Trumpetting the Obvious

The other day I watched a couple of baseball games for the first time in ten years, maybe much longer than that. I watched the Boston team outscore the Colorado team.  I had nothing on the result, no bets down, no regional loyalty, no knowledge of the game to influence me, just the fun of watching hugely skilled ballplayers doing their lucrative thing.

Sports writers across the country had other nuts to crack. Some were quoted in the LA Times, including their own sorehead who announced, much to my astonishment, that Boston bought, paid for, the World Series. Gee, I had no idea. A Chicago sports writer announced that Boston players had used trickery. I must have missed that part. I'll tell you what I did notice and that was how fair, and how enthusiastic were the Denver/Colorado fans who seemed to my uneducated eyes appreciative of all the fine plays by both teams. Made me rethink living in Denver. Splendid people in Denver I figure, Fair especially, in spite of the altitude. And it's so beautiful.

I was in Denver once, passed through while hitchhiking. In High School in San Francisco on a Friday after school I walked North across the Golden Gate Bridge and hitchhiked to Seattle, then hitched East to Wyoming, and back West to San Francisco. 

Madness, right? I was 16. I lived alone, but kind people, including truck drivers, helped me. Drivers must not fear picking up a child. Today my antics would get me killed, and probably very fast.

On Monday morning I was back in school missing not an hour of class time. I was accepted at all three of the colleges I applied to.

Have I paid back the blessings I received? I have not. Maybe an opportunity will show up, or I'll get ambition and create an opportunity.

Love it, love it all.....it's not forever....right?

Barry

http://journals.aol.com/bbartle3/Vengeance/

 

 

EVIL

Pyromaniac

Troll

Serial Killer

Butcher in uniform

.................................$#@&&& SO ON....

 

It has now been declared as fact: some of the San Diego County fire (killing eight) were the product of the crippled mind of madmen, pyromaniacs.

Barry

(....who resemble in their MO AOL trolls on message boards.)

Barry

 

"Dammit.  Don't you hate when people read

the earnest words you've written and then use

the comments to talk about themselves?!  

Sorry.  I'm conscious of it now."

 

[Comment from a "sorry" blogger directed elsewhere]

 

I do that all the time and will not apologize.

Helping to increase the volume of self-centered

self pity is not among my ambitions.

 

What staggers me is how many responses such

witless journal entries inspire. Only this minute, puzzling

over this Comment, have I come across a possible

explanation. Most people must shudder at the very

thought of talking about themselves let alone

having to actually do that. They oughtta get over it.

 

Actually, thinking further, how on earth can actual

conversation ever take place if each person does

only a soliloquy!? If Hamlet were to go on much

longer telling us his troubles he'd become a first class

boor. (In any case he needed to see a psychiatrist.

That scene in the closet with his Mother!???)

 

Barry

http://journals.aol.com/bbartle3/Vengeance/

 

California Forest Fires

For UK j-land friends here's a few observations about the enormity of the currently raging forest fires in Southern California. At this very moment CNN is reporting 'EXTREME FIRE DANGER,' with winds reaching 75 MPH.  We are not threatened, even though the fires are within 30 miles or so, because we live three blocks from a fire station - with a fire engine and a fire truck - and because we live next to Glendale Memorial Park where there has been constant, for a century or more, vigilance against any possibility of fire.

In Malibu, damn near levelled, there's a college called Pepperdine. Know nothing about it. But wouldn't it be logical for that college to have a Forestry Professor, or even a Botanist?!? someone who'd have known enough to speak up about the tinder box that Southern California had become?! 300,000 people have been forced by the fires to evacuate.  In America there is, believe it or not, extreme pressure to conform, be like everyone else, don't make waves, and perpetually go into agreement with the majority. So, I deduce, at Pepperdine, a zero on the academic barometer, there is not now, and never has been, one single professor who spoke up on any subject all my him/her self. It's a Country Club. Today at breakfast they are serving cinders, ashes, and burnt meat, while all fluids served in baby bottles with nipples to suit.

Lake Arrowhead has lost hundreds of homes. They were ugly anyway, so that'll lead to improvement.

Pets. Can you imagine the number of dead pets!? The news covered giant turtles that were rescued, but not much else.  Those people must have had brain dead dogs; regular non-spayed dogs would have known far in advance that fire was coming, and set up a terrific racket.

There have been days, several days, of sympathetic clucking shown on TV; After a while all that 'sympathy' turns to rock hard sugar candy; so I leaven the meal with a touch of reality. Paint me Scrouge.

Barry

http://journals.aol.com/bbartle3/Vengeance/

Later, Tuesday Oct. 23  '07: Finally an academic is quoted on CNN as noting that new plant life in Southern California has contributed to the unprecedented fires all over the lower half of CA.  Over 500,000 people have now been virtually ordered to leave their homes.

Perchance did you happen to catch the up close and personal documentary about climbers to the Everest Summit?  That too aired today; I've been glued to the tube for far too long.  The moral dilemas that crop up on the climbs make for drama somewhat akin to abandoning one's home in a forest fire: It probable won't make the news, but for sure some will rather perish in their homes than live with having to be fully responsible for losing their home.  By staying in the building one theoretically endangers others. Similarly, if a climber meets someone still alive on their retreat, is one compelled to give up one's climb in an effort to save the life of a defeated climber who has no chance of living, helped, or not helped on their way down? I suspect for a Christian the instruction is to help no matter what.

Barry

 http://journals.aol.com/bbartle3/Vengeance/

 

 

My son the singer, cont.

My seven month old son Mark
fights off sleep by making himself look
like a plough (aka plow?) with
butt in the air, head in the ground,
then screaming in a desperately
accusatory fashion as if it's all my fault.
He sleeps best in the car. The movement
is some kind of atavistic connection
to being inside Mother? He sleeps a
lot however. In the car he sings along
with Beethoven. Honest!  He had another
breakthrough in that, he finally got himself
to sing along in the Chorale section at the end,
proving how important is sleep, blessed sleep.

Barry
http://journals.aol.com/bbartle3/Vengeance/

Having No Subject

The truth is I feel today that I have nothing to say. That is, I feel zero desire to write what I have come to believe most everyone wants to hear. Normally I'd just write what's on on my mind and let it go, sustainted simply by getting whatever off my chest. But lately I've experienced a great deal of antagonism here. A troll managed to bypass the block of his (its) SN and post his inanity of attack.  Another, longtime troll showed up with yet another SN and went ballistic. He's now blocked. But the fact he showed up at all was like being buried in a sewer. For the time being I'm fresh out of charity.

I have a volunteer, requested, small project: to write a short short story in which a memory from childhood was awakened by one of the senses: cold, heat, smell, color, weight, and so on, whatever has been in your life a force to reanimate an old, old memory. A collection of such short stories will be sold in book form to raise money for the keep of homeless children. [Details can be found in AOL Message Board "Writers Pad Open Discussion, Oct. 16, '07] The best model of that process I have ever read comes from Swann's Way in the Marcel Proust novel REMEMBRANCE OF THINGS PAST. The character remembers the smell of cake dipped in tea and served by his mother out in the garden when the character was a child. I read that scene when I was in High School in San Francisco. I thought it was sweet, but fanciful. About ten years later, in New York, I did "Sense Memory" exercizes in Lee Strasberg's private acting classes and discovered that memory is indeed often coupled with a solid sensory reality, such as the smell of cake out in the garden.

In adult life the preciousness of a long relationship is amplified when there are many memories tied to concrete sensory reality. Making it up is weak compared to the flood that comes from remembered sensory reality. When I was last married, in 1992, my wife had no breasts, nada, zip, none. Seven months ago when she (God Bless her) gave birth to Marc Andrew her breasts were humungous, melons! Yet, remembering first being with her, fifteen years ago, I hardly noticed that she had no breasts; didn't bother her so it didn't bother me. I shouldn't be writing this part should I?! Oh dear. So kill me. But remember, Mark Andrew is the one who now sings Beethoven!  Ha ha ha, and he's only seven months old. What next?!@! Wish me luck, please.

Barry

http://journals.aol.com/bbartle3/Vengeance/

Two For The Money

TWO FOR THE MONEY (2005?)

The Al Pacino vehicle apparently bombed when it came out (2005?) but it has interest buried in the too busy plot.  Something about gambling may be bad, but life is a gamble whether one likes it or not. From the credits I guess one can assume ALL the football clips were shot using actors. Otherwise, it's hard to believe football teams would sell action clips to a movie producer. The football clips looked real to me. Renee Russo was hired because she's old enough to plausibly be Al Pacino's wife. I dunno where America gets the absurd notion that husband and wife MUST be the same age. That notion makes me puke. I know of a woman who married a younger man and lives in secret, and ashamed. Stupid! I think I'll move to France.

In the movie Russo and Pacino come very close to French kissing. I was surprised. Hard to avoid making that look gross on film I would think.

Barry

[Point, buried perhaps: Al Pacino is a great actor, known for taking huge life/professional-gambles, so I hope he doesn't regret having made this movie; It's well worth watching solely for his performance.]

http://journals.aol.com/bbartle3/Vengeance/

Who's Gonna Drive You Home Tonight?

The music group from some time ago named The Cars might have permanently disbanded. I'd like to think that some of those excellent musicians are now with another group or other groups. One of The Cars songs is called DRIVE. It's my favorite; it's most unusual. It is number 6 on my CD of their works. I've played it over and over. For years!

Here in brief is DRIVE's narrative (it is most unusual as it's totally devoid of swagger, bragging, self-promotion, criticism, judgment, seduction, dreaming, or energy purely for the sake of energy) which I will recount from the simple words of the song in order of delivery:

1. "Who's gonna tell you things aren't so great?"

2. "Who's gonna drive you home tonight?"

3. "Who's gonna hang it up....... when you call?"

4. "Who's gonna hold you down when you scream?

That last line is not delivered any stronger than the other lines; I've put it in red to help me make my main point which is that the young man deeply loves a young woman regardless of the fact she can feel nothing for him due to her obsession with 'staying out late,' living life as I imagine Brittany Spears has lived part of her life. 

Humility and self-abnegation seem almost entirely absent from present day pop music. You'd have to go back to Cole Porter to find such gentle humanity as present in DRIVE.

How I love that song. I suppose we all have, or have had, a very distant love unapproachable. If we had the habit of experiencing ONLY that form of love unattainable we'd need to check our priorities.

I'm a musical ignoramous, no kidding. For example, I can't remember if it was Cole Porter or Nat King Cole who wrote "I've got you..........under my skin."

So what song rockets YOU to the moon? Especially what 'odd' song does that for you?

Barry

http://journals.aol.com/bbartle3/Vengeance/

 

My Son the 'Singer'

Many months ago, in what feels like years ago, I blogged that driving while listening to the Chorale (Symphony #9) by Beethoven gave me great pleasure. The reason might be that the audio system is better than I thought; I've never had an automobile that came with a CD player, and it so happened I was doing California driving almost as a necessity the distances being so great. Hence, the boredom of driving was relieved by music listening. I got tired of Bible Chat (The CRI in NC) and other talk radio. (Speaking of which, I confess I miss Howard Stern.)

My wife is not mad about Classical Music. Yet, one day when she got in the passenger seat, section three (Third Movement? I'm a musical ignoramous) of the Chorale was playing, that part where a very long, and therefore arresting forced pause in the ongoing music, a long held note, dissolves into the sweetest, most ingratiating, lovely melody unfolding. My wife said in hushed tones, "My! How lovely!"  She was semi-hooked. (What she REALLY likes is karaoke

Main Entry: kar·a·o·ke
Function: noun
Pronunciation: "kar-e-'O-ke, k&-'rO-ke, "kä-rä-'O-(")kA
Etymology: Japanese, from kara empty + Oke, short for Okesutora orchestra
: a device that plays instrumental accompaniments for a selection of songs to which the user sings along and that records the user's singing with the music

and is saving up to buy an elaborate version of that contraption about which I know next to nothing.)

A few months went by. When Mark Andrew (age seven months) was alone with me in the car I repeatedly played the entire third movement over and over. It's L O N G, as the whole work is an hour and a half or more, and suddenly, out of the blue, Mark Andrew sang along with the music! I was flabbergasted! His dear sweet infant voice got amusingly tangled up with it so much he was almost laughing and 'singing' at the same time.

More time passed. During an onrushing family conversation the Beethoven got left on and ran over the third movement and, into the highly dramatic 4th Movement in which an enormous, glorious choir made up of hundreds of voices sing an anthem of Joy. In the middle of this cacophony Mark Andrew began to 'sing.' His mother was transfixed. The rest of us couldn't stop laughing with glee, astonishment and happiness.

Pssst. Soto voce OK? I believe Ludwig van B (1770 - 1827) has another fan, Mark's mother! Ha ha ha ha ah, shhhhh.....lest she go into denial.

Barry

http://journals.aol.com/bbartle3/Vengeance/

 

Playing Interviewer

My dear 'Journals' friend ZoePaul sent me some time ago a list of interview questions. For a while there was an 'infectation' (sp? sp? sp? drat! Infestation?) of interviews given, and interviews taken, then, just as suddenly that nice, pleasant and harmless game vanished.  My understanding of the game was that while any and everyone could watch the game, it was pretty much just between Interviewer and interviewee. Having total trust in Zoe I took the interview questions in a spirit of fun and replied in the spirit with which the questions were asked. For example she asked me if a bank robber in his escape dropped a million dollars on my lawn would I return the money to the bank, or, realizing the Bank was insured against robbery, simply keep the money for myself?  I said I'd keep it. Keeping to the spirit of fun, I said I'd drive the money to Canada, then find a way to get the money into a Swiss Bank account. Of course the latter is sheer fantasy and ridiculous.

Not just once, but twice, another blogger, also in England, sent me an email, with the same message that he'd Entered in reply in my journal: that he, proud, rich and totally honorable, would of course, cross his heart and hope to die, would never, ever, keep anything, not even a hanky, that did not belong to him and himself, and he alone.

Such wizz-bang purity seemed like a wiff of Purity imported to USA with the Mayflower. Purity still Lives in MERRY ENGLAND!!!!

I did so feel like a low class, impoverished colonial lout! Fancy, me a thief, and exposed as such while blogging. I'm undone!

Console me, please!

Barry

http://journals.aol.com/bbartle3/Vengeance/