Apparently now not only is the oft-invoked "war on terror "win-able but the President, contrary to an earlier statement, emphatically declares that indeed "we will win".
Good to know.
(And thanks to the White House spin doctors for straightening that out for us.)
Tuesday, August 31, 2004
out on the political trail
It's supposed to be about the economy. And it's supposed to be about the wars (the tangible conflicts in Iraq and Afghanistan that continue to cost the very real blood of young men and women, the less specific "war on terror" that the President admits can probably never be completely won, and, for reasons that continue to escape me, the war in Vietnam.) As the GOP begins their own quadrennial political pageant (again championing and highlighting, if only for 4 days, their "compassionate conservatism"), it was supposed to be about these things...and, of course, 9/11 (why else for the Republicans to chose fiercely Democratic New York City as the site for their shindig?)
And yet an issue that neither President Bush nor Senator Kerry really want to get mired in keeps insinuating itself into the periphery of the spotlight. The Gay issue is one on which the candidates actually have a fair amount of common ground (Bush is adamantly against extending marital/civil union rights to gay couples; Kerry's support of gay civil unions is so tepid...and opportunistic...as to be just this side of non-existent) and one they'd probably rather not spend a lot of time dealing with when they're trying desperately to position themselves as moderates (at least by their own unique definitions of that nebulous term.)
Following the New Jersey Governor McGreevey's decision to resign from his job after admitting that he was gay, Ed Schrock, a conservative Republican Congressman representing the Norfolk/Virginia Beach area of Virginia, has quit his own campaign for re-election after allegations surfaced that he might be gay. Schrock, a married 63-year-old, has campaigned actively and vehemently against gay rights issues and so if the allegation is true he is the worst kind of hypocrite.
But, that said, it remains just that...an allegation. Schrock was "outed" on a blog dedicated to routing out hypocrites in political office. As of this writing, the Congressman has neither confirmed nor denied the allegations about his sexuality, he has just said that he was quitting the political stage before his family was dragged into a public spectacle.
The timing of the release of this "news" as the Republican Convention was beginning is, of course, more than a little calculated...but that's par for the course in the take-no-prisoners way in which political campaigns are waged (both by the candidates and their partisan proxies.)
And so, sadly, it goes.
And yet an issue that neither President Bush nor Senator Kerry really want to get mired in keeps insinuating itself into the periphery of the spotlight. The Gay issue is one on which the candidates actually have a fair amount of common ground (Bush is adamantly against extending marital/civil union rights to gay couples; Kerry's support of gay civil unions is so tepid...and opportunistic...as to be just this side of non-existent) and one they'd probably rather not spend a lot of time dealing with when they're trying desperately to position themselves as moderates (at least by their own unique definitions of that nebulous term.)
Following the New Jersey Governor McGreevey's decision to resign from his job after admitting that he was gay, Ed Schrock, a conservative Republican Congressman representing the Norfolk/Virginia Beach area of Virginia, has quit his own campaign for re-election after allegations surfaced that he might be gay. Schrock, a married 63-year-old, has campaigned actively and vehemently against gay rights issues and so if the allegation is true he is the worst kind of hypocrite.
But, that said, it remains just that...an allegation. Schrock was "outed" on a blog dedicated to routing out hypocrites in political office. As of this writing, the Congressman has neither confirmed nor denied the allegations about his sexuality, he has just said that he was quitting the political stage before his family was dragged into a public spectacle.
The timing of the release of this "news" as the Republican Convention was beginning is, of course, more than a little calculated...but that's par for the course in the take-no-prisoners way in which political campaigns are waged (both by the candidates and their partisan proxies.)
And so, sadly, it goes.
Monday, August 30, 2004
pride
A DJ in Chapel Hill, North Carolina organized a "heterosexual pride parade" this past weekend. 80-100 (depending on the news source) people marched carrying signs like "Don't hate, we're straight". It was, of course, a ratings stunt for the DJ's radio show as well as a lighthearted (and, in some cases, not so lighthearted) sarcastic jab at gay pride parades that happen all over the country.
Some gay activists took umbrage...other people took it as a joke...and some took it more seriously than they probably should have. But that's life in America...free speech is not absolute (the hoary cliche about not yelling "fire!" in a crowded theater and all that) but organizing and participating in such a parade is comfortably and undeniably under that 1st amendment umbrella.
That said, it will be nice we get to a point where pride...in whatever and whomever you are...is something that is such a natural part of our individual beings...and something accepted by others accept as a matter of course rather feared because it's something different than what they are or know... that we have no need make ostentatious collective displays to "prove" how proud you are to be what you are.
Some gay activists took umbrage...other people took it as a joke...and some took it more seriously than they probably should have. But that's life in America...free speech is not absolute (the hoary cliche about not yelling "fire!" in a crowded theater and all that) but organizing and participating in such a parade is comfortably and undeniably under that 1st amendment umbrella.
That said, it will be nice we get to a point where pride...in whatever and whomever you are...is something that is such a natural part of our individual beings...and something accepted by others accept as a matter of course rather feared because it's something different than what they are or know... that we have no need make ostentatious collective displays to "prove" how proud you are to be what you are.
Saturday, August 28, 2004
God Bless the Child
Ruby Brown was a blues singer. Some folks said that she was one of the best goddamn blues singers who ever lived...or, at very least, the best blues singer who ever played the Holiday's End, the dank little club where she held court on most weekends with her band and her two score (give or take) hardcore devotees.
Ruby didn't care about any of that...she just loved to sing. She loved to sing in that husky, smoldering, smoky voice of hers. To sing her bittersweet tales of broken dreams and broken dreamers...of jilted lovers and jilting heartbreakers...of passions lost and passions willfully indulged (in the shadows...in the wee uncaring hours of the night...)
Yes, Ruby loved to sing the blues. And she loved to casually smoke unfiltered cigarettes. And to laugh loud and hollowly at jokes she would never explain to anyone. And she especially loved to drink Johnny Walker Black from beer mugs.
She loved to feel the weight of burly, leather-palmed, cigar-smoking truck drivers on top of her wide-hipped, ample-bosomed body. They came to the club to drown themselves in watery beer and try to forget about their wives and/or their lives.
And they found some small solace in Ruby...she loved their world-weary, sweating bodies and the way their practiced hands roamed hungrily over her letting her slip away to another plane for a while.
She reveled in their smutty, boozy endearments...whispered feverishly and grunted uncouthly in the throes of lust and ill‑focused anger and loneliness offered as they tried to find from shelter from the vagaries of the world in the lush, liberating humidity of her sturdy golden body.
In their brutal gentleness she found some small measures of solace and amnesia in them...and, after a fashion and only fleetingly, she loved them for that.
But most of all...most of all...Ruby Brown loved to sing the blues.
The stories about Ruby's past were many...but all were unsubstantiated by her. She steadfastly refused to discuss her past with anyone. And, even when she had downed one mug of Johnny Walker Black too many, she never did.
Her reticence had, almost as a matter of course, gave birth to many colorful legends. Some said that she'd left a husband and 5 (or 6...8...12...the number varied by the storyteller) children in some backwater Midwestern town (or grimy East Coast ghetto...or insulated and insular bayou village in Louisiana) to come to L.A. in search of fame and fortune. ("Freakin' A!" Ruby would exclaim whenever she heard that one. She'd raise her mug and offer a toast "to hubby and all of the little rugrats".)
Others claimed that she'd left home...running away from her daddy...when she was 13 to move in with a 50-year-old blues harp player who taught her how to sing the blues (and how to drink...and how to smoke unfiltered cigarettes...and how to make love...)
Ruby just smiled wistfully at that one. (Old Nate, the harp player in Ruby's band, always just smiled enigmatically whenever he was asked about the veracity of this particular legend.)
The more fanciful among the usually-inebriated legend-weavers claimed that she had no beginning...no mama and no daddy...and that she would have no end. That she'd been put on this Earth to bring the healing power of the blues to the sad, tired souls whom God had led to her smoky, dingy little "church".
Ruby, for her part, tolerated the storytelling but resolved to leave her past in the past. She just wanted to sing.
And so she sang...urgent torch songs that could bring melancholy (and/or redemption) to the most calloused of hearts...roaring gutbucket blues stompers that could make a dead man dance (or, at very least, make him tap his foot admiringly, devil be damned, for a soulful instant.)
And always, at the end of the last set of the evening (and for no one but herself), there would be a mournful reading of Lady Day's self-affirming "God Bless the Child" that always, without exception, ended with a tear on her cheek and a perceptible choke in her voice.
"God Bless the Child" always made Ruby Brown cry.
And she sang it every night.
One August night, the air was thick with summer's humid heat and the Holiday's End's air conditioner was in its customary state of disrepair and Ruby and her quartet were playing languidly to a sparse, loyal gathering of regulars.
Ruby's eyes were closed as she swayed her hips lazily while Old Nate blew sweaty harp riffs over the rhythm section's chunky bottom. Richie, one of Ruby's more regular lovers, smoked his pungent cigar and smiled...fondly and expectantly...at Ruby's sassy, undulating body. None of them noticed when the tall man in the three-piece blue suit came into the club and sat at a table in the back of the room. He ordered a club soda and watched Ruby impassively.
Old Nate saw him first as he came out of an intense solo and a wince of recognition stole over his withered face. Ruby noticed him then and her face gray-green eyes went hard and alert.
Ruby abruptly called for "God Bless the Child", a song she never performed so early in the evening, and the band...spurred on by her sudden intensity and by Old Nate's urgent, wailing intro...launched into the song with a vengeful spirit of triumph...and finality.
Ruby sang the song..."god bless the child"...with sober, tear‑free eyes..."that's got her own"...staring all the while at the tall man in the three-piece suit. The man, undaunted, sipped his club soda and stared back.
The song ended with a flourish and there followed a long, tense silence. The whole room was keyed into her emotional state. Ruby stood defiantly, her hands on her hips, staring at the man in the three-piece suit.
The man finished his soda staring back at her all the while. Then he stood up, adjusted his tie, laid a ten-dollar bill on the table, and nodded, almost imperceptibly, at Ruby. He turned and walked out of the club without looking back.
Old Nate leaned over and whispered something to Ruby squeezing her shoulder affectionately. Ruby smiled weakly and nodded. Ruby shrugged her shoulders and picked up the bottle of Johnny Walker Black that was waiting, as always, at the bar for her. She took Richie's beefy, calloused hand and led him through the back door and up the stairs to her apartment above the club.
"Who was that guy?" Richie asked.
"My daddy," she said without rancor.
Ruby never sang "God Bless the Child" again.
She smoked her cigarettes...and drank her scotch...and loved her men...and let yesterday stay as far away as she possibly could.
And she sang the blues.
Ruby didn't care about any of that...she just loved to sing. She loved to sing in that husky, smoldering, smoky voice of hers. To sing her bittersweet tales of broken dreams and broken dreamers...of jilted lovers and jilting heartbreakers...of passions lost and passions willfully indulged (in the shadows...in the wee uncaring hours of the night...)
Yes, Ruby loved to sing the blues. And she loved to casually smoke unfiltered cigarettes. And to laugh loud and hollowly at jokes she would never explain to anyone. And she especially loved to drink Johnny Walker Black from beer mugs.
She loved to feel the weight of burly, leather-palmed, cigar-smoking truck drivers on top of her wide-hipped, ample-bosomed body. They came to the club to drown themselves in watery beer and try to forget about their wives and/or their lives.
And they found some small solace in Ruby...she loved their world-weary, sweating bodies and the way their practiced hands roamed hungrily over her letting her slip away to another plane for a while.
She reveled in their smutty, boozy endearments...whispered feverishly and grunted uncouthly in the throes of lust and ill‑focused anger and loneliness offered as they tried to find from shelter from the vagaries of the world in the lush, liberating humidity of her sturdy golden body.
In their brutal gentleness she found some small measures of solace and amnesia in them...and, after a fashion and only fleetingly, she loved them for that.
But most of all...most of all...Ruby Brown loved to sing the blues.
The stories about Ruby's past were many...but all were unsubstantiated by her. She steadfastly refused to discuss her past with anyone. And, even when she had downed one mug of Johnny Walker Black too many, she never did.
Her reticence had, almost as a matter of course, gave birth to many colorful legends. Some said that she'd left a husband and 5 (or 6...8...12...the number varied by the storyteller) children in some backwater Midwestern town (or grimy East Coast ghetto...or insulated and insular bayou village in Louisiana) to come to L.A. in search of fame and fortune. ("Freakin' A!" Ruby would exclaim whenever she heard that one. She'd raise her mug and offer a toast "to hubby and all of the little rugrats".)
Others claimed that she'd left home...running away from her daddy...when she was 13 to move in with a 50-year-old blues harp player who taught her how to sing the blues (and how to drink...and how to smoke unfiltered cigarettes...and how to make love...)
Ruby just smiled wistfully at that one. (Old Nate, the harp player in Ruby's band, always just smiled enigmatically whenever he was asked about the veracity of this particular legend.)
The more fanciful among the usually-inebriated legend-weavers claimed that she had no beginning...no mama and no daddy...and that she would have no end. That she'd been put on this Earth to bring the healing power of the blues to the sad, tired souls whom God had led to her smoky, dingy little "church".
Ruby, for her part, tolerated the storytelling but resolved to leave her past in the past. She just wanted to sing.
And so she sang...urgent torch songs that could bring melancholy (and/or redemption) to the most calloused of hearts...roaring gutbucket blues stompers that could make a dead man dance (or, at very least, make him tap his foot admiringly, devil be damned, for a soulful instant.)
And always, at the end of the last set of the evening (and for no one but herself), there would be a mournful reading of Lady Day's self-affirming "God Bless the Child" that always, without exception, ended with a tear on her cheek and a perceptible choke in her voice.
"God Bless the Child" always made Ruby Brown cry.
And she sang it every night.
One August night, the air was thick with summer's humid heat and the Holiday's End's air conditioner was in its customary state of disrepair and Ruby and her quartet were playing languidly to a sparse, loyal gathering of regulars.
Ruby's eyes were closed as she swayed her hips lazily while Old Nate blew sweaty harp riffs over the rhythm section's chunky bottom. Richie, one of Ruby's more regular lovers, smoked his pungent cigar and smiled...fondly and expectantly...at Ruby's sassy, undulating body. None of them noticed when the tall man in the three-piece blue suit came into the club and sat at a table in the back of the room. He ordered a club soda and watched Ruby impassively.
Old Nate saw him first as he came out of an intense solo and a wince of recognition stole over his withered face. Ruby noticed him then and her face gray-green eyes went hard and alert.
Ruby abruptly called for "God Bless the Child", a song she never performed so early in the evening, and the band...spurred on by her sudden intensity and by Old Nate's urgent, wailing intro...launched into the song with a vengeful spirit of triumph...and finality.
Ruby sang the song..."god bless the child"...with sober, tear‑free eyes..."that's got her own"...staring all the while at the tall man in the three-piece suit. The man, undaunted, sipped his club soda and stared back.
The song ended with a flourish and there followed a long, tense silence. The whole room was keyed into her emotional state. Ruby stood defiantly, her hands on her hips, staring at the man in the three-piece suit.
The man finished his soda staring back at her all the while. Then he stood up, adjusted his tie, laid a ten-dollar bill on the table, and nodded, almost imperceptibly, at Ruby. He turned and walked out of the club without looking back.
Old Nate leaned over and whispered something to Ruby squeezing her shoulder affectionately. Ruby smiled weakly and nodded. Ruby shrugged her shoulders and picked up the bottle of Johnny Walker Black that was waiting, as always, at the bar for her. She took Richie's beefy, calloused hand and led him through the back door and up the stairs to her apartment above the club.
"Who was that guy?" Richie asked.
"My daddy," she said without rancor.
Ruby never sang "God Bless the Child" again.
She smoked her cigarettes...and drank her scotch...and loved her men...and let yesterday stay as far away as she possibly could.
And she sang the blues.
Because most of all...most of all...Ruby Brown loved to sing the blues.
©2004 neverending rainbow enterprises, ltd. All rights reserved.
©2004 neverending rainbow enterprises, ltd. All rights reserved.
Thursday, August 26, 2004
heart of the city
Though I live in San Diego, I think it's more to the point to think of myself as living in the suburbs. The part of town I'm living in...Mira Mesa... is considered part of the larger city but it is separated from the main body of San Diego by an expansive military base and by the fact that we are, as you could surmise from the name, on something of a mesa (it's not like we're up miles above sea level or anything...but hey, a mesa is a mesa.)
San Diego is a big city...but, at its heart, its more a collection of villages and almost self-contained neighborhoods (each with its own vibe and pulse and style) than a sprawling, homogeneous metropolis. And, having grown up in the sprawling metropolis that is Los Angeles, that's one of the reasons I like it so much.
Life is the suburbs does, as a matter of course, have a different rhythm from life in the metropolitan heart of a big city like San Diego...something I reflected on as I journeyed into the heart of the city last night to have coffee with a group of friends (well, in my case, tea, since I've never developed a taste for coffee...the good folks at the omnipresent Starbucks are much more likely to sell me a CD...their artists' choice compilations are often quite amazing... than one of their frothy, polysyllabic concoctions :-)
There's a certain stillness to night in the suburbs...a quiet that is deep and comforting. On the other hand, there is a rush of energy to night in the city...a pulsating crackle that seems like it probably never stops. One's not "right" or better than the other, they're just what they need to be. And that's, of course, all to the good.
San Diego is a big city...but, at its heart, its more a collection of villages and almost self-contained neighborhoods (each with its own vibe and pulse and style) than a sprawling, homogeneous metropolis. And, having grown up in the sprawling metropolis that is Los Angeles, that's one of the reasons I like it so much.
Life is the suburbs does, as a matter of course, have a different rhythm from life in the metropolitan heart of a big city like San Diego...something I reflected on as I journeyed into the heart of the city last night to have coffee with a group of friends (well, in my case, tea, since I've never developed a taste for coffee...the good folks at the omnipresent Starbucks are much more likely to sell me a CD...their artists' choice compilations are often quite amazing... than one of their frothy, polysyllabic concoctions :-)
There's a certain stillness to night in the suburbs...a quiet that is deep and comforting. On the other hand, there is a rush of energy to night in the city...a pulsating crackle that seems like it probably never stops. One's not "right" or better than the other, they're just what they need to be. And that's, of course, all to the good.
Wednesday, August 25, 2004
agreeing to disagree
"Freedom means freedom for everyone...people be ought to be able to be free to enter into any kind of relationship they want to."
That's Vice President Dick Cheney addressing a question about gay marriage and his own opposition to the proposed Constitutional amendment that would define marriage as a union between one man and one woman. At first blush it would seem odd that Cheney, the Bush administration's arch-conservative attack dog, would publicly espouse a stand so divergent from that of his boss...so divergent from the views of so many of his conservative brethren.
But then you have to take into account the fact that one of Cheney's daughters is a lesbian and it suddenly makes much more sense. It is, after all, hard to demonize and marginalize a group that includes your own flesh and blood...that includes the woman who used to be (and in some ways always will be) your "little girl".
The Vice-President acknowledges that the administration's official policy is the purview of President Bush but he retains his right to, on this issue at least, agree to respectfully disagree with that policy.
I wonder if Dubya's dogged opposition to gay marriage would chance if one of his girls came out of the closet? I guess we'll never know...
That's Vice President Dick Cheney addressing a question about gay marriage and his own opposition to the proposed Constitutional amendment that would define marriage as a union between one man and one woman. At first blush it would seem odd that Cheney, the Bush administration's arch-conservative attack dog, would publicly espouse a stand so divergent from that of his boss...so divergent from the views of so many of his conservative brethren.
But then you have to take into account the fact that one of Cheney's daughters is a lesbian and it suddenly makes much more sense. It is, after all, hard to demonize and marginalize a group that includes your own flesh and blood...that includes the woman who used to be (and in some ways always will be) your "little girl".
The Vice-President acknowledges that the administration's official policy is the purview of President Bush but he retains his right to, on this issue at least, agree to respectfully disagree with that policy.
I wonder if Dubya's dogged opposition to gay marriage would chance if one of his girls came out of the closet? I guess we'll never know...
Tuesday, August 24, 2004
a troubadour
There are some things in this life that stand out as gloriously, absolutely indelible and thrilling…little bits of wonder and magic that never fail to instill awe and envy and undying respect and affection.
Think of the burnt orange glow of a perfect summer’s sunset. Think of the music of a child’s unabashed laughter. Think of the way your heart beats just a little faster when think about someone you truly, passionately love. Think of the way your spirit soars when you contemplate creation…by the hand of nature in the boundless universe or by the everyday magic of life growing in a woman’s nurturing womb.
Think of the creators…the artists and poets, the thinkers and dreamers, the visionaries and the teachers. Think of the wizards finding nuance and majesty and bittersweet truth in words and images joined in unique, amazing ways…in ideas given life in myriad, marvelous new perspectives…in light and sound woven into challenging, heartbreaking, life-affirming, utterly wondrous colors, shapes and forms.
Think of the heralds and the troubadours…think of, for example, Ray Charles.
Listening this morning to a pre-release streaming audio of his last album (it’s due out next week as I write this), recorded even as his body was losing its final fight, felt like that magic I spoke of washing all over me. Even with his failing health, his majestic voice no longer as gloriously rich and soulful as it was in his youth, Ray Charles still understood how to touch…and share…that undeniable, barely definable connection with the infinite that separates the dreamers from the rest of us grateful mortal souls.
“Genius Loves Company” features Ray sharing duets with friends, peers, and admirers…Van Morrison, B.B. King, Gladys Knight, Bonnie Raitt, Willie Nelson, Elton John, Natalie Cole, Norah Jones, Diana Krall, Michael McDonald, James Taylor, and Johnny Mathis…and it’s a fitting, if bittersweet, testament to his lasting…well, how else to put it?...genius.
Think of the burnt orange glow of a perfect summer’s sunset. Think of the music of a child’s unabashed laughter. Think of the way your heart beats just a little faster when think about someone you truly, passionately love. Think of the way your spirit soars when you contemplate creation…by the hand of nature in the boundless universe or by the everyday magic of life growing in a woman’s nurturing womb.
Think of the creators…the artists and poets, the thinkers and dreamers, the visionaries and the teachers. Think of the wizards finding nuance and majesty and bittersweet truth in words and images joined in unique, amazing ways…in ideas given life in myriad, marvelous new perspectives…in light and sound woven into challenging, heartbreaking, life-affirming, utterly wondrous colors, shapes and forms.
Think of the heralds and the troubadours…think of, for example, Ray Charles.
Listening this morning to a pre-release streaming audio of his last album (it’s due out next week as I write this), recorded even as his body was losing its final fight, felt like that magic I spoke of washing all over me. Even with his failing health, his majestic voice no longer as gloriously rich and soulful as it was in his youth, Ray Charles still understood how to touch…and share…that undeniable, barely definable connection with the infinite that separates the dreamers from the rest of us grateful mortal souls.
“Genius Loves Company” features Ray sharing duets with friends, peers, and admirers…Van Morrison, B.B. King, Gladys Knight, Bonnie Raitt, Willie Nelson, Elton John, Natalie Cole, Norah Jones, Diana Krall, Michael McDonald, James Taylor, and Johnny Mathis…and it’s a fitting, if bittersweet, testament to his lasting…well, how else to put it?...genius.
Monday, August 23, 2004
August
we pause...looking forward, looking back...
and then you gently sweep us on...
your breezes heralding the soothing grey of autumn,
your lingering heat stoking and sustaining
the fiery undeniable passions in our blood...
we sail on, we sail on,
celebrating your brief hour
and finding sweet solace in so doing.
©2004 neverending rainbow enterprises, ltd.
and then you gently sweep us on...
your breezes heralding the soothing grey of autumn,
your lingering heat stoking and sustaining
the fiery undeniable passions in our blood...
we sail on, we sail on,
celebrating your brief hour
and finding sweet solace in so doing.
©2004 neverending rainbow enterprises, ltd.
Saturday, August 21, 2004
enterprising nutsellers
One of the most clever things to come out of the Olympics is the advertising campaign for Emerald Nuts featuring Egomanical Normans, Extreme Nurses, Electromagnetic Navigations, and other wacky "ENs". The short spots are a hoot...often more entertaining than NBC's heavily edited (and, despite their promises to the contrary and a fairly good beginning, too often nakedly jingoistic) coverage of the games.
If you haven't seen the ads, the title of this entry is a hot link that will take you to the Emerald Nuts site (which is an entertaining stop on the web in and of itself.)
If you haven't seen the ads, the title of this entry is a hot link that will take you to the Emerald Nuts site (which is an entertaining stop on the web in and of itself.)
Thursday, August 19, 2004
Citizen Keyes
Alan Keyes (resident of Maryland, failed Presidential candidate) in 2000:
"I deeply resent the destruction of federalism represented by Hillary Clinton's willingness to go into a state she doesn't even live in and pretend to represent the people there. So I certainly wouldn't imitate it."
Alan Keyes (resident of Maryland, failed Presidential candidate) in 2004:
"When I was first approached with the offer to run for the Senate in Illinois, I was hesitant to agree, since I am not from the state. However, when all of these friends of mine sent me information on the unopposed Democrat candidate, Barack Obama, I agreed that it just seemed wrong that somebody with his record should kind of waltz into the United States Senate unopposed. "
I guess bemoaning "the destruction of federalism"...not to mention, blithely indulging in sanctimonious, self-serving hypocrisy...is subject to re-interpretation when personal interest comes into play.
"I deeply resent the destruction of federalism represented by Hillary Clinton's willingness to go into a state she doesn't even live in and pretend to represent the people there. So I certainly wouldn't imitate it."
Alan Keyes (resident of Maryland, failed Presidential candidate) in 2004:
"When I was first approached with the offer to run for the Senate in Illinois, I was hesitant to agree, since I am not from the state. However, when all of these friends of mine sent me information on the unopposed Democrat candidate, Barack Obama, I agreed that it just seemed wrong that somebody with his record should kind of waltz into the United States Senate unopposed. "
I guess bemoaning "the destruction of federalism"...not to mention, blithely indulging in sanctimonious, self-serving hypocrisy...is subject to re-interpretation when personal interest comes into play.
nightswimming
Nightswimming
deserves a quiet night.
deserves a quiet night.
I’m not sure all these people understand.
It’s not like years ago,The fear of getting caught,
Of recklessness and water.
They cannot see me naked.
These things, they go away,
Replaced by everyday.
Beyond the circle of blood family…the circle of love and hope and connection we are born into…is the circle of found family…the circle(s) we chose to join for one wondrously bittersweet reason or another. The circle of found family continues…from the time we can talk to the time we die and beyond…ever changing, ever waxing and waning, ever coloring the steps and choices we make on the path towards the light (and whatever lies beyond.)
The circle of found family is filled with friends and lovers…friends who become lovers…lovers who become friends…friends and lovers. Filled with former lovers, sighing nostalgically or spitting ruefully when our memories intrude unbidden in their nowadays thoughts; and former friends who danced with us for only a brief season before moving on. All of whom fade into the shimmering halls of memory gone but forever present just the same
There is an R.E.M. song…my favorite R.E.M. song in fact…that speaks, wistfully and tenderly, to this happenstance…and the happenstance of people, even people we love, knowing us without ever completely knowing us (sometimes because we don’t want them to know us completely…sometimes because all we want from others is the little piece we chose to accept and embrace, the sliver of emotional nudity we chose, consciously or not, to reveal.)
You, I thought I knew you.
Beyond the circle of blood family…the circle of love and hope and connection we are born into…is the circle of found family…the circle(s) we chose to join for one wondrously bittersweet reason or another. The circle of found family continues…from the time we can talk to the time we die and beyond…ever changing, ever waxing and waning, ever coloring the steps and choices we make on the path towards the light (and whatever lies beyond.)
The circle of found family is filled with friends and lovers…friends who become lovers…lovers who become friends…friends and lovers. Filled with former lovers, sighing nostalgically or spitting ruefully when our memories intrude unbidden in their nowadays thoughts; and former friends who danced with us for only a brief season before moving on. All of whom fade into the shimmering halls of memory gone but forever present just the same
There is an R.E.M. song…my favorite R.E.M. song in fact…that speaks, wistfully and tenderly, to this happenstance…and the happenstance of people, even people we love, knowing us without ever completely knowing us (sometimes because we don’t want them to know us completely…sometimes because all we want from others is the little piece we chose to accept and embrace, the sliver of emotional nudity we chose, consciously or not, to reveal.)
You, I thought I knew you.
You I cannot judge.
You, I thought you knew me,
This one laughing quietly underneath my breath.
Nightswimming.
Thinking back on my own ever changing, ever renewing circle of found family, I am struck by how lasting some of the connections have been. I am struck by how fleeting, though indelible still, others have been. Friends and lovers…friends who became lovers…lovers who became friends…it is a wistful, tender, wholly incomplete list stretching from childhood…
…Bobby, Michael, April, Lloyd, Robin, Alan, “The Wizard of Os”, Gina, and some whose names I've lost…
…and on into my majority…
…Lori, Alvaro, Simon, Magdalena, John, Jesus, Steve & Anne, Nadelle, Joe, Marta, Debra, and others…
Friends. Lovers. Friends who became lovers…lovers who became friends…slipping into and sometimes out of (sometimes acrimoniously, more often not) the circle of found family…gone but forever present just the same. It is as it should be…a circle never stops and never stops changing…and the tapestry of life is all the more vibrant for that.
The photograph reflects,
Thinking back on my own ever changing, ever renewing circle of found family, I am struck by how lasting some of the connections have been. I am struck by how fleeting, though indelible still, others have been. Friends and lovers…friends who became lovers…lovers who became friends…it is a wistful, tender, wholly incomplete list stretching from childhood…
…Bobby, Michael, April, Lloyd, Robin, Alan, “The Wizard of Os”, Gina, and some whose names I've lost…
…and on into my majority…
…Lori, Alvaro, Simon, Magdalena, John, Jesus, Steve & Anne, Nadelle, Joe, Marta, Debra, and others…
Friends. Lovers. Friends who became lovers…lovers who became friends…slipping into and sometimes out of (sometimes acrimoniously, more often not) the circle of found family…gone but forever present just the same. It is as it should be…a circle never stops and never stops changing…and the tapestry of life is all the more vibrant for that.
The photograph reflects,
Every streetlight a reminder.
Nightswimming
deserves a quiet night,
deserves a quiet night.
deserves a quiet night,
deserves a quiet night.
******
“Nightswimming”
words and music by R.E.M.
©1992 R.E.M./Athens, Ltd.
Recommended listening:
R.E.M.:
Automatic for the People (1992)
Life’s Rich Pageant (1986)
Document (1987)
Out of Time (1991)
In Time: The Best of R.E.M. 1988-2003
Wednesday, August 18, 2004
America's finest city?
"America's finest city" is not completely living up to its rep these days. The cost of buying a home has escalated to ridiculous heights (a median price of over $400,000 as of this writing) and the highways and byways are more congested than ever ("mass transit" is something of a myth in our fine city.)
We pay an extra sales tax for reasons I'm not completely clear about and the only growth industries seem to be related to Indian casinos and real estate agents. And tonight the news tells me that half of the city's public swimming pools are going to close for the winter because of budgetary concerns. Close for the "winter". In San Diego. Yikes.
And...*sigh*... we've got the Padres and the Chargers (and thus for yours truly, a resident of more than two decades, it remains delightfully easy to maintain my loyalty to my childhood favorite Dodgers and Raiders.)
And, all that notwithstanding, we're still doing okay. We've got the sun (though we could use more rain...though I guess that having 11 months of sunshine with mostly comfortable temperatures is not really something we should be complaining about) and the people...and maddening and wonderful and diverse a lot as you will find anyway. We've got the feel of small towns (thanks to the distinctive neighborhoods that make up the city) with the expanse and convenience of a major metropolitan area.
"America's finest"? I don't know. But, all things considered, it will most certainly do.
We pay an extra sales tax for reasons I'm not completely clear about and the only growth industries seem to be related to Indian casinos and real estate agents. And tonight the news tells me that half of the city's public swimming pools are going to close for the winter because of budgetary concerns. Close for the "winter". In San Diego. Yikes.
And...*sigh*... we've got the Padres and the Chargers (and thus for yours truly, a resident of more than two decades, it remains delightfully easy to maintain my loyalty to my childhood favorite Dodgers and Raiders.)
And, all that notwithstanding, we're still doing okay. We've got the sun (though we could use more rain...though I guess that having 11 months of sunshine with mostly comfortable temperatures is not really something we should be complaining about) and the people...and maddening and wonderful and diverse a lot as you will find anyway. We've got the feel of small towns (thanks to the distinctive neighborhoods that make up the city) with the expanse and convenience of a major metropolitan area.
"America's finest"? I don't know. But, all things considered, it will most certainly do.
Tuesday, August 17, 2004
learning stuff from the Olympics
I guess I never really knew that handball was a team sport played on a basketball court (or something akin to one) with soccer type nets on either end of the playing space.
NBC is sticking to its promise to use its networks to present Olympic events that have often been ignored by broadcasters...and I'm learning stuff. It's all good.
NBC's announcers are still far too jingoistic for my tastes but that goes with the territory, I guess...they are broadcasting to a US audience...and I'm trying to ignore that as much as I can. (I'm a patriotic guy and I like seeing the home folks on the medal stand but it gets a bit embarrassing when the announcers frame everything through the prism of Americans winning...or losing...rather than celebrating the victors no matter what country they come from without "if only" caveats when it doesn't go the American way.)
As with most Olympic sports, most of us will pay scant attention to most of the contests being showcased these two weeks until the world gathers again in China in '08 but for now it's interesting to see them played with the highest levels of skill and commitment.
Beyond handball, I've watched badmitton (man, for a cute pastime that people play in their rumpus rooms, it certainly looks killer when it's played by grown men), beach volleyball (which still looks less like a sport than something you do after having a couple of beers down by the shore), synchronized diving (an interesting exhibition that), and ping pong...I mean, table tennis. I've seen folks shooting air rifles and shotguns and tiny women with lots of vowels in their names lifting three times their body weights.
I've watched lots of swimming and just enough football (I know that soccer is the most popular sport in the world but, I have to be honest, I still don't get the appeal of it.) I've watched some of the different kinds of rowing and dozens of sweaty guys riding bicycles through the storied streets of Athens under an unforgiving sun (guess nobody thought to ask Apollo to cut the guys a bit of slack :-) And the gymnastics...the pure physicality of the men and the more dainty grace of the pixie-like "women"...are, of course, all but unavoidable.
The Olympics are on...and I'm learning stuff. It's all good.
NBC is sticking to its promise to use its networks to present Olympic events that have often been ignored by broadcasters...and I'm learning stuff. It's all good.
NBC's announcers are still far too jingoistic for my tastes but that goes with the territory, I guess...they are broadcasting to a US audience...and I'm trying to ignore that as much as I can. (I'm a patriotic guy and I like seeing the home folks on the medal stand but it gets a bit embarrassing when the announcers frame everything through the prism of Americans winning...or losing...rather than celebrating the victors no matter what country they come from without "if only" caveats when it doesn't go the American way.)
As with most Olympic sports, most of us will pay scant attention to most of the contests being showcased these two weeks until the world gathers again in China in '08 but for now it's interesting to see them played with the highest levels of skill and commitment.
Beyond handball, I've watched badmitton (man, for a cute pastime that people play in their rumpus rooms, it certainly looks killer when it's played by grown men), beach volleyball (which still looks less like a sport than something you do after having a couple of beers down by the shore), synchronized diving (an interesting exhibition that), and ping pong...I mean, table tennis. I've seen folks shooting air rifles and shotguns and tiny women with lots of vowels in their names lifting three times their body weights.
I've watched lots of swimming and just enough football (I know that soccer is the most popular sport in the world but, I have to be honest, I still don't get the appeal of it.) I've watched some of the different kinds of rowing and dozens of sweaty guys riding bicycles through the storied streets of Athens under an unforgiving sun (guess nobody thought to ask Apollo to cut the guys a bit of slack :-) And the gymnastics...the pure physicality of the men and the more dainty grace of the pixie-like "women"...are, of course, all but unavoidable.
The Olympics are on...and I'm learning stuff. It's all good.
Monday, August 16, 2004
a ceremony
The night would be still...cool and crisp with the heavens spreading majestically as far as the eye could see, as far as the imagination could fly...and sparkling with the afterglow of stars millions and billions of lightyears away from our fragile blue homeworld.
The night would be still waiting to be joined by two...the man, earnest but somewhat self-conscious; the babe, curious and trusting and guilelessly open-hearted...stepping out of a warm house to share a private moment that will, however subtly, strengthen the bond between them.
The night would be still and, enveloped by the welcoming darkness, the man would hold the child high...high to the glow of the golden moon, high to the ebon expanse of the cosmos...and speak words to the child that have special meaning to those of a specific time in the history of literary and popular culture (while having powerful resonance to any willing to embrace them): "Behold! The only thing greater than yourself".
The night would be still as the man drew the child back into the safe haven of his strong arms and, a fleeting kiss on a welcoming forehead later, the two slipped out of the night back into the warmth of the waiting house.
I've performed this little "ceremony" (inspired by a scene in the television adaptation of Alex Haley's best-selling cultural touchstone, Roots)...earnestly and self-consciously...three times in my life...with a niece (on a quiet night in Los Angeles when I was barely more than a child myself), a nephew (on a soft San Diego evening when I was man of long standing), and, most recently, with my granddaughter (under a warm Virginia sky.)
I doubt it meant much to them (they were babies still, of course, and remembering was, then perhaps more than later, a fluid thing)...but it meant a lot to me (the truth always should mean a lot to us) and they, all three of them, trusted me more than enough to embrace the odd, little experience with bright, curious eyes and soft, enigmatic smiles. That was more than enough for me.
The night would be still waiting to be joined by two...the man, earnest but somewhat self-conscious; the babe, curious and trusting and guilelessly open-hearted...stepping out of a warm house to share a private moment that will, however subtly, strengthen the bond between them.
The night would be still and, enveloped by the welcoming darkness, the man would hold the child high...high to the glow of the golden moon, high to the ebon expanse of the cosmos...and speak words to the child that have special meaning to those of a specific time in the history of literary and popular culture (while having powerful resonance to any willing to embrace them): "Behold! The only thing greater than yourself".
The night would be still as the man drew the child back into the safe haven of his strong arms and, a fleeting kiss on a welcoming forehead later, the two slipped out of the night back into the warmth of the waiting house.
I've performed this little "ceremony" (inspired by a scene in the television adaptation of Alex Haley's best-selling cultural touchstone, Roots)...earnestly and self-consciously...three times in my life...with a niece (on a quiet night in Los Angeles when I was barely more than a child myself), a nephew (on a soft San Diego evening when I was man of long standing), and, most recently, with my granddaughter (under a warm Virginia sky.)
I doubt it meant much to them (they were babies still, of course, and remembering was, then perhaps more than later, a fluid thing)...but it meant a lot to me (the truth always should mean a lot to us) and they, all three of them, trusted me more than enough to embrace the odd, little experience with bright, curious eyes and soft, enigmatic smiles. That was more than enough for me.
Saturday, August 14, 2004
Olympic viewing tip
Try watching the diving and, most especially, the gymnastic events with the sound muted. Your enjoyment of the pure physical artistry of these events will be GREATLY improved when you're not subjected to the constant blathering of the "expert" commentators (who either are being paid by the word...or, more likely, just don't know when to shut the hell up and let the athletes' performances speak for themselves.)
you must remember this...
I wasn't feeling the opening ceremonies of the Olympics ("wasn't feeling"...man, I'm so hip sometimes :-) so I spent the time watching some of the counter programming. The American Film Institute counted down the 100 best songs from the movies. The list was, of course, flawed and highly debatable...but that was kind of the point. Take any 100 people and ask them to come up with such a list and you would get 100 completely different countdowns.
(And being the AMERICAN Film Institute, they only counted American made movies...which left great movie songs like "A Hard Day's Night", "Help!", and "Alfie" out in the cold.)
AFI's top 3 were:
"Over the Rainbow" from The Wizard of Oz
"As Time Goes By" from Casablanca
and "Singin' in the Rain" from the movie of the same name.
Not bad choices. Watching the clips from the various movies was fun and while I was not in agreement with much of it..."Theme from Shaft" (#38)was ranked too low, "Stayin' Alive" (#9) and the insipid "My Heart Will Go On" (#14) were ranked too high, and "Flashdance...What a Feeling" (#55) probably shouldn't have been ranked at all.
Interesting that so many songs on the list were sung by Fred Astaire and Liza Minnelli. And cool that Public Enemy (the incendiary and amazing "Fight the Power" at #40) and Eminem (the Oscar-winning "Lose Yourself" at #93) made the cut among so many former Broadway showtunes and movie love ballads.
Any list eclectic enough to feature performances by Barbra Streisand, Paul Robeson, Bob Hope, Kermit the Frog, Bob Seger, Steppenwolf, Judy Garland, and Marlon Brando (crooning "Luck Be a Lady" from Guys and Dolls) is alright with a fan of all kinds of music like myself.
(Still would it have killed them to give a little love to something from Purple Rain?)
(And being the AMERICAN Film Institute, they only counted American made movies...which left great movie songs like "A Hard Day's Night", "Help!", and "Alfie" out in the cold.)
AFI's top 3 were:
"Over the Rainbow" from The Wizard of Oz
"As Time Goes By" from Casablanca
and "Singin' in the Rain" from the movie of the same name.
Not bad choices. Watching the clips from the various movies was fun and while I was not in agreement with much of it..."Theme from Shaft" (#38)was ranked too low, "Stayin' Alive" (#9) and the insipid "My Heart Will Go On" (#14) were ranked too high, and "Flashdance...What a Feeling" (#55) probably shouldn't have been ranked at all.
Interesting that so many songs on the list were sung by Fred Astaire and Liza Minnelli. And cool that Public Enemy (the incendiary and amazing "Fight the Power" at #40) and Eminem (the Oscar-winning "Lose Yourself" at #93) made the cut among so many former Broadway showtunes and movie love ballads.
Any list eclectic enough to feature performances by Barbra Streisand, Paul Robeson, Bob Hope, Kermit the Frog, Bob Seger, Steppenwolf, Judy Garland, and Marlon Brando (crooning "Luck Be a Lady" from Guys and Dolls) is alright with a fan of all kinds of music like myself.
(Still would it have killed them to give a little love to something from Purple Rain?)
Thursday, August 12, 2004
null and void
To the surprise of, I would hope, almost no one, the California Supreme Court has voided the nearly 4,000 same sex marriages that were sanctioned by the mayor of San Francisco back in February and March of this year. The wedding certificates that Rosie O'Donnell and her spouse and all of the other couples got are now interesting and provocative historical souvenirs but they hold absolutely no legal standing.
It was a noble gesture on the part of Mayor Gavin Newsom (not sure if he's savvy politician playing to the progressive hometown crowd or a true son of Don Quixote tilting against windmills despite the odds, but I guess it really doesn't matter)...but it was a gesture that was, of course, fated to come to this conclusion given the laws of the state...and the prevailing mood of much of the country.
I'm still failing to see how allowing same sex couples to marry will do irrevocable harm to the "institution of marriage"...we should be celebrating committed love between consenting adults not putting arbitrary roadblocks in its path...but this is an issue that reaches into the sanctimonious hearts of so many clutching their Bibles to their (sometimes truly pious and well-meaning, sometimes just plain intolerant) breasts and as such it will touch off vehement protest whenever it's even broached.
In the words of one of my heroines, Linda Ellerbee, and so it goes.
It was a noble gesture on the part of Mayor Gavin Newsom (not sure if he's savvy politician playing to the progressive hometown crowd or a true son of Don Quixote tilting against windmills despite the odds, but I guess it really doesn't matter)...but it was a gesture that was, of course, fated to come to this conclusion given the laws of the state...and the prevailing mood of much of the country.
I'm still failing to see how allowing same sex couples to marry will do irrevocable harm to the "institution of marriage"...we should be celebrating committed love between consenting adults not putting arbitrary roadblocks in its path...but this is an issue that reaches into the sanctimonious hearts of so many clutching their Bibles to their (sometimes truly pious and well-meaning, sometimes just plain intolerant) breasts and as such it will touch off vehement protest whenever it's even broached.
In the words of one of my heroines, Linda Ellerbee, and so it goes.
Wednesday, August 11, 2004
sunshine on a cloudy day
When I was a boy I wanted to be a Temptation. Back then the Temptations were, to my young mind, the coolest, most stylish, sexiest cats on the planet. They danced like they were floating on smooth gossamer wings and they sang like you hoped the angels in the heavens could sing.
As Nanci Griffith wrote, "I was a child of the 60's; when dreams could be had through T.V. With Disney and Cronkite and Martin Luther; and I believed...I believed...I believed..."
And I believed. I believed in Bobby Kennedy and the Beatles; in Superman and Star Trek and Adam West as Batman; in giving peace a chance and that all you needed was love. I believed in my mother and my cousin Vernon and that my brother Guy wouldn't always be such a pain in my butt. I believed in the power of ideas and the power of music; I believed that your soul could be lifted and your life made brighter with the magic pouring through the speakers of a phonograph or an AM radio station.
When I was a boy, sometimes I wanted to be a Rolling Stone...or another Jackson brother...or a member of the Family Stone...or even a Monkee...but most times, in my child's heart of hearts, I wanted to belong on the streets of Motown, the breathing soul of young America...most times, I wanted to be a Temptation.
Most of the real Temptations have passed on now...but that sweet fire they stoked in me has never completely gone away. And I pray it never does.
I close my eyes as the bass line slides in, sweet and silky, and the music sweeps me in..."I've got sunshine on a cloudy day"...and, three glorious minutes at a time, everything is right with the world.
*****
recommended listening:
"My Girl: The Very Best of The Temptations" (2 magical discs of pure uptown, life affirming soul music)
As Nanci Griffith wrote, "I was a child of the 60's; when dreams could be had through T.V. With Disney and Cronkite and Martin Luther; and I believed...I believed...I believed..."
And I believed. I believed in Bobby Kennedy and the Beatles; in Superman and Star Trek and Adam West as Batman; in giving peace a chance and that all you needed was love. I believed in my mother and my cousin Vernon and that my brother Guy wouldn't always be such a pain in my butt. I believed in the power of ideas and the power of music; I believed that your soul could be lifted and your life made brighter with the magic pouring through the speakers of a phonograph or an AM radio station.
When I was a boy, sometimes I wanted to be a Rolling Stone...or another Jackson brother...or a member of the Family Stone...or even a Monkee...but most times, in my child's heart of hearts, I wanted to belong on the streets of Motown, the breathing soul of young America...most times, I wanted to be a Temptation.
Most of the real Temptations have passed on now...but that sweet fire they stoked in me has never completely gone away. And I pray it never does.
I close my eyes as the bass line slides in, sweet and silky, and the music sweeps me in..."I've got sunshine on a cloudy day"...and, three glorious minutes at a time, everything is right with the world.
*****
recommended listening:
"My Girl: The Very Best of The Temptations" (2 magical discs of pure uptown, life affirming soul music)
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