*Middle East situation continues to deteriorate, in absolutely the most horrific way. Words seem ineffective, and yet words are about the only thing we have to work with.
*Slowly, tentatively, we creep toward decent, spring-like weather, enough so I indulge in a brief bike ride on Sunday afternoon. Other than that, a more-than-welcome uneventful weekend, highlighted by a trip to the movies on Saturday with OD and Oliver, a delightful young (12) fellow who's been home-schooled for most of his life and certainly shows no ill effects.
*Viewings:
=="Random Hearts" -- Far too long and ill-conceived. A dour Harrison Ford, sporting one of the worst haircuts ever, is thrown into the orbit of nascent politician Kristen Scott Thomas when their spouses are killed in an airplane crash. As the relationship between the deceased pair becomes clearer, the survivors decide how, or whether, to confront the truth. But the potential intrigue from that plot line is obscured by the manufactured fireworks between Ford and Thomas, and an inexplicable police corruption subplot.
=="Lord of the Rings: Fellowship of the Ring" -- Never read the book, I admit, nor got caught up in the varied cults of Tolkien worship. So I can honestly say that for me the story was quite well served, rather than overwhelmed, by the majestic cinematography, set designs and inventive special effects. I have a feeling the quasi-religious dynamics of the book likely have been watered down, but the fundamental Good/Evil struggle is hardly diminished. The casting, meanwhile, is spot on, especially Ian McKellan's Gendalf -- the very model of a wise, all-powerful but compassionate wizard -- Viggo Mortensen's heroic Aragorn, John Rhys-Davies' dyspeptic Gimli, and Elijah Wood's Frodo, who learns an awful lot about the Manner of Things in a very short time.
*Once more, a change to The Dumb, Stupid Baseball Hat Page.
March 28
*Correspondent takes me to task for my aside on American attitudes toward the French in March 8-10 entry concerning the broadcast of the Naudet brothers' "9/11" documentary. Apologies for any over-generalization, and for any apparently gratuitous, albeit indirect, slagging. But I do hold to my opinion that at least some Americans look upon the French with something less than reverence, and that stating this is neither a major revelation nor a blow to peace and harmony in our time.
*Recent musical acquisition: Jerry Garcia and David Grisman, "Shady Grove" -- Probably more ideal for true aficianados of either or both gentlemen, which I admittedly am not (although I am appreciative of their contributions to folk-rock-jazz fusion). Although Garcia's voice was decidedly on the decline when this was recorded, his musicianship does not particularly suffer in comparison to Grisman. A well-chosen variety of songs, from "Stealin'" to "Dreadful Wind and Rain" to "I Truly Understand" to "Whiskey In the Jar." Perhaps the best thing, though, is John Cohen's notes on the songs and their best-known performers, accompanied by archival photos (David Gahr should get a good royalty check, and deservedly so).
*The D&Q Easter treat.
March 22-24
*Well, my 2002 NCAA brackets are clearly not bound for anyone's archives, certainly not mine. At least I had Kansas pegged for the Final Four, but not much else went right. Of course, actually watching the games, most of which have been competitive and compelling, rather makes up for the disappointment.
*Another Sunday evening spent at O'Hanlon's , during which I'm able to sling out renditions of "The Barleygrain for Me" and "The Jolly Soldier". I'd say I'm becoming irregular, but that's a stupid old joke.
March 21
*Whoops. That's what I get for slacking off on the old update rhythm. Completely missed my annual birthday salute to my betrothed, and mentioning the enjoyable time at the Boston College Athletic Association St. Patrick's Day Zamboni Room party. Needless to say, I particularly regret oversight of the former event. Kiss, kiss.
*Book completed: "John Adams," by David McCullough -- More than lives up to the hype, which is saying something for McCullough. As he paints him, Adams was a (to put it mildly) fascinating character, cognizant of the fact he was nowhere near as glamorous as many of his contemporaries yet not without a humanizing touch of ambition. He could be described on the one hand in modern parlance as a plugger, but he was not without vision either: his assertion in his contribution to the Massachusetts state constitution, for example, that legislators and magistrates had a duty to promote arts, sciences and "a natural history of the country," as well as to uphold principles like humanity and general benevolence. McCullough's recounting of history is well done as usual (especially in recounting how France and the US came close to war), and he wisely includes personalities like Adams' intriguing friend and opposite, Jefferson. The description of Adams' declining years, and loss of family and friends, makes for a moving yet not overly sentimental touch.
March 20
There's something ironic, somehow, in Massachusetts Acting Governor Jane Swift dropping her bid to run for office the same week that Minneapolis announced plans to erect a statue of Mary Richards (in celebratory hat-tossing pose) downtown. I don't know, a reality-fantasy dichotomy?
March 15-17
*Daughters and I corral a couple of their chums and go off to The Garment District [previously noted in May 20-21 entry last year.] The girls have themselves a fashion show, of sorts, while I amuse myself going through the piles of cheapo-cheapo clothes and old LPs. Afterwards, a relatively brief jaunt through Harvard Square scores a few CDs that had been on my list. A very worthwhile afternoon.
*Didn't do as much meditating and agonizing over my NCAA tournament brackets, and it showed: got only eight of the Sweet 16 right. But then, who'd-a thunk there'd be Golden Flashes and Salukis (Kent State and Southern Illinois, respectively) amidst the Blue Devils, Terrapins and Jayhawks? But no Eagles, sigh, BC having come up too little and too late against Texas.
*Viewing: "Bridget Jones's Diary" -- Renee Zellweger is, yes, perky and charming, but there's some good old-fashioned earthiness in her rendition of romantically and vocationally frustrated Bridget. Hugh Grant hardly has to lift a finger in his part, but Colin Firth -- as the Guy For Whom She Is Destined -- deserves credit for his determinedly mirthless demeanor; when he lets down his defenses, even just a little, the effect is winning.
March 14
Lunch and a visit (in 60-degree weather) with Mum, recounting her reconnaissance mission for an NGO to Iran. She shows me photos of a refugee camp -- tents, canvas-topped huts, and dust swirling across a bleak landscape. And yet, there is life there...
March 12
Irony, we can take it or leave it, but satire is a very precious commodity: Native American students at Northern Colorado University chose the name "Fighting Whities" for their intramural basketball team, and created this logo:
Some of the students, it appears, are a bit more strident about making the point than others. But maybe this will help usher in a revival of Church of the Subgenius iconography.
March 8-10
*Saturday is a glorious pre-spring bit of breezy, mid-60s delight, which I spend part of shuttling kids around to recreational and social activities. But I do get to indulge in a leisurely walk and even a half-hour or so of solo hoop.
Sunday is cooler and given over more to grocery duties, but in the evening I lug instruments once again out to O'Hanlon's for some tunes and merriment. Wind up devoting a fair amount of time on bodhran, which is certainly a good thing, but also am able to strap on the bouzouki and lead a couple of jigs and later join in a cracking rendition of "To the Begging I Will Go," which I might just have to learn one of these days.
*Viewings:
=="Red Planet" -- this account of astronauts attempting to establish a beach head on Mars has some pretty familiar outer space yarn elements, e.g., technology gone horribly wrong, who-gets-it-next suspense and big-picture moralizing. If you can get beyond the more dubious plot twists, there's actually some palpable last-survivor tension to bring a bit of, er, gravity to the film. But sadly underutilized Carrie Ann Moss's narration at the beginning and end make this seem like the pilot to a sci-fi TV series.
Also saw most, but not all of, "9/11" -- much of the focus, understandably, is on the largely unseen footage from inside and around the WTC, as well as the depiction of the regular-joe firefighters' heroism and sacrifice. But there's a compelling parallel between the young "probie" (the original subject for the documentary) and novice cameraman Jules Naudet, as they both endure their quite literal baptisms of fire. And given Americans' collective, and unfortunately, dim view of the French, the camaraderie between the filmmaking brothers and their subjects is joyous and moving.
March 6
How's this for juxtaposition? Teenage daughter sits in church lobby at end of morris dance practice, listening to sullen tough-grrl music on her portable CD player -- and knitting.
March 2
Annual (more or less) Non-Tour brings together us Boston area morris dancers, accompanied by families and friends -- although not as much this year as in the past. The confluence of other major events this weekend certainly played a part, but it might also be folks feeling somewhat disconnected from the morris community. Or else more have moved on, literally, than one might have thought. In any case, we got in some pick-up dancing, which as far as I'm concerned is a major Non-Tour goal. OD frolicked with friends of varying ages and sizes, so that in itself made the evening a success.
March 1
*Book completed: "Peace Like A River," by Leif Enger -- Fictional memoir of 11-year-old Reuben Land's journey with his father and younger sister to the Badlands, ostensibly in search of his fugitive older brother. Their odyssey, like the book itself, is suffused with a gentle, mysterious spirituality, at the core of which is Reuben's father and his apparent ability to make miracles. For the most part, Enger avoids the pitfalls this plot element might easily produce (although the departure of Reuben's mother is a rather serious gap), largely by the force of the narrative and, most of all, the appeal of the characters -- especially Swede, Reuben's strong-willed sister, who lives, breathes and writes in the Zane Gray-Old West literary genre.
*Performed at an "acoustic night" sponsored by campus musical association. Not exactly the most auspicious circumstances from a marketing standpoint, i.e., Friday night before spring break week. Indeed, what audience members there were seemed to be mainly acquaintances of the other performers. Still, the atmosphere was certainly relaxed and informal, as were some of the performances: At times, it looked as if the acts were being rehearsed on stage. Still, where talent and ability may have dipped -- although there was certainly evidence of both, including the emcee/organizer's all-too-brief fingerpicking solo -- arose at least some innovation, such as an exercise in "songwriting improv" and acoustic versions of "Wish You Were Here" and, um, "Hit Me Baby (One More Time)." I actually got to do two sets, owing to some scheduling misfires, and offered "Durham Gaol," "Bonny Light Horseman," "Sweet Lisbweemore," "The Jolly Soldier" and "The Barleygrain for Me," as well as a few samples of bouzouki and concertina. Oh, yes, and even a recitation, just for the heckuvit.
Feb. 28
*Sigh. Goodbye, Spike Milligan, and say hello to Peter and Harry for us all. "And remember folks, any man can be 62, but it takes a bus to be 62A." http://www.fireflycafe.org/spike/yingtong.mp3
*Hey, how 'bout that? "O Brother Where Art Thou?" soundtrack wins Album of the Year honors at the Grammys. And I think we might as well retire the Polka Album of the Year award or else put an addition on Jimmy Sturr's house.
Feb. 23-24
*Most of Saturday spent sorting through tax and financial stuff, a process which always incites fear we're missing vital pieces of information that may mean, as George Bailey might put it, bankruptcy and scandal, and prison.
*For third weekend in a row, the latter end of Sunday is spent in musical frolic, back at O'Hanlon's . I could really get used to this.
*Viewing: "Unbreakable" -- not a bad premise, really: a superhero's self-discovery and empowerment played straight, and serious, rather than for "Greatest American Hero"-type laughs. Bruce Willis displays the appropriate existential angst, and his bond with his son is quite moving. But the film is almost too restrained and stately for its own good, and the postscripted ending is disappointing.
Feb. 22
Seen/Not Seen, Absurd Things:
*Viewing: "Incubus" -- So, if I tell you that this film stars a pre-"Star Trek" William Shatner and is in Esperanto, do you need to know more? OK, what the heck:
==I'm not a linguist by any stretch, but my impression is that there's a helluva degree of difficulty in writing dramatic material in Esperanto. I mean, it just doesn't seem to roll off the tongue with the same cachet as your more familiar Romance languages.
==Shatner actually seems rather muted for most of the film. But after the climactic battle with the Incubus (Milos Milos is a name sadly obscured in film history), he rises to his familiar standard: "My haaaaands! Look at my haaaands!" and the memorable "Pits! Ashes!"
==Let's not ignore the soundtrack (try as we might), a stirring example of the 1960s sci-fi genre, with ethereal woodwinds, an equally airy female vocal ("oooooo") and cascading orchestral harp.
== Whenever either of the female leads ran around calling out the name of Shatner's character, "Marco!," I wanted so much to call back, "Polo!"
*I think the phrase "lost in the translation" may apply here.
Feb. 18
Book completed: "A Star Called Henry," by Roddy Doyle -- Irish storytelling at its best, with bravado, heroism, magic, pride, self-deprecation and plenty o' love, all represented by the character of Henry Smart, an almost supernaturally resourceful young man who undergoes his baptism of fire in the Irish Uprising and subsequent guerilla war against Britain. Doyle imaginatively spins the historical figures and events through Smart's narrative, but more impressively he depicts Henry's slow awakening to his role as supplying muscle, not brains, in forging a new Ireland -- and how events pass him by, as a result. A must for anyone who ever sang "James Connolly" or read Patrick Pearse.
Feb. 16-17
*Quiet weekend, for the most part, although I did take kids out for the usual library-pet store jaunt, with the addition of what I suspect will be fairly regular trips to a large used-clothing store next town over.
*Sunday afternoon, with the prospect of an evening rain-to-snow mix, I scuttled plans to return to the J.P. O'Hanlon's session in favor of the closer and earlier-starting one at The Burren. Hadn't been back for a while, and from what I could grasp, the shift in some interpersonal relationships appears to have changed the core group there. Certainly enjoyed myself (not the least because of the indefatigable, inexhaustible 8-year-old stepdancer who frequently joined us), but I have to say the O'Hanlon's atmosphere is warmer overall. Perhaps more importantly, sessions can take on a resolutely perfunctory character; play the tunes a few times through, sit back, have a drink or smoke, futz around and go do it again. When I've been to O'Hanlon's, I've been struck by the unhurried, almost experimental nature of the playing -- kind of, but not exactly, a performance as much as a session. Does this mean I plan to give up on The Burren and their ilk? Naw, but I think I'll look to get out to Ayer more often.
*"Fast, Cheap and Out of Control" -- Four men with seemingly disparate and eccentric vocations -- wild animal trainer Dave Hoover, topiary gardener George Mendonca, mole rat researcher Ray Mendez and robot scientist Rodney Brooks -- offer insights into what they do, and perhaps why, while director Errol Morris continually cross-cuts between footage of their handiwork. The juxtaposition of narrative and image would probably be enlightening, or entertaining, enough, but Morris also throws in excerpts from old cartoons, movies and whatever else he can find to show how the four's vocations have occasionally registered in popular culture: Hoover's mentor and role model Clyde Beatty in a thoroughly ridiculous adventure movie, for example. At times this is clever, at others it comes off as very self-conscious and over-calculated. In the end, the film comes down to impressions, and for me it's a draw between Mendez -- sporting bowtie and gushing Noo Yawk-accented commentary -- and the wide-eyed, Australian Brooks.
Feb. 15
In short order:
*Olympic figure skating scandal! I'd like to see some of those judges try their hand at officiating a Fleadh Cheoil elementary-level pennywhistle competition. The coroner's report would not be pretty.
*News from all over: Middle-aged woman at Lowell, Mass., grocery store is beaten up by another customer after she brought 13 items to a 12-or-less express line. Texas man with the paradigmatic "long history of mental health problems" shoots and wounds girlfriend because he suspected her of preparing to say "New Jersey," an entry in a list of words he was not supposed to hear ("Wisconsin," "Snickers" and "Mars," among others, also are verboten). New Zealand man reads in his phone bill that he is being charged a penalty of $337.50 for "being an arrogant bastard."
*Facts you stumble onto while reading someone's curriculum vita: Incoming Santa Clara University theater, dance and communication students are eligible for the Quinn Martin Scholarship. Delivered by William Conrad, and with a full brass section and wah-wah guitar in the background?
*Has Bill James done any research on the Relatives-of-Cult-TV-Stars success factor in major league baseball? I ask this because one of the Red Sox's spring training invitees is minor leaguer Derek Hasselhoff, nephew of "Baywatch" ubericon David Hasselhoff.
Feb. 8-10
*My (delayed) birthday dinner, comprising boiled shrimp with curry-mayo dip, salmon steak, rice and spinach salad. After screening "Sixteen Candles" for the girls, we watched "Apt Pupil" -- which might've worked better if it had given Brad Renfro at least a few obstacles in establishing that Ian McKellen is an escaped WWII war criminal, instead of squeezing that all into the first 10 minutes. Their disturbingly symbiotic relationship (Ex-Nazis as academic mentors?) is of fleeting interest, frankly, although it does raise not-insignificant questions about evil's ability to ensnare. David Schwimmer, by the way, may have set a new standard for portrayals of the ineffectually dorky high school guidance counselor.
*Quite a social whirlwind-type weekend: YD hosts visits from two friends on Saturday and Sunday, wrapped around an overnight; OD stays with family friends and heads out with them to see production of "The Pirates of Penzance." And then, later on Sunday, I take the bouzouki out for its very first session, here , and it does very well indeed. Really do like the place, even though the set-up (microphones and stage) feels more like a performance than an informal session. Think I'll really like it better in warmer weather and longer days.
Feb. 7
Right, OK, I'm 44. Don't. Say. A word.
Feb. 6
Government in action:
*Minions of Attorney General John Ashcroft -- if we take their word on it -- show their appreciation for classical art (all right, art deco, technically, but you know what I mean) by ordering $8,000 worth of drapes to cover the semi-nude statues that grace the Department of Justice's Great Hall, site of most DoJ press conferences. Yes, to be fair, those scurrilous photojournalists have had all kinds of fun through the years taking pictures of AGs with the metallic breast and naked mid-section in the background. But at this rate, maybe we better start hiding any old photos of our kids at bath time.
*Congressman Richard Baker is congratulated by colleagues after landing a part in the remake of "The Thing With Two Heads"
Feb. 3
Ahhhh.
OK, yeah, sports probably does occupy more of my consciousness than it should; if I devoted 5 percent of my intellectual capacity to, say, a better understanding of economic theory instead of using it to worry about the Red Sox rotation for the coming season, no question I'd be a better man for it. But goshdurnitall, it is simply a great feeling when "your" team stands atop the pinnacle, especially if they were supposed to have barely reached base camp.
So it was that on Sunday, I watched one of the greatest examples of a team-wide imposition of will, as the Patriots held fast to the collective leg of the Rams and simply would not let go. For about three-and-a-half quarters, anyway. When the Rams found their rhythm and tied the score late in the fourth, I have to confess the all-too-familiar sinking feeling began making its way simultaneously to my head, heart and stomach. Then Tom Brady invokes the spirits of Joe Montana, John Elway and Johnny Unitas, and moves the team just close enough to give Adam Vinatieri -- whom, my fellow hirsute game viewers and I noted with approval, was sporting a beard for the occasion -- a more than even chance to boot the winning field goal.
Pundits are rightly crediting the genius of Bill Belichick, as well as his plain-spoken, unflappable personality. In fact, compared with many of the successful Super Bowl coaches of the past decade or so, Belichick is practically ascetic, not just self-effacing. There's something refreshing about a man who can discuss high-stakes sporting events as nonchalantly as he might describe his approach to lawn care.
Meanwhile, I truly cherish and value Paul McCartney, but I wish he didn't have to try so hard to win absolutely everyone else's affection, too. Singing duets with Terry Bradshaw won't threaten his place in musical Valhalla, obviously, but it doesn't exactly enhance it.
Feb. 2
I watched a sadly truncated broadcast of the three "Secret Policeman's Ball" benefit concerts, featuring the likes of John Cleese, Rowan Atkinson, Pete Townshend, Peter Cook (gone far too soon), Sting, Kate Bush and, gulp, Emo Phillips. The second concert film, which I'd seen before some years back, included Bob Geldof singing "I Don't Like Mondays," his imaginative and discomfiting take on the 1979 Brenda Spencer case -- the first high-profile school-shooting. Interesting to speculate as to whether a pointed, poignant yet decidedly unsentimental song related to a tragic event would make such an impression in pop/media culture today. Would it even get written or recorded?
Feb. 1
In the mid-winter ice and damp, some amusing things somewhat related to the world of sports:
*U2 tried, with some success, to display equal parts sardonicism and football acumen during Super Bowl Hype Event no. 26 (in a series). The Edge showed himself to be among the Drew Bledsoe partisans in his assessment of the Patriots' quarterbacks, while Bono proclaimed the band's role as that of mediator between the "AFL and NFL." Uh, actually, Pete Rozelle already done that, thanks.
*The Horse That Feared No Glue Factory: Zippy Chippy is an 11-year-old gelding who is apparently the losingest equine in recorded thoroughbred history. He rang up consecutive loss no. 92 this week, 20 lengths behind the next-to-last horse. According to the news item, ZC's record against humans is better than against his own breed: a lofty .500 (1-1), achieved against members of the Rochester Red Wings minor league baseball team.
Jan. 25-27
*Friday night, I head out to watch local high school brush aside opponents by nearly 30 points. Impression: probably good for the first round in the tournament, but without some maturing between now and then, that's about it. At some intervals during the game, a couple of unlikely looking kids -- one with roughly the proportions of a barrel -- executed some pretty damn good breakdancing and hip-hop moves.
*Sunday, I watch beloved Patriots beat equally beloved Steelers for the AFC Championship, thus delivering unto me equal pain and pleasure. Well, except that it's a bit easier to get caught up in a Super Bowl frenzy in your own backyard, rather than the western end of Pennsylvania. Yes, indeed, Go Pats.
Jan. 24
Viewing: "The House of Yes" -- Adaptation of the Wendy MacLeod play depicting one night in the lives of a very screwed up family, when the son, unwisely, brings home his fiancee for Thanksgiving. Parker Posey easily steals the movie as the insane, obsessively incestuous Jackie-O, saying discomfiting things way too loud and forthrightly. Genevieve Bujold, as the mother widowed under uncertain circumstances, subtly gives every indication that the apple has not fallen far from the tree. But there's rather too much surrender in Josh Hamilton, as Jackie-O's twin brother, and (especially) Tori Spelling, as his fiancee. You can pretty much guess the ending halfway through, and although not without darkly humorous moments, overall it's Pinter Lite.
Jan. 18-21
A long weekend that actually did seem long, although not necessarily for all the right reasons. Friday, LW follows OD's example from earlier in the week and is struck down by this awful virus, to the point where she's not even able to have a return visit with Much-Adored Niece [see Jan. 11, now with photo link]. Saturday, we awake to find YD's rung up a temperature of 102.3, so she spends the day in somnolence and silence.
That evening, as I start to feel the clammy grip of infirmity upon me (the tickle in the throat being a dead giveaway), I settle in to watch the Patriots-Raiders playoff game, played under conditions straight out of the NFL Films archives: namely, in the midst of steady, accumulating snow. Visions of Steve Van Buren, Otto Graham, Paul Hornung and maybe Chuck Schmidt or Alan Page for good measure. Less than 2 minutes left, Patriots down by 3, I'm absolutely convinced I should go to bed soon, and then Tom Brady fumbles in Oakland territory. Right, thinks I, so much for that, and click off the TV and spend a rather uncomfortable restless night.
...only to find next morning, upon unfurling the Sunday paper, that I had completely missed a typically bizarre Patriots denouement -- this one coming out in their favor, for once. So for the third time in the last five years, I'm confronted by the conundrum of having my two favorite teams meet in the playoffs, as the Steelers thoroughly pummel Baltimore.
And, yes, by this time I am definitely and unmistakably ill, thanks; the aforementioned limited sleep didn't help matters much, either. Still, I was able to deliver OD for the car pool taking her to her 24-hour camp reunion (more of which below) before sinking into a near-listless football-watching lump of protoplasm.
Fortunately, a far more restful night's sleep and what I like to think is a generally healthy constitution conspire to have me fit to drive out to Western Massachusetts and pick up OD from camp. Borrowed cellphone at the ready, I head out on Route 2 (far more picturesque than Da Pike) with Richard and Linda Thompson, Billy Bragg, The Roches, and just for fun, Dexy's Midnight Runners and Pink Floyd's "Dark Side of the Moon" on the stereo. Around Gardner, I run into a gentle but persistent snowstorm that continues during my stopover in Shelburne Falls, where among other things I encounter the very essence of the bookstore cat:
Note of possible interest: Sprawling metropolis that it is, Shelburne Falls has not one, but two therapeutic massage-type clinics barely a hundred yards apart on its main street. There's a demographics lesson in there somewhere. [More of our travelogue available here]
So, onto the camp, arriving just in time for the as-expected protracted farewells. OD, with two whole hours of sleep behind her, and two friends while away most of the ride back with alternately gossipy and serious, introspective conversation. The snow ends soon after we begin the eastward trek, darkness follows, and holiday's-end traffic picks up around 495. Long weekend over.
Jan. 17
Not a lot of yucks in the Enron mess, to be sure. But the New York Times' John Schwartz reports how the company, trying to drum up much-needed business for its new broadband division, at one point approached General Media -- which owns Penthouse magazine -- to see if they would be interested in supplying sex videos for the service. An Enron spokeslife-form points out that Enron would've made money by trading bandwidth, not providing content, per se. Still, as one General Media exec says, "If someone goes to porn, they're desperate."
Jan. 15
If nothing else, the Bush "pretzel affair" has helped liven up the post-holiday, mid-winter funk. Of course, the speculation -- both good-natured and mean-spirited -- has already been floated that it wasn't really a pretzel which laid him low, in the same vein as the alleged army of hot dogs which supposedly but Babe Ruth out of commission. What's also of interest is the response of the presidential dogs, who apparently continued to sit impassively on the couch while their Beloved Master tumbled to the floor and lay prone: no attempt to get help ("What's that, boy? Trouble at the old Oval Office?"), or revive Dubya by licking his face with vague canine concern? If you can't trust your dog in the post-9/11 era, who can you trust?
Jan. 11-13
Much-adored niece, 3 years old come May and an absolute peach, and sisters-in-law in town for the weekend. Friday night, we all take in, rather than take out, dinner at our favorite Chinese restaurant, after which OD and YD sleep over with Katie et al in their hotel. Sunday brings the latest in a series of ineffectual snowstorms, NFL playoff-watching, and a family viewing of "Father Goose."
Jan. 10
Well, between the Enron debacle and the tortured sale of the Red Sox, I'd say investigative journalists should have a fine old time of it for the rest of the winter -- at least.
Jan. 8
Celebrity meltdowns are somehow more colorful, and even more literary-minded, when they involve the British monarchy. Riding with the local hunt, Prince William is reported to have flown into a rage upon spotting a photographer and ridden his horse at full gallop "with eyes wide and his teeth showing" (the Man Who Would Be King, presumably, not his steed) at a photographer, who after narrowly evading injury claimed he shouted, "Steady on, Wills." The prince, meanwhile, showed that when it comes to hurling invective he doesn't exactly go for the high-falutin' words: his reputed warning-shot-off-the-bow was, "Fucking piss off, Postelwaite."
Jan. 4-6
*So, holiday decorations are down, and the apartment is back to its pre-holiday splendor. For the most part, a weekend to contemplate a rather busy period ahead, what with school applications, taxes, family visits and freelance assignments on the immediate horizon.
*Semester Two of our home-school year is off to a promising start on a few fronts: YD's started a class in the Russian martial art of combat sambo, and though according to the forms I am theoretically bound against sharing any of its secrets (under pain of something, I'm sure), I have to point out that there is, of course, a Web site; meanwhile, OD and LW are contemplating a home-based French immersion course.
*A pleasant dilemma unfolds, as both Patriots and Steelers secure first-round byes and home field advantage for the NFL playoffs (the lads of Steeltown have said benefit throughout).
