So. Forgive the easy insults and parlous snark. That comes naturally and I can't help myself. And accept the compliment as it stands. Come next Wednesday -- or, you know, some time after that, I dunno, January? -- we'll have a duly elected President. And he'll be the President for all of us. We'll continue to fight the good fight, each in his or her way. And that fight, no matter what side you're on, is well worth fighting. As long as we take time to remember that the things that divide us are ultimately less important than those that bring us together.
Oct. 28
Yes, I know it's "only" baseball. But with the Red Sox, it's also history, personal and otherwise.
So, sometime after Keith Foulke snagged that sharp come-backer to the mound by Edgar Renteria and tossed the ball - - with all the tenderness and care of a parent playing catch with a nursery schooler - - into the waiting glove of Doug Mientkiewicz, and OD and I yelled in delight and hugged, then shared the news with disbelieving LW, I found myself drifting back. First, to 1967, sitting on my back porch watching the seventh game and experiencing profound disappointment that the Sox weren't able to overcome Bob Gibson, not that many mortal men could that year. Funny enough, I wasn't even around for most of the Impossible Dream season, since I was in Europe with my father and getting whatever sports news from home via the International Herald Tribune. And, to be honest, up until then I had been rather more fixated on football. But that fall was the first bit of genuine attention I paid the Red Sox.
Then I was back in 1975, at boarding school, where TVs were hard to come by, so I followed the Sox-Reds battle largely through newspaper - - yes, I missed the Fisk homer. But I do remember sitting in my dorm, straining to listen to the end of the seventh game through the radio crackle, and realizing we'd come up short again.
To 1978, and college in Buffalo, and I have just snapped off the TV in my dorm room the second I knew Yaz's pop-up was going to be caught, and I'm trudging to the dining hall with the absolute certainty that I am the only Red Sox fan on the whole campus.
It's 1986 now, and LW - - at the time my Very Significant Other - - and I have spent most of the day and evening in Harvard Square, dutifully avoiding the TV. But I can't stop myself. So there I am, bounding around her apartment in barely restrained glee as the Sox move ever closer to taking the sixth game, and 10 minutes later making odd noises of anxiety and anguish as�No, that's enough. Two days later, we two are at the Village Coach House in Brookline Village for the Monday night session; surely, playing some traditional Irish music will get my mind off impending doom. But no, there it is, on the pub's large-screen TV. No escape.
Then I move to just last year, clicking off the TV and going to sleep after the three-run lead over the Yankees is gone. I cannot bear to watch more. Next morning, I summon up my courage, straighten my shoulders, pick up the Globe off the front porch, and discover that my avoidance was well-considered.
But now, somehow, the sharp, jagged edges of all these images have been rounded off. Instead of individual tableaux, they are really a progression of events, from youth to *gulp * middle age (can I say that?), each carrying a certain amount of pleasure in the memory - - the autumnal sun on that back porch, for instance, or LW's bemused ministrations on my behalf - - to make for a fully realized reminiscence.
Aw, hell with it, I ain't Dolores Kearns Goodwin. WOOOOOOOOO! YEAH SOX!
Oct. 25
*Musical acquaintance acquisitions:Laura Cortese, "Hush"
Hanneke Cassel, "Some Melodious Sonnet"
Halali, "Halali"
Matt and Shannon Heaton, "Dearga"
Flynn Cohen, "Deadstring Rhythm"
Again, have to acknowledge my compromised critical faculties here, as I have gotten to know, and have played music with, all these fine folk. That said, it still seems not only fair but perhaps necessary to put these recordings and their creators in some kind of context. Sweeping generalizations are often to be avoided, but what you hear on these albums - - and I would add people like Lissa Schneckenburger, Aoife O'Donovan and Eric Merrill to the mix - - is the representation of an unmistakable genre, a very contemporary melding of Boston/New England and Celtic traditions and styles; referring to the sound as merely "Trans-Atlantic" really falls far short of the mark. There is no affectedness here, no self-conscious attempt to "sound" Irish or Scottish; it flows out very naturally, easing up to the American influence.
One could easily enough start with Halali, since their members are featured, or guest-star, on all the above recordings, especially the songs like "The Knight and the Shepherd's Daughter," "I Must Away Love" and especially "Escape from Alvie," the latter of which showcases Laura Cortese's sometimes underappreciated vocals. These songs sound as if they would equally be at home in Somerville, Stirling, Sligo or St. Louis.
Halali's fiddlers embody this wide-ranging interest in styles: Schneckenburger, a fixture on the contra-dance scene; Cortese, wielding a particularly robust style that encompasses Appalachian and country as well as Scots/Irish/Cape Breton; and Hanneke Cassel, with her stunning take on the classical-Scots tradition. (It must be pointed out, though, that all three are quite happy, and capable of, crossing into one another's territories.)
Flynn Cohen, meanwhile, can thrash out rhythm guitar with the best of 'em, but his gifts there are equaled by his dexterity and agility as a fingerpicker - - again, not only in the Celtic but the bluegrass/country realm.
The Heatons offer up Irish traditional music unmistakably filtered through a heartland upbringing - - as reflected in the dobro-flavored song of the same name. Shannon's superb flute-playing can often overshadow her down-to-earth and beautifully accessible vocals, which are put to good use with the tragic ballad "Jamie," an unrequited-love song tinged with a complex mix of regret and acceptance.
Long story short: Boston is lucky to have these folks. Hope we can keep 'em here for a while.
Oct. 23-24
*At long last, our much-delayed (try 13 years) house-warming party. A small but lively crew attends, anchored by three of the Teen Fiddle Squad, who arrive at 3 and stay 'til past 11. We spend no small amount of time learning a challenging but highly enjoyable B-minor tune composed by Amelia, surely on her way to a glorious music career and a CD release. The non-musicians in the cast, meanwhile, opt to go to a back room for a singaround, accompanied by LW. One of those instances, I suppose, where I needed two of me. But my goodness, wasn't I hearing Amelia's tune in my head throughout the rest of the night and into the next day.*� part of which is spent doing a leisurely clean-up, followed by a jaunt out to the Malls o' Route 9, where LW and I locate a W@lm#t for some browsing and purchase of apartment-related furnishings. I guess it's been a while since I've been in department-type stores (outdated that phrase is), but used to be you could counter the lost opportunity to watch a key football game - - like, the 5-0 Patriots vs. the 5-0 Jets - - at home by strolling over to the TV department and viewing it there. Nuh-uh. Now, all channels are set to the Corporate Channel, extolling the franchise's virtues with all the fervor of state-owned media in a totalitarian society. But while I miss the Pats' hard-fought victory, I do make it home in time to see Curt Schilling add to his legend and put the Sox Two. Wins. Away.
Oct. 16-20
*I'm almost loath to write about this just yet, since the Red Sox have only ascended part of the metaphorical mountain, albeit perhaps its most soul-chilling slope. But the past few days have been a remarkable melange of sinking feelings and rising hopes: watching - - barely - - the Carmine Hose stink up the joint Saturday night, a game I abandoned for a family viewing of the 1931 "Frankenstein" (less horrifying than the Sox pitching, har-har); going to bed Sunday night with Mariano Rivera seemingly about to cinch the sweep, nodding off to sleep with dark visions of Carlos Beltran and Carl Pavano in Yankee pinstripes next year laying further waste to Bosox fans' aspirations, then picking up next morning's Globe to see a photo of ebullient David "Papi" Ortiz celebrating an unlikely win; actually witnessing the Game 5 come-back, eerily yet wonderfully similar to that of Game 4 (bless your speedy legs, Dave Roberts); watching Curt Schilling, bloodstained sock and all, channel Roy Hobbes, Mark Bellhorn evoke Dave Henderson and Alex Rodriquez perhaps beget his variation on the Pedro Martinez "Who's-your-daddy" taunt (Will Red Sox fans chant "Slap! Slap!" when he appears at Fenway from now on? Would Chumbawamba be interested in supporting the cause?).And then tonight. OD even indulging in the madness, fergoodnessake. Johnny Damon. Papi. Derek Lowe. A head-scratching cameo by Pedro Martinez. Sanity and relief, Mike Timlin and Alan Embree. Victory. Yes. Victory.
So, if the Red Sox are avenging past wrongs in claiming the ultimate prize, why not target the Cardinals next? Then Johnny Pesky (1946) and Jim Lonborg (1967) can rest easy. As will we all.
*Book completed: "Who Was David Weiser?" by Pawel Huelle - - A group of schoolchildren in 1957 Poland befriend a strange, other-worldly boy who appears to have both preternatural adult knowledge and an eerie command of events. The kids' solidarity in the face of adult authority, of course, mirrors the Poles' struggle against Soviet dominance. But what makes the book compelling is how the children, both deliberately and unwittingly, alter their perceptions and memories of Weiser, until one wonders if he was more of a projection of their collective hopes, dreams and fears.
Oct. 15
The official debut of Random Clan, at a modest little student-run benefit concert for a Nicaragua scholarship fund. Rough around the edges, all told - - we'd barely rehearsed half of our set, after all, and the sound system provided was, to say the least, quirky - - but it fulfilled the task of getting us performance experience while doing some good for those what need it. Got an appreciative reception from the relatively small but not insubstantial audience, who probably didn't know what to make of us (none of us being college students) or the music.
Oct. 12-14
*Spent not one but two evenings at the local high school, the first occasion being a college night. LW and I spent the better part of an hour strolling by the the UMasses, UConns, Hah-vads, as well as the Oberlins, Marlboros, Quinnipiacs and Green Mountains, all displaying their wares and with many an outgoing, well-prepared representative poised to strike: "Is your child a senior? Junior? What's he/she interested in? What does he/she think about college?" To which we most often politely nodded and smiled, explained that none of us have a clue, and walked on. But we sure do have a goodie bag full of brochures, flyers and bulletins.The other occasion was the Back to School night, in which parents try to navigate their way around the building without losing their composure, squeeze into a classroom chair, and in the space of 10 minutes, try to size up the person at the front of the room whose servitude is courtesy of Our Tax Dollars. At best, I can say that everyone I saw seemed to be more than competent and a few are actually very good (not least because YD or OD like them); at worst, I wasn't unduly alarmed by any of their social or personal interaction.
*Such a wimpy little girlie-man. I deliberately did not watch either of ALCS Game 1 and 2, not wishing to become a basket case. Instead, I indulged in some NFL Films nostalgia - - all hail John Facenda and his stentorian summaries of NFL seasons - - as well as:
*"Valerie and Her Week of Wonders" - - Jaromil Jires cobbles together about a semester's worth of Developmental Psychology with rich Czech folkloric and religious imagery for this sometimes voyeuristic glance inside the awakening mind of 13-year-old Valerie, newly crossed over into womanhood. It's about as close to a dreamscape as ever depicted on screen: To Valerie (Jaroslava Schallerova gets her child-woman dynamic just right) characters morph and merge continually, their natures and motivations change with little or no warning, in a landscape whose familiarity is equally dubious. Don't try to figure it out too much.
Oct. 11
*I am Gene Wilder as Victor von Frankenstein, writhing in my bed as I am visited by horrific nightmares: "Destiny! Destiny! No-escaping-destiny! No escaping death-for-me!" Red Sox-Yankees once again. Ulp.*A weekend with a most palpable mix of productivity and social activity. Friday sees OD host another presidential debate party, and so our family room rings once more with youthful laughter and vigorous analysis.
Saturday, I perform the apparently never-ending cross-generational chore of Cleaning My (Our) Room, aided considerably by the presence of Les Barker on the stereo. Later, I revisit one of a guitarist's great delights, strumming on a new set of strings. Simple pleasures for a simple man, I reckon.
*Sunday, after some hurried phone exchanges and arrangements, followed by Great Meadows practice, OD and I head off for an evening of Chinese take-out and video-aided reminiscence of the GMMS trip to England, after which we lead a few GMMSers home for a surprisingly quiet sleep-over.
*Columbus Day is rather less frenetic, but after foraging for used furniture, and for used clothes, I am glad indeed to be reclining on the couch, watching the Astros summarily dispatch the perennially glass-half-full/empty Braves. And listening to Eliza Carthy and Nancy Kerr.
Oct. 10
Dad. He would have been 74.
Oct. 7
*Book completed: "Middlesex," by Jeffrey Eugenides - - It takes a while to get going, but once it does, Eugenides' memoir of a hermaphrodite approaching middle age is a clever, absorbing read. The narrator, Calliope-cum-Cal, alternately distances and interjects him/herself into her recounting of the family history, starting with her grandparents' flight from the Smyrna holocaust - - and the secret they keep which will ultimately form Calliope/Cal's destiny. The riddle of immigrant and cultural identity gradually becomes subsumed by the larger question of gender identity, and during an era, the 1960s and '70s, when just about any identity was malleable. There are marvelous, ironic, poignant episodes all along the way, such as grandmother Desdemona's liaison with the Nation of Islam or the Detroit riot, and you can't help but feel glad that Calliope/Cal is able to recall them with little apparent bitterness.
Sept. 27-Oct. 6
Somehow, we've veered into October. Gosh.*Hosted viewings of the prez and vice-prez debates for OD and friends, which made for much lively analysis and riffing. Thoughts:
==I wonder if "body language" was a topic of conversation in post-mortems of the Lincoln-Douglas clash. Maybe there's something to that old parental caution, "You better watch it or you'll be stuck with that face forever!" At any rate, Al Gore's guttural sighs of 2000 have been definitely overshadowed in debate lore.
==Maybe Dick Cheney, for better or worse, good or evil, has reshaped the role of the vice president into something rather more significant. But watching him and Edwards square off, I couldn't help but think, "Okay, America, which of these guys do you want to represent our country at state funerals? Or to be the one you see sitting next to the Speaker of the House at the next State of the Union address"?
==One question I'd have like to put to them: "Hey guys, remember what John Nance Garner said about being vice president? 'It's not worth a bucket of warm spit.' Whaddaya think of those apples?"
*My Little Trio now has a name: Random Clan. This courtesy of LW, who put it thus: "Well, Robin is someone else's wife. Heather is someone else's kid. You're someone else's husband. So, you're really a random clan." We're also performing in a little over a week, at a benefit concert organized by a group of college students to raise funds for a Nicaraguan scholarship fund. Yay. Stage experience and community service in one swell foop.
*Viewing: "Mean Girls" - - Rosalind Wiseman's teen sociological primer Queen Bees and Wannabes is somewhat uncomfortably integrated into a high school social-mores comedy, bringing elements of "Fast Times at Ridgemont High" and (probably unintentionally) "If�" along for the ride. Lindsey Lohan's Cady - - who's spent most of her life taught by her scientist parents in Africa - - is our avatar, and as she becomes caught up in the maelstrom of conflicting loyalties and motivations, Lohan does well in arousing both sympathy and disappointment: Cady is by no means a fundamentally bad person, but hardly a pinnacle of virtue. What's unfortunate is that the movie still relies on some pretty ready-made stereotypes, mostly on socioeconomic status and physical attractiveness. The fact is, Machiavellian nastiness can readily be found among girls who are not particularly rich or beautiful or possessed of clueless parents, and that point could, and should, have been made far stronger.
Sept. 24-26
*I will, most assuredly, turn off even a Red Sox-Yankees game if there is a cuddly parent-teenage conversation going on. Just so youse know.*What did I do on Saturday, anyway? I know I didn't finish writing The Great American Novel, or do something interesting with tungsten, but I have the feeling I'm forgetting an event or deed of significance. Hmmph.
*Now, this day, I conveyed OD to Ye Local Health Dispensary to head off a potential bout with strep. And in the midst of waiting, shared with her a good article in the Boston Globe which contrasted the anti-terrorism efforts of some European countries with those of the US. Summary: While not altogether successful, the methods tend to be quieter, less divisive and, in certain cases, quite effective (e.g. Spain's steps to track down those responsible for the 3/11 massacre).
*After a round of box-shifting, I trundled off for the first time in ages to the O'Leary's session, which was underpopulated both by customers and musicians. But a fine session it was, nonetheless, with two fiddles, guitar, rhythm bouzouki and flute to go along with yours truly.
Sept. 20-22
*Be forewarned. There will likely be numerous references here over the next few months to this event (which is slated for Oct. 29, date on Web site notwithstanding) and this one. Why? 'Cause I'm helping with the publicity.*There's nothing like those hurried 10-minute jam sessions at the end of a morris dance practice with a couple of talented, enthusiastic teens. Especially when one, not necessarily free with compliments, gives you fulsome credit for your rhythm. Shucks, folks, I like a kind word as much as the next guy.
*The only Russ Meyer movie I ever saw was "Beyond the Valley of the Dolls," and that was, ahem, for a film class in college. Yes it really was. This being the first adult film I ever saw - - maybe the only, if we're going by strict definitions - - I recall now marveling at how often people in the film seemed to fall out of their clothes and into clinches with one another. Hope there's plenty of vaseline for your lenses Up There, Russ.
*Viewing: "Gattaca" - - Plenty of good futuristic sociopolitical commentary here, kind of along the lines of a "Harrison Bergeron." Some day, we are told by writer-director Andrew Niccol in no uncertain terms, biology will be destiny, as well as a means of surveillance and oppression. The ironically named Vincent Freeman (Ethan Hawke) will have none of it, though; he's determined to follow his dream of being an astronaut, even though he's judged to be genetically unqualified. So he taps into the underground economy and "buys" the identifying characteristics of a top-drawer athlete (Jude Law), now crippled and embittered, to gain access to the training center. But a mysterious, violent murder looms as his undoing; whether or not he did it (and we're not necessarily sure he hasn't), the investigation may uncover his identity; his very being is essentially an incriminating act. As the film enters noir territory, Uma Thurman more or less ably fills the role of femme fatale/ally. But the murder-mystery angle washes up on the rocks of a Cain-Abel twist that seems very labored.
Sept. 17-19
Strange, but far from unpleasant, weekend.A very odd, unnerving security breach early Saturday morning has us - - i.e., LW, OD and friend - - up at the crack, trying to piece it all together. Hours later, the whole episode seems like a dream. Except there is quite observable evidence it ain't.
The vestiges of Hurricane Ivan also arrive Saturday, thereby forcing cancellation of the much anticipated Fall Harvest Tour we've come to know and love. But there's more than enough consolation, as we use the morning to empty out our storage unit, albeit in cool, drenching rain. One important chore out of the way.
Then, later on, I venture out for a couple of hours of mostly Scots-oriented jamming, through which I am once again delighted to find out that those fairly brief months spent playing in an ensemble with two bagpipers years ago seems to have left a goodly amount of tunes lodged in my musical subconscious.
Sunday is sunny and comfy, and much of the afternoon spent watching pro football. So kill me.
Oh, but we won't talk about the Red Sox-Yankees tete-a-tete, which began with such promise Friday night. No. We won't.
Sept. 11-15
*Surely another indictment of The Liberal Media Conspiracy? Dick Cheney just can't get a good news photo taken of himself to save his life:
*Article in the Boston Globe notes struggles of some 9/11 next-of-kin to reconcile private and public grief. An (obviously) unanticipated outgrowth of the 24-hour global media infrastructure: Events like 9/11, or the Beslan massacre, all but impel the rest of the TV-watching world to "share" in the tragedy. Can those who are mostly closely and directly affected - - the families, lovers, co-workers, friends - - cordon off their sorrow from those who want to indulge or exploit (for whatever reason)?
*First Great Meadows meeting of the year reveals that the potential membership has risen from around 25 to nearly 40. Astounding. Don't know how they'll all fit into the practice room. Or into the courtyard at NEFFA.
*Decided at last minute to drop in on The Skellig Tuesday night session, which is actually audible this time around, thanks to a smaller-than-usual pub crowd. Fine tuneage, but rather more singing of contemporary country-ish (John Prine) stuff than I would have preferred. Still, a night out is a night out.
*Viewing: "The Cuckoo" - - A sometimes light-hearted, occasionally intriguing take on the "war makes strange bedfellows" theme. At the tail-end of the Russo-Finn war-within-World-War-II, a wounded Russian and an AWOL Finn, both in disgrace, wind up on the doorstep (as it were) of a young Laplander woman whose husband was pressed into service four years ago and is presumed lost. None of them understands each other's language, a pretty well-worn dramatic device but not without its uses: The conversations are really monologues for the individual characters to manifest their emotions, fears, intentions. The attempts at communication lead to a series of misunderstandings, some benign and amusing (the Finn and Laplander think the Russian's name is "Get lost!"), others much less so. Director-writer Aleksandr Rogozhkin, unfortunately, takes the film out of its element toward the end with a metaphysical episode, which is partly redeemed by the shaman-like performance of Anni-Kristiina Juuso. The coda, meanwhile, seems to hark back to that dubious metaphor of women in war-time as territory to be conquered, and abandoned.
Sept. 9
*One regular production cycle, completed.*First day of school, done.
*First morris practice of the season, under the proverbial belt.
Autumn, we're here.
Sept. 3-6: (Non)Labor(ious) Days
*A weekend that had earlier promised a lot of house-related progress, well, didn't deliver. Restful, at least.*Sunday, another visit to the the O'Hanlon's session, with Jerry and Nancy Bell and Flynn Cohen on hand. Thanks to the latter's influence, there was a bit of old-timey and American trad to blend with the Irish-Scots stuff. And it's sincerely quite gratifying to have such an accomplished guitarist like Our Flynn inform me that I have "a good wrist." Another highlight: Jerry, enticing all the youngsters to come up on stage to take part in the choreographed version of "The Rattlin' Bog," urges them to "show our kids what it's like to be talented."
"But, Daddy," replies 6-year-old Katie, "we already are."
*Speaking of sessioning, a few photos from the Springstep jam of the other week. I rather like this one, and this one is arrestingly angular, but here I look a little too much like our neighbor's terrier when he wants to play fetch.
*It's chilling enough to try - - and try is all one can do - - to put yourself in the mind of one of the parents in Beslan who lost a child. But I wince at the very thought of being a parent who was inside the school with their child, having to witness the intimidation, the suffering, and being scarcely able to lend comfort.
Previous "Daze&Quirks" installment.
