of French, Spanish and Italian—including the delightful outdoor dining terrace, from which others, who unlike us were not under a canopy, fled indoors when the storm hit.
As with the Philippines, the tourist business here has been knocked out by bad publicity. I won’t get to any of the old resort locales on the coasts but it seems there are as many potential hazards in many of the other still-vibrant Caribbean tourist spots. Attitudes towards Americans are mixed, based on desire to go to the U.S. and presence of relatives there, as well as the long history of American interventionism in Haiti, though few around now are likely to recall the Marine occupation of 1915 to 1934.
You see kids kicking soccer balls—the game is supreme here despite the popularity of cricket and baseball in most of the rest of the Caribbean. And even if I were still running, the hills are truly major league here.
I’ve begun to see even Port-au-Prince in the few days I’ve been here as we’ve driven through the city numerous times on the way to appointments, and have seen the endless Third World sights of people setting up small stands to sell anything on the street, rows of small stores, crowds of people—from tattered homeless to starched uniformed school children, and plenty of just plain squalor.
Here there are differences. Many tiny homes are made of cinder blocks rather than corrugated metal and planted almost or actually on top of each other on steep hillsides with some small degree of terracing. The gaily painted taptaps that carry most of the public around resemble the Philippine jeepneys and similar wildly colored vehicles in South Asia. As in Africa, you see many people carrying large burdens on their heads—from crocks to large containers. There are masses of people everywhere and driving is consequently wild, much like it is in large Asian cities.
I’m here on a project that is trying to improve both the caseflow management in the courts and the capacity of the system to include pretrial release of eligible defendants as a means to reduce the prison population drastically. Yesterday we visited the national penitentiary in Port-au-Prince which is everything you would expect: wildly overcrowded, without adequate sanitary fixtures, steamily hot, and totally squalid. We met the previous day with a deputy minister who seemed interested in working with us to get together a reliable database that would permit ready determination of who should be released if only because they already had been locked up for longer than the prison sentence they might eventually receive.
There is a flat plain of the city directly in the centre of the V-shaped bay that points into the heart of Port-au-Prince. North and south of the plain, the city is totally hilly with the hills seeming to achieve mountainous dimensions quickly. The elite neighborhood still above us on the hills is the suburb of Pétionville. As you drive up the hills, there are more walls along the rocky streets until it seems that all the streets are enclosed by walls. Many of the walls protect properties from view or trespass—their construction reflects the many civil uprisings over the years in Haiti. Some of the walls also resemble the urban conurbations of France, Paris especially, when homes focused on closed courtyards behind high walls.
Both the office used by the project and the apartment for scholars I’m using that the owner of both, who is a professor, lets to the project are some ways up the hills. We also are treated to traditional Haitian cuisine—this usually includes rice and beans, served separately, with the beans in some kind of sauce, plaintains, and some kind of meat, be it chicken or beef, in limited quantities. Last night we had a soup that was somewhat sweet and may have been made from cassava. You’re as likely to get spaghetti coated with a light sauce for breakfast as you are pancakes—I’ve already had both, as well all kinds of soups that are hard to identify but generally tasty. Fruit juices are common at home and on menus. My old favorite from Asia—watermelon juice—appeared yesterday. Lambi, or conch, is a local specialty commonly found on menus and not just in fancy places. And the local beer, Prestige, is excellent, as is Barbancourt, the best-known Haitian rum, especially in a rum punch.
Roads in general are poorly paved and turn to dirt and stone when you least expect it. There are craters aplenty waiting to snag your tires. We drove out of the city to visit an orphanage run by a regular interpreter for the project and passed some of the worst parts of Port-au-Prince such as Cité Soleil. The main difference is the garbage on the streets and in vacant lots and alleyways. The children seemed bright-eyed and eager to learn—the same interpreter is running a school nearby.
Many old elaborate houses and buildings remain in the city, and are often referred to as “gingerbread” for their extensive ornamentation. We lunched—very simply—near our office in the Pacot section on the veranda of the Hotel Oloffson, in its faded glory probably the finest example of this early 20th century architectural style, and which was the model for the hotel in Graham Greene’s The Comedians. My rarely-employed French has started to come back in terms of reading the relatively (compared to most American newspapers) literate dailies here, although my speaking ability remains limited and anyway, most of the population speaks Creole, which is an offshoot of French with African and native tribal influences. My capability to grasp menu French remains superb.
Pétionville is the fancy area, although many of the streets look far from luxurious. We met a local official who has been helpful in providing us with insights on the justice system at a moderately priced restaurant there and the atmosphere was French—the cuisine was a combo of French, Spanish and Italian—including the delightful outdoor dining terrace, from which others, who unlike us were not under a canopy, fled indoors when the storm hit.
As with the Philippines, the tourist business here has been knocked out by bad publicity. I won’t get to any of the old resort locales on the coasts but it seems there are as many potential hazards in many of the other still-vibrant Caribbean tourist spots. Attitudes towards Americans are mixed, based on desire to go to the U.S. and presence of relatives there, as well as the long history of American interventionism in Haiti, though few around now are likely to recall the Marine occupation of 1915 to 1934.
You see kids kicking soccer balls—the game is supreme here despite the popularity of cricket and baseball in most of the rest of the Caribbean. And even if I were still running, the hills are truly major league here.
Monday, September 7, 2009
Labor Day
The media hold both labor and unions in such contempt today that today, the Denver Post --I'm spending the long weekend in the Rockies -- in its editorial cursorily noted the number of people not working and then called on local cops and firemen to forgo increases for the benefit of the city budget. I'm wondering when working people became a "special interest." The Washington Post --another not-so-liberal institution despite its image --turned antilabor when its pressmen dared to strike a few decades ago.
So now when a Democratic administration may even try to even the balance between management and labor by allowing card checks and arbitrating bargaining impasses, we get all this rot about the sanctity of the secret ballot. Corporations can get away with firing anyone who looks in the direction of a union, since few workers can afford to wait the years it would take for them to get their jobs back through the NLRB. But the image of some Lee J. Cobb-like union boss forcing hapless employees to sign cards gets thrown before us. (Cobb's portrayal of "Johnny Friendly" in Kazan's On the Waterfront was of course a work of genius.)
As you can see, I grew up in a union household. My dad worked for AFTRA and SAG, both entertainment unions, one representing radio and tv actors, the other movie players. He also had liked Ronald Reagan, America's only President who had been a union president, of SAG. Reagan had been a strong negotiator for the union years before and my dad remembered that. He never could reconcile it as he lived -- almost -- through a presidency that tried to destroy organized labor in the U.S.
Most people I know are quick to blast "union bosses" but have no problem with the corporate types who sent our economy crashing, and sell this country out every day, along with the sleazy bankers of all stripes who get bailed out by Uncle Sam but scream "socialism" when anyone talks about doing something for working people. Things have turned so bad for working people in terms of lack of jobs and lack of benefits if you have a job that a lot of people would join a union given the chance these days.
Sure, some unions have been crooked and betrayed their members. Others have stood in the way of progress. The article about disciplinary procedures for New York City teachers in the current New Yorker should embarrass the most stalwart labor supporter. But I'll take them over management lawyers and personnel types carrying out the orders of CEOs and boards to screw people out of their benefits. As the GOP tries to act like someone else governed America from 2001 to 2009, just remember who supported the greatest growth in inequality in our history.
I studied labor relations as an undergraduate and I still believe collective bargaining can work. This Labor Day, we might remember that you need some parity to have effective negotiation. When working people see that no one else has tried to get them better wages and working conditions but that the legal structure is now totally skewed in favor of the corporations, we might begin to have something to celebrate on the first Monday of September.
So now when a Democratic administration may even try to even the balance between management and labor by allowing card checks and arbitrating bargaining impasses, we get all this rot about the sanctity of the secret ballot. Corporations can get away with firing anyone who looks in the direction of a union, since few workers can afford to wait the years it would take for them to get their jobs back through the NLRB. But the image of some Lee J. Cobb-like union boss forcing hapless employees to sign cards gets thrown before us. (Cobb's portrayal of "Johnny Friendly" in Kazan's On the Waterfront was of course a work of genius.)
As you can see, I grew up in a union household. My dad worked for AFTRA and SAG, both entertainment unions, one representing radio and tv actors, the other movie players. He also had liked Ronald Reagan, America's only President who had been a union president, of SAG. Reagan had been a strong negotiator for the union years before and my dad remembered that. He never could reconcile it as he lived -- almost -- through a presidency that tried to destroy organized labor in the U.S.
Most people I know are quick to blast "union bosses" but have no problem with the corporate types who sent our economy crashing, and sell this country out every day, along with the sleazy bankers of all stripes who get bailed out by Uncle Sam but scream "socialism" when anyone talks about doing something for working people. Things have turned so bad for working people in terms of lack of jobs and lack of benefits if you have a job that a lot of people would join a union given the chance these days.
Sure, some unions have been crooked and betrayed their members. Others have stood in the way of progress. The article about disciplinary procedures for New York City teachers in the current New Yorker should embarrass the most stalwart labor supporter. But I'll take them over management lawyers and personnel types carrying out the orders of CEOs and boards to screw people out of their benefits. As the GOP tries to act like someone else governed America from 2001 to 2009, just remember who supported the greatest growth in inequality in our history.
I studied labor relations as an undergraduate and I still believe collective bargaining can work. This Labor Day, we might remember that you need some parity to have effective negotiation. When working people see that no one else has tried to get them better wages and working conditions but that the legal structure is now totally skewed in favor of the corporations, we might begin to have something to celebrate on the first Monday of September.
Sunday, August 30, 2009
Ted Without Tears
All the coverage made me start to rethink the Kennedys. I remembered my warming to Jack Kennedy way back in 1960 and then how Bobby Kennedy's run in 1968 stirred feelings that real change could occur. I'd grown up imbued with the brilliance of Adlai Stevenson--and seen how little it seemed to count for. By contrast, the Kennedys were the essence of realpolitik and it took them all some time to move away from Old Joe's quasi-fascism. Bobby had staffed the Democratic side of McCarthy's committee, which made him only slightly better than Roy Cohn. Jack's first act in office was to reappoint J. Edgar Hoover and Allen Dulles. But change they did and with it they brought excitement and hope. Ted's career in the Senate was the culmination of that change.
A friend reminded me that campaign positions are inevitably tempered by the realities faced when in office. But I suppose what I admired in the Kennedys in the end is their willingness to fight. Clinton, for example, made it all too clear he could be rolled and sometimes I fret that Obama makes willingness to compromise seem an act of weakness. Ted Kennedy had the voice and the ability to make the change happen. None of the legislation he moved through was perfect but it all was a start. It's wildly clear, of course, that he didn't always make the right choices: I'm referring here to his refusal to accept Richard Nixon's health care proposal, which would have given us a far better start than any of today's plans. Was I enamoured of all of his famous compromises? Hardly--we suffered from a generation of get-tough criminal justice policy because he cut a deal with Strom Thurmond to pass the notorious S. 1 bill; even then, though, it may well have been true that had he not taken the lead, the result would have been even worse.
I got to know how capable his staff could be when I was at the prison rape commission. He was one of the key sponsors--there were four and it was truly bipartisan. His staff stayed on top of us to make sure things were moving and, in fact, I realized we needed to hire a legislative liaison to maintain the flow of information. He was one of the key people who had managed to get this statute passed during a Republican administration and Congress. Strange bedfellows in politics were plentiful here--Christian human rights crusaders, Chuck Colson's Prison Fellowship, the advocacy group Stop Prisoner Rape, as it was then known.
Part of the magic of the Kennedys was the star quality. Yes, he worked hard as a legislator but there have been others equally driven. When he appeared, the murmurs--there's Ted Kennedy--began to hurtle around whatever the venue was. It seems that everyone in both Massachusetts and D.C. had a personal story to tell of his under-the-radar performance as well. Did I know that he read to a class at a public school on Capitol Hill every week or so, an activity with no political gain possible for him? No, but my daughter went to school with and was a close friend of his stepdaughter, so on the big day when we went over to one of her friend's houses to take photos of the girls in their new prom dresses, there among the other picture-taking dads was Senator Kennedy.
In the end, he was a gloriously complex man, who, in my view, managed his celebrity magnificently to produce measurable legislative accomplishments and to give a strong joyous push for progressive cause. In the old labor phrase, no matter what he did in a particular situation, you never needed to ask which side Ted Kennedy was on.
A friend reminded me that campaign positions are inevitably tempered by the realities faced when in office. But I suppose what I admired in the Kennedys in the end is their willingness to fight. Clinton, for example, made it all too clear he could be rolled and sometimes I fret that Obama makes willingness to compromise seem an act of weakness. Ted Kennedy had the voice and the ability to make the change happen. None of the legislation he moved through was perfect but it all was a start. It's wildly clear, of course, that he didn't always make the right choices: I'm referring here to his refusal to accept Richard Nixon's health care proposal, which would have given us a far better start than any of today's plans. Was I enamoured of all of his famous compromises? Hardly--we suffered from a generation of get-tough criminal justice policy because he cut a deal with Strom Thurmond to pass the notorious S. 1 bill; even then, though, it may well have been true that had he not taken the lead, the result would have been even worse.
I got to know how capable his staff could be when I was at the prison rape commission. He was one of the key sponsors--there were four and it was truly bipartisan. His staff stayed on top of us to make sure things were moving and, in fact, I realized we needed to hire a legislative liaison to maintain the flow of information. He was one of the key people who had managed to get this statute passed during a Republican administration and Congress. Strange bedfellows in politics were plentiful here--Christian human rights crusaders, Chuck Colson's Prison Fellowship, the advocacy group Stop Prisoner Rape, as it was then known.
Part of the magic of the Kennedys was the star quality. Yes, he worked hard as a legislator but there have been others equally driven. When he appeared, the murmurs--there's Ted Kennedy--began to hurtle around whatever the venue was. It seems that everyone in both Massachusetts and D.C. had a personal story to tell of his under-the-radar performance as well. Did I know that he read to a class at a public school on Capitol Hill every week or so, an activity with no political gain possible for him? No, but my daughter went to school with and was a close friend of his stepdaughter, so on the big day when we went over to one of her friend's houses to take photos of the girls in their new prom dresses, there among the other picture-taking dads was Senator Kennedy.
In the end, he was a gloriously complex man, who, in my view, managed his celebrity magnificently to produce measurable legislative accomplishments and to give a strong joyous push for progressive cause. In the old labor phrase, no matter what he did in a particular situation, you never needed to ask which side Ted Kennedy was on.
Saturday, August 22, 2009
Granite State Getaway
It may seem strange that having a weekend at home--albeit in mid-August, a time when many in Washingtone traditionally go away, or pretend they have gone, to escape the steaminess--I'd choose to travel. And this year, it's often been in the 80s rather than the 90s in D.C., so all the more reason to stay pat. But last weekend I was back in Westchester for a family wedding and this weekend, or part of it, I'm in New Hampshire to take part in a surprise 75th birthday party for a colleague of whom I'm very fond.
He's definitely a young 75, since much of the time now he's off running a justice improvement project in Haiti. He's one of the few I've known in this field who's in it to do some good for people as well as himself or a corporate entity. He also has an unusual attachment to Haiti--one which may find me going there before long to help him out--that has led him to persist in trying to make a difference there despite much resistance. Much of that resistance has come from funding agencies ostensibly intended to support efforts such as his. Now, their skepticism may stem from his having exposed their incompetent and at times illegal behavior in a leadoff segment of 60 Minutes some years ago, telling his story to Mike Wallace, no less.
Not that it did any immediate good. It did help that a key aide in Congress--also present at last night's surprise party--helped delay funding until the agency in question did the right thing. I've also worked with the guest of honor in Armenia, Bangladesh, and Georgia. In each place, he used his amazing facility to establish good working relationships with working-level people in the local courts and other offices to advance the goals of any project with which he was connected. He also brings a brio and spirit of fun to what could be dry tasks that spreads to all those who retain any semblance of a sense of humor.
Sometimes his long experience--he was one of the first people in the justice field to utilize computers, based on his success in installing some of the first systems in the U.S. Justice Department--and emphasis on obtaining empirical data enables him to reach logical conclusions others miss. In Haiti, for example, another organization favored by the development agency conducted a closed-case study that produced the perfectly valid finding that in most cases, defendants spend rather short times in jail. The problem with just looking at closed cases, however, is that in Haiti, there are prisons full of defendants awaiting trial, often for long periods of time. If you only look at closed completed cases, you miss these thousands staring you in the face from the squalid places in which they are kept. The eventual conviction rate is very low, which makes the time they are held the effective sentence, a sentence that offends all logic except that of the Red Queen who kept shouting at Alice, "Sentence first, trial later!"
North Conway, up in what's known as the Mt. Washington Valley, has lots of New Hampshire charm and genuine local craft, such as that on sale at the local shop of the League of New Hampshire Craftsmen. It also has sale outlets--the kind run by famous brands--out the wazoo, and traffic that ties up the sorely overstressed main road through town. Somehow I was upgraded to a room with a jacuzzi--a first for me--which made taking a bath quite delightful.
The "casual dinner" featured barbecued brisket, hitherto not the first menu selection I have associated with the Granite State. But just as with Dinosaur Barbecue in upstate and downstate New York, Yankees now are taking on the Southerners at their own game. And given their team's loss, 20-11, last night at the Fens to the hated Yankees--the ones in baseball uniform--the current Sawx rooters are a bit subdued here right now at Manchester Airport. Until the club started to fade of late, they had been behaving like Yankee fans of old.
He's definitely a young 75, since much of the time now he's off running a justice improvement project in Haiti. He's one of the few I've known in this field who's in it to do some good for people as well as himself or a corporate entity. He also has an unusual attachment to Haiti--one which may find me going there before long to help him out--that has led him to persist in trying to make a difference there despite much resistance. Much of that resistance has come from funding agencies ostensibly intended to support efforts such as his. Now, their skepticism may stem from his having exposed their incompetent and at times illegal behavior in a leadoff segment of 60 Minutes some years ago, telling his story to Mike Wallace, no less.
Not that it did any immediate good. It did help that a key aide in Congress--also present at last night's surprise party--helped delay funding until the agency in question did the right thing. I've also worked with the guest of honor in Armenia, Bangladesh, and Georgia. In each place, he used his amazing facility to establish good working relationships with working-level people in the local courts and other offices to advance the goals of any project with which he was connected. He also brings a brio and spirit of fun to what could be dry tasks that spreads to all those who retain any semblance of a sense of humor.
Sometimes his long experience--he was one of the first people in the justice field to utilize computers, based on his success in installing some of the first systems in the U.S. Justice Department--and emphasis on obtaining empirical data enables him to reach logical conclusions others miss. In Haiti, for example, another organization favored by the development agency conducted a closed-case study that produced the perfectly valid finding that in most cases, defendants spend rather short times in jail. The problem with just looking at closed cases, however, is that in Haiti, there are prisons full of defendants awaiting trial, often for long periods of time. If you only look at closed completed cases, you miss these thousands staring you in the face from the squalid places in which they are kept. The eventual conviction rate is very low, which makes the time they are held the effective sentence, a sentence that offends all logic except that of the Red Queen who kept shouting at Alice, "Sentence first, trial later!"
North Conway, up in what's known as the Mt. Washington Valley, has lots of New Hampshire charm and genuine local craft, such as that on sale at the local shop of the League of New Hampshire Craftsmen. It also has sale outlets--the kind run by famous brands--out the wazoo, and traffic that ties up the sorely overstressed main road through town. Somehow I was upgraded to a room with a jacuzzi--a first for me--which made taking a bath quite delightful.
The "casual dinner" featured barbecued brisket, hitherto not the first menu selection I have associated with the Granite State. But just as with Dinosaur Barbecue in upstate and downstate New York, Yankees now are taking on the Southerners at their own game. And given their team's loss, 20-11, last night at the Fens to the hated Yankees--the ones in baseball uniform--the current Sawx rooters are a bit subdued here right now at Manchester Airport. Until the club started to fade of late, they had been behaving like Yankee fans of old.
Sunday, August 16, 2009
Going Home Again
What if you drove through your home town and there was almost no one and nothing much left there you knew? It wasn't quite that extreme for me yesterday when I wended my way through Mount Vernon, New York (in our callowness we always referred to GW's place on the Potomac as "the other Mt. Vernon") but it was close.
Most of the infrastructure is still standing--all the schools I attended, most of the stores but just about all doing different kinds of business, none of which appeared to be aimed at customers like me, and the three different apartment houses where I lived from age 5 to about 22. We stopped at the pizza place near my old grade school that a classmate who lives in the area rated as the world's best and I recalled that now, just as then, it was good pizza but not world class.
The population demographics had kept on changing over the years. As I was growing up and finishing high school, the city was becoming less WASP, Irish Catholic, and Jewish, and becoming more Italian and African American. It's still heavily African American but now there's a big Brazilian contingent and some Hispanic nationalities too. Even the Italian stores in my old neighborhood, which was largely Italian, have diminished, though, with serious losses including the nameless place that ladled out sausage-and-peppers on sub rolls for us at lunch (a concoction only known as "the hot stuff"), the Italian pastry shop where I first feasted on cannoli and baba al rhum, the German delicatessen, and, of course, the candy store/lunch counter where I spent half my life.
Mt. Vernon was once the ideal leafy suburb less than a half hour on either the New York Central or the New Haven Railroad from Grand Central where E.B. White grew up in Chester Hill, a part of town with huge old houses--they are still there--and the usual run of future celebrities spent their school days. We always heard about Art Carney and Dick Clark and today the community celebrates Denzel Washington and Ken Singleton. I wouldn't say there was a ton of interracial socializing but Ossie Davis and Ruby Dee did appear in scholarship fund-raising shows.
Found one of those little paperback potted histories that are now appearing about many places in the U.S. and one might conclude from it that Mt. Vernon is moving on to greater glories. True, the main shopping streets--probably the first ones wrecked by the move to malls, since nearby Cross County Center was possibly the first big shopping center in the country when it opened in the early 50's--had relatively few vacant stores and there was a lively fair going in the large, still-green park near where I lived.
But it's the kind of place where everyone I knew or grew up with is gone, their families, their stores, their churches or synagogues (all are now black churches). I saw mention of a high school African American classmate who had been on the City Council and I've often recognized names on the obit page of the now-county newspaper--our old all-seeing Daily Argus is gone--when I've perused it. As with most of my classmates and friends who have moved up-county, or even so far as Putnam County, high school reunions happen at hotels in Tarrytown or White Plains. Not exactly light years away but culturally, yes. Probably for different reasons, Thomas Wolfe was right.
Most of the infrastructure is still standing--all the schools I attended, most of the stores but just about all doing different kinds of business, none of which appeared to be aimed at customers like me, and the three different apartment houses where I lived from age 5 to about 22. We stopped at the pizza place near my old grade school that a classmate who lives in the area rated as the world's best and I recalled that now, just as then, it was good pizza but not world class.
The population demographics had kept on changing over the years. As I was growing up and finishing high school, the city was becoming less WASP, Irish Catholic, and Jewish, and becoming more Italian and African American. It's still heavily African American but now there's a big Brazilian contingent and some Hispanic nationalities too. Even the Italian stores in my old neighborhood, which was largely Italian, have diminished, though, with serious losses including the nameless place that ladled out sausage-and-peppers on sub rolls for us at lunch (a concoction only known as "the hot stuff"), the Italian pastry shop where I first feasted on cannoli and baba al rhum, the German delicatessen, and, of course, the candy store/lunch counter where I spent half my life.
Mt. Vernon was once the ideal leafy suburb less than a half hour on either the New York Central or the New Haven Railroad from Grand Central where E.B. White grew up in Chester Hill, a part of town with huge old houses--they are still there--and the usual run of future celebrities spent their school days. We always heard about Art Carney and Dick Clark and today the community celebrates Denzel Washington and Ken Singleton. I wouldn't say there was a ton of interracial socializing but Ossie Davis and Ruby Dee did appear in scholarship fund-raising shows.
Found one of those little paperback potted histories that are now appearing about many places in the U.S. and one might conclude from it that Mt. Vernon is moving on to greater glories. True, the main shopping streets--probably the first ones wrecked by the move to malls, since nearby Cross County Center was possibly the first big shopping center in the country when it opened in the early 50's--had relatively few vacant stores and there was a lively fair going in the large, still-green park near where I lived.
But it's the kind of place where everyone I knew or grew up with is gone, their families, their stores, their churches or synagogues (all are now black churches). I saw mention of a high school African American classmate who had been on the City Council and I've often recognized names on the obit page of the now-county newspaper--our old all-seeing Daily Argus is gone--when I've perused it. As with most of my classmates and friends who have moved up-county, or even so far as Putnam County, high school reunions happen at hotels in Tarrytown or White Plains. Not exactly light years away but culturally, yes. Probably for different reasons, Thomas Wolfe was right.
Tuesday, August 11, 2009
Julia and Me
After I heard Meryl Streep on Conan O'Brian's first week, I knew I would go see the new movie, Julie and Julia. Suffice it to say that Streep is magnificent in totally capturing Julia Child. Stanley Tucci vaguely also gives a nice performance as Paul Child--the picture only intimates at the reality of his retiring from the Foreign Service and then switching places so he could support his wife in her new endeavors.
I cherish my old paperback editon of Mastering the Art of French Cooking. I never really watched her show all that often but I began using the book in the late '70s. We were in England and although I enjoyed reading Elizabeth David's works--she was the doyenne of English cookery writers, which may not be saying much--they were more fun to read than useful in cooking. Julia Child's book also was available in paperback in Britain far earlier than in the States, where Knopf was making too much money on the hardcover to put it out right away in paper (see--you've already picked up a factoid that the movie overlooked in its worship of Knopf for publishing Child's masterwork when Houghton Mifflin punked out).
It was a terrific book because it taught you how to do things the right way. And once you managed to learn the skills, they were useful in all kinds of other cooking you might try. I still use the English edition even if I have to translate the metric measures and other English eccentricities such as setting your gas oven at Mark 3. Julia Child warns you that American butchers don't cut meat the same way French ones do. I have a feeling she would have thrown up her hands at British butchers' practices.
She also taught you not to fret about making things that sound difficult. Example: she has a great recipe for a veal roast. Right now, by the way, the hardest part about making a veal roast in D.C. is finding the roast. Last time I tried eight stores and the one that had a fancy butcher counter and filled my need (for a price, Ugarte, for a price) just closed down. This recipe is absolutely perfect and always works. Once I went farther and made the fancier spinoff recipe--Veal Sylvie, which involves inserting slices of ham and cheese into the veal roast. That worked too but it's one of the many fancier variations she gives you that are excessively ungepatch, which means excessive, I think. If you like roasted veal, forget about the ham and cheese, even if they are prosciutto and cheddar.
You learn from the movie what an amazing person Julia Child was. She didn't let the total chauvinism (against both women and Americans) of the Cordon Bleu faze her and she also recognized what a wonderland France still is for anyone who loves to cook, or eat, for that matter. Yes, they insist that you do it their way. Absolutely, because that is the right way. Similarly, everything to do with cooking and eating in Italy is about on the same level as it is in France, and everyone is just as impossible in insisting that you do it their way. Look, can you find those fantastic little purplish artichokes anywhere in this country to cook up quickly in the few weeks they are in season?
Britain is now far different from what it was like thirty years ago when I lived there. Lots of restaurants are excellent. But you don't have the same depth in terms of the culture. Press down a level or two and you may find those treacle tarts and sultana rolls and stale pastries that ordinary folks have cherished in Britannia for ever. They even have fancy fast food joints in the London rail stations that specialize in Cornish pasties--surely putting a pig in a silk dress. People just don't believe that British food culture has changed that much and they might be right. The worst change is trying to find a decent fish'n'chips shop--or any fish'n'chip shop.
I cherish my old paperback editon of Mastering the Art of French Cooking. I never really watched her show all that often but I began using the book in the late '70s. We were in England and although I enjoyed reading Elizabeth David's works--she was the doyenne of English cookery writers, which may not be saying much--they were more fun to read than useful in cooking. Julia Child's book also was available in paperback in Britain far earlier than in the States, where Knopf was making too much money on the hardcover to put it out right away in paper (see--you've already picked up a factoid that the movie overlooked in its worship of Knopf for publishing Child's masterwork when Houghton Mifflin punked out).
It was a terrific book because it taught you how to do things the right way. And once you managed to learn the skills, they were useful in all kinds of other cooking you might try. I still use the English edition even if I have to translate the metric measures and other English eccentricities such as setting your gas oven at Mark 3. Julia Child warns you that American butchers don't cut meat the same way French ones do. I have a feeling she would have thrown up her hands at British butchers' practices.
She also taught you not to fret about making things that sound difficult. Example: she has a great recipe for a veal roast. Right now, by the way, the hardest part about making a veal roast in D.C. is finding the roast. Last time I tried eight stores and the one that had a fancy butcher counter and filled my need (for a price, Ugarte, for a price) just closed down. This recipe is absolutely perfect and always works. Once I went farther and made the fancier spinoff recipe--Veal Sylvie, which involves inserting slices of ham and cheese into the veal roast. That worked too but it's one of the many fancier variations she gives you that are excessively ungepatch, which means excessive, I think. If you like roasted veal, forget about the ham and cheese, even if they are prosciutto and cheddar.
You learn from the movie what an amazing person Julia Child was. She didn't let the total chauvinism (against both women and Americans) of the Cordon Bleu faze her and she also recognized what a wonderland France still is for anyone who loves to cook, or eat, for that matter. Yes, they insist that you do it their way. Absolutely, because that is the right way. Similarly, everything to do with cooking and eating in Italy is about on the same level as it is in France, and everyone is just as impossible in insisting that you do it their way. Look, can you find those fantastic little purplish artichokes anywhere in this country to cook up quickly in the few weeks they are in season?
Britain is now far different from what it was like thirty years ago when I lived there. Lots of restaurants are excellent. But you don't have the same depth in terms of the culture. Press down a level or two and you may find those treacle tarts and sultana rolls and stale pastries that ordinary folks have cherished in Britannia for ever. They even have fancy fast food joints in the London rail stations that specialize in Cornish pasties--surely putting a pig in a silk dress. People just don't believe that British food culture has changed that much and they might be right. The worst change is trying to find a decent fish'n'chips shop--or any fish'n'chip shop.
Tuesday, August 4, 2009
Let's Get Boring
Distant Early Warning (remember the DEW line?)--This is much grouchier than usual. Continue with caution.
I heard today that the reason we get no informed analysis of any health care issues on tv is that the network news crews regard it as boring. So by wisely letting Congress take the lead (unlike the Clinton 1993 debacle), Obama has yielded the airwaves to the GOP, scaring the daylights out of people after the Grand Old Party did zilch for eight years and now, after running up the bills, preaches about deficits.
The sad part is what won't get reformed. Neither the insurance companies nor the trial lawyers really want to do anything about the defensive medicine syndrome that has run the costs up. As a patient, I feel for the doctors who have to spend hours writing up endless justifications to satisfy the health care managers of the insurance companies who know little about the medical issues and are there merely to deny as much as possible.
If you've been in Washington more than ten seconds, you're not surprised by nasty compromises but one that galls me is giving the store away to the pharma lobby by preventing the government from negotiating drug prices. Just a total giveaway that smells.
I listen to the blather about people being concerned and the media ritual recitation of poll figures that they have created by pandering. One might wonder whether everyone's forgotten that there was a problem to be solved here. Unlike our last White House tenant, this one at least is trying to do something. One also must never forget that the Hill is essentially bought and paid for by the lobbyists.
Although I seem to be popping more pills every day, my basic health isn't half bad most of the time. Sure, I could lose some weight--yes, I'm actually showing some progress there--actually, I could stand to lose a lot of weight. And I won't use painkillers most of the time because I figure it helps to know how I feel without them. So I wish I could laugh when I hear the pharma lobby fret in its famous commercials about how we need a system where people don't get thrown out of coverage for pre-existing conditions. Maybe we'll soon hear the insurance companies preaching about letting Uncle Sam negotiate drug prices. You guys fight each other.
It strikes me that the most dangerous legacy we still are suffering from after the eight years of snarkiness is the fear factor. Scare people and you can do whatever you want, tap their phones, eliminate taxes for your rich friends, and give handouts to religious crazies and bankers. Don't get me started on bankers.
Wall Street walks off with unearned monster payoffs, everyone on the Hill rips off the public by grabbing earmarks like crazy--and defends the indefensible practice (I've seen the projects that these earmarks fund--) as an inalienable right of being elected to Congress--and then George McGovern can do no better than say that union representation elections need to be preserved. Just because management has enshrined union-busting, and the corporate types grab everything that isn't nailed down, let's not let people organize under the most adverse conditions when a fair election is totally impossible. CEOs and their hand-picked boards set their pay at ridiculous multiples of anyone else's but that's just fine. I used to think people should have been ashamed for voting for the Tricker over George 37 years ago but even that view is quickly vanishing. We sure do need that Festivus for the rest of us.
I heard today that the reason we get no informed analysis of any health care issues on tv is that the network news crews regard it as boring. So by wisely letting Congress take the lead (unlike the Clinton 1993 debacle), Obama has yielded the airwaves to the GOP, scaring the daylights out of people after the Grand Old Party did zilch for eight years and now, after running up the bills, preaches about deficits.
The sad part is what won't get reformed. Neither the insurance companies nor the trial lawyers really want to do anything about the defensive medicine syndrome that has run the costs up. As a patient, I feel for the doctors who have to spend hours writing up endless justifications to satisfy the health care managers of the insurance companies who know little about the medical issues and are there merely to deny as much as possible.
If you've been in Washington more than ten seconds, you're not surprised by nasty compromises but one that galls me is giving the store away to the pharma lobby by preventing the government from negotiating drug prices. Just a total giveaway that smells.
I listen to the blather about people being concerned and the media ritual recitation of poll figures that they have created by pandering. One might wonder whether everyone's forgotten that there was a problem to be solved here. Unlike our last White House tenant, this one at least is trying to do something. One also must never forget that the Hill is essentially bought and paid for by the lobbyists.
Although I seem to be popping more pills every day, my basic health isn't half bad most of the time. Sure, I could lose some weight--yes, I'm actually showing some progress there--actually, I could stand to lose a lot of weight. And I won't use painkillers most of the time because I figure it helps to know how I feel without them. So I wish I could laugh when I hear the pharma lobby fret in its famous commercials about how we need a system where people don't get thrown out of coverage for pre-existing conditions. Maybe we'll soon hear the insurance companies preaching about letting Uncle Sam negotiate drug prices. You guys fight each other.
It strikes me that the most dangerous legacy we still are suffering from after the eight years of snarkiness is the fear factor. Scare people and you can do whatever you want, tap their phones, eliminate taxes for your rich friends, and give handouts to religious crazies and bankers. Don't get me started on bankers.
Wall Street walks off with unearned monster payoffs, everyone on the Hill rips off the public by grabbing earmarks like crazy--and defends the indefensible practice (I've seen the projects that these earmarks fund--) as an inalienable right of being elected to Congress--and then George McGovern can do no better than say that union representation elections need to be preserved. Just because management has enshrined union-busting, and the corporate types grab everything that isn't nailed down, let's not let people organize under the most adverse conditions when a fair election is totally impossible. CEOs and their hand-picked boards set their pay at ridiculous multiples of anyone else's but that's just fine. I used to think people should have been ashamed for voting for the Tricker over George 37 years ago but even that view is quickly vanishing. We sure do need that Festivus for the rest of us.
Monday, July 6, 2009
Bees and Blasts
Too many people who know me are aware that I am not a lover of bees. No apiary on my land, thank you. I know that our agriculture depends on them and that their sudden decline may leave farmers in a hum but I just have never cottoned to them around me. I don't like anything flying that stings, so that includes wasps, hornets and yellow jackets too, but I don't think they have any big cheering squad, except maybe the last at Georgia Tech or University of Rochester. (And yes, there's some Wasps rugby team in England, too, and the Charlotte Hornets, so don't get on me.)
So we're sitting in these nice seats on the Toyota Terrace as it is styled of Petco Park, home of the San Diego Padres, on the day of the game against the Houston Astros, a day prior to the Return of Manny on this same site. Now we have a ballpark named for people who sell dog food. Not that I mean to slight the sushi and Anthony's Fish Grotto version of my beloved Manhattan clam chowder that we were enjoying on said terrace overlooking left field. The Padres were not impressive against the Astros so at the top of the 8th we began to depart the premises, only to hear on the monitors as we moved around the park to the first-base side that play had been suspended and the "swarm delay" lasted 52 minutes.
A swarm of bees invaded left field and landed largely on the jacket hurriedly abandoned by the fleeing third-base line ball girl. First various security types displayed their customary ineptitude in real challenge situations and finally (by this time I was listening in the car to the sportscasters firmly into rain-delay time-killing mode) an actual beekeeper in uniform emerged to deal with the swarm and play resumed.
Saturday night we went to Long Beach City College stadium (home of the 49ers and the Dirtbags baseball team) to watch the old-fashioned fireworks show put on by the fire department there, complete with displays by canine crusaders against crime-- although their ability to seize frisbees may or may not confirm their overall prowess. The fireworks blasted wonderfully right over our heads and there was plenty of patriotic music. Every time I hear the start of The Stars and Stripes Forever, I see Clifton Webb in the title role of The Story of John Philip Sousa opening the score he is about to conduct.
So we're sitting in these nice seats on the Toyota Terrace as it is styled of Petco Park, home of the San Diego Padres, on the day of the game against the Houston Astros, a day prior to the Return of Manny on this same site. Now we have a ballpark named for people who sell dog food. Not that I mean to slight the sushi and Anthony's Fish Grotto version of my beloved Manhattan clam chowder that we were enjoying on said terrace overlooking left field. The Padres were not impressive against the Astros so at the top of the 8th we began to depart the premises, only to hear on the monitors as we moved around the park to the first-base side that play had been suspended and the "swarm delay" lasted 52 minutes.
A swarm of bees invaded left field and landed largely on the jacket hurriedly abandoned by the fleeing third-base line ball girl. First various security types displayed their customary ineptitude in real challenge situations and finally (by this time I was listening in the car to the sportscasters firmly into rain-delay time-killing mode) an actual beekeeper in uniform emerged to deal with the swarm and play resumed.
Saturday night we went to Long Beach City College stadium (home of the 49ers and the Dirtbags baseball team) to watch the old-fashioned fireworks show put on by the fire department there, complete with displays by canine crusaders against crime-- although their ability to seize frisbees may or may not confirm their overall prowess. The fireworks blasted wonderfully right over our heads and there was plenty of patriotic music. Every time I hear the start of The Stars and Stripes Forever, I see Clifton Webb in the title role of The Story of John Philip Sousa opening the score he is about to conduct.
Thursday, July 2, 2009
Paradise
Paradise tends to be an overused word. Now when I was quite young, the stars lighting up the ceiling of the old Loew's Paradise on the Grand Concourse near Fordham Road were impressive. And we did spend our honeymoon on Paradise Island, Nassau, which has now come back into fashion after lying fairly dormant for the intervening years. Vasco da Gama's famed tenor aria from Meyerbeer's L'Africaine, "O Paradiso", was one of Caruso's favorites.
But the first part of this week found us at the part of Mount Rainier National Park in Washington State known as Paradise. It's almost as far in elevation, 5400 ft., that you can drive into the park and it's where the principal hostelry, the Paradise Inn, where we stayed, is located. There are lots of things you cannot do in this particular Paradise. For starters, there's no TV, radio, cell phone reception, or Internet access. This includes Crackberries--they give you that pleasant "No Service" message.
There's lots of snow still on the ground, even on July 1. But there are no ski areas or the place lacks that apres-ski ambience. You can hike on snow-covered trails in boots or running shoes or whatever, with poles or alpenstucks; there are also many wonderful trails that are now snow-free. Many people come to the park to climb the titular mountain, which was uncharacteristically visible every day this week, with no mist or fogor cloud obscuring the peak from view.
In the evening the park rangers give talks at the Paradise Inn and there's a long list of games (dominoes, Scrabble, etc.) you can play, along with cards. The talks we attended included one very ambitious one about the mountain as a sacred place and invited you to conjure up your own sacred places, along with investigating the flora of the park; other talks featured the ravens that are found in the park, along with a reminiscence about a woman who visited the park for the first time in 1915, came back many times thereafter, and turned out to be the ranger's grandmother.
The dining room's menu was classically American, with a generous dollop of sauce Alfredo on quite a few main courses (like most other places in this country, they call main courses "entrees" but we all know that entree in French--and on a French menu--means introduction, or first course). I'm a good target for anything that includes huckleberries any dish that describes itself as hash, generally a lowly item, but here the salmon hash was good, and the prime rib hash acceptable.
The rooms had no closets or phones, of course, and the full-size beds compare unfavorably with the queens and kings you now find in most hostelries. If you bring a large suitcase, be prepared to lug it up or downstairs without benefit of elevator. And when we needed to check out very early one morning, we left a request for a knock on the door, lacking a travel alarm or the aforesaid phone. I happened to wake up ten minutes before the appointed time. No knock followed. When we asked the man at the desk what had happened, he blandly apologized for not remembering. It was very hard to get angry at anyone because they are all very nice.
So you might wonder, what makes this Paradise, other than the name? Well, you are constantly facing mind-blowing vistas of mountain ranges, tall conifers, and some snowscapes. The air is a bit thin and clear and crisp. The trails are generally demanding--most in a mountain area run up and down--but almost inevitably lead to an impressive waterfall or other natural wonder.
You gradually stop thinking about what awaits you once you return to the online world, or the world of cell phones and plasma TVs, or spectator sports, for that matter. You have a chance to read, ruminate, converse, exercise, and just continually savor the delicious scenery. Every evening before dinner there's a cocktail pianist who plays stuff unfamiliar to me but very pleasant. They also put tea and scones or cookies out in the late afternoon. These days, all this may be closer to whatever paradise they may be than anything else I can imagine.
But the first part of this week found us at the part of Mount Rainier National Park in Washington State known as Paradise. It's almost as far in elevation, 5400 ft., that you can drive into the park and it's where the principal hostelry, the Paradise Inn, where we stayed, is located. There are lots of things you cannot do in this particular Paradise. For starters, there's no TV, radio, cell phone reception, or Internet access. This includes Crackberries--they give you that pleasant "No Service" message.
There's lots of snow still on the ground, even on July 1. But there are no ski areas or the place lacks that apres-ski ambience. You can hike on snow-covered trails in boots or running shoes or whatever, with poles or alpenstucks; there are also many wonderful trails that are now snow-free. Many people come to the park to climb the titular mountain, which was uncharacteristically visible every day this week, with no mist or fogor cloud obscuring the peak from view.
In the evening the park rangers give talks at the Paradise Inn and there's a long list of games (dominoes, Scrabble, etc.) you can play, along with cards. The talks we attended included one very ambitious one about the mountain as a sacred place and invited you to conjure up your own sacred places, along with investigating the flora of the park; other talks featured the ravens that are found in the park, along with a reminiscence about a woman who visited the park for the first time in 1915, came back many times thereafter, and turned out to be the ranger's grandmother.
The dining room's menu was classically American, with a generous dollop of sauce Alfredo on quite a few main courses (like most other places in this country, they call main courses "entrees" but we all know that entree in French--and on a French menu--means introduction, or first course). I'm a good target for anything that includes huckleberries any dish that describes itself as hash, generally a lowly item, but here the salmon hash was good, and the prime rib hash acceptable.
The rooms had no closets or phones, of course, and the full-size beds compare unfavorably with the queens and kings you now find in most hostelries. If you bring a large suitcase, be prepared to lug it up or downstairs without benefit of elevator. And when we needed to check out very early one morning, we left a request for a knock on the door, lacking a travel alarm or the aforesaid phone. I happened to wake up ten minutes before the appointed time. No knock followed. When we asked the man at the desk what had happened, he blandly apologized for not remembering. It was very hard to get angry at anyone because they are all very nice.
So you might wonder, what makes this Paradise, other than the name? Well, you are constantly facing mind-blowing vistas of mountain ranges, tall conifers, and some snowscapes. The air is a bit thin and clear and crisp. The trails are generally demanding--most in a mountain area run up and down--but almost inevitably lead to an impressive waterfall or other natural wonder.
You gradually stop thinking about what awaits you once you return to the online world, or the world of cell phones and plasma TVs, or spectator sports, for that matter. You have a chance to read, ruminate, converse, exercise, and just continually savor the delicious scenery. Every evening before dinner there's a cocktail pianist who plays stuff unfamiliar to me but very pleasant. They also put tea and scones or cookies out in the late afternoon. These days, all this may be closer to whatever paradise they may be than anything else I can imagine.
Thursday, June 25, 2009
Show Me
Last night we had a wonderful time at a Smithsonian presentation by a music historian named Robert Wyatt who did about a 2 1/2 hour lecture, with film clips and many musical recordings, of the saga of Lerner & Loewe. He's previously done Rodgers & Hammerstein and Cole Porter, and will end with Irving Berlin.
I hadn't realized that as with so many partners, L & L disliked each other and broke up repeatedly. (Lerner also broke up with his other partners; he was married eight times.) But what incredible music and lyrics! And what memories the whole evening conjured up!
First, I did learn a few things. Moss Hart had been the key catalyst of My Fair Lady. Yes, Shaw's words were perfectly suited to Lerner's lyrical talents, but Hart made everything work, including holding Rex Harrison's hand as Hart personally coached the young Julie Andrews to grow rapidly into the consummate professional she had been bred to be by music-hall performing parents. Hart had been out of action (he soon after tragically died at 52) when Camelot opened without benefit of his brilliant show-doctoring. He eventually came back, totally revamped the show (which was still running by dint of its huge advance sale), got it 20 minutes exposure on Ed Sullivan's show, and left it a success, even if the critics didn't come back to see what he had wrought.
The lecturer, however, roused my ire right at the start. He mentioned that L & L had met at the Lambs in 1942. But he misplaced the location of the Lambs (in its last sad days it had moved uptown to share quarters with some women's club) which was actually in a Stanford White building on West 44th Street (they had been there at least since soon after the turn of the 20th century, when the theater district--along with the Times-- moved north to its present location). Last month I walked by as the interior was being razed for new construction--another tragedy because White had designed that too, including the wonderful theater in the clubhouse.
More on the topic, I remembered when my dad introduced me to Fritz Loewe, who was dining solo at the club's Round Table, a hangout for long-time theatrical veterans. Because I was probably in high school, I don't recall noticing that he was especially short, which he was. He did have a Viennese accent and that leads me to note that I loved Loewe's lilting Viennese melodies before warming to Lerner's clever words. And then I heard about the Lambs' salute to L & L, where most of the cast performed before their peers. When Andrews started to sing, the assemblage as if one demanded one song above all others: "Show Me".
It's always been my favorite in the show, too. Yes, "The Rain in Spain" is the dramatic climax of the musical, but "Show Me" was where Loewe's most delightful tune and Lerner's sharp lyrics hit their peak. The pair wrote several shows before hitting it big with Brigadoon. It was fun watching a clip of Gene Kelly and Cyd Charisse starring in the movie, because their voices were nothing special--Kelly just a few notes stronger vocally than Fred Astaire, for whom Cole Porter wrote all those great songs--but when they started to dance, wow! And the first L & L show had been a flop but again, the dancing must have been something else because the director was none other than George Balanchine.
Two more memories: at a Lambs show where I heard Lee Sullivan, whose delightful Irish tenor originated "I'll Go Home With Bonny Jean" and "Come to Me, Bend to Me" in Brigadoon and never managed to get a similar casting. And seeing that James Barton had been the original lead in Paint Your Wagon brought back a moment at the Lambs' summer picnic (naturally called the "Washing") at the old Percy Williams estate on Long Island where they convinced the by-then legendary Barton to do a brief song-and-dance: he'd been most famous in Tobacco Road in the 30s.
I hadn't realized that as with so many partners, L & L disliked each other and broke up repeatedly. (Lerner also broke up with his other partners; he was married eight times.) But what incredible music and lyrics! And what memories the whole evening conjured up!
First, I did learn a few things. Moss Hart had been the key catalyst of My Fair Lady. Yes, Shaw's words were perfectly suited to Lerner's lyrical talents, but Hart made everything work, including holding Rex Harrison's hand as Hart personally coached the young Julie Andrews to grow rapidly into the consummate professional she had been bred to be by music-hall performing parents. Hart had been out of action (he soon after tragically died at 52) when Camelot opened without benefit of his brilliant show-doctoring. He eventually came back, totally revamped the show (which was still running by dint of its huge advance sale), got it 20 minutes exposure on Ed Sullivan's show, and left it a success, even if the critics didn't come back to see what he had wrought.
The lecturer, however, roused my ire right at the start. He mentioned that L & L had met at the Lambs in 1942. But he misplaced the location of the Lambs (in its last sad days it had moved uptown to share quarters with some women's club) which was actually in a Stanford White building on West 44th Street (they had been there at least since soon after the turn of the 20th century, when the theater district--along with the Times-- moved north to its present location). Last month I walked by as the interior was being razed for new construction--another tragedy because White had designed that too, including the wonderful theater in the clubhouse.
More on the topic, I remembered when my dad introduced me to Fritz Loewe, who was dining solo at the club's Round Table, a hangout for long-time theatrical veterans. Because I was probably in high school, I don't recall noticing that he was especially short, which he was. He did have a Viennese accent and that leads me to note that I loved Loewe's lilting Viennese melodies before warming to Lerner's clever words. And then I heard about the Lambs' salute to L & L, where most of the cast performed before their peers. When Andrews started to sing, the assemblage as if one demanded one song above all others: "Show Me".
It's always been my favorite in the show, too. Yes, "The Rain in Spain" is the dramatic climax of the musical, but "Show Me" was where Loewe's most delightful tune and Lerner's sharp lyrics hit their peak. The pair wrote several shows before hitting it big with Brigadoon. It was fun watching a clip of Gene Kelly and Cyd Charisse starring in the movie, because their voices were nothing special--Kelly just a few notes stronger vocally than Fred Astaire, for whom Cole Porter wrote all those great songs--but when they started to dance, wow! And the first L & L show had been a flop but again, the dancing must have been something else because the director was none other than George Balanchine.
Two more memories: at a Lambs show where I heard Lee Sullivan, whose delightful Irish tenor originated "I'll Go Home With Bonny Jean" and "Come to Me, Bend to Me" in Brigadoon and never managed to get a similar casting. And seeing that James Barton had been the original lead in Paint Your Wagon brought back a moment at the Lambs' summer picnic (naturally called the "Washing") at the old Percy Williams estate on Long Island where they convinced the by-then legendary Barton to do a brief song-and-dance: he'd been most famous in Tobacco Road in the 30s.
Friday, June 19, 2009
Wall Street Lays An Egg
When I hear so-called financial "experts" on the radio (or even worse, on tv) fret about whether we now will have too much regulation on Wall St., the famous 1929 Variety headline (see title) comes to mind. Once again, capitalism has to be saved from itself. At least one intelligent voice suggested that the problem was not too much or too little regulation but the wrong kind of regulation.
It strikes me that for 25 years our economic gurus preached de-regulation and now we reaped the results. I learned in my Securities Reg class umpty-ump years ago from Louis Loss, who wrote half the original SEC regs, that the whole spirit and theory of SEC regulation was disclosure. But that wasn't entirely the story as we now see that specific bars--such as the Glass-Steagall Act's separation of investment and commercial banks--made a heck of a lot more sense than anyone ever acknowledged when they did away with them.
Derivatives were the perfect place where we went off the diving board. Who understood them? Even people who know a stock from a bond hadn't a clue as to what they were being sold. The old principle about not buying something that you can't define went by the wayside. Orange County's crash was the distant early warning (remember the DEW line?) that nobody heeded.
I worked on the Street long ago as a lawyer and learned quickly that the denizens would take anything that wasn't nailed down and they would drive fleets of Mack trucks through any loophole they could find. But it was the wrong kind of regulation that was in force: first, the SEC focused mostly on disclosure. But somehow derivatives--the crazy kind of product that was then called innovative--slipped through without anyone requiring disclosure because they were excluded from regulation altogether. Absolutely nuts. Instead of focusing on the big picture, I recall the SEC intervening in what were then Chapter X reorganizations and making them unfeasible. This made people turn to Chapter XIs, now Chapter 11s under the new bankruptcy law--the one that gave everything away to the credit card operators. I also recall some guy at the SEC who told me I couldn't say "patent pending" in a prospectus rather than "patent filed"--that's what they were focusing on in those days.
Meanwhile they let the ultimate insider, Bernie Madoff, fleece everyone but heck, he was head of NASD and on SEC committees; how could such a dignitary be an out-and-out crook? You could see that the Boston man who had Madoff dead to rights years ahead of the Ponzi scheme's collapse was totally ignored because he hadn't been on SEC committees or been a mucky-muck honcho at "the Commission" before leaving to make a mint in practice. I saw him on TV, noted his loud sport jacket, and thought that they wouldn't ever listen to this guy because he wasn't one of them.
So yes, we need the right kind of regulation and it has to be more than disclosure. Yes, separation of ownership and management is so complete that we have to regulate CEO salaries because the system cannot do it. The CEOs control their boards or they have made it an accepted bit of practice that there really is a market for their breed and they are worth what they get no matter how badly their company performs.
Let's just look at the whole business in this light: we gave them all the rope they wanted and they hanged us, not them, because the CEOs and the hedge fund guys got away with their ill-gotten pelf for the most part and are laughing out in their McMansions. Remember what Goldfinger told James Bond, "...once is happenstance, twice coincidence; the third time, it's enemy action." In terms of jobs lost and businesses gone, and savings wrecked, this one could compare with the 1930s. If we let the system get rebuilt so there aren't sufficient safeguards against the same thing happening in slightly different form (remember the 1929 calls for margin?), we will be the enemy. Everyone forgot that FDR saved capitalism from itself; what bothers me is that while Obama will end up doing the same thing, he may not go far enough to ensure that we are spared the third round.
It strikes me that for 25 years our economic gurus preached de-regulation and now we reaped the results. I learned in my Securities Reg class umpty-ump years ago from Louis Loss, who wrote half the original SEC regs, that the whole spirit and theory of SEC regulation was disclosure. But that wasn't entirely the story as we now see that specific bars--such as the Glass-Steagall Act's separation of investment and commercial banks--made a heck of a lot more sense than anyone ever acknowledged when they did away with them.
Derivatives were the perfect place where we went off the diving board. Who understood them? Even people who know a stock from a bond hadn't a clue as to what they were being sold. The old principle about not buying something that you can't define went by the wayside. Orange County's crash was the distant early warning (remember the DEW line?) that nobody heeded.
I worked on the Street long ago as a lawyer and learned quickly that the denizens would take anything that wasn't nailed down and they would drive fleets of Mack trucks through any loophole they could find. But it was the wrong kind of regulation that was in force: first, the SEC focused mostly on disclosure. But somehow derivatives--the crazy kind of product that was then called innovative--slipped through without anyone requiring disclosure because they were excluded from regulation altogether. Absolutely nuts. Instead of focusing on the big picture, I recall the SEC intervening in what were then Chapter X reorganizations and making them unfeasible. This made people turn to Chapter XIs, now Chapter 11s under the new bankruptcy law--the one that gave everything away to the credit card operators. I also recall some guy at the SEC who told me I couldn't say "patent pending" in a prospectus rather than "patent filed"--that's what they were focusing on in those days.
Meanwhile they let the ultimate insider, Bernie Madoff, fleece everyone but heck, he was head of NASD and on SEC committees; how could such a dignitary be an out-and-out crook? You could see that the Boston man who had Madoff dead to rights years ahead of the Ponzi scheme's collapse was totally ignored because he hadn't been on SEC committees or been a mucky-muck honcho at "the Commission" before leaving to make a mint in practice. I saw him on TV, noted his loud sport jacket, and thought that they wouldn't ever listen to this guy because he wasn't one of them.
So yes, we need the right kind of regulation and it has to be more than disclosure. Yes, separation of ownership and management is so complete that we have to regulate CEO salaries because the system cannot do it. The CEOs control their boards or they have made it an accepted bit of practice that there really is a market for their breed and they are worth what they get no matter how badly their company performs.
Let's just look at the whole business in this light: we gave them all the rope they wanted and they hanged us, not them, because the CEOs and the hedge fund guys got away with their ill-gotten pelf for the most part and are laughing out in their McMansions. Remember what Goldfinger told James Bond, "...once is happenstance, twice coincidence; the third time, it's enemy action." In terms of jobs lost and businesses gone, and savings wrecked, this one could compare with the 1930s. If we let the system get rebuilt so there aren't sufficient safeguards against the same thing happening in slightly different form (remember the 1929 calls for margin?), we will be the enemy. Everyone forgot that FDR saved capitalism from itself; what bothers me is that while Obama will end up doing the same thing, he may not go far enough to ensure that we are spared the third round.
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