Minutiae

I have lots of little things going on right now, so rather than try to write a single, cohesive blog post, I’ll update you with some bulleted items:

-- My friend Christopher is visiting from L.A. He called me the day after I got back from Florida and said he was coming to New York the next day, and by the way, could he stay with me? I don’t mind, because Christopher is a good friend and a good guest, but I do miss the opportunity to just relax in my house by myself. Well, that’s what next week will be for!

-- Dave is in band hell this month, rehearsing nearly every night and attending football games on Friday nights and band competition on Saturdays. I’ll only get to see him one or two nights a week from now into November. I miss him constantly!

-- My toilet stopped flushing yesterday morning, sending me into a mild panic. (After all, when you’ve got a guest, that’s a pretty severe problem!) I had to call the building super, who fortunately came over last night and fixed it. The chain from the handle to the rubber flap thing in the toilet tank broke -- that much I knew, and I temporarily rigged it myself. But then a piece of plastic also came off the rubber flap thing, and because it was the same color as the toilet tank, I couldn’t see that it was blocking the water from flowing into the bowl. Panic!!

-- Remember my gold filling? Well, it’s giving me fits. My tooth has been very sensitive to temperature, even making drinking a glass of water unpleasant. I’m hoping this is a temporary state induced by eating frozen yogurt the other night. Stay tuned!

-- Bought a new pair of shoes last night. My previous pair were worn through and the sole was starting to come off. I went to Lord John’s Bootery, around the corner on Third Avenue, and got the same shoes I had before (in a slightly updated style). I had to order them, though, because of course the ones I wanted weren’t in stock.

And there you have it -- life’s minutiae, recorded for posterity!

(Photo: Magnolia seed pods, Land O' Lakes, Fla., Sept. 2009)

Roman Polanski

Roman Polanski’s recent arrest in Switzerland for drugging and having sex with an underage model more than 30 years ago has generated a lot of buzz in the news.

Many people are outraged that Polanski, now 76, was arrested on the charges, which he fled to Europe in the 1970s to escape. After living abroad for decades he was picked up by Swiss authorities while attending a film festival where he was to receive an award.

Others contend it’s time to bring Polanski to justice for an act that, no matter how you look at it, is clearly reprehensible.

I fall more into the former group than the latter. I think arresting Polanski now, long after the crime and against the wishes of even the victim, serves little purpose. He’s an old man, not likely to repeat the offense, and there are certainly plenty of mitigating circumstances – he’s a genius filmmaker whose life at the time had already been marred by unbelievable tragedy. (He's a Holocaust survivor whose wife and unborn baby were murdered six years prior by the Manson family.)

Of course, those are also arguments that can be made to a judge. I can see how some would argue that’s the proper way to handle the case.

But really – don’t we have more important injustices to pursue?

(Photo: Bushwick, Brooklyn, Sept. 2009)

Football

I’m back home in New York, with Armenia happily curled up on my bed and my apartment newly cleaned and ready for the week ahead. I haven’t seen Dave yet -- I’ll go visit him after work today.

As I was sitting on the plane yesterday, having just taken off, the pilot came on the PA system and read the day’s football scores. It got me marveling once again at the way football dominates our culture.

I’ve never understood the appeal of football, and in fact I have a pathological, unreasonable hatred of it. For one thing, I wasn’t athletic as a kid and I never identified much with team sports. I hated being responsible for other people’s enjoyment of a game -- like, if I didn’t catch a ball, their day would be ruined, and they’d yell at me. It seemed crazy. Be responsible for your own happiness, and catch your own damn ball.

I also was forced to attend football games from time to time, which meant sitting in a miserably hot stadium under a blistering sun, surrounded by men screaming at the top of their lungs -- including my father, periodically yelling “DEFENSE!” It was kind of embarrassing, frankly.

These days, even the sound of football on television makes me break out into a cold sweat. The whistles, the referees, the crowds, the music, the announcers. Ugh! I usually prefer to leave the room. There are few things I dislike more.

During my more reasonable moments, I can understand how some people might find it fun to watch. I went to a college game a couple of years ago and, I admit, I had some fun. (I also had some beer.)

But what I don’t get is why it is SO significant. These teams have so much power, so many fans and viewers, and so much money. Particularly in the South, football is probably the defining cultural force.

New York, on the other hand, is not a football city. Yeah, we have the Giants and the Jets, but I seldom hear people talking about them here in Manhattan. Which is part of the reason it feels like home.

(Photo: Dragonfly on wild potato vines, Land O' Lakes, Fla.)

Dream

I’m at my apartment -- and yet it isn’t really my apartment. It’s more like a generic city apartment, in an old red brick building, with a couple of rooms and a couple of windows, sunlight and houseplants. I’m having lemonade. I think I’m watching TV. Armenia is with me, and there’s also an unconscious rat lying on the table in front of me. The rat begins to wake up. It seems sick or injured.

I use my lemonade straw to dip into my drink and siphon up some lemonade, which I allow the rat to suck from the straw. I am aware that I can no longer drink my lemonade, having now contaminated it with rat. I give Armenia some lemonade using the same straw method, not wanting her to be jealous.

I realize I have to get this rat out of the house. I carefully pick it up -- it seems to be asleep again. I carry it outside into a maze of courtyards and alleys. I’m not really walking -- I’m kind of flying or hovering above the ground. I put the rat down in an alley and fly back to my apartment, entering through the window.

I have to give my brother some keys. I’m pulling them off the key ring trying to remember what they’re for. I keep one that goes with a metal strongbox that I still own. I keep one that goes with a lacquer box, too -- it goes inside the metal box. I’ve just been looking at the lacquer box, which seems to contain coins. Some of the lacquer came off and damaged my dining room table. I hope I can wipe it up. I find a stray Spanish coin on the floor. It’s not very old.

Suddenly, I’m at the Metropolitan Opera, watching “Tosca.” And yet, I am lying in bed. I’m in the first row, and in that row are bench seats that can be folded down and turned into beds. Behind me are rows and rows of elegantly dressed patrons, and I am in pajamas. I’m the only person with a bed. I’m vaguely troubled, even though I paid to have this special bed -- I feel like it might be considered tacky or inappropriate.

I watch an opening number in which the performer has to walk through a sort of bead curtain to the front of the stage. Her costume gets briefly snagged on the bead curtain, but she loosens it with no problem. I notice that she is following a blocking line clearly marked on the stage.

The performance proceeds, but it’s more like a Broadway musical than the actual “Tosca.” An intermission comes, and suddenly there’s a bar to my right. “Do you take ice?” the bartender asks me. I’m so puzzled, lying there in bed, that I don’t really respond. He brings me a glass of whiskey neat, with ice in a separate glass. He tells me to drink it because I’m going to need to participate in the next act!

I wake up.

(Photo: Good Life Lane, where chickens are "4 sale," Land O' Lakes, Fla.)

National Parks

My mom and I have been watching Ken Burns’ newest documentary series, about the National Parks, on PBS this week. When I saw the first episode I was underwhelmed -- but as the week wore on I got more interested. It’s been fascinating to learn the origins of some of our National Parks.

Crater Lake National Park, for example, apparently began largely because of the vision of one man, William Gladstone Steel, who was obsessed with preserving the magnificent lake he’d visited in the Oregon wilderness. Other parks began the same way, with a single individual surfacing as their primary champion, enlisting lawmakers and environmental activists in their cause. Some of these individuals are quite famous, like John Muir, while others are less prominent.

It’s also been interesting to see how the same forces that frustrate me so much in modern politics -- the folks who are against conservation, who believe our human mandate is to use the land and its resources as we see fit -- have been present throughout our history. When Teddy Roosevelt made the Grand Canyon a National Monument in the early 1900s, Arizona politicians were outraged. Can you imagine?

I’ve been to several of the National Parks. In 1983, my dad flew my brother and me to California to visit his family, and we drove back across the country. On that trip we stopped at the Grand Canyon, Zion and the Smoky Mountains. In 1990, I visited Glacier National Park with my mom and brother. And I’ve been to the Everglades a couple of times, though surprisingly I’ve never visited the southern part of the park -- I’ve only biked on the northern loop road off U.S. 41, which is not as scenic or diverse in terms of wilderness.

I love to travel internationally. I’ve visited many countries in Africa and Europe, and I’ve been to New Zealand. But as I get older I’m thinking more and more about traveling closer to home -- there are huge swaths of this country I’ve never seen. (Plus, Dave and I could take the dogs!)

I wouldn’t say this has been a riveting documentary. I don’t think it’s as good as the Civil War series that Burns produced long ago (and boy, I bet he gets sick of hearing that). But it’s been interesting, and it does have me thinking more about discovering the rest of America.

(Photo: A gopher tortoise -- not in a National Park, but in the yard of a neighbor in Florida.)

Monsters in Bushwick

We interrupt my Florida vacation to bring you some photos of street art in Bushwick, Brooklyn. I was walking there a couple of weeks ago when I came across this fierce-looking monster, roaring from a variety of walls and doorways.



Grrrrrr!!!

Dragging

I'm reaching that point in my vacation when I start to want to go back home. It's been great to hang out with the family and relax, but I'm feeling a bit antsy and at loose ends. I miss Dave and my cat and my apartment and my city life.

I made one serious mistake when I planned this trip: I did not bring my running shoes. I thought it would lighten my baggage load to leave them at home. It did, but at the cost of my sanity. I really, really need some aerobic exercise, and the release that comes with it. I'm going to get out and do some walking when I finish writing this post.*


My friend Sue liked her vase, which I gave her last night. We went to dinner at an Italian place near an old apartment building where both of us used to live, nearly 20 years ago. It was great to be with her, back in the old neighborhood. The night before last I saw my high school girlfriend, Barbara, who's doing well as an English teacher in the same county where we grew up. Tonight I'm seeing some other old college friends as well.

As William Faulkner famously said, "The past is not dead. In fact, it's not even past."

*Addendum, a few hours later: I feel MUCH better after a 4-mile brisk walk!

(Photos: The back porch of my mom's house.)