- My understanding of blogs has developed considerably. I used to think about them as the online version of the journal I used to keep next to my bed. Good blogs are not like that, for three reasons: digital media, audience, and narrative. Digital Media: To this forum, I can link to anything on the Internets; that does not just change what I write, but how I think about writing and what I do while I am writing. Audience: No one reads those old black and white comp books of mine, or they shouldn't. In theory, someone is reading this (you are, maybe) and that impacts composition. Narrative: All good blogs build the frame of a larger story or at least an ethos.
- I am picking up freelance writing and editing jobs lately and having a blog allows me to showcase the range of my writing proficiency easily.
- Stories swirl around in my head like that cotton candy machine at the fair. I just have to put a stick in the opening, and they start coalescing, clumping, and changing. I knew from the beginning that taking one of my favorite lines from my favorite novel (Cormac McCarthy's The Crossing) would be fruitful, but after a couple of days of writing and talking about writing with friends, I realized that I really need a place to capture these stories in my head. There are lots to come: like when I cut myself with a razor while shaving, on purpose, and how I got paid, as a child, to protect a spy in the Smithsonian museum. Or about the three girls whose footprints always stay in the sandbox together and take on a life of their own. Or friends I have lost or shucked. Or how I think my life is, by an accident of metaphysics, connected to the life of Ben Folds. Some are true all the way through and some, by only being thought, are even truer.
- I need to write my dissertation. I will tell you what it's about later; I promise. Have you ever read any Lyotard? My dissertation might become the metanarrative of the blog. In that case, let's hope postmodernism never happened, because, according to Lyotard, metanarratives go away. If there's a "totalizing metanarrative" I want to keep, it's completing my Ph.D. Maybe writing every day, even informally, will help the formal stuff along. See my first post about completing my diss. Update: no writing since then.
- Whether it's a good one or not, the details of my life make up an unusual story. My interests and experiences connect me to other groups of people (music and movie fans, parents, academics, the religiously curious, urbanites, naturalists), but no big dotted-line surrounds them all. Some of my experiences might be helpful or entertaining to an eclectic variety.
- I learned how Google enables me to take a picture with my cell phone, textualize it, and immediately post it to the blog without sitting down at a computer. I adore this feature and use it frequently. My photoblog entries are like eyeball postcards.
Saturday, October 31, 2009
In which I try to determine what I am doing and why
Keeping a blog is new to me, but not to the rest of the world. I have probably spent as much time critically reviewing blogs over the last two weeks as I have writing. Why am I doing it? As I approach my 50th post in two weeks, here are some answers.
Let the wild rumpus start!
Those may be the most memorable words I have ever read aloud as a parent.
Tomorrow I am headed to Where the Wild Things Are with my two oldest (9 and 11). I already saw the movie -- on opening night. I am that kind of fan of an assortment of things (Star Wars, Harry Potter, Lord of the Rings, Cormac McCarthy, lots of musicians). I was really excited about the film. For once, I thought, an indie-kids movie.
I was disappointed. In Spike Jonze's adaptation, Max ceases being "Everykid" and becomes something darker. As much as I support exploring alternatives to cinematic "stability", Where the Wild Things Are wanders too far into the forest and does not really want to come home.
As a literature and writing teacher, I have used Sendak's book in conversation and in class to discuss psychoanalytic criticism. Most of the psychological world recognizes that large bodies of water represent an unconscious or mystical experience. This is probably because of the unfathomable (sorry, I know this is painful) depth under the ocean that we know exists but cannot access. The ocean, in a dream, is like the closet that we shove all of the emotions we need to keep but can't find room for. Eventually we know we are going to have to clean that place out. In both the story and the film, just such a body of water separates the real world from the wilder one.
Max, the story's young protagonist, has plenty that needs cleaning. In the film he has a new backstory, immersed in the pathos of abandonment, isolation, anger, and gender confusion. In the book (do you remember?) he was just a kid who chased his dog around with a fork. Movie Max has a lot more on his plate and, subsequently, a lot more to deal with when he crosses the water.
Spike Jonze and crew have done an effective job reminding fans of the book about detail: Max's name carved in the boat, some key quotations, and the final supper scene. However, the fact that Max needs some serious therapy before, during, and after his trip disturbs the film for me. Here is the central question: is it easier to think that Max's destructive and dictatorial urges hide inside all of us, or to diagnose the Wild Things dream as the ramblings of a semi-neglected and borderline schizophrenic kid? The book leans more toward the former, and the movie toward the latter.
It reminds me of the quandary that the movie Falling Down created for me. At the end of that Michael Douglas modern dystopian classic, the protagonist is colored as a mental patient who needs his meds. Ok, fine. But didn't I sit through the whole film relishing his destructive break-down? Didn't I want to have the same experiences too? It just made it too easy when the film made him "crazy"; it would have been better if he were just like one of us, making the choices that most of us only dream about.
Wild Things's Max is a solitary figure, and rightly so. He has to become isolated to give us the terrible beauty of his vision. I just wish that the film left us with the feeling that we are all Max, battling those demons and keeping those voices (mostly) quiet in our heads. Crazy-ing up Max is a scapegoating move.
Still, my oldest two want to see it. They are old enough, and we are going, if just to have something to talk about. Exploring the effects of art is one my favorite things about parenting. They always teach me something; most people who want to have a serious conversation about anything do, as well.
That is Max Records, who plays Max in everyone's favorite story about a boy who dreams he is a king.
Tomorrow I am headed to Where the Wild Things Are with my two oldest (9 and 11). I already saw the movie -- on opening night. I am that kind of fan of an assortment of things (Star Wars, Harry Potter, Lord of the Rings, Cormac McCarthy, lots of musicians). I was really excited about the film. For once, I thought, an indie-kids movie.
I was disappointed. In Spike Jonze's adaptation, Max ceases being "Everykid" and becomes something darker. As much as I support exploring alternatives to cinematic "stability", Where the Wild Things Are wanders too far into the forest and does not really want to come home.
As a literature and writing teacher, I have used Sendak's book in conversation and in class to discuss psychoanalytic criticism. Most of the psychological world recognizes that large bodies of water represent an unconscious or mystical experience. This is probably because of the unfathomable (sorry, I know this is painful) depth under the ocean that we know exists but cannot access. The ocean, in a dream, is like the closet that we shove all of the emotions we need to keep but can't find room for. Eventually we know we are going to have to clean that place out. In both the story and the film, just such a body of water separates the real world from the wilder one.
Max, the story's young protagonist, has plenty that needs cleaning. In the film he has a new backstory, immersed in the pathos of abandonment, isolation, anger, and gender confusion. In the book (do you remember?) he was just a kid who chased his dog around with a fork. Movie Max has a lot more on his plate and, subsequently, a lot more to deal with when he crosses the water.
Spike Jonze and crew have done an effective job reminding fans of the book about detail: Max's name carved in the boat, some key quotations, and the final supper scene. However, the fact that Max needs some serious therapy before, during, and after his trip disturbs the film for me. Here is the central question: is it easier to think that Max's destructive and dictatorial urges hide inside all of us, or to diagnose the Wild Things dream as the ramblings of a semi-neglected and borderline schizophrenic kid? The book leans more toward the former, and the movie toward the latter.
It reminds me of the quandary that the movie Falling Down created for me. At the end of that Michael Douglas modern dystopian classic, the protagonist is colored as a mental patient who needs his meds. Ok, fine. But didn't I sit through the whole film relishing his destructive break-down? Didn't I want to have the same experiences too? It just made it too easy when the film made him "crazy"; it would have been better if he were just like one of us, making the choices that most of us only dream about.
Wild Things's Max is a solitary figure, and rightly so. He has to become isolated to give us the terrible beauty of his vision. I just wish that the film left us with the feeling that we are all Max, battling those demons and keeping those voices (mostly) quiet in our heads. Crazy-ing up Max is a scapegoating move.
Still, my oldest two want to see it. They are old enough, and we are going, if just to have something to talk about. Exploring the effects of art is one my favorite things about parenting. They always teach me something; most people who want to have a serious conversation about anything do, as well.
Friday, October 30, 2009
Five for Friday: Google, Singents, Bridget vs. Max, scary aliens, QVC
Funny this week . . .
1.While playing Spades at night with my kids and Clo-Show, I was looking up something Internetishly on my phone. My daughter says, "What are you doing Dad? Play a card." Without looking up from his hand, Clo-Show mutters "He's googling how to count."
2. My shower idea that someone who is a single parent, but half of the time, is a Singent.
3. My youngest son's fascination with the part of Bridget and the Gray Wolves, in which the little girl commands her pack of wolves to find their trees and have a pee before bed ("they obediantly found their pee trees").
5. My mom's comment, while donating a QVC faux animal-skin coat to Halloween costuming, "would you wear this?"
1.While playing Spades at night with my kids and Clo-Show, I was looking up something Internetishly on my phone. My daughter says, "What are you doing Dad? Play a card." Without looking up from his hand, Clo-Show mutters "He's googling how to count."
2. My shower idea that someone who is a single parent, but half of the time, is a Singent.
3. My youngest son's fascination with the part of Bridget and the Gray Wolves, in which the little girl commands her pack of wolves to find their trees and have a pee before bed ("they obediantly found their pee trees").
- N.B. Bridget and the Gray Wolves is an interesting feminine version of Where the Wild Things Are. She may be a little bit cooler than Max. At least less destructive and a better imaginary parent.
5. My mom's comment, while donating a QVC faux animal-skin coat to Halloween costuming, "would you wear this?"
Thursday, October 29, 2009
I am dying to know.
This is also a good time to say that I have hit 50 viewers. Interesting. I promise I have only accessed the blog from 37 different computers, so that means 13 real people!
I am thinking some today about balance. If you are coming back on a semi-regular basis, let me know which posts you like most. I cataloged everything yesterday, so pick your favorite. I have lots more stories to tell, but I can bend them just like a balloonist.
Wednesday, October 28, 2009
Critical pedagogues of the world, unite!
Jamie Littlefield, of selfmadescholar.com, wrote on 4 Ways to Recognize a True Teacher several months ago. I just came across it today.
I can see by Jamie's reading list that we have a confluence of influence. As an M.Ed. student I was trained in the culture of critical pedagogy by at least one professor and fed a steady diet of Freire, McLaren, Macedo, Kozol, and Gatto. I learned, as maybe she did, that free thinking, peer-making, and instilling autonomy does not go down to well in any authoritarian institution. Inevitably, I have been complemented for my work in three public high schools while at the same time finding the work environment and orientation to the student professionally untenable.
Jamie has efficiently nailed several qualities of mystical teaching. I may or may not achieve them in my university classrooms, but I certainly aim for them. She observes that valuable teachers teach us how to think, not what to think. This is reason why my favorite students end up being the ones who challenge me. At least in the humanities, argument is the algebra we use.
It reminds me of my obsession over the past few years, in both my dissertation and my teaching, over the difference between content and methodology. As a literature teacher (I am looking forward to my first lit class in a while this spring), I want to instruct students on a method, or methods, of interpretation. Everyone else makes fun of how much English departments like to use the word "hermeneutic", but here it suits my needs. I am not too concerned about what conclusion an undergrad arrives when she takes apart "Young Goodman Brown" or Beloved. What I care much more about is how clear is the method she used to get there.
Quintillian was saying similar things at the end of the Roman Empire, when he handed on a twelve volume treatment of education that ended up being the model that Europe used for centuries afterward. Institutio Oratoria was not Quintillian's creation; he just documented what he saw going on around him to great degree. What you take from that picture is a thorough understanding of the fluidity of language and, consequently, knowing, and how important it was (and is) for a student to be adept at intellectual methods rather than intellectual facts. In fact, unless we plan on coming to the end of knowing, the facts will always change, but the best methods will continue to provide fruit or evolve into stronger ones (like the transition from text-only research to researching digital media).
I don't know if Jamie was headed in this direction, but she sure pointed me there. Attention to method, language, research, interpretation . . . these are the trademarks of the most powerful kinds of knowing. Making fans and creating drones, as Jamie writes, does not get us there. In a certain sense, teaching a student to observe, identify, and solve one problem, with an meta-critical attention to his process, enables him to use that method with any related problem in the future.
That's why I don't care if we get every "classic" read in my American Literature semester in the spring. Doing the literary dance really well through a handful will be enough.
I said I would come back to this article. It had me thinking all evening. After dishes, signing school notebooks, cleaning out folders, and getting lunch ready for tomorrow, I am just able to wedge it in before my shower.
I can see by Jamie's reading list that we have a confluence of influence. As an M.Ed. student I was trained in the culture of critical pedagogy by at least one professor and fed a steady diet of Freire, McLaren, Macedo, Kozol, and Gatto. I learned, as maybe she did, that free thinking, peer-making, and instilling autonomy does not go down to well in any authoritarian institution. Inevitably, I have been complemented for my work in three public high schools while at the same time finding the work environment and orientation to the student professionally untenable.
Jamie has efficiently nailed several qualities of mystical teaching. I may or may not achieve them in my university classrooms, but I certainly aim for them. She observes that valuable teachers teach us how to think, not what to think. This is reason why my favorite students end up being the ones who challenge me. At least in the humanities, argument is the algebra we use.
It reminds me of my obsession over the past few years, in both my dissertation and my teaching, over the difference between content and methodology. As a literature teacher (I am looking forward to my first lit class in a while this spring), I want to instruct students on a method, or methods, of interpretation. Everyone else makes fun of how much English departments like to use the word "hermeneutic", but here it suits my needs. I am not too concerned about what conclusion an undergrad arrives when she takes apart "Young Goodman Brown" or Beloved. What I care much more about is how clear is the method she used to get there.
Quintillian was saying similar things at the end of the Roman Empire, when he handed on a twelve volume treatment of education that ended up being the model that Europe used for centuries afterward. Institutio Oratoria was not Quintillian's creation; he just documented what he saw going on around him to great degree. What you take from that picture is a thorough understanding of the fluidity of language and, consequently, knowing, and how important it was (and is) for a student to be adept at intellectual methods rather than intellectual facts. In fact, unless we plan on coming to the end of knowing, the facts will always change, but the best methods will continue to provide fruit or evolve into stronger ones (like the transition from text-only research to researching digital media).
I don't know if Jamie was headed in this direction, but she sure pointed me there. Attention to method, language, research, interpretation . . . these are the trademarks of the most powerful kinds of knowing. Making fans and creating drones, as Jamie writes, does not get us there. In a certain sense, teaching a student to observe, identify, and solve one problem, with an meta-critical attention to his process, enables him to use that method with any related problem in the future.
That's why I don't care if we get every "classic" read in my American Literature semester in the spring. Doing the literary dance really well through a handful will be enough.
I said I would come back to this article. It had me thinking all evening. After dishes, signing school notebooks, cleaning out folders, and getting lunch ready for tomorrow, I am just able to wedge it in before my shower.
Are knock-knock jokes funny?
Two men are having a debate on the comedic value of knock-knock jokes. One is 34 years old, and has taken the stance that knock-knock jokes are not funny. One is 3 years old, and has taken the stance that they are.
In his arsenal, the younger debater, who loves owls, knows the following knock-knock joke:
However, he keeps it to himself until, as the argument hurtles toward its conclusion, the younger of the two produces his trump card. He draws his opponent into the following exchange:
The older man falls to pieces with laughter. He has been championed. The younger man returns to his crayons.
In his arsenal, the younger debater, who loves owls, knows the following knock-knock joke:
Knock-knock.
Who's there?
Who.
Who who?
Is there an owl in here?
However, he keeps it to himself until, as the argument hurtles toward its conclusion, the younger of the two produces his trump card. He draws his opponent into the following exchange:
Knock-knock.
Who's there?
Who.
Who who?
[smugly] That's right.
The older man falls to pieces with laughter. He has been championed. The younger man returns to his crayons.
A telling
As, perhaps, people stumble backward into reading All is Telling, I will tell a story.
A boy decided, after a long struggle, that he was unhappy. He couldn't put the disparate pieces of his life together in a sensical way. As an only-child, he grew up accustomed to his only company and goals, but the choice-web of his life grafted new ones to him. Now he had academic, parental, and martial concerns. The first two were vibrant, fluid, and alive. The third one was paralyzed.
Against his own instincts and upbringing, he separated and began the process of divorce. He was accused, at times, for deciding to leave his children as well, but this was not true. Keeping them as close to him as was fair and possible became his passion. He was not a terribly schedule-oriented person; he became one when it was required. He continued, as best he could, to keep up with the pressures of teaching, research, laundry, diet, and grooming. Some of these fell by the wayside occasionally.
He has survived a two-year divorce negotiation that felt more like a war. He is beginning to think dissertation again. His income is a fractured patchwork of freelance projects, teaching pay, and loans. Somehow, he has arranged it so that his parenting time and work time is separate. His life is buoyed by the weekly arrival of his children, the beauty of a new relationship, and tightly weird urban family.
He enjoys rock shows, handcrafted art, profound movies, frisbee, Legos, drawing, reading aloud, singing, studying and arguing. You may not know him, but you could.
He will thrive. Also, he lives in New Mexico.
Against his own instincts and upbringing, he separated and began the process of divorce. He was accused, at times, for deciding to leave his children as well, but this was not true. Keeping them as close to him as was fair and possible became his passion. He was not a terribly schedule-oriented person; he became one when it was required. He continued, as best he could, to keep up with the pressures of teaching, research, laundry, diet, and grooming. Some of these fell by the wayside occasionally.
He has survived a two-year divorce negotiation that felt more like a war. He is beginning to think dissertation again. His income is a fractured patchwork of freelance projects, teaching pay, and loans. Somehow, he has arranged it so that his parenting time and work time is separate. His life is buoyed by the weekly arrival of his children, the beauty of a new relationship, and tightly weird urban family.
He enjoys rock shows, handcrafted art, profound movies, frisbee, Legos, drawing, reading aloud, singing, studying and arguing. You may not know him, but you could.
He will thrive. Also, he lives in New Mexico.
Picking fights with words
Specifically, for Kinkos from a Wikipedia entry on weird plurals in English:
The plural deers is listed in some dictionaries, but is widely considered to be an error.
Like Bill Murray said in Rushmore:
Take dead aim on the rich ones, get them in your cross hairs and take them down. Just remember, they can buy anything, but they can't buy backbone. Don't let them forget.
The plural deers is listed in some dictionaries, but is widely considered to be an error.
Like Bill Murray said in Rushmore:
Take dead aim on the rich ones, get them in your cross hairs and take them down. Just remember, they can buy anything, but they can't buy backbone. Don't let them forget.
Tuesday, October 27, 2009
Thao Knows Better in Atlanta, Nov. 9
Thao Nguyen returns to Atlanta soon to tour behind her sophomore studio album, Know Better, Learn Faster. We saw her at the Earl last time, and she signed a ticket stub for my daughter who really wanted to be there, but was too young.
I hope to grab a picture or a chat with Thao when she's here. She's academic-folk, I think, so maybe we can solve the health care, education, or mortgage crises together. Probably not, though.
Here's how I first fell in love with Thao's performance style in a little video of an NPR appearance.
And here's an article in Pitchfork, which is the best review I have seen so far of the new album. I can't get the opening line of one of the songs out of my head . . . "Everybody, please, put your clothes back on. We must see what the trouble was for."
I hope to grab a picture or a chat with Thao when she's here. She's academic-folk, I think, so maybe we can solve the health care, education, or mortgage crises together. Probably not, though.
Here's how I first fell in love with Thao's performance style in a little video of an NPR appearance.
And here's an article in Pitchfork, which is the best review I have seen so far of the new album. I can't get the opening line of one of the songs out of my head . . . "Everybody, please, put your clothes back on. We must see what the trouble was for."
Created twice, Elaine Pagels, and some help from you
I had a debate last night and now can't for the life of me find a resource that I like to peg to either side. Can you help?
The meat of it is this: there are two different creation story frames in Genesis, one taking place mostly in Chapter 1 and the other in parts of Chapter 2. The order if events is different, as are the tone and conclusion of each story. Either this is significant, from the perspective of belief, or it is not a big deal, so went the conversation.
Elaine Pagels has plenty to say in her books (specifically Adam, Eve, and the Serpent) and so, interestingly enough, does Wikipedia (see here). However, I was surprised at how few credible, academic treatments I could find on either side in a couple of Google searches.
I need to burrow into the library databases now, but I would prefer to link to something everyone can see, access, and debate.
The meat of it is this: there are two different creation story frames in Genesis, one taking place mostly in Chapter 1 and the other in parts of Chapter 2. The order if events is different, as are the tone and conclusion of each story. Either this is significant, from the perspective of belief, or it is not a big deal, so went the conversation.
Elaine Pagels has plenty to say in her books (specifically Adam, Eve, and the Serpent) and so, interestingly enough, does Wikipedia (see here). However, I was surprised at how few credible, academic treatments I could find on either side in a couple of Google searches.
I need to burrow into the library databases now, but I would prefer to link to something everyone can see, access, and debate.
Monday, October 26, 2009
Sunday, October 25, 2009
Wrestling with bears is difficult.
I feel like I have been doing it all day. By wrestling I mean thinking; by bears I mean troubles. However, I did come across this quote in an essay titled "Think Again: God" by Karen Alexander in Foreign Policy this month.
We are meaning-seeking creatures. While dogs, as far as we know, do not worry about the canine condition or agonize about their mortality, humans fall very easily into despair if we don’t find some significance in our lives. Theological ideas come and go, but the quest for meaning continues. So God isn’t going anywhere.
It reminds me of the Kenneth Burke scholarship I have read in the last three years, and it makes the case for an approach to belief that is actively curious and academic rather than dogmatic.
We are meaning-seeking creatures. While dogs, as far as we know, do not worry about the canine condition or agonize about their mortality, humans fall very easily into despair if we don’t find some significance in our lives. Theological ideas come and go, but the quest for meaning continues. So God isn’t going anywhere.
It reminds me of the Kenneth Burke scholarship I have read in the last three years, and it makes the case for an approach to belief that is actively curious and academic rather than dogmatic.
Friday, October 23, 2009
Why does the Rural Alberta Advantage hate deer?
We traveled to see one of my indie-rock favs, the Rural Alberta Advantage, some weeks ago. The RAA sprung out of nowhere when eMusic chose their debut Hometowns as a recommended album last year (interview here). Nils, Amy, and Paul play guitars, hand-held percussive instruments, a sonorous tom-tom, and a blazing hot set of drums. Here they go, in Athens, Georgia, September 09:
They put on a phenomenal show. I can't wait to see what a second album does to their sound.
On the dreary way back home, out of the mysterious liminal space by the side of the road, came three snarling harbingers of destruction to spread enmity and chaos. One of them looked like this:
It attacked my car.
Yes, it was a deer. No, there was nothing else I could do -- there was forest on one side and another terrified driver on the other. I just had to grit my teeth, say a prayer, and barrel in. We caught her somewhere near the shoulder.
This tumultuous midnight rendez-vous did $2,100 worth of damage to my ride. I have been driving a lame rental car for a week while the body work was being completed. Today, I gladly return the Vanillamobile to its keeper and break Veronica, my pumpkin sweetheart, free from her prison. Peace out, Sonata:
What we learn here is that the Rural Alberta Advantage is behind a forced deer extinction across this country. You'd think they would like the furry guys, being rural and all. Really, I love you RAA.
Listen to some RAA on HearYa.
They put on a phenomenal show. I can't wait to see what a second album does to their sound.
On the dreary way back home, out of the mysterious liminal space by the side of the road, came three snarling harbingers of destruction to spread enmity and chaos. One of them looked like this:
It attacked my car.
Yes, it was a deer. No, there was nothing else I could do -- there was forest on one side and another terrified driver on the other. I just had to grit my teeth, say a prayer, and barrel in. We caught her somewhere near the shoulder.
This tumultuous midnight rendez-vous did $2,100 worth of damage to my ride. I have been driving a lame rental car for a week while the body work was being completed. Today, I gladly return the Vanillamobile to its keeper and break Veronica, my pumpkin sweetheart, free from her prison. Peace out, Sonata:
Listen to some RAA on HearYa.
Thursday, October 22, 2009
Internal vs. external
Today was a Dad-day: rhythmic, energetic, scheduled, and extroverted.
From drop-off one at 8am to drop-off two at 9am; from pick-up one at noon to pick-up two at 3.30; from breakfast to lunch to dinner; from playing kickball outside to playing cards before bed, parenting is my tether to concrete and simple beauty. And real work, not the theoretical kind.
From drop-off one at 8am to drop-off two at 9am; from pick-up one at noon to pick-up two at 3.30; from breakfast to lunch to dinner; from playing kickball outside to playing cards before bed, parenting is my tether to concrete and simple beauty. And real work, not the theoretical kind.
A Starbucks refill
A couple of days ago, I wrote a casual post in which I made an invisible connection between Starbucks and Melville's Moby Dick. It was just an easy guess, but I got curious. Read Erik Neu's posting here. He got curious about the same thing and did the research.
Even more interesting than mythbusting the origin of the Starbucks name is Neu's comment at the end:
Even more interesting than mythbusting the origin of the Starbucks name is Neu's comment at the end:
"Voila, the brain connects up a plausible, internally consistent explanation; better than the original, except that it isn't correct." In a footnote he extends his idea: "This reminds me of something I read recently, can't remember where, that fiction is more satisfying than reality, because fiction requires itself to be consistent."
How appropriate for All is Telling?
Gen-Y critique; don't look
Mark Bauerlein, an Emory English teacher, published an op-ed in the Wall Street Journal last month titled "Why Gen-Y Johnny Can't Read Non-Verbal Cues." It provies an interesting counterpoint to Cowen's article referenced yesterday.
I am not sure I agree with the bulk of Bauerlein's assertions, but I have started telling texting-students to put away their phones in class.
I am not sure I agree with the bulk of Bauerlein's assertions, but I have started telling texting-students to put away their phones in class.
Wednesday, October 21, 2009
A flux-capacitor moment
On this root, though, he stumbles. In losing his balance, a whole bunch of other things topple out of his hands. His hands representing control. Control representing responsibilities. Suffice it to say that, his life becomes perilously close to the street. Divorce, foreclosure, disgrace. He lives lean and snarls back at the world because he has learned real hunger. There are bright spots, angels, totems, guides that keep him refreshed and hopeful. They are real; not imaginary. He trudges on, but he loses his academic way.
When all of it seems for naught; when the government wolves come crying at the door; when he has forgotten how to earn real money because so much of it has been loaned to him; with no warning . . . he starts again, the academic thinking. The research thoughts start flowing. His ideas, formed years ago while pondering the topic from the more insulated and idealistic promontory of the classroom, have become like diamonds. The pressure made them lucid, precise, and valuable.
You can see where this is going.
He starts to write, and also to write about the writing. It's the ultimate postmodern frame, writing about the writing of a piece of writing. All of the ideas . . . sermons, American fiction, Greek and Roman rhetoric, Kenneth Burke, the linguistic turn, the Invisible Man, Baby Suggs, and Sherriff Bell . . . start to coalesce. Writing about how the writing is going helps, somehow. And it becomes a story that is just too compelling not to take to its conclusion.
Would you pay attention to it? I hope so.
This story came to me in the shower and was, probably, the fruit of an earlier discussion. Thanks, Clo-Show. I didn't even have to borrow your shoe for a picture.
i-Multitasking, or my imagined debate with Tyler Cowen
Tyler Cowen, whom I hop-skipped to via Arts & Letters Daily, argues interestingly for multitasking, online culture, and reduction in the status of the printed word in a new article "Three Tweets for the Web." I especially like his comparison of cultural delivery to long distance romances and marriages -- you used to have to work hard and travel far distances to "get culture" but now it's always there when you wake up in the morning. This also made me think of my new (scary?) habit of checking email on my phone before I get out of bed.
As ambivalently pinioned as I am between classic ideas of culture and postmodern pastiche, I want to argue against Cowen. In most places, I can't. I think the only red flag I can let myself raise is . . . is all culture good for us? I don't think it is. If it's being delivered to us in staccato bursts from all sides, where do we get the apparatus we need to thresh, interpret, and select.
I think I know what he'll say. "I wrote 3000 words on the benefits of quickly digesting culture, and you wrote a three-paragraph blog post siding with 'taking your time'. Who wins?"
As ambivalently pinioned as I am between classic ideas of culture and postmodern pastiche, I want to argue against Cowen. In most places, I can't. I think the only red flag I can let myself raise is . . . is all culture good for us? I don't think it is. If it's being delivered to us in staccato bursts from all sides, where do we get the apparatus we need to thresh, interpret, and select.
I think I know what he'll say. "I wrote 3000 words on the benefits of quickly digesting culture, and you wrote a three-paragraph blog post siding with 'taking your time'. Who wins?"
Tuesday, October 20, 2009
Arborictory!
Why I like the Roos. This tree probably predates the Civil War. Maybe even the Peloponnesian War. It's good to be home and thinking sometimes of angels.
New meaning to "old school."
New meaning to "old school."
Hope at the Roos
Quite some conversations today, deep catching-up ones.
In one I learned from an old friend this story:
A woman gets cancer. She is told she has a year to live. She gets illuminated by bird-watching and sets out to spend the rest of her days just doing that, bird watching. Eventually, she dies -- eighteen years later, after traveling all over the world watching birds -- by a bus. It's a book published this year called Life List. She beat the odds.
In another, I learned from another friend this story:
A woman is afraid she will never forge the right connections, never make her relationships work. She is broken, she worries.
A man says to her, "You aren't."
A man says to her, "You aren't."
"How do you know," she says.
"Your cats," he says.
He goes on to explain that sometimes he looks down at this dog, before they go to sleep at night, and is overwhelmed by his love for the animal. So much so that it keeps him from sleeping. And the woman's love for her cats, he says, is proof that she can do that with a human being.
I was feeling overwhelmed. Now, I am less so.
Monday, October 19, 2009
Random people leaving from D.C.
Sunday, October 18, 2009
Brand central
Edward Andrew Orr (1916-2009); Part III: Dear Eddie
I never called you Eddie in real life, but when you shuffle off this mortal coil, the rules change.
You were quite a character who made an impression on everyone. You were, in my mind, an eternally happy person who was never hesitant to laugh or be silly. When I was 6 or 7, we played two games together when I had sleepovers at your house. In the first game, I played SpiderMan and you were the Hulk. Basically, it was a wrestling game.
Then, as I was going to sleep, you would lay with me in the bed, and we would pretend that the dark room was made of candy. You would say, "That lamp over there, the shade? It's made out of marshmellows." I would say, "Those little lumps on the ceiling are white jelly beans." It would go on for hours. Do you remember?
The only nobility I could ever assign to the game of golf came from you. Until you moved to VA, it was a constant in your life. We met you at the clubhouse after a round for lunch; you drove me around on the cart; we dined at the fancy restaurant for members on special occasions. Everyone always said that, with the way you played, the way you swung the clubs, it did not make sense for you to be very good. But you were. It was like you made up your own rules about how the game worked. Good job.
You and my father and my two uncles were all in the military. I am not. However, I will always understand something unique about the country because of all of your examples. For all my anti-establishment leanings, I will always have respect for soldiers because, in my mind, they could all be you.
You ate, talked, and laughed like someone in love with life, someone for whom it is a joy to be alive. Thank you for that. It was contagious.
It might have been difficult to let your son and daughters take care of you in your final years. You were not someone used to needing things from other people. You did it with grace, but, sometimes it was probably difficult.
Over the last several months, from what I saw and heard, you had a standard chorus. Whenever you felt it well up, or during moments when you could not understand the conversation going on around, you would say "I am happy to be here with everybody. I just want you to know that I love all of you; I am the luckiest guy in the world. God has really blessed me."
You went back to Normandy as an older guy, to retrace your steps liberating France. You traveled to Ireland to stomp on your old ancestral haunts.
Your heavy New York accent, and the lighter one that my aunt and mom still have, are soothing. To this day, running into someone with a New York accent at a store or a restaurant makes me feel a little at home.
You loved music, movies, and culture. You passed it down to all of the grandkids in different ways. When BDP and I stayed up late tonight playing silly clips on the Internet and new tunes to each other, some of that sense of appreciation had its seed in you. I remember fondly going to a two movies in the theater with you: Michael Collins and We Were Soldiers.
As a kid, I thought you were a genius; maybe you were. You were a crossword ace and had an encyclopedic knowledge of history. You always seemed smarter than all of us around you, but humbly so.
You had a charming smile and the most endearing laugh. From low in your belly. You were quick to touch people -- a hand on the shoulder, a hug, or a squeeze of the hand.
Ultimately, strangely, maybe I did not know you. You were probably so much rounder of a character than I could ever imagine as your grandchild, who didn't see you all that often after I became an adult. I am sure you had failings, griefs, regrets. I know that you made dynamic changes in the relationships with your kids as they became adults, becoming more sensitive and expressive. In some ways, I will only know you as the strong and comforting cardboard cut-out that I saw during most of my youth. I wasn't your peer or your confidante. No moment ever came where the generational wall came down and you shared any deeply vulnerable side of yourself.
I am telling you something, though: that super hero version of yourself is best thing you could have given me. If I hit your mark, or even close to it, when I am 60 and beyond, I will be a great success.
While I know that the writing I have done over the several days has been an attempt to navigate through your passing, it has not worked all the way. On one hand, I am at peace with your departure. On the other, I will always, always miss you.
Grandpa, a tout a l'heure. Je t'aime.
You were quite a character who made an impression on everyone. You were, in my mind, an eternally happy person who was never hesitant to laugh or be silly. When I was 6 or 7, we played two games together when I had sleepovers at your house. In the first game, I played SpiderMan and you were the Hulk. Basically, it was a wrestling game.
Then, as I was going to sleep, you would lay with me in the bed, and we would pretend that the dark room was made of candy. You would say, "That lamp over there, the shade? It's made out of marshmellows." I would say, "Those little lumps on the ceiling are white jelly beans." It would go on for hours. Do you remember?
The only nobility I could ever assign to the game of golf came from you. Until you moved to VA, it was a constant in your life. We met you at the clubhouse after a round for lunch; you drove me around on the cart; we dined at the fancy restaurant for members on special occasions. Everyone always said that, with the way you played, the way you swung the clubs, it did not make sense for you to be very good. But you were. It was like you made up your own rules about how the game worked. Good job.
You and my father and my two uncles were all in the military. I am not. However, I will always understand something unique about the country because of all of your examples. For all my anti-establishment leanings, I will always have respect for soldiers because, in my mind, they could all be you.
You ate, talked, and laughed like someone in love with life, someone for whom it is a joy to be alive. Thank you for that. It was contagious.
It might have been difficult to let your son and daughters take care of you in your final years. You were not someone used to needing things from other people. You did it with grace, but, sometimes it was probably difficult.
Over the last several months, from what I saw and heard, you had a standard chorus. Whenever you felt it well up, or during moments when you could not understand the conversation going on around, you would say "I am happy to be here with everybody. I just want you to know that I love all of you; I am the luckiest guy in the world. God has really blessed me."
You went back to Normandy as an older guy, to retrace your steps liberating France. You traveled to Ireland to stomp on your old ancestral haunts.
Your heavy New York accent, and the lighter one that my aunt and mom still have, are soothing. To this day, running into someone with a New York accent at a store or a restaurant makes me feel a little at home.
You loved music, movies, and culture. You passed it down to all of the grandkids in different ways. When BDP and I stayed up late tonight playing silly clips on the Internet and new tunes to each other, some of that sense of appreciation had its seed in you. I remember fondly going to a two movies in the theater with you: Michael Collins and We Were Soldiers.
As a kid, I thought you were a genius; maybe you were. You were a crossword ace and had an encyclopedic knowledge of history. You always seemed smarter than all of us around you, but humbly so.
You had a charming smile and the most endearing laugh. From low in your belly. You were quick to touch people -- a hand on the shoulder, a hug, or a squeeze of the hand.
Ultimately, strangely, maybe I did not know you. You were probably so much rounder of a character than I could ever imagine as your grandchild, who didn't see you all that often after I became an adult. I am sure you had failings, griefs, regrets. I know that you made dynamic changes in the relationships with your kids as they became adults, becoming more sensitive and expressive. In some ways, I will only know you as the strong and comforting cardboard cut-out that I saw during most of my youth. I wasn't your peer or your confidante. No moment ever came where the generational wall came down and you shared any deeply vulnerable side of yourself.
I am telling you something, though: that super hero version of yourself is best thing you could have given me. If I hit your mark, or even close to it, when I am 60 and beyond, I will be a great success.
While I know that the writing I have done over the several days has been an attempt to navigate through your passing, it has not worked all the way. On one hand, I am at peace with your departure. On the other, I will always, always miss you.
Grandpa, a tout a l'heure. Je t'aime.
A toast
Saturday, October 17, 2009
Red snapper
On board
Edward Andrew Orr (1916-2009): Part II: Stories
My parents and I lived for a short time in Lake Worth, two blocks from my grandma and granpa's condo. There were huge gardenia trees/bushes at the house next door.
My earliest memory of grandpa is when he helped me catch my first fish. We were fishing off of a concrete dock. The beginning of this story might sound like fishing served as some significant masculine bonding glue between my grandpa and me, like, we were both married to the sea or could speak the language of the deep. It's not true; I don't know if we ever went fishing again.
What I do remember is that I caught a fish (circa 4yrs.). It was a beautiful red fish, a red snapper. It was perfectly formed and came out of the ocean without a struggle. I was elated. We took it home and my grandma prepared it for dinner. Later, I learned that grandpa, leaving me there with my mom, and gone to the store, purchased a red snapper, come back, and "hooked it" without my looking. This serves as a perfect reminder that the Irish are not above lying in order to entertain or comfort.
My aunt and cousin came to stay with us for a little while (circa 7yrs), and for some reason I remember we had some little people issues with the dynamic in the house. For a reason I can't put my finger on, we packed suitcases and, in the middle of the night, ran away to grandma and grandpa's. We walked across two streets very late at night and called g&g on the security call box. I don't remember much about what happened after that, but I remember grandpa welcoming us in and even setting out snacks while he called my mom. Were the snacks just a hospitable habit or did he really think we were hungry at 3am?
Another time we went to a small beach that grandpa had some social-in to (circa 7yrs). A guy in the parking lot had a threatening sounding dog who barked a whole bunch on our way out. Grandpa and the guy had some cross words, but I remember feeling secure that he was sticking up for me against dangerous animals.
As BDP has noted in a previous post, grandpa had an unparalleled style. Once, when he was visiting my family (circa 15yrs), I complemented his golf shirt. It really was amazing . . . kind of a Slazenger-meets-MC-Escher trippy print of interlocking triangles. When he came to see us the next day, he presented me with the shirt. It really wasn't my style at the time; I didn't know if I could pull it off. What was more true was that my style was ready to evolve. I started wearing the shirt anyway, and I was more fly for the choice. It may be, to this day, the only golf shirt that I have.
We travelled one May to an event in SC. It may have been my BDP's graduation. My high school pal Jamie came with us (circa 17yrs). For most of the drive there, my mom talked about how grandpa's driving was getting worse, that everyone was on his case to relinquish his license, and he was refusing. She warned us to watch out for him.
Several hours later, leaving the ceremony, Jamie and I ended up in the car with grandma and granpa heading back to the house. Of course grandpa was driving, are you kidding? We thought nothing of it until, backing out of the space he smashed, I guess maybe, smashed lightly, into a concrete light pole foundation. A silence descended on the car. I could only see the back of his head, and I remember vividly that he was wearing a plaid Kangol-style golfing hat. It seemed like minutes unfolded before he put his boatish car in drive, turned his head slightly to the side, and said "Nobody needs to know that," and drove on. We did not tell a soul. Grandpa, please forgive me for putting it on the Interweb.
I never knew how he pulled it off, but as excited as he always has been to see me, to take my face in his hands and kiss me, to hug me with all of his old-guy-cologne-essense, he has always been even more sweet to my children. They adored seeing him, and he looked like a king restored to the throne after exile when he waited to hug them. I know now that they were and are living, breathing extensions of his success as a human being to him.
I remember grandpa putting himself face to face with my oldest son, touching noses in many pictures. He was grandpa's first greaat grandchild and always has felt special in that regard. My daugther loves him like a kindred spirit; she has his spritely sense of humor and bouncing energy. My youngest son only saw him a couple of times, but grandpa was always putting his arms around my little one. I have a great shot of their last hug several months ago. Perhaps something inside grandpa knew that this would be last great grandchild that he would know.
My earliest memory of grandpa is when he helped me catch my first fish. We were fishing off of a concrete dock. The beginning of this story might sound like fishing served as some significant masculine bonding glue between my grandpa and me, like, we were both married to the sea or could speak the language of the deep. It's not true; I don't know if we ever went fishing again.
What I do remember is that I caught a fish (circa 4yrs.). It was a beautiful red fish, a red snapper. It was perfectly formed and came out of the ocean without a struggle. I was elated. We took it home and my grandma prepared it for dinner. Later, I learned that grandpa, leaving me there with my mom, and gone to the store, purchased a red snapper, come back, and "hooked it" without my looking. This serves as a perfect reminder that the Irish are not above lying in order to entertain or comfort.
My aunt and cousin came to stay with us for a little while (circa 7yrs), and for some reason I remember we had some little people issues with the dynamic in the house. For a reason I can't put my finger on, we packed suitcases and, in the middle of the night, ran away to grandma and grandpa's. We walked across two streets very late at night and called g&g on the security call box. I don't remember much about what happened after that, but I remember grandpa welcoming us in and even setting out snacks while he called my mom. Were the snacks just a hospitable habit or did he really think we were hungry at 3am?
Another time we went to a small beach that grandpa had some social-in to (circa 7yrs). A guy in the parking lot had a threatening sounding dog who barked a whole bunch on our way out. Grandpa and the guy had some cross words, but I remember feeling secure that he was sticking up for me against dangerous animals.
As BDP has noted in a previous post, grandpa had an unparalleled style. Once, when he was visiting my family (circa 15yrs), I complemented his golf shirt. It really was amazing . . . kind of a Slazenger-meets-MC-Escher trippy print of interlocking triangles. When he came to see us the next day, he presented me with the shirt. It really wasn't my style at the time; I didn't know if I could pull it off. What was more true was that my style was ready to evolve. I started wearing the shirt anyway, and I was more fly for the choice. It may be, to this day, the only golf shirt that I have.
We travelled one May to an event in SC. It may have been my BDP's graduation. My high school pal Jamie came with us (circa 17yrs). For most of the drive there, my mom talked about how grandpa's driving was getting worse, that everyone was on his case to relinquish his license, and he was refusing. She warned us to watch out for him.
Several hours later, leaving the ceremony, Jamie and I ended up in the car with grandma and granpa heading back to the house. Of course grandpa was driving, are you kidding? We thought nothing of it until, backing out of the space he smashed, I guess maybe, smashed lightly, into a concrete light pole foundation. A silence descended on the car. I could only see the back of his head, and I remember vividly that he was wearing a plaid Kangol-style golfing hat. It seemed like minutes unfolded before he put his boatish car in drive, turned his head slightly to the side, and said "Nobody needs to know that," and drove on. We did not tell a soul. Grandpa, please forgive me for putting it on the Interweb.
I never knew how he pulled it off, but as excited as he always has been to see me, to take my face in his hands and kiss me, to hug me with all of his old-guy-cologne-essense, he has always been even more sweet to my children. They adored seeing him, and he looked like a king restored to the throne after exile when he waited to hug them. I know now that they were and are living, breathing extensions of his success as a human being to him.
I remember grandpa putting himself face to face with my oldest son, touching noses in many pictures. He was grandpa's first greaat grandchild and always has felt special in that regard. My daugther loves him like a kindred spirit; she has his spritely sense of humor and bouncing energy. My youngest son only saw him a couple of times, but grandpa was always putting his arms around my little one. I have a great shot of their last hug several months ago. Perhaps something inside grandpa knew that this would be last great grandchild that he would know.
Friday, October 16, 2009
Edward Andrew Orr (1916-2009); Part I: History
My grandpa passed away last night, some time between 8pm and 9pm. I have been writing his obituary in my mind for several days. I have been aided by my cousin BDP who took a crack first and knocked it out of the park. I hope to get permission to post his reflection.
In elementary school, there is this great assignment where teachers have kids name their favorite family meal, and then guesstimate/imagine/attempt to write the recipe. It's always funny to see the actual recipe sitting next to the kid-one. I am going to try to write a history of Grandpa's life, in full knowledge that it will turn out like one of these 6-year-old recipes: wrong, endearing, and hopefully telling in the omissions and fabrications.
1916
My Grandpa was born in a section of Brooklyn called Flatbush. I am certain this is true, because the Irish Easter Rebellion happened in 1916, in which a bunch of Catholics tried to take back their country and got shot or hanged outside the Dublin post office for it. In college I was doing some amateur genealogical research and learned that an Orr was one of those rebels executed after the uprising. Grandpa has always been my talisman for Irish things, even though I am fairly certain that only 1/2 or maybe even only 1/4 of his parentage was Irish. After I learned this little bit of history, he always reminded me of the fact that we don't take any garbage from those jokers (those jokers, being anyone who wants to take something for us).
Teenage years
Grandpa grew up pretty modestly. I never heard one word in my life about his father. My grandpa had a sister. My grandpa's mother was called Nana by my mom and her siblings when they went to visit her. She was always described as a stern lady. She made some meal really well; my mom will remember it. My grandpa did some boxing (I am stepping out on some thin memories) growing up, and also swimming. Oh yes. Swimming. Did you know he was almost in the Olympics for like twelve straight years? Seriously, he won an enormous swimming award from his community, or maybe it was for all of New York City. That sounds better.
My grandpa and grandma went to the same high school in Brooklyn for a short time, and then, for some reason, they didn't. Maybe he graduated. Maybe he was moved to a different school Either way, he remembered her, returned to her, and courted her. They were married in 1940. He had become a policeman. Soon enough, they had a son, whom I call Uncle Skip and who carries grandpa's name.
Grandpa went into WWII older than most of the guys going; he was already in his late 20s. I don't know if he was drafted or signed himself up, but he was in the Army. He was trained as a cryptographer because of his high scores on aptitude tests and worked either in sending coded messages for the Allies or in decoding enemy messages. Maybe both. None of grandchildren learned anything about him before they learned this: he was in the D-Day invasion. This is mammoth. Maybe he was a couple of days behind the D-Day invasion. It doesn't matter. He trudged through France with all of his compatriots, liberating people, smiling, cracking codes, and compiling a list of stories in his head. He was on-site in Rheims, France, for the signing of the unconditional surrender by Hitler's generals.
When I was in college, on some strange impulse, I flew down to spend a weekend with my grandparents to interview them about their past. I am going to be looking for the journal where I caught all of those notes for the first part of today, I know it.
Grandpa returned from the war and returned to his post as a beat cop in Brooklyn. He worked at Dodgers' stadium. I always associate this part of grandpa's life with my study of Malcolm X, because it was around this time that Malcolm went to jail and came into his own as an autodidact. Malcolm listened to Brooklyn Dodgers games on the radio in prison for news of Jackie Robinson. So, it's kind of like Malcolm and my grandpa knew each other.
At this point, the entire engine of sibling love and rivalry for the Orr children was complete. Never before or since was there a more perfect machine for generating temporal feelings of jealousy, bitterness, and competition bound by a strong love that just forces you to get over it. The pattern probably looked like this in its genesis:
we are all brothers and sisters and we love each other . . . oww, you stepped on my toes; did you do that because daddy loves you more? . . . no, it was just an accident . . . no it wasn't, you were trying to stand in a better position to receive attention from our patriarchal system . . . no I wasn't, I was just shifting my weight . . . it's more like your shadow, look at how enormous it is . . . hey, what are you guys arguing about over there? . . . butt out . . . hey, you can't exclude me, it hurt me too when your toe got stepped on . . . let's all hug . . . ok . . . [hug] . . . no one is as close as we are . . . no they are not . . . oww, did someone just slam my hand into a glass door? . . . etc.
Grandpa saw all of this pathos. And it was good. Through the 50s and 60s, he was a police officer and father.
The Rest
I always see the rest of grandpa's life, until I bumped into him, as a post-retirement blur. At some point all of the kids moved out and got married. At some point grandpa and grandma moved to Florida. For most of the rest of their time, life is quiet and peaceful, golfing all the time and looking out the screen porch of their condo, watching the Intercoastal Waterway, and waiting for grandchildren. I am sure that's not the case; they may not have installed themselves in that condo until the day before I met them, but in my memory, they were always there until they moved up to Virginia to be closer to Skip. Grandma became ill and passed away in 2003. It hit grandpa pretty hard, though he did his best to have happy years after she was gone. In some ways, he was always living through the sadness of missing her in his last six years.
This catches us up to where I enter the picture, at which point the memories become much more concrete. That post, I will put up later today, in addition to a letter to grandpa, rounding out my triptych blog obituary. I will tell you something -- it feels eerie and sad knowing that he is not going to be on the other end of the phone for me again.
*Special thanks to Cousin CMS for the nicely planned pics.
In elementary school, there is this great assignment where teachers have kids name their favorite family meal, and then guesstimate/imagine/attempt to write the recipe. It's always funny to see the actual recipe sitting next to the kid-one. I am going to try to write a history of Grandpa's life, in full knowledge that it will turn out like one of these 6-year-old recipes: wrong, endearing, and hopefully telling in the omissions and fabrications.
1916
My Grandpa was born in a section of Brooklyn called Flatbush. I am certain this is true, because the Irish Easter Rebellion happened in 1916, in which a bunch of Catholics tried to take back their country and got shot or hanged outside the Dublin post office for it. In college I was doing some amateur genealogical research and learned that an Orr was one of those rebels executed after the uprising. Grandpa has always been my talisman for Irish things, even though I am fairly certain that only 1/2 or maybe even only 1/4 of his parentage was Irish. After I learned this little bit of history, he always reminded me of the fact that we don't take any garbage from those jokers (those jokers, being anyone who wants to take something for us).
Teenage years
Grandpa grew up pretty modestly. I never heard one word in my life about his father. My grandpa had a sister. My grandpa's mother was called Nana by my mom and her siblings when they went to visit her. She was always described as a stern lady. She made some meal really well; my mom will remember it. My grandpa did some boxing (I am stepping out on some thin memories) growing up, and also swimming. Oh yes. Swimming. Did you know he was almost in the Olympics for like twelve straight years? Seriously, he won an enormous swimming award from his community, or maybe it was for all of New York City. That sounds better.
"Love and Marriage"
My grandpa and grandma went to the same high school in Brooklyn for a short time, and then, for some reason, they didn't. Maybe he graduated. Maybe he was moved to a different school Either way, he remembered her, returned to her, and courted her. They were married in 1940. He had become a policeman. Soon enough, they had a son, whom I call Uncle Skip and who carries grandpa's name.The War
Grandpa went into WWII older than most of the guys going; he was already in his late 20s. I don't know if he was drafted or signed himself up, but he was in the Army. He was trained as a cryptographer because of his high scores on aptitude tests and worked either in sending coded messages for the Allies or in decoding enemy messages. Maybe both. None of grandchildren learned anything about him before they learned this: he was in the D-Day invasion. This is mammoth. Maybe he was a couple of days behind the D-Day invasion. It doesn't matter. He trudged through France with all of his compatriots, liberating people, smiling, cracking codes, and compiling a list of stories in his head. He was on-site in Rheims, France, for the signing of the unconditional surrender by Hitler's generals.When I was in college, on some strange impulse, I flew down to spend a weekend with my grandparents to interview them about their past. I am going to be looking for the journal where I caught all of those notes for the first part of today, I know it.
Post-War
Grandpa returned from the war and returned to his post as a beat cop in Brooklyn. He worked at Dodgers' stadium. I always associate this part of grandpa's life with my study of Malcolm X, because it was around this time that Malcolm went to jail and came into his own as an autodidact. Malcolm listened to Brooklyn Dodgers games on the radio in prison for news of Jackie Robinson. So, it's kind of like Malcolm and my grandpa knew each other.The Perfect Machine
My mom was born Jan. 23, 1947. At some point right before or after this, the Orr family moved out to Long Island. My mom won the Ms. Junior Levittown beauty pageant when she was 4. This has nothing to do with grandpa except that he gave her some of those good looks, and because it's a clear story that I remember. My mom's sister was born in 1949. She was everyone's sweet baby, and they dressed her up in the most adorable hats (why do I remember this?).
At this point, the entire engine of sibling love and rivalry for the Orr children was complete. Never before or since was there a more perfect machine for generating temporal feelings of jealousy, bitterness, and competition bound by a strong love that just forces you to get over it. The pattern probably looked like this in its genesis:
we are all brothers and sisters and we love each other . . . oww, you stepped on my toes; did you do that because daddy loves you more? . . . no, it was just an accident . . . no it wasn't, you were trying to stand in a better position to receive attention from our patriarchal system . . . no I wasn't, I was just shifting my weight . . . it's more like your shadow, look at how enormous it is . . . hey, what are you guys arguing about over there? . . . butt out . . . hey, you can't exclude me, it hurt me too when your toe got stepped on . . . let's all hug . . . ok . . . [hug] . . . no one is as close as we are . . . no they are not . . . oww, did someone just slam my hand into a glass door? . . . etc.
Grandpa saw all of this pathos. And it was good. Through the 50s and 60s, he was a police officer and father.
The Rest
I always see the rest of grandpa's life, until I bumped into him, as a post-retirement blur. At some point all of the kids moved out and got married. At some point grandpa and grandma moved to Florida. For most of the rest of their time, life is quiet and peaceful, golfing all the time and looking out the screen porch of their condo, watching the Intercoastal Waterway, and waiting for grandchildren. I am sure that's not the case; they may not have installed themselves in that condo until the day before I met them, but in my memory, they were always there until they moved up to Virginia to be closer to Skip. Grandma became ill and passed away in 2003. It hit grandpa pretty hard, though he did his best to have happy years after she was gone. In some ways, he was always living through the sadness of missing her in his last six years.
This catches us up to where I enter the picture, at which point the memories become much more concrete. That post, I will put up later today, in addition to a letter to grandpa, rounding out my triptych blog obituary. I will tell you something -- it feels eerie and sad knowing that he is not going to be on the other end of the phone for me again.
*Special thanks to Cousin CMS for the nicely planned pics.
That Dude
Cousin BDP composed a reflection about our grandpa last night. I woke up to the email this morning. We both toasted grandpa with Jameson's last night without knowing it -- maybe at the same time. By permission, here is BDP's fantastic piece:
When you work with young people every day, you pick up a lot of slang. Kids are coming up with new words every day, and most of them are gone by the end of the semester. Very few of them stick with me, but sometimes a word or expression comes along that allows me to capture something my current vocabulary would never allow.
As I’ve been preparing myself for the death of my grandfather over the last several months, the expression that inevitably emerges is…that dude.
My grandfather was that dude. He was that dude that knew everybody, every where, that ever did anything interesting. He was that dude that instantly drew you in and made you feel good about yourself, no matter who you were. He was that dude came out of the house dressed something fierce every single time. He was THAT dude.
I never lived close to my grandpa, so we didn’t spend a whole lot of extended time together. But I got to witness, like most of us grandkids did, just how magnetic his charm was anytime we went anywhere with him. For me, I realized it during spring training in Florida, a rite of passage for many of us sports fans in the family. I went down on the spring break of my 5th grade year, and grandpa took me to two games. In the course of those two days, he introduced me to one of the coaches of the Expos; got me a ball signed by the whole team, including one of my biggest idols at the time; got ahold of the bat that Andres Gallaraga broke during the game, and had him sign it; and coaxed me into asking Ricky Henderson, the greatest base stealer to ever play the game, for an autograph. That was one day. It makes me laugh to think about who I could have met had a actually hung out with Big Ed for more than a few days at a time. Jimmy Hoffa?
That dude.
The last day I spent with my grandpa was in the hospital a little over a month ago. He wasn’t doing well, but he mustered some lucidity every few minutes over the course of our couple of hours together. In the midst of me asking him stories about his life, he mentioned that he had been the head of police at Ebbets Field for the Dodgers, and that he’d managed to build pretty tight relationships with several of the players. I think I’d heard it before, but it never occurred to me to ask what the time period was. Then he mentioned the early 50s, and I about jumped out of my seat. “YOU MET JACKIE ROBINSON!!!” Yes, he answered, he had considered Jackie to be a good friend.
Are you kidding me? That one had never come up before?
That dude.
And I don’t doubt that they were friends, because my grandfather made friends with everyone that he ever came into contact with. He was quick with a compliment, a term of endearment, a wry smile. My grandpa had a smile that you had to respond to. He was a flirt. He was courteous. He made you feel good to be in a room with him. Though I’m sure he gave them more than their share of work, my mom and others report that every nurse he had as things got close to the end fell in love with him. We all did.
He was that dude.
And I don’t know what it was like to grow up with him, but I know that he was a fantastic grandpa. He told great stories. He always asked about us. He did all the right grandpa things. Watching him sit in a room with all of us, and watch us, was as big a treat as I can imagine. He was so proud to have had something to do with all of us being here, and he relished the opportunity to bask in it. When his mind grew feebler, and he frequently repeated himself, what I heard most often were expressions of how lucky he felt, how there was nothing better than being in our family, and how much he loved all of us. He may not have always remembered everyone’s name, but he knew that we were his.
That dude.
And he made us proud to call him ours. There was nothing like the anticipation of picking grandpa up and wondering what he’d be wearing. Would it be the plaid pants and sweater vest, or the white slacks and matching cap. Grandpa had style for days, and not even the remnants from his lunch on his shirt could taint his flyness. He wasn’t some fuddy-duddy old dude that you had to cart around and make excuses for. He made you want to step your game up, so that you could match the old guy you were rolling with.
Again, he was that dude.
And he relished it. He knew, humbly, that he was that dude, and he took his cues from the best there ever was. He loved his music, and more than anything, he loved his Frankie. The most fitting way, then, to end this is to use the words of grandpa’s favorite, old Blue Eyes, from one manifestation of that dude to another.
I’ve loved, I’ve laughed and cried.
I’ve had my fill; my share of losing.
And now, as tears subside,
I find it all so amusing.
To think I did all that;
And may I say - not in a shy way,
No, oh no not me,
I did it my way.
Thank you grandpa. For loving us. For making us laugh. For doing it your way.
You were, and always will be, THAT dude.
I love you.
That Dude
As I’ve been preparing myself for the death of my grandfather over the last several months, the expression that inevitably emerges is…that dude.
My grandfather was that dude. He was that dude that knew everybody, every where, that ever did anything interesting. He was that dude that instantly drew you in and made you feel good about yourself, no matter who you were. He was that dude came out of the house dressed something fierce every single time. He was THAT dude.
I never lived close to my grandpa, so we didn’t spend a whole lot of extended time together. But I got to witness, like most of us grandkids did, just how magnetic his charm was anytime we went anywhere with him. For me, I realized it during spring training in Florida, a rite of passage for many of us sports fans in the family. I went down on the spring break of my 5th grade year, and grandpa took me to two games. In the course of those two days, he introduced me to one of the coaches of the Expos; got me a ball signed by the whole team, including one of my biggest idols at the time; got ahold of the bat that Andres Gallaraga broke during the game, and had him sign it; and coaxed me into asking Ricky Henderson, the greatest base stealer to ever play the game, for an autograph. That was one day. It makes me laugh to think about who I could have met had a actually hung out with Big Ed for more than a few days at a time. Jimmy Hoffa?
That dude.
The last day I spent with my grandpa was in the hospital a little over a month ago. He wasn’t doing well, but he mustered some lucidity every few minutes over the course of our couple of hours together. In the midst of me asking him stories about his life, he mentioned that he had been the head of police at Ebbets Field for the Dodgers, and that he’d managed to build pretty tight relationships with several of the players. I think I’d heard it before, but it never occurred to me to ask what the time period was. Then he mentioned the early 50s, and I about jumped out of my seat. “YOU MET JACKIE ROBINSON!!!” Yes, he answered, he had considered Jackie to be a good friend.
Are you kidding me? That one had never come up before?
That dude.
And I don’t doubt that they were friends, because my grandfather made friends with everyone that he ever came into contact with. He was quick with a compliment, a term of endearment, a wry smile. My grandpa had a smile that you had to respond to. He was a flirt. He was courteous. He made you feel good to be in a room with him. Though I’m sure he gave them more than their share of work, my mom and others report that every nurse he had as things got close to the end fell in love with him. We all did.
He was that dude.
And I don’t know what it was like to grow up with him, but I know that he was a fantastic grandpa. He told great stories. He always asked about us. He did all the right grandpa things. Watching him sit in a room with all of us, and watch us, was as big a treat as I can imagine. He was so proud to have had something to do with all of us being here, and he relished the opportunity to bask in it. When his mind grew feebler, and he frequently repeated himself, what I heard most often were expressions of how lucky he felt, how there was nothing better than being in our family, and how much he loved all of us. He may not have always remembered everyone’s name, but he knew that we were his.
That dude.
And he made us proud to call him ours. There was nothing like the anticipation of picking grandpa up and wondering what he’d be wearing. Would it be the plaid pants and sweater vest, or the white slacks and matching cap. Grandpa had style for days, and not even the remnants from his lunch on his shirt could taint his flyness. He wasn’t some fuddy-duddy old dude that you had to cart around and make excuses for. He made you want to step your game up, so that you could match the old guy you were rolling with.
Again, he was that dude.
And he relished it. He knew, humbly, that he was that dude, and he took his cues from the best there ever was. He loved his music, and more than anything, he loved his Frankie. The most fitting way, then, to end this is to use the words of grandpa’s favorite, old Blue Eyes, from one manifestation of that dude to another.
I’ve loved, I’ve laughed and cried.
I’ve had my fill; my share of losing.
And now, as tears subside,
I find it all so amusing.
To think I did all that;
And may I say - not in a shy way,
No, oh no not me,
I did it my way.
Thank you grandpa. For loving us. For making us laugh. For doing it your way.
You were, and always will be, THAT dude.
I love you.
Thursday, October 15, 2009
In which a dog watches over his charge
My daughter gave Bobbie as a gift to Grandpa this summer. He stuck around and is watching like all of us.
The bedside, M. Ward, and the triumph of robots
I talked to my Dad and youngest cousin (who is maybe the most mature of all of us) today who are both at my Grandpa's bedside. Everyone's up there, really. It's hard to be away. I keep telling people close to me who ask how he is, that he is good, peaceful, and getting ready to go. It's not really him that we have to worry about, it seems. Like with Grandma before him, it's the quiet and profound aftermath that descends on the still-earthly folks.
Recently I played a song for my mom that has reminded me of Grandpa for years. It's only just appropriate now, because it's about the passing of an awesome old guy. I have been an M. Ward fan for years and recently saw him play live. Here's a link to his song, "Requiem". The video is interesting, but not that relevant. Just give it a listen if you have time.
Speaking of songs, I love how a song, played once in the car on the way to or from school, can become an anthem for a day or two. My older two have been huge fans of verbal hand-me-down stories and YouTube clips of the Flight of the Conchords guys. Yesterday, their tune "Robot" (video here) jumped onto my youngest's radar. We had to hear it three times this morning (yes, I edit it; sheesh). For a little while, we always had to say "affirmative" in place of "yes".
I'm telling you something: those three people are the funniest people I know.
Recently I played a song for my mom that has reminded me of Grandpa for years. It's only just appropriate now, because it's about the passing of an awesome old guy. I have been an M. Ward fan for years and recently saw him play live. Here's a link to his song, "Requiem". The video is interesting, but not that relevant. Just give it a listen if you have time.
Speaking of songs, I love how a song, played once in the car on the way to or from school, can become an anthem for a day or two. My older two have been huge fans of verbal hand-me-down stories and YouTube clips of the Flight of the Conchords guys. Yesterday, their tune "Robot" (video here) jumped onto my youngest's radar. We had to hear it three times this morning (yes, I edit it; sheesh). For a little while, we always had to say "affirmative" in place of "yes".
I'm telling you something: those three people are the funniest people I know.
Meta-blog?
Wednesday, October 14, 2009
Falling and rising
As I get ready to lay down for bed, I wonder: will he be gone from us in the morning? May God protect his sweet soul.
Virginia, our thoughts are with all of you tonight.
Virginia, our thoughts are with all of you tonight.
Manno, gifting like a magus
Thank you E-Music. Keep doing your thing.
Downloaded tracks from Thao (the new album) and The Clash (Sandanista, an oldie but a goodie) today.
In the moment
The rain coming down at the Roos looks like a light jungle sprinkle. I hope my Grandpa's throat is not too dry.
Friday, October 9, 2009
Screws, sand, Delta Force, and a pain in my chest
When something really bothers me, I feel a burning pain somewhere between my throat and my stomach. In fact, the place is right under my sternum. Is that what people call heartburn or heartache? It's got nothing to do with my heart -- at least not in relations to "heart" as it relates to love, emotion, longing, and Valentine's Day.
No. This is just a plain 'ole physiological pain in the chest brought on by a release of some sticky or seeping chemical in some gland somewhere. Maybe in my right ear lobe.
It just serves as a reminder that things I think can create things I feel. Abstract to concrete.
Either way, I've been through a divorce for close to two years, and I know plenty of times the experience has generated an emotional mass that I just know someone could cut out like a tumor. They could mount it, like one of those prize fish in a doctor's office or display it in a clear jar of formaldehyde. "Here is an emotional tumor" -- the sign would say.
Instead, I carry it around. Sometimes it shrinks, and I think it's going away; sometimes I think that IT thinks it has a 36-year-old guy tumor attached to it. Maybe it wants to put me in a jar. But if it tries, I will assert squatter's rights. Or the unalienable rights of the creator. It came from me, not me from it. That should count for something.
I had a tire plugged today, and the repair professional took out a tiny screw from the tread. It looked like this . . .
This thing was threatening to bring all of my paternal duties to a halt in the emergency lane on the interstate. I wanted to nod victoriously against it. Or hurl something crude and instigating at its clean spiral tines (tines?).
Instead, I decided to chuck it, but not before thinking about how little items, real concrete stuff, can dismantle elaborate theories, complicated plans, and ornamental abstractions. You know what was one of the causes of the aborted Delta Force rescue mission in Iran in 1979? Sand. How small and concrete can you get?
I am telling you something, though: this tightness in my chest is not going to take me down.
No. This is just a plain 'ole physiological pain in the chest brought on by a release of some sticky or seeping chemical in some gland somewhere. Maybe in my right ear lobe.
It just serves as a reminder that things I think can create things I feel. Abstract to concrete.
Either way, I've been through a divorce for close to two years, and I know plenty of times the experience has generated an emotional mass that I just know someone could cut out like a tumor. They could mount it, like one of those prize fish in a doctor's office or display it in a clear jar of formaldehyde. "Here is an emotional tumor" -- the sign would say.
Instead, I carry it around. Sometimes it shrinks, and I think it's going away; sometimes I think that IT thinks it has a 36-year-old guy tumor attached to it. Maybe it wants to put me in a jar. But if it tries, I will assert squatter's rights. Or the unalienable rights of the creator. It came from me, not me from it. That should count for something.
I had a tire plugged today, and the repair professional took out a tiny screw from the tread. It looked like this . . .
This thing was threatening to bring all of my paternal duties to a halt in the emergency lane on the interstate. I wanted to nod victoriously against it. Or hurl something crude and instigating at its clean spiral tines (tines?).
Instead, I decided to chuck it, but not before thinking about how little items, real concrete stuff, can dismantle elaborate theories, complicated plans, and ornamental abstractions. You know what was one of the causes of the aborted Delta Force rescue mission in Iran in 1979? Sand. How small and concrete can you get?
I am telling you something, though: this tightness in my chest is not going to take me down.
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