In much delayed honor of my father on his 85th birthday
by Rick Weiss
When I was a little boy, we were poor. Oh no, not poor by the standard of the Third World's Poor. Nor were we poor like the poor Chinese and Biafrans that my mother constantly reminded us of when we gagged down the candied carrots or liver with spinach and kidney beans that she served up. We weren't even poor by the standards of the immigrant poor, our brave grandparents who flooded the Eastern America shores at the turn of the century.
Yet we were poor by the standards of the neighborhood that we lived in, the sprawling insular sixties suburban society. In our neighborhood, men and women of manifest vision built razor clean, unsparing split levels and colonials with oversized picture windows on generous, partially wooded tracts, chopping down, plowing under, manicuring the last vestiges of rural countryside to surround the eastern cities; fleeing their parents’ cities and blazing open the new frontiers of suburban America.
My father was one of those men. Having his honorable discharge from the Marines, he painstakingly scrimped, scraped, working two, sometimes three jobs, to produce the nest egg that moved my mother, me – aged three and my baby brother, out of a downtown two bedroom Pittsburgh rowhome and into a three bedroom ranch in a new development called Northwood Acres. A $19,000 GI loan bought him the property – three-quarters of an acre, cleared – and the construction of a split-level three bedroom orange brick ranch. Dad had "gotten in" early and built when prices were low. Only four properties dotted the development's ninety-some acre expanse when we first arrived. Years later, when we moved again, there were well over a hundred houses in Northwood Acres.
Walking past the Franklin Institute yesterday, I came up behind a young
fashionably-dressed mother and her little daughter in their Sunday
best. The mother, with long blonde hair,
wore a smart red coat with the ease that pretty young women wear bright
things. She was walking, bent in an attitude of conversation with the
tiny girl who barely reached her mother's waist. The daughter had long,
glossy brunette hair and was decked out in a child's version of the
mother's attire.
I didn't hear what was being said. I could
just read their body language. It was a sweet image. As I closed my
distance and they approached the curb, suddenly the little girl clutched
her mother's leg. "What if they send you to a unit and I can't come
with you?"
– Ludwig Wittgenstein, Philosophical Investigations, 1953
Time Magazine called the Protestor "Person of the Year." The first New Yorker of 2012, on my desk today shows Old Man 2011 eying Newt prancing about as the 1994 baby. Already, given the peripatetic nature of the Republican race, the New Yorker cover is obsolete before its cover date. I'm afraid the Time cover is too.
It ain't necessarily so
The t'ings dat yo' li'ble
To read in de Bible,
It ain't necessarily so.
Perhaps it's fitting to revisit this George Gershwin composition that has been recorded by so many of the greats. Like most things Gershwin, it was really quite before it's time. This song's time is now. Even the statement "these are cynical times" sounds breathlessly naïve. These are way beyond cynical times. These are times I have no better words for. What's more cynical than cynicism? Fatalism. Both assume the worst of inputs. The latter affixes inevitability to outcomes. As much as I abhor predetermination, there's only so long you can drive along saying, it's a wall, up ahead, coming closer, it's a wall, it's a wall, before you smack into something.
Let's play history rematch. I re-pair Ronnie Reagan, the Teflon optimist and Jimmy Carter, the one term president who preached austerity, mano e mano 2011 and wonder whether Carter would have been so convincingly trounced. We've got your New American Century right here, Ron. How do you like it?
While our president gets to play hail the conquering heroes to soldier boys and girls on airbases and transport ships coming home from Iraq, worldclass skeptic Trudy Rubin writes how profoundly and non-partisanly we've failed that country and the region. It doesn't take a skeptic to see that wherever in the world we (mis)adventure, we unerringly make the wrong moves. It makes some of what libertarian skeptic Ron Paul says make sense. Not the John Bircher stuff, but the "we should keep to ourselves stuff."
Once we invaded Iraq was there ever any positive exit to be had? Whatever happens there next, civil war, Armageddon, Iranian puppet statehood, Muslim sects running after each other with power tools, etc. ... America's first and biggest folly was to ever go there and we should never forget this. For a writer, that's like starting a sentence with a period. I see a lot of revisionist media about Iraq and it sickens me. Not so much because of the disinformation fed our own people, but the false hope stirred up in the Iraqis. We have abandoned the few secular, progressive Iraqis we've encouraged in our short stint there. Once branded American sympathizers, their fates are double-sealed. They should notice that the American dream did not flower in Iraq and flee their country while they can. This sort of abandonment happens with some regularity. Ask the Kurds under Saddam.
In Egypt, Libya, Tunisia, et.al, we hail "the will of the people," the triumph of the protest movement over multi-decade dictatorships but worry about what has replaced them. In America, we automatically assume that our way is the best and brightest beacon the world has to offer. I'm less convinced than ever that the world wants what we offer. I'm not even so sure we ourselves still want it.
We watched our Congress bring the economy to the brink over the deficit limit, watched in horror as Standard and Poors downgraded U.S. Bonds from AAA to AA+ and decided, as individual investors and en masse that it really didn't matter. Congress doesn't matter. The Tea Party doesn't matter. The OWS doesn't seem to matter. None of the Republican candidates matter. They all surface briefly like blips on the radar, then fade into the murk. Why? Because they appeal to our craving for novelty more than our desire for hard work and lasting solutions.
What matters? I say this to the Republican presidential wannabees as I say it to the Democratic president I voted for. Failed. All failed. What makes you worthy of another chance? Unbelievably enough, I'm going to give you one if only because I'm not yet a fatalist, but a failed fatalist, I'm reluctantly willing to listen. But I know that you're lying to me. Your lips are moving I know you're telling me what you think I want to hear.
Never has cynicism seemed like such a requisite and important virtue.
"This is a tough time to graduate from college. While unemployment is high across the board, recent grads face a brutal 9.3% unemployment rate -- the highest that statistic has been for them since the Great Recession began. Worse yet, studies have shown that fewer than half of recent college students are finding jobs that relate to their majors, and just more than half felt their jobs made use of what they learned as undergrads."
I came across this article by DailyFinance.com's Bruce Watson, thanks to an FBF and it made me think about how much things have changed since I was a starry-eyed student.
The old saw when we didn't have gray hair was that college was less valuable for what you learned and more valuable that you "learned how to learn." As a grad of communications, back further than I care to say, the attrition rate was appallingly high. Maybe 1 in 10 still working in the field. The one thing I got right back in my youth was that "you really have to want it" and I did. And I do. So here I am, still working in a field that is every bit as tough as it was when I got out of school, if not tougher.
This isn't about one middle-aged man's hopeless infatuation with the sexy Scarlett starlet. It's something scarier that you and the pretty and pretty smart young actress probably don't think about enough. Ms. Johannson sent some nudies to her then husband. In her own words, "Nothing wrong with that."
Despite about a billion drooling fanboys craving a better look, any look, she hasn't willingly shared all of her voluptuous curves with the global filmgoing public. Good for her. It should (have been) her decision to do it or not. She obviously has strong personal or business reasons for keeping the full-frontal stuff private. When you get to Ms. J's place in the world, your body is a commodity. Still, you're a person and you deserve to have your wishes respected. Or so you'd think..
And that's where she and you, if you feel the same way, are in error. Some geek, with shockingly little effort got her password and is off to the races. Now, he's going to spend a lot of time in jail doing a less senstive version of the shower scene from "Midnight Express." Maybe that is some consolation to Ms. J and her well-wishers. But to me, it's a sad case of closing the barn door after the horse has bolted, run down the road and been sold to the glue factory by your evil neighbor.
I am not a network expert. But I know (and you know) that everything you see, send and do on the Internet is available if somebody is smart enough, motivated enough and puerile enough to make hacking you their business, be they government, divorce lawyer or pathetic fanboy.
People use their damned smartphones as cameras. People think of email the same way they thought of private letters. What Scarlett and the rest of the world seem to forget with shocking regularity is that every sext, every candid, every incriminating thing you write and send resides somewhere on some server that even the strongest password is only a pathetic bandaid on.
So what should Scarlett or you do if you want to share something sexy, provocative or incriminating with your paramour or fellow conspirator? Use a non-internet connected camera. Save the sexy private stuff for face-to-face. Keep in mind that the more public you are, the less private you are. And Scarlett, love, you are a smart, sexy and very talented woman. I respect you. But if and when you do decide to bare all for the camera, I'll be right in line with all the other pathetic fanboys. I don't care if you are reading a phone book.
I am a working media and speech writer and though struggling in this economy, I am not in the habit of working for free.
Nonetheless, please consider the following an act of civic contribution to your re-election campaign. I can't offer money I don't have, but I do have ideas and words aplenty. Some of them, I think, belong to you. They are yours for the taking. An attribution would be nice, but I'm not even insisting on that. If you use it, I'll know.
The title of this speech is:
"Things I should have said and done"
Three years ago, I was elected to the most important chief executive position in the world. I, like others, thought of it as the most powerful position in the world, but experience has taught me otherwise. With a thousand thousand media spotlights turned on me and powerful forces bent against me, I have seen the failure of my best intentions and at times have felt powerless to stop this failure.
Manly stuff, including long reminiscent and forward-looking conversations wherein we expressed fears, concerns, hopes for our boys. On the whole, they are like the children of Lake Woebegone, above average lads, and nearly all labor with some degree of academic challenge.
Two speakers at Ted Talks intelligently and eloquently spoke to "boy issues" in academia.
Psychologist Philip Zimbardo asks, "Why are boys struggling?" He shares some stats (lower graduation rates, greater worries about intimacy and relationships) and suggests a few reasons. He stops short of solutions. He tells the audience that it's their job. And no doubt it is – their job and ours.
Goodbye, good old friend.
Hello, good new (more gently used) friend.
Back, last winter, I was stepping into a cab in my trenchcoat, closed the door and heard a sickening crunch. Result, house left. I was heartbroken, for this old friend had accompanied me on all walks, rain and shine for six years. Perhaps it was the striding gods punishing me for abandoning my pedestrian ways.
I know there are tons of fancypants MP3 players out there, most with Apple logos, big flash drives, video, all manners of "Swiss Army" hoohah, but this old school iRiver H320 player still holds more than a candle to them all. Maybe I'm an old school throwback, but the idea of watching a movie on a 3" screen is absurd. Hell, my 27" screen is too small for optimal viewing. Let music players be music players.
This South Korean manufactured playa sports a comfortable 20G drive, room enough for 2800 songs, most ripped at minimum 256k bitrate, decent radio, great recorder ... plug it in USB to your computer and it functions as another agnostic USB drive, no fuss over DRM or bizarre Apple music file structure. (Music, music, which directory is my $$$'ing music in?)
So unlike wetware friends who are irreplaceable, this new old friend (house right) was $60 on Ebay. If you like this oldschool player, just understand that it has a fiercely devoted fanbase (http://www.misticriver.com/) and can be hard to find. I was damned lucky. The one I'd bid on previously topped out at over $200. Once new friend arrived, I dragged and dropped my 18G portable music directory to the new friend, stripped off the old friend's silicon skin and plugged my musician quality Shure SCL4 sound isolating earbuds in and good to go.
Some folks take me to task, asking "is it safe to walk with earbuds in?" I'd ask them, especially if they're city dwellers, if you really need to hear city noise at normal db levels? The headphones' sound is so clean 109db (S/N) on the SCL4 (EC4 replacement), that you don't need to and shouldn't overdrive them for risk of damaging your hearing. Clean, normal volume sound, exterior sound reduced 60-80% and one's own head is a concert hall. One only need pretend you're hearing impaired and pay extra attention when crossing streets.
This iRiver player/recorder sports a 1.8" 20G Toshiba minidrive found in netbooks and mini-laptops, but Toshiba discontinued the more capacious upgrade drives with the old CF interface in favor of the newer ZIF interface. There are converters out there, but there's some question in my mind if it can all be crammed into the tiny space in my H320. So for now, I guess I'm stuck with only 2800 tunes at a time. A quality problem.
What's this have to do with walking? All I can say is it's my life and it's sometimes life needs a soundtrack of one's own choosing. Urban ambience can be interesting but I prefer to roll my playlist when I hit the streets. The aural joy and peace of mind/soul it brings me was well worth the investment.
"We can't understand what is happening to something if we aren't looking. But nothing is going to happen to that something if we don't look deeply. That's why so many things with incredible potential go unnoticed, because nobody bothers to look.
Like Schrödinger says, what you see in the world is what you get and that determines your destiny. Vitality or mortality is determined by what we choose to see in the other."
"The truth is that many events that shape our lives and our judgment come to us in the form of books or movies and television, and not from reality. Younger generations prefer to have reality reinterpreted for them, edited instead of facing an unpredictable and sometimes boring reality. When I am filming and setting up a camera maybe I am separating myself, and intellectualizing the moment but I keep it and that is the trade off. We are conscious that now we are observing ourselves observe. We document but we don’t participate in the reality."
Alejandro González Iñárritu from the DVD Special Features section of "Biutiful."
This film and its director do look deeply. If one of the duties of great filmmakers is to place us in a world outside of our range of experiences and make us live in it for awhile, then this director and his star have succeeded admirably. This world is incredibly hard to look at, at times, yet it is lyrical and heartfelt. Unlike previous Iñárritu films, all of which are good, it stays true to itself from start to finish. There are no false notes or easy outs. There's never a moment when you feel you are watching "Bardem the actor" instead of Uxbal the man. The rest of the cast are unknowns or amateurs who actually have lived the lives they are portraying. This is Iñárritu's and Bardem's masterwork and the only truly sad thing about it is how quickly it passed from notice.
Rent "Biutiful" and definitely check out the featurettes that accompany the DVD. I defy you not to be deeply moved.
Every day before we go out into the world, we stand naked in our bedrooms and make choices. Most times we put no more mindfulness into these choices than “gotta get dressed.” but because our clothing choices are the most visible aspect of our appearance, they define us perhaps more than we’d wish .
The shoes are New Balance. The half-socks are Hanes, as are the briefs. My shorts are Spaulding. The shirt is UnderArmour. The water bottle is SubZero. The phone is an ancient Treo and the MP3 is an ancient but serviceable iRiver.
I am good to go. I am a walking billboard for other people’s brands.
Except for the hat. Sorry Toyota, but it’s my brand now. It is no longer stands for a large, richly-appointed gas-guzzler. It means something more pedestrian.
It is me. It is mine. I have appropriated the logo and words to stand for my own decisions and behaviors. I am the Land Rover.
I began roving about seven years ago when I was 80 pounds heavier, hypertensive and had HBA1c values in the high 7’s. A diabetic son of diabetic parents. My last six HBA1c levels have been in the low, mid 5’s. This is accomplished by my near daily ritual and smart(er) food choices. I am no paragon of virtue. But I am a bit better than I was before.
It's good to have a vision. I told my physician and diet therapist that mine is of a spry 90 year old stepping into a canoe with my grandkids. These health advisors helped lay out a lifestyle that would bring me to that goal.
I had and have to make the “micro-decisions” necessary to reach it.
“Just do it.”
I used to say that I didn’t have time to make these commitments. That they were unfair. That evolutionary biology was stacked against me. Boo frickin hoo. The time of feeling sorry is past. I have too much roving left to do.
I'm not a huge fan of ballcaps, but you can't exactly go strolling in 90 degree heat in a Stetson. Maybe that's why those Texas politicians are all so … nevermind!
I am my cap. I am branded. There are many like it, but this brand is mine. It's sweet when that happens.
