BB, W, et al.

Alluding to Big Brother and the “memory hole” in previous posts triggered a lot of associations. Nineteen Eighty-Four was required high-school reading for many of us, but I don’t think enough people appreciate all of the resonations it has for today’s events.

• There’s the whole surveillance culture and Big-Brother-Is-Watching-You mentality, honed to perfection by W’s NSA directives. And don’t forget the capacity of average citizens today to spy on fellow citizens using the cameras in their cell phones. Parsons’ kids – the ones in the book who turned in their doting dad – would’ve loved that little gizmo.
• The memory hole into which Winston sent old facts that were to be replaced by new ones speaks to the whole revision of history – and it’s not just Republicans conveniently forgetting W’s blunders; it’s the record of their determination to dictate history on their terms, from the certainty of Saddam’s wmd’s to the declaration “Mission Accomplished” to today’s knee-jerk castigations of Obama. Now in the wake of the underwear bomber they’re crowing that W kept us safe from attacks as if 9/11 never happened.
• As with the world of 1984, we seem to be in a constant state of war, necessary to maintain public vigilance and promote patriotism. Winston had this suspicion confirmed in Goldstein’s book: “The war is waged by each ruling group against its own subjects, and the object of the war is not to make or prevent conquests of territory, but to keep the structure of society intact.” Just like the war on terror that the wingnuts – and even Obama – love to hold over our heads.
• Doublethink – “The power of holding two contradictory beliefs in one’s mind simultaneously, and accepting both of them” – has become the norm. Maybe it all started in Vietnam, when we “destroyed a village in order to save it.” Now giving up our rights in the name of freedom, especially as legislated through the Patriot Act, is doublethink in action. (Remember: “Freedom is Slavery.”)
• Torture today seems to be as cold-blooded and matter-of-fact as it was at the Ministry of Love. You’ve seen the pictures from Abu Ghraib, so don’t even ask what’s behind the door to Room 101.
• The Junior Anti-Sex League, of which Julia is nominally a member, sounds a lot like the abstinence programs championed by W.
• Thoughtcrime has its modern counterpart in “hate crime,” where the criminal act isn’t sufficient: the motivation is equally punishable. (I realize this is a rap on liberals and a departure from the prevalent theme, but it’s no less true.)
• Finally, my favorite: Just as citizens of Oceania gathered for a “two-minute hate” in which they focused on the villain Emmanuel Goldstein, today we focus on the villain Osama bin Laden, a turncoat to his highly placed Saudi family like Goldstein was to the Inner Party. Despite our inability to catch the sonofabitch, it almost seems more useful to the government to have him out there – like Goldstein – as the focus of our wrath.
  

Nineteen Eighty-Four has a lot to say to us today; it’s also a heartbreaking love story. I only wish that Oprah had made it one of her picks so that more people would read it.

Say It Ain't So, Pat

That wild & crazy Pat Robertson is at it again, claiming that Haiti’s devastating earthquake is a result of that country having made a pact with the Devil. Where do you come up with these great one-liners, Pat? That may be about the best one since proclaiming that feminism is “a socialist, anti-family political movement that encourages women to leave their husbands, kill their children, practice witchcraft, destroy capitalism and become lesbians.” Or since you and Jerry Falwell blamed 9/11 on “the pagans, and the abortionists, and the feminists, and the gays and the lesbians who are actively trying to make that an alternative lifestyle, the ACLU, People For the American Way – all of them who have tried to secularize America.” (What a great team – too bad God had to break it up.) For more wit & wisdom, click here, here, here, or here.
 
I dunno, though – he’s a hoot, but he has a way to go to top Robert Tilton. I think it’s time to invoke the spirit of Frank Zappa again...

Where There's Smoke

The debate over health care ultimately comes down to one over the proper role of government.

Take fire protection. As in most civilized countries, we have fire companies, supported by taxes, that come and put out the flames if our houses catch fire. I think nearly everybody would agree that this is a good arrangement. We don’t have a “right” to fire protection any more than we do to, say, having our streets plowed when it snows. But we’ve come to accept that these services are sensible, and we consent to be taxed in order to have them.

Protecting our health isn’t a whole lot different. People can take precautions to make sure they don’t get sick, just as they can to prevent fires. But accidents happen, and folks need access to health care just like they do to fire protection, or else risk tremendous loss.

Now suppose that fire companies could pick and chose whom they serve. Shake roof? Sorry, it’ll have to burn. Had a fire before? We won’t come next time. Isn’t that essentially what’s happened with health insurance? But while the agencies that provide fire protection are public services that answer to their municipalities and taxpayers, those that provide health insurance are profit-making corporations answerable to their boards of directors and stockholders. And as they have seen their product become less of an option and more of a necessity, they have come to have control over people’s very lives. Is any fire company in that position? If a fire razes my house, that’s a great loss; but if I carry fire insurance, I can rebuild. If sickness ravages my body and I’m unable to afford health insurance, I may not receive the treatment I need and could possibly die. So I take W’s advice and go to the emergency room and wait five hours for treatment – and if I can’t pay even for that, the hospital has to absorb the expense and health costs continue to escalate.

When lives are at stake, we the people – in the form of our government – can exercise the power that the Founders set out in the Constitution to provide for “the general welfare” (Article I, Section 8). And those of us in the liberal camp believe that the proper role of government includes providing health care just as much as providing fire companies. I recognize that in terms of dollars it’s a big leap from tax-supported fire protection at the local level to tax-supported health care at the national, but we need to shift spending priorities – cut out pork, discontinue farm subsidies, stop being cops to the world – in order to make it work.

We have already adopted – and accept – public health practices like garbage pick-up, vaccination clinics, and pest control. Why is providing security in the face of devastating medical bills branded “socialism” when spraying for mosquitoes that carry the West Nile virus is simply common sense? Conservatives’ fear of government-supported health care is so knee-jerk it’s almost comical and harks back to commie-in-the-woodpile paranoia. There’s no reason why what is already provided to the elderly, veterans, and civil servants can’t be provided to all.

This past Sunday’s NYT Magazine profiles Florida conservative Marco Rubio, who’s challenging Republican Governor Charlie Crist for a Senate seat. Rubio hit the nail on the head: “We are not debating stimulus bills or tax codes. We are debating the essence of what government should be and what role it should play.” And never the twain shall meet. It all comes down to winning over a majority of the electorate to determine which direction we take.

Health insurance may not be a right, any more than fire protection. But we can decide that all of our citizens are as entitled to good health as they are to having firemen on call – or to a financial safety net in old age or in periods of unemployment. It’s time to put out the fire that is our national health crisis. We can join the other industrialized nations as a more civilized people. And a more compassionate people as well.

The Non-Trouble with Harry

So Republicans are tripping over themselves to cry shame on Harry Reid for having said during the presidential race – in a private conversation, mind you – that Barack Obama was a “light-skinned” African-American “with no Negro dialect, unless he wanted to have one.” Sounds fairly accurate to me. As it happens, I’m a fair-skinned Anglo-American with no English accent unless I care to fake one.

But they’re crying “double standard” and drawing comparisons to Trent Lott’s ouster (don’t you just love that word?) on account of his having supported Strom Thurmond’s presidential bid as a segregationist in 1948 and being proud of that support half a century later. Double standard, my ass. I think there’s a bit of a difference between “sometimes this guy puts on an accent” and “black people shouldn’t have rights.”

Whoever it is the GOP has hired to sit in a dark room and come up with pretexts for challenging everything the Dems do or say ought to come out for a little fresh air and sunshine.

Time to Sing Along...

Before the teabaggers, there was Woodstock Nation. (Remember?) And before you jump to the conclusion that aging has simply transformed the latter into the former, bear in mind that the slightly older median age for the teabagging crowd puts them squarely (and I do mean squarely) in what was then the “anybody over thirty” set we weren’t supposed to trust.

Patti Smith sang “People Have the Power” in ’88, but the best anthem of all, from 1969, was “We Can Be Together” by Jefferson Airplane:



The real difference between protest then and now is that Woodstock’s revolutionary spirit was defined by pure joy (as in “Yippie!”), while today’s teabagger movement is characterized by befuddled bitterness.

Do the teabaggers have an anthem? “Dazed and Confused” would certainly be appropriate, but I somehow can’t imagine it catching on. Much easier to picture them swaying with arms interlinked singing the Kinks’ “Sunny Afternoon” (“The taxman’s taken all my dough...”). But I can’t help but think of that classic misinterpretation by the older generation when “One Toke Over the Line” was performed on the Lawrence Welk Show in 1971 because they thought it was a gospel song:



So in that spirit, I’d kinda like to hear the teabaggers get a little joy by wailing on the chorus to Jimmy Buffett’s “Fruitcakes,” thinking it an homage to a favorite dessert....

... and the Democratization of Everything

It must’ve all started with man-on-the-street interviews. Some random event takes place, and a news team is out there to corral any yahoo who walks by and ask him what he thinks about it. Especially important if, say, a blizzard is on the way: “We’re here at Hinkle’s Hardware, where Joe Anybody is buying a shovel. Think this is going to be a big one, Joe?” “I think so, Andy.” “Thanks, Joe. That’s Joe Anybody and this is Andy Newsguy reporting from Hinkle’s Hardware. Now back to you, Samantha....” Hurricane coming? No prob: Joe’ll be buying plywood for his windows instead.

On the web, we don’t have to wait for Andy Newsguy to shove a mike in our face, we can volunteer our opinions anytime. And we do. Whether it’s my local paper or Huffington Post, I’m amazed at the level of public discourse to which technology has brought us. (First there are the Kilroy comments that simply register having read the article; then there are the Killjoys, looking to pick a fight.) And now there’s Twitter (in which I foresee no reason to get involved); can cyberspace handle this much public opinion? Can the universe?

And in line with Dylan Thomas’s observation from A Child’s Christmas in Wales that, after the useful presents of mufflers and mittens, there were the “useless presents” (including “a celluloid duck that made, when you pressed it, a most unducklike sound, a mewing moo that an ambitious cat might make who wished to be a cow”), we have blogs like this one....

Mu!

Teatime for Democracy

One of the upshots of this early American history I’ve been reading (see “Forward Into the Past!,” January 2) is the notion that some people thought too much democracy was not such a good idea. This was certainly true of the Federalists, who envisioned their own aristocratic leadership as the key to America’s future; it also held for some moderate [Jeffersonian] Republicans, who defended an independent judiciary against their radical brethren’s insistence that judges be more accountable to the public.

There’s also a danger of too much democracy today,and that threat looms in the form of teabaggers. A few days ago, conservative columnist David Brooks opined that the teabagger movement had the potential to not only give the [modern] Republican establishment a run for its money but also evolve into a political force on the same level as our present two parties. Scary.

What’s so scary about people taking back power, you might ask? In principal it’s not scary at all, it’s what this country is all about. Whenever I hear Patti Smith sing “People Have the Power,” it gives me chills. What’s scary is that this particular crowd seems too easily swayed by the likes of Hannity, Beck, and Limbaugh to ever begin to think for themselves. (Okay, maybe I’m just jealous because we lefties can’t agree on anything.)

I came across a fairly outrageous suggestion once (wish I could credit the source): that votes ought to be allocated by age, with younger people having more votes because they have a greater stake in a future that will be determined by the political decisions of today. That’s not too far-fetched an idea, but just try selling it to the teabaggers, whose median age seems to be about 75. The protester who insisted “Keep your government hands off my Medicare” pretty much summed it up: ill informed, quick to jump to conclusions, and too stupid to trust with choosing tomorrow’s leaders.

Unfortunately, an IQ test would be as unconstitutional as a poll tax (and we learned back in 2000 that butterfly ballots aren’t the answer). But since we already have rules that politicking can’t go on within so many feet of a polling place, maybe Fox News ought to be banned within the same distance of retirement communities.

So, what makes the People that Patti sings about different from the teabaggers? When you get right down to it, maybe not much. “The people have the power ... to wrestle the world from fools.” But first they have to recognize that it’s the fools who are egging them on.

The Ties That Bind

With New Jersey’s senate set to vote tomorrow on same-sex marriage, it’s time your faithful blogger weighed in on this. Because it’s an issue drenched in faux sanctimoniousness that’s annoyed the hell out of me for some time.

We all recognize the need for many of the laws that govern society. If murder, rape, robbery, and similar offenses against persons and property were not designated as crimes and went unpunished, we would feel insecure about the possibility of being threatened by people who did not live by the Golden Rule. This of course presumes that law is a deterrent, but it’s the best we can hope for.

We can agree that criminals pose a recognizable threat. But if you object to the notion of same-sex marriage, all I can ask is, “How does it threaten you personally?”

Let’s say, just as a thought experiment, that there was an isolated town a couple of counties over from you in which heinous crimes went unpunished and which consequently became a haven for criminals. If the state found out about this situation, it would be appropriate for it to take action to keep these criminals from posing a threat to neighboring communities. But say there was a town that allowed gays & lesbians to marry. How would that be a threat? And if it were not a threat to have this going on a hundred miles away, how would it be any more of a threat to have it occur in your own community?

If you insist that marriage is the union of one man and one woman, you’re espousing a definition established by your religion. (Other religions might see things differently; one doesn’t have to look any further than nineteenth-century Mormons.) If religions choose to so designate marriage, that’s their prerogative. But in the case of civil unions recognized by government for the purpose of matters like taxation, health care, and visitation rights, marriage is what we define it to be — and those of us who seek a more just society would choose to define it as any union of two consenting adults.

Because the perks of marriage sought by same-sex couples are those granted by civil government, civil laws are the issue here — not religious institutions. If you consider gay marriage a threat, please concede that it is a threat to an institution as defined by your religion, not a threat to you personally. The problem lies in the fact that the institution is recognized by the same designation by both church & state.

It all comes down to word-choice: calling it “marriage.” Church weddings refer to the “bonds of holy matrimony,” and the phrase “holy matrimony” yields more than three times as many Google hits as “holy marriage.” Perhaps we could agree that same-sex couples are as entitled to “marriage” as anyone, but only a man and a woman are entitled to “matrimony”? That way, those of you who insist on continuing to feel threatened can have all the holiness you want. And guess what? We’ll leave “marriage” to those secular sinners; you get MATRIMONY all to yourselves! 

Let’s conclude with another thought experiment: the person to whom you’ve committed your life is in the hospital dying, but you can’t visit because you’re not an “immediate family member.” Don’t take too long to decide how you’d feel.

So Sorry

Quoting John Lennon the other day made me think of Paul McCartney, who has been in the news a lot lately – album, tour, new Beatles merchandise, biography. And boy, does he look old.

I always leaned more toward John than Paul. Some of the songs McCartney wrote with the Beatles frankly make me want to puke. But there’s one of his post-fab4 tunes that always sticks in my head: “Uncle Albert/Admiral Halsey.” It’s not that I particularly care for the song – it’s so typically Paul-cute – but its versatility is remarkable. “We’re so sorry, Uncle Albert, we’re so sorry but we haven’t done a bloody thing all day” lends itself to any number of four-syllable substitutions, provided the accent is on the third.

During my spiritual-questing years, I was somewhat of a devotee of J. Krishnamurti. His name was the first to suggest itself in apology for not having done a thing all day, and it seemed like a not inappropriate replacement. I’m so sorry, Krishnamurti, for not quite going along with everything you said. But you could be quite maddening at times.

Lyndon Johnson was another good one. “We’re so sorry if we caused you any pain” – the irony of it! Or Richard Nixon, Jimmy Carter, Ronald Reagan. Unfortunately, it doesn’t work so well after them. And no fair stretching or eliding syllables.

How about O.J. Simpson? Homer Simpson? Winslow Homer? Pairs of names work too: Horn & Hardart. Barnes & Noble. John & Yoko.

Michael Jackson fit – as is fitting, since Paul sold him the Beatles catalog. Warren Zevon too. Or Richard Starkey, world’s luckiest guy so no cause for sorrow there. But now, in 2010, it would have to be Lady Gaga. Because the kettle’s on the boil and we’re so easily called away.

Maybe the bottom line is this: We’re so sorry, Paul McCartney. But if anything should happen we’ll be sure to give a ring.

Big Brother vs. the Bean Counters

For all the years I lived in Tucson and had to drive to Phoenix, I always found it slightly disconcerting that when you reached the southern edge of the metro area and the speed limit dropped from 75 to 65, everybody seemed to speed up instead. Then there was the section of I-17 through the heart of the city, posted at 55; I often found myself keeping up with traffic and doing 70 without noticing — and being passed routinely.

That changed somewhat over the past year with the installation of speed cameras. They give you warning that a zone is ahead, but I’ve failed to notice more than once. But they only get you if you’re going more than 10 mph over, so what’s the big deal?

It was a big deal to many Arizonans, who screamed “Big Brother” and reserved the right to violate speed limits as long as no one was watching. Now it seems the program may be on the way out. According to a news story, it just isn’t bringing in the revenue that the state anticipated; people receiving citations in the mail are largely ignoring them because they know that they can always claim they didn’t receive them and that they aren’t likely to be personally served. The speed camera contractor isn’t even breaking even.

But I’ve noticed the difference. The traffic through Phoenix now proceeds at pretty much the speed limit, and I no longer feel compelled to maintain the same pace as speeders in order to keep from becoming a traffic hazard. And if that’s been the intended effect, so much the better — I no longer feel like I’m taking my life in my hands just by being on the highway.

Never thought I’d say this, but maybe a little Big Brother can be a good thing.

Life'll Kill Ya

Recent news out of Pakistan isn’t good, especially if you’re a volleyball fan. The death count may even have gone up since I posted this. Muslims killing other Muslims may be dumbfounding, but it’s no different from Christians killing other Christians in Northern Ireland during the Troubles. Makes me think of one of my favorite Warren Zevon lyrics:

Don't let us get sick
Don't let us get old
Don't let us get stupid, all right?
Just make us be brave
And make us play nice
And let us be together tonight

Warren’s prayer is charmingly naïve. Unfortunately, people still get stupid and refuse to play nice. The only solution, I think, lies in that equally naïve lyric by John Lennon:

Imagine there’s no countries
It isn’t hard to do
Nothing to kill or die for
And no religion too

Well, maybe it isn’t hard if you happen to have a vivid imagination. But countries and religion are what people have killed and died for throughout history and there seems no end in sight. Getting stupid isn’t the issue, we’ve been there forever. Ever notice that, in the majority of sci-fi stories, cultures on other worlds are largely homogenous? What’s with Earth? As Frank Zappa observed, we’re dumb all over (and a little ugly on the side). And will probably go on killing one another for these same stupid reasons until the aliens land and force us to unite. Until then, we’re operating by another Zevon lyric:

Send lawyers, guns, and money
The shit has hit the fan

Forward Into the Past!

Having had an inadequate exposure to American history during my school days, I’ve been catching up. The Oxford History of the United States is a particularly enlightening series, and I’m currently reading Empire of Liberty: A History of the Early Republic, 1789-1815 by Gordon S. Wood. What’s really fascinating about this era is the extent to which factionalism divided the nation so soon after its founding. Political parties hadn’t yet officially formed, but Federalists and Republicans (i.e. Jeffersonian Democrats) took sides in trying to determine how the country should be run. The Alien and Sedition Acts arose out of the Federalists’ fear that the French Revolution would corrupt the new nation, and they can’t help but remind me of today’s GOP paranoia.

The Party of No is sinking to new depths. It’s not enough that they’re in lockstep against any and every Democratic proposal; now they’re yowling because Obama didn’t respond promptly enough to the recent attempted plane bombing or wear a tie when doing so. Never mind the fact that W took days to react to the shoe bomber, that’s gone down the memory hole. Both O and Napolitano are perceived as being too cool on the issue when what we clearly need is alarmism.

[An aside, pursuant to my previous “The End is Near” post: My relief that the shoe bomber hadn’t used his jockstrap betrayed my ignorance of the underwear connection in this latest event. Who knows what kind of hoops we’ll have to jump through now. But there are serious gaps in airport screening, and just because wingnuts are advocating racial profiling doesn’t make it a bad idea. Profiling may be offensive, but these are offensive times; if it can save lives, then I say throw political correctness out the window. Because while other groups do commit acts of terror — fundamentalist Christians blow up abortion clinics, radical environmentalists torch new housing developments — it appears to be only Muslim extremists who exhibit a threat to air travel.]

Then of course we have Darth Cheney “swooping around like a dementor from Harry Potter” (per Gail Collins) to squawk at us again with the reminder that we’re at war. I never really bought into this concept. W declared a “war on terror,” which was like some medieval king declaring a war on crossbows. Since Americans had become used to figures of speech like “war on drugs” and “war on poverty” it was an easy sell, even though al Qaeda resembles more than anything else an international crime ring out of James Bond. But we’re not sending our version of 007 to do the job; W preferred to expand executive powers and then start a couple of real wars to justify his actions. Now we conduct extraneous military actions that put our own soldiers in harm’s way while the real-life SPECTRE continues to put operatives on airplanes. What’s wrong with this picture?

So there appear to be a few parallels between the late eighteenth century and the early twenty-first. The Federalists saw society in terms of “us and them” and envisioned the aristocracy leading the way into the future. Today’s Republicans have successfully revived that “us and them” mindset and, with an eye toward the glory days of the Cold War, seem bent on leading us back into the past. After all, there’s nothing like an international conspiracy dedicated to overthrowing our way of life to bring “us” all together — or else be counted as one of “them.”

Happy Arbitrary Calendrical Demarcation

It’s the first day of the year. Sez who? Sez Pope Gregory XIII, that’s who. But others have different ideas. And according to David Foster Wallace, we are leaving behind the Year of the Depend Adult Undergarment and commencing the Year of Glad. No matter, just think of it as an agreement, a convenience, a means of making sure everybody’s on the same page of the cosmic appointment book.

So sure, I’m willing to go with the flow. Make resolutions (exercise more, eat less, get my waist size down, yada yada). Pay attention when I date checks (which I seldom write anymore anyway). But y’know what? One day’s pretty much the same as another. If it were the umpteenth of Hippagolagus, would it really make any difference?

What Year Was This, Anyway?

It’s the last day of 2009, time for everybody to reflect on the year’s significance. For me, it will stand as the year I got back into the guitar – and became even more unstuck in time than some of these posts would suggest.

I’ve been playing acoustic guitar since my early teens. Took lessons, played at high school hootenannies, did the amateur coffee-house bit. I still own the Gibson LG-0 I bought in college; then around 1980 I shifted to a nylon-stringed Ovation. But over the years, they’ve both collected more time in the case than out.
 
Last Spring, I picked up a “Little Martin” and liked the size and the sound – there’s something about steel strings – so started shopping around. That’s how I stumbled on “parlor guitars.”

I’d never known about this sub-genre in all my years of playing, small-body guitars that gained popularity in the early twentieth century. After sifting through the options, I decided I wanted to try a Seagull “Coastline Cedar Grand,” found a dealer in Flagstaff, and fell in love. It’s an amazing little instrument, very comfortable to sit around with, made in Canada with a solid cedar top and wild cherry sides. The sound from its small box is surprisingly full, and it promises to become more mellow as the cedar ages.

Now here’s the curious bit. All my life I’ve been more or less a folkie with singer-songwriter pretensions and a slight tilt toward the blues. But with the Seagull I’ve found myself getting into old standards from as far back as the 20s. Call it homage to the parlor guitar’s heyday – or else the result of watching too many Woody Allen movies.

Some of them are songs I grew up listening to, like my dad’s Glenn Miller favorites, and I’ve especially taken to assembling medleys. I’ve found that “Moonlight Serenade” (1939) segues nicely into “Moonlight Cocktails” (1942) and then into “Stardust” (1929). Then there’s “The Way You Look Tonight” (1936) leading into “There Will Never Be Another You” (1942) followed by “It Had to Be You” (1924). “When My Sugar Walks Down the Street” (1924) slips into “When I Take My Sugar to Tea” (1931) and then into “Tea for Two” (1924). And just yesterday I discovered that Monk’s “Round Midnight” (1944) flows nicely into “Harlem Nocturne” (1943) – written 23 years before the Viscounts’ version.

There are also some stand-alones. That old staple “Body and Soul” (1930) took a while to work out the chords for the bridge, as did “Cry Me a River” (1953). And I’ve come up with my own version of “Stormy Weather” (1933) by borrowing a David Bromberg riff. Meanwhile, “Chattanooga Choo Choo” (1941) is presenting some challenges up on the fretboard.

So, we don’ need no steenking heep-hop. I may be out of touch as far as Lady Gaga is concerned, but I found old tunes an enjoyable way to spend 2009.

The Dude

An amusing article in today’s NYT arts section reports on an academic conference devoted to the film The Big Lebowski and on the book that came out of it, The Year’s Work in Lebowski Studies, published by Indiana University Press. This cult film has apparently spawned a cottage industry of academic criticism, and as a former member of the university press community I have to smile. Over the 26 years I held down a desk in that endeavor, I always felt that the slogan of university presses should be “Keeping the World Safe for Pedantry”; it’s nice to know that some are also keeping it safe for insanity.

I actually re-acquainted myself with this film a couple of months ago. I had recently read Pynchon’s latest, Inherent Vice, whose protagonist, Doc Sportello, reminded a few critics of the Dude. The commonality is that both are potheads trying to solve a mystery, within a plot conducive to paranoia, while negotiating the world on their own terms. The difference is that, while Doc Sportello is a private eye who solves mysteries for a living, the Dude is your Hitchcockian victim of false identity simply trying to find out who peed on his rug. Because as fans know, that rug really tied the room together.

This is definitely a film that retains its quirky charm over repeated viewings. John Goodman and Steve Buscemi in supporting roles perfectly complement Jeff Bridges, while a band of German nihilists capture the Coen brothers’ innate wackiness. Sam Elliot narrates charmingly for no apparent reason. And the musical sequences are high-camp Hollywood via acid flashback.

Quoting the article, “Admirers of the Dude are already dangerously close to becoming Internet-age versions of Parrotheads, the weekend-warrior Jimmy Buffett fans who tip back margaritas — and embarrass their children — while wearing flip-flops, board shorts, Hawaiian shirts and coconut bras.” I like to think not. I prefer to imagine admirers of the Dude as folks who’d just as soon maintain a healthy detachment from an insane world. Some of us choose solitary pursuits; the Dude chose bowling. Whatever it takes.

The Dude abides.

TV or Not TV?

For me, one of the novelties of traveling and staying in a motel is watching TV, since Beth and I have whittled our viewing down over the years – and our options as well.

Once upon a time we were the typical cable household. Then about 20 years ago, when the local provider dropped the station for the baseball team we were following, we made the move to a big dish that enabled you to buy programming a la carte. Over the years we pared down our subscriptions to what we really watched – Comedy Central for The Daily Show, HBO or Showtime for movies – and as free feeds vanished we effectively removed ourselves from the channel-surfing subculture. When we pulled up stakes, we left the dish and a malfunctioning 30-inch TV behind.

Now we watch As Time Goes By reruns and FlashForward via antenna and access movies (occasionally) on DVD, all on a 19-inch monitor in the living room that otherwise rarely gets turned on. (Another one downstairs provides distraction for the Nordic Track.) I’m content to wait until the next day to get my Daily Show fix for free on-line. Used to watch network news from force of habit, but by the time it comes on I’ve already caught up on everything on the Internet so have broken free from that. For the most part, evenings are spent in that antiquated pastime known as “reading,” with accompaniment from satellite radio. If I want to watch something – I’ve been working my way through DVD sets of Seinfeld and MASH – I do so on my laptop.

So when the hotel in which we were staying for our Christmas trip featured a 32-inch LCD TV, my first reaction was “way cool!” Spent some time surfing to remind myself there were no cable offerings I particularly missed (and the aforementioned nonstop coverage of aborted terrorism was more than I could take), but enjoyed watching a couple of familiar movies on the larger screen. Maybe, thinks I, we should break down and get one of these, if only for a bigger view of the occasional flick. And so I did a little browsing on Amazon, which is enough to put you off purchasing nearly anything that has the potential to fail.

Don’t get me wrong, I love Amazon and value customer comments. But it seems like any product with enough reviews to provide a statistically reliable cross-section of opinion is going to have somebody trashing it. Comparing technical specifications of TVs is bad enough – what do I know from pixels or aspect ratios? – but when a handful of satisfied customers are offset by someone complaining about a product being DOA, buying anything becomes a crapshoot.

And so as I contemplated a TV that would in all probability get watched no more than it does now, along with the off-chance that the one I got would break down the day after the warranty expired, I finally said the hell with it. Maybe I’ll just sit closer to the one we have.

The End Is Near

Everyone’s saying that we’re approaching the end of the decade, so it must be true. Me, I find it hard to think of the Aughts as a discrete collection of years – aren’t those zeroes just place holders of some sort?

So yes, tongues are wagging and ink is spilling (figuratively in most cases) over 9/11 and Iraq, over real estate and recession, over disputed elections and political defections, over W and O and who gets blamed for what. But when you get down to it, it’s nothing but an excuse to fill time and space in what has become our wretchedly depraved 24-hour news cycle.

Having just returned from a holiday trip, I’m especially unnerved by the brouhaha over the latest attempt to bring down a plane. So the guy was attempting to mix something up out of chemicals taped to his legs in baggies? Swell. The failed shoe bomber led to our having to shed our footwear for security (and we should all be grateful he didn’t hide the explosive in his jockstrap); now I suppose we’ll need to prove there’s nothing up our sleeves or pant legs. The day will come when we’ll have to disrobe completely, hand our garments over for return after the flight, and don paper suits for the plane.

It’s not that this event made me apprehensive about my return flight, it’s the fact that it was on the tube all the time! Although I considered it not worth worrying that such an incident would befall my own flight, one doubt nagged at me. I didn’t fear another jihadist attempting the same action; I was more concerned that some nutcase would attempt a copycat move. And the reason that might happen is that said nutcase would have seen it on the TV news nonstop. If the media would stop acting like a dog with a bone, we’d all be better off. And probably a lot safer.

If the end is near, you’ll find out from CNN or FOX or MSNBC – and they’ll be bringing it to you live, right up to the bitter end. Whether anyone is left to watch or not.

Flashing

I admit to not being terribly with it. I never heard the song (“Bad Day”) that’s being touted as the decade’s top one-hit wonder. I learned only about a month ago that there exists a performer named Lady Gaga. I don’t usually watch TV so didn’t follow Lost and have never seen American Idol. But I’ve gotten hooked on FlashForward.

In a nutshell: everybody passes out for 2 minutes & 17 seconds and sees six months into their future. The questions are: (1) whodunit (and why and how) and (2) do the visions show futures that must necessarily come to pass. It’s free will vs determinism for the boob tube. You got your global conspiracies, your quantum mechanics, and of course your human interest. By now you also got your web sites and forums. And after 10 episodes, you got total confusion that won’t be relieved until March, because the show’s just gone on hiatus (but now available in reruns (or online) for anyone who missed it). So no furtherance of confusion tonight.

The whole notion of seeing into the future is irresistible. Is it because we want to take measures against misfortune? Or comfort in the belief that, no matter how crummy things are now, they’re going to get better? On a deeper level, is it because we each have a self that seeks assurance of its own continuity? Or simply because we’re the one animal that knows it’s going to die – and are desperately afraid? (Does death even exist?) That, after all, is the basis of religion – and it’s curious that, thus far, FlashForward hasn’t had much to say about that.

Most precognition seems to come in the form of dreams, so it’s not inappropriate that this show focuses on dream-like experiences. Maybe while dreaming we tap into some non-linear comprehension of existence in which the future has already occurred. If so, does that send free will out the window? Or does it only seem that way because we’re trapped in our own linearity? Just because we haven’t experienced something yet in our current timeline doesn’t mean it hasn’t happened – or that we didn’t bring it about of our own free will.

Fittingly – or should I say teasingly – the last episode lived up to its real-time premise by providing nods to Dickens’ Christmas Carol, with Scrooge’s fear that the visions presented by the Ghost of Christmas Future must come to pass. Tiny Tim won’t necessarily die, and neither, perhaps, will Agent Noh. But only perhaps – we won’t know until March.

Hang Up and Drive!

I posted a couple of days ago about the conservative streak that runs thru my community. But there are limits. Someone recently wrote a letter to the editor describing nearly getting killed by someone talking on their cell phone while driving, but he rationalized the conclusion that no new laws were needed. Conservatives just hate any restrictions on their personal freedom, even if they make sense. Even if lives are at stake.

Well, I was gratified to see a goodly number of people calling for such regulation. Conservative politically or not, it would appear that many of my fellow Prescottonians are traditionalists first and foremost, and believe that people should not be allowed to get away with putting other folks in jeopardy just because they’re attached to these new-fangled gadgets. Even so, there are still a few lunkheads who insist that this is a slippery slope that will lead to bans on all sorts of activities behind the wheel.

The New York Times has been running an excellent series called “Driven to Distraction” about the dangers of using cell phones while driving. If you have any doubts concerning the scope of this problem, click thru.

The image, by the way, is from an Aussie public awareness campaign to discourage the practice. Says it all, I think. (But this one says a little more....)

Hey Mr. Taliban, Tally Me Bananas

The rumblings have begun. The antiwar movement is coming out against Obama’s surge in Afghanistan. Read your history, Mr. President: this is exactly what Lyndon Johnson faced. It’s a no-win situation, and it will derail your presidency as sure as it did his. LBJ may not have had a Peace Prize in his vest pocket, but it’s not going to do you much good.

Shall we enumerate the parallels? Pursuing a goal that recedes with each passing year. Intervening on behalf of a corruption-ridden government. Escalating as a knee-jerk response to futility. Second-guessing troop strength. Facing an enemy that’s popular at the grass-roots level – and that’s more determined than we are. Trying to impose our prescription for government on a foreign culture. Fighting a “primitive” people with advanced weaponry to no avail. Being constrained by borders that have no meaning to the enemy. Doing it all in the name of combating what is perceived as the dominant threat to our way of life – then, international Communism; now, radical Islam. 

Afghanistan isn’t called the “graveyard of empires” for nothing. We’re in yet another last-man-to-die-for-a-mistake scenario, and there’s no getting out of it. Even the chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff is looking down in the mouth.

This is insanity. It’s nuts, it’s bananas. Do the sane thing, Mr. President. Face the fact that there will always be people out there who hate us. And if the CIA can’t whack bin Laden, don’t kid yourself that all those troops can do it. Disagreement within your own administration over when we can plan on getting out ought to tell you something.

Otherwise, at least do the right thing. Give back your prize.

Digging Martinis with Gnossos

I posted the other day about Dave Brubeck, and while I was tempted to comment on the extraordinary sound of Paul Desmond’s alto sax, I thought it more appropriate to focus on Dave. The Desmond sound is instantly recognizable and has been likened to that of a dry martini. But I have to say that when I’m sipping one, I’m reminded as much of old hippies as I am of Paul Desmond.

When I was growing up, I associated martinis with night clubs and Madison Avenue (the latter probably thanks to Mad Magazine), and I assumed that no one but sophisticated urbanites were inclined to drink them. That perception changed when I reached college – not because I was introduced to them but because I became hooked on Richard Fariña’s novel Been Down So Long It Looks Like Up To Me, whose hero, Gnossos Pappadopoulis, digs martinis. Birdbath martinis, made with Beefeater gin. A curious preference for a hippie prototype (he also digs grass), but that’s what made Gnossos such a compelling character – admittedly more hipster than hippie, but a forerunner all the same.

The paperback of Been Down So Long came out just as I was starting college, and its scenes of sex and drugs had a lot to do with breaking me out of my straight-laced thinking. (Even the cover was daring for its time.) No rock ’n roll, though: it was set in the 50s, and Gnossos favored jazz, especially by Mose Allison and Miles Davis. (One of my favorite scenes has Gnossos being given last rites for a hangover and muttering, with reference to Miles playing in the background, “More treble, we’re losing the highs.”) It was also about campus protests before there were campus protests, as it was based on one at Cornell concerning co-ed curfews. Throughout the book, the code by which Gnossos lives is detachment – I am invisible, he thinks often. And Exempt. Immunity has been granted to me, for I do not lose my cool – and for me (and I suspect others) the lesson stuck. 

BDSL was a 60s college-age version of Catcher in the Rye. I read it, passed along my copy, bought another, and started the cycle again. Ten years ago, I finally plunked down some big bucks for a first edition.

So why am I mentioning this, other than to embark on another nostalgia trip? Simply because I’m curious whether, 40 years later, there’s a counterpart, a book that captures the essence of a generation and offers a role model (however questionable). Is there a new Gnossos (or a new Holden)? Do kids in their late teens still press books into friends’ hands and say “You’ve gotta read this”? Or have the heroes all gone over to movies and TV? (Was Bobby Dupea a step in this direction?) And if that’s the case, is this a reflection of the “decline of the book”? 

Or just of a directionless culture?

Government Health Care: WWJD?

It was two years ago that we bought our house in Prescott and started getting ready to move from Tucson. Arizona is a conservative state, and we’d been residing in its most liberal district for more than two-dozen years; we knew we were relocating to a more traditionalist, less culturally diverse area but were willing to pay the price to escape the heat and sprawl.

It’s not just conservative politically: one of my friends commented that we were moving to the “Bible Belt,” and I can see his point. Summer church camps abound and Gideon Bibles lie in physicians’ waiting rooms. A questionnaire from one doctor for whom I got a referral even inquired about my faith. On the other hand, there’s a thriving arts community; Prescott College students provide a semblance of hippie culture; and last fall just down our street two houses on opposite sides sported Obama signs in their yards.

Another indicator of Prescott’s having two sociopolitical camps appears in on-line comments to editorials and letters-to-the-editor in the Daily Courier. The exchange between left and right is nothing short of scathing. I thought it had been brutal during the election, but the debate over health care has really pushed the envelope. I wouldn’t have bothered commenting on this since I’m sure it goes on everywhere, but a letter that appeared yesterday – and the comments to it – are worth noting.

The letter is brief: “I am being priced out of health care. I needed a test done and the doctor wanted the $1,000 co-pay first. It has been 11 months and I still have not had the test. If you are a Christian, vote for national health care.”

Some of the responses are startling: “Charity at the threat of government fines and imprisonment is neither charity OR Christian. It is fascism.” . . . “It’s time for everyone to get off their hind ends, quit looking for handouts and start doing for yourself.” . . . “So you want the government to control you is that it?” . . . “If you had worked harder in school you would not be in the position you are in, using BLASPHEMY to try to further your selfish agenda.”

I hope the last one was tongue-in-cheek, but suspect otherwise. (And btw, if you go to the link, the Wayne commenting is not yours truly.) I’ve come to expect these kinds of reactions in the general give-and-take over the issue, but not with so much hostility to an appeal to religious solidarity. What I find most disturbing is that in an overwhelmingly Christian community the notion of providing a common good for fellow citizens is trumped by knee-jerk paranoia about big government. If W had proposed health care under the banner of Compassionate Conservatism, would the reaction have been as fierce? Reactions to the precedent of other industrialized nations outdoing us simply echo the parental response of “If everybody else jumped off the bridge, would you jump too?”

I find this a sad commentary on a supposedly Christian nation, where the poster-girl for the religious right advocates America getting back to God (in advance of what is presumably a presidential bid). I suspect she means the God of the Old Testament – you know, the vindictive slayer of enemies – not Jesus’ God of Love. Because there’s no love showing in some folks’ attitudes about what government of, by, and for the people can do for their fellow man.

It's About Time

Tomorrow night is the 32nd annual “Kennedy Center Honors,” with this year’s honorees being Mel Brooks, Dave Brubeck, Grace Bumbry, Robert De Niro, and Bruce Springsteen. You might think I’d want to comment on Bruce receiving this tribute, perhaps questioning whether it’s coming too soon (probably not). But I’d rather focus on Dave Brubeck – and say that it’s about time.

Dave has been a giant of the jazz world for more than half a century. He made his mark in the 50s by introducing a generation of college students to cool jazz even before the album Time Out catapulted him to the top of the charts and the cover of Time Magazine. (Yesterday the xm/sirius jazz station did a set of jazz musicians who had made the cover, and there were only five.) His legendary explorations in time signatures that until then were alien to jazz solidified his reputation as an innovator. For most fans, Brubeck’s music is “about time”; but it’s also about counterpoint and improvisation, interpretations of Disney and Japan, even cantatas and oratorios. 

The cruel irony of Dave’s career is that the one tune with which he became forever associated, “Take Five,” was written by his late partner, saxman Paul Desmond. It must be bittersweet to be best known for somebody else’s composition when you’ve written so many outstanding ones of your own. (For me, Brubeck will always mean “Blue Rondo à la Turk” from the same album.) But he’s kept it in his repertoire long past Desmond’s departure.

Now here’s the rub: as it happens, tomorrow is also Dave’s 89th birthday. 89!!!! Why did the Kennedy Center take so long to honor this legendary artist? Especially since previous honorees include Brit rockers Elton John, Pete Townshend, and Roger Daltrey. What a travesty!

You deserve it, Dave. You swing.

Power of Suggest(ion)

It’s pretty weird that when you type “can j” in the Google box, the first suggestion it gives you is “can jesus microwave a burrito.” And see for yourself the long, bizarre entry partway down the list that comes up when you simply enter “what.” These and others were included in a survey of “Most Inappropriate Google Suggests” on Huffington Post. You can’t look at these screen captures without thinking they’re fake - until you test a couple and find out they’re real.

Presumably, all of these suggests are questions commonly asked on the Internet. I tried some of my own, using the sequence “does _” where _ is filled in with any letter of the alphabet. No matter what letter I used, most of the results were questions having to do with sex or drugs or alcohol (or testing for them). The expected exceptions were for o (“does obama have a birth certificate”) and u (“does ups deliver on saturday” – no question related to urine, although the last suggest is “does ups drug test”). When I finally arrived at y, I was intrigued to see “does your heart stop when you sneeze” – and that when I clicked on it, it delivered 379,000 hits.

This reminded me of a ridiculous line I’d heard close to 40 years ago: “if you sneeze, fart, and burp at the same time, you will die.” (I had passed this as an anonymous note to a coworker, who in turn left it on the boss’s chair.) When I started to type “if you sneeze,” Google suggested the entry “if you sneeze with your eyes open will they pop out,” with 199,000 hits. When I tried to prompt it by typing “if you sneeze, fart,” I received no suggest to complete the phrase; however, searching on that fragment did indeed produce hits related to the sneeze/fart/burp myth, with hiccups and coughs thrown into the mix.

And by the way: “does y” also shows that “Does Your Chewing Gum Lose Its Flavor on the Bedpost Overnight” lives on in cyberspace if not on the airways. But hey, I’m not doing all the work – you’ll have to find out for yourself if your heart stops when you sneeze.

Interestingly enough, the very first example on Huffpost shows that “i am” produces the top result “i am bored.” Why else would anybody play this game?

Still Far from Easy after All These Years

Working out on the Nordic Track is almost the only time I watch movies anymore, and I still have a ways to go with the Woody Allen collection. (Small Time Crooks was marginally better than I remembered; The Curse of the Jade Scorpion just as lame as I’d recalled.) Occasionally we’ll view one at night on our kinda puny TV, which we don’t much otherwise turn on. But sometimes I’ll watch one on my laptop in the evening while Beth reads.

Given the fact that I went ahead and listed my favorite movies for this blog’s profile, I decided it was time to re-view one. The first five are my all-time faves, in order, and I realized it had been a while since I’d watched Five Easy Pieces. So a couple of nights ago I popped in the disk and took myself back to 1970, when some segments of society were still stuck in the fifties and Jack Nicholson’s hairline hadn’t completely receded. (Jeez, we’re talkin’ nearly 40 years here! Back then would I have watched a movie from 1930?) 

 

It’s gotten to the point where I can practically recite the dialogue along with the actors. “You play that thing one more time, I’m gonna melt it down into hairspray.” ... “We’ve had our break, Miss Dupea.” ... “I don’t even want to talk about it.” ... “I’m sitting here listening to some cracker asshole compare his life to mine.” ... “You play the piano all day and then jump on a horse, you could get cramps.” ... “Where we’re goin’, it’s gonna get colder than hell.” And of course the immortal “I want you to hold it between your knees.”

Robert Eroica Dupea, who abandons a career as a classical pianist for a haphazard life in the blue collar world, is one of cinema’s most fascinating character studies, as well as one of Nicholson’s standout roles. He seems to be a man unsure of what he wants to do but determined to resist other people’s expectations. Yet he can’t easily shake off an inner code that compels him to be concerned for his father’s health, show affection for his sister, and even defend his dimwitted girlfriend in front of a group of snobs. The scene with his father is particularly telling. . . . 

When Bobby says "We both know I was never that good at it anyway," does he mean piano or apology? No matter: I don’t know that Nicholson ever topped that scene.

There are other delights, of course. Great supporting cast: Susan Anspach, Ralph Waite, Billy Green Bush, Fannie Flagg, Lois Smith. There’s Sally Struthers in her first big role, and Toni Basil (Hey Mickey, whatever happened to Toni Basil?) as the less-vocal hitchhiker. The great juxtaposition of music, country & classical. And of course, best of all, Karen Black as Rayette Dipesto, pouting her way into our hearts as she sings Tammy Wynette tunes. (How, do you suppose, did screenwriter Carole Eastman settle on the names Dupea and Dipesto?)

BTW, I once corrected VideoHound’s Golden Movie Retriever over their entry for this film. Their snippet claimed that Nicholson’s character had been away from home for something like twenty years; I pointed out that not only would Jack have had to look a lot older, there was the scene at the dinner table where his absence was discussed as being around two years. I was pleased to see it corrected in the next edition – just my small contribution to the public record. Meanwhile, there still seem to be a lot of synopses out there that assume that Bobby’s working on an oil rig sets the early scenes in Oklahoma – but it’s really California.

Never seen it? It’s worth a rental. And I guarantee you’ll never feel the same about requesting substitutions in a restaurant.

Words to Live By

As I’ve gotten this blog going, I realized I needed to announce it by at least including the URL as a signature in my emails. And that reminded me of another signature I always meant to add but never did.

Elvis Costello burst upon the scene in 1977 with My Aim Is True, now a punk/new wave classic. The throbbing beat of “Watching the Detectives” and the poignancy of “Alison” mark what are probably the best-known songs, but it’s in “(The Angels Wanna Wear My) Red Shoes” that you’ll hear what’s for me the album’s most unforgettable line: “I used to be disgusted, now I try to be amused.” When things get really crazy in the world, I try to remember that lyric. And just like that effort of remembrance, it’s the “try” that says it all. 

That line always brings to mind another from 13 years earlier: “I was so much older then, I’m younger than that now.” The song was “My Back Pages,” the album Another Side of Bob Dylan, and it marked our folksinging hero’s presumed disengagement from the protest movement. Dylan implied, to the dismay of many, that getting overwrought about issues was an old person’s game (are you listening, teabaggers?), and in his next three albums he was to revel in his newfound youthfulness. He used to be disgusted, he was telling us, but he decided to let his amusement show instead.

There was a big difference between 1964 and 1977, of course. When Dylan penned those lyrics we were still shaken by JFK’s assassination, so maybe he was telling us that he was throwing in the towel. And with LBJ in the White House, it marked an escalation of the Vietnam War. But by 1977, it was all over – not only the war, but the draft as well – and an easier time to try to be amused by disagreeable events (if you could find any).

Now Obama is sending 30,000 new troops to Afghanistan, and the similarity is chilling – not only the war effort, but also the prospect of a committed liberal’s domestic agenda being overshadowed by fumbling foreign policy. There’s also a big difference between the two military actions: back then, we were being sent to fight against our will; now we have a volunteer army. And while today’s soldiers may be suffering under the weight of too many tours, those who haven’t joined up have no reason to take to the streets. Which makes one wonder if the powers that be prefer it that way.

So I’m still disgusted. Problem is, being amused keeps getting harder. But I try.

Waist Management

I suppose I was lucky to maintain roughly the same weight for almost 40 years. I was never slim - and have never been athletic - but there’s something to be said for consistency. So when I complained to my doctor (kinda chubby, so he made me feel thinner) that I’d been taking a 36 waist in pants since high school and recently had to go up an inch, he retorted “I don’t want to hear about it.” “Do you have a particular weakness?” I asked him. “Yeah,” he replied, “food.” That pretty much sums it up.

Things definitely got out of hand a year ago. First I was laid up with a broken ankle all summer, which effectively kept me from exercising for almost 3 months. Then last Christmas we got the bright idea to make cookies to send to people – and of course made a couple batches for ourselves. And then a couple more. 
 
I’ve never really recovered from that double punch, and even the 37s that Bean and Lands End thoughtfully provide (why do most stores skip odd sizes after 36?) have begun to feel tight – bad news with the holidays kicking off - and so I’ve hauled the Nordic Track out of storage. We’ve had that contraption for 20 years – Beth affectionately calls it “the torture machine” – and it keeps on trackin’.

My purpose here, however, is not to lament my condition but rather celebrate its cause.

Anyone who cooks (it being my role in this house) knows that the true value of the Internet lies in providing access to recipes. There have to be a gazillion of ’em up there, and they render printed cookbooks practically obsolete. Don't know where to begin? Just to go Cookthink, plug in what you’ve got sitting in the fridge, and it’ll give you recipes.

When I first started blog-surfing and came upon food blogs, it was like accessing a whole library of digital cookbooks. I landed on Sapid & Sweet shortly after it started and found a recipe for chick-pea fries, now firmly entrenched in my repertoire. The list of that poster’s favorite blogs led me to Smitten Kitchen and a foolproof recipe for jalapeño-cheddar scones. Stumbling on “what megan’s making...” provided a recipe for baked pasta with sausage that I found to be a step beyond Mark Bittman’s one for baked ziti that I had almost committed to, and it was so good that we didn’t mind having leftovers twice. But Megan was also making chocolate-chip pumpkin bread, and although I had managed to ignore most dessert items I came across (I’m more of a cook than a baker), that proved to be my achilles heel.

Let me tell you, this treat was so incredibly good – and using Ghirardelli 60% cacao chips undoubtedly contributed to making it healthy. The two loaves that the recipe produced were huge and dense, so anticipatory guilt compelled me to take one over to Beth’s sister’s for Thanksgiving dinner rather than freeze it for our own consumption later. Never mind the fact that Barb’s dessert buffet also featured pumpkin pie freshly baked by our niece Emily and two more pies (rhubarb and blueberry) that Dave’s dad had brought up from Rock Springs Café – pie heaven if ever there was one. I felt lucky he didn’t bring coconut cream or I would’ve waved the white flag then and there.

The other shoe waiting to drop is that I had a birthday a couple weeks ago and Beth gave me a gift certificate to Shannon’s Gourmet Cheesecakes here in town. I love New York style cheesecake (forget those silly refrigerator versions) almost as much as I do Beth - after all, it’s nature’s perfect food - and I sincerely believe it loves me right back. Unfortunately – or not – this recent recipe from Smitten Kitchen will probably remain beyond my grasp.

It just doesn’t end – and it’s not only the sweet stuff I’m talkin’ about: it’s hard to resist those artisan breads on a trip to Costco (as I avert my eyes from the tiramisu) or the ease of making pasta dishes for dinner, but I know that I don’t need the carbs either. At least that’s what the torture machine tells me.

So we’ll forego the cookies this year, and with any luck I won’t have to move beyond those 37s. Besides, I have a new doctor – and he’s fit as a fiddle.

----------------------------------------

Update to Black Friday: I usually go to the Reuters site for their brief headline summary of what “Investors” are up to that day. Yesterday morning’s was “Stocks gain as retail sales counter Dubai.” Things slipped a bit after the opening bell but ended up, so it's interesting to note that Mr. Market was more attuned to shoppers than sheiks.