Two irreconcilable thoughts.
First, the British Monarchy (all monarchies, actually) is a ridiculous, anachronistic holdover from feudal days that has held the British Isles in its thrall for centuries. Why do the otherwise reasonable Brits continue to support--and supplicate to--these aristocrats? What is the fascination?
On the other hand, I totally understand the fascination. I watched the nuptials of Kate and Williams with rapt attention, rewatched on the internet, then pored over almost every still photo I could find. With bated breath, I watched as Kate emerged from her Rolls to reveal "the dress," and sat entranced as maid of honor Pippa Middleton and, presumably, the dress designer, Sarah Burton, fussed over the train. Oh, lovely, elegant, modest, classic, contemporary. Stunning lacy jacket with a becoming high collar and V-neck.
(Trivia point: the conservatively dressed woman in the blue hat in the passenger seat of the Kate's limousine was Scotland Yard detective.)
My East Coast intellectual aunt years ago asked an English classmate during their undergraduate days why the British continue supporting the medieval notion of a royal family. This otherwise reasonable woman sniffed, as Rosalie recounted, "We British love our Royals."
I cried at the thought of Diana, Princess of Wales and the pride would have felt seeing both her sons in uniform at the head of the aisle in Westminster Abbey. I so wished she could have been there.
And the hats. The HATS! OMG, THE HATS! Involuntarily, I burst out with, "You've got to be kidding" at the cartoonish protuberance on Princess Beatrice's head, or rather, forehead. It looked like a prop from a surreal production of Alice in Wonderland. Princess Eugenie's hat: also a fashion misstep, looking like a sinking ship carrying a load of grapes and with a feather in place of a flag. (They are the daughters of Fergie, a.k.a.Sarah Ferguson, a.k.a Duchess of York, and Prince Andrew. Incidentally, the are fifth and sixth in line to the British throne.) And what about the Beetlejuice number worn by the pregnant Victoria Beckham, a.k.a Posh Spice? (And those spiky platform shoes are downright dangerous to a woman five months' pregnant.) Barbara Walters helpfully pointed out that the wedding invitations required ladies to wear hats, but let's be reasonable. Wheres is the storied British reserve?
My prediction: come Fall 2011, hats, the more outlandish, the better, will be the next must-have fashion accessory here on this side of the pond. I can't wait!
Sunday, May 1, 2011
Monday, January 17, 2011
Good and loyal friends
As a counterpoint to the previous pitiful post, I will talk about five good friends.
One was a friend from college; we played ice hockey together. A nurse, she moved to a distant state, married, had a child. but we have kept in touch for years. With prescient timing, she sent a gift with the note "... to a great friend!" This came immediately after Entomologist determined I would never have a long-term friend. Maybe I have not been the best friend I could have been to her, but I am striving.
Nurse is is not a "talker." Sometimes when I want to learn the latest, I get the buzz from her husband. Nurse epitomizes the phrase: "Still waters run deep." I treasure her friendship. Her life on an even keel, she is takes things in stride.
The other two friends are about the same age and both with the most popular first name of for girls born in the middle 1970s.
J1 the first person to befriend me in Bryan/College Station. She makes me nuts sometimes, but she unfailingly invites me to her rocking Halloween parties. She overlooked a bout of unsociability at one of those parties. She forgives my foibles. She is always supportive, always seems happy to see me, always friendly, always upbeat. We were somewhat in the same line of work, and I am thrilled that she has succeeded in making this job her own and become a statewide leader, all while pursuing a masters degree.
J2 and I worked together, or rather, we both worked for the same guy, and odd man with an encyclopedic knowledge of sports trivia. She is now the busy, conscientious mother of four, but we still have a great rapport. I hope she feels as refreshed by our in-person and telephone visits as I do. She is cheerful, upbeat, can-do and loves to share her knowledge to help other Moms. She works part-time as a freelance web designer, even when she moved far fro the community whose website she maintained.
Photographer and I were acquaintances in our southern Arizona town, but not close friends. We became closer with frequent phone calls full of advice and recounting of experiences, mostly of the outdoor adventure variety, after I moved to Texas. He is droll, exuberant, and an excellent father figure, despite having no children of his own. When he learned I could not afford a mammogram a year after completion of breast cancer treatment, when I was uninsured, he sent me a check with instructions to make an appointment immediately.
Founding Mother (so called because she founded a chapter of our alumni association in our town) is possessed of a true sixth sense: she is an empath, and has predicted events to the effet of averting disaster. Founding Mother is, without question, the most intuitive person to come into my life.
Founding Mother nominated me for an alumni award, which I won. I was and remain so touched.
I remember with embarrassment a day she asked me to lunch. I forgot about the appointment (very out of character for me), and went to lunch with a co-worker. It was not until I saw her sitting in the restaurant did I remember our date. She was totally forgiving. Even 15 years after moving away, she invited me to her daughter's wedding in Flagstaff, Arizona.
One was a friend from college; we played ice hockey together. A nurse, she moved to a distant state, married, had a child. but we have kept in touch for years. With prescient timing, she sent a gift with the note "... to a great friend!" This came immediately after Entomologist determined I would never have a long-term friend. Maybe I have not been the best friend I could have been to her, but I am striving.
Nurse is is not a "talker." Sometimes when I want to learn the latest, I get the buzz from her husband. Nurse epitomizes the phrase: "Still waters run deep." I treasure her friendship. Her life on an even keel, she is takes things in stride.
The other two friends are about the same age and both with the most popular first name of for girls born in the middle 1970s.
J1 the first person to befriend me in Bryan/College Station. She makes me nuts sometimes, but she unfailingly invites me to her rocking Halloween parties. She overlooked a bout of unsociability at one of those parties. She forgives my foibles. She is always supportive, always seems happy to see me, always friendly, always upbeat. We were somewhat in the same line of work, and I am thrilled that she has succeeded in making this job her own and become a statewide leader, all while pursuing a masters degree.
J2 and I worked together, or rather, we both worked for the same guy, and odd man with an encyclopedic knowledge of sports trivia. She is now the busy, conscientious mother of four, but we still have a great rapport. I hope she feels as refreshed by our in-person and telephone visits as I do. She is cheerful, upbeat, can-do and loves to share her knowledge to help other Moms. She works part-time as a freelance web designer, even when she moved far fro the community whose website she maintained.
Photographer and I were acquaintances in our southern Arizona town, but not close friends. We became closer with frequent phone calls full of advice and recounting of experiences, mostly of the outdoor adventure variety, after I moved to Texas. He is droll, exuberant, and an excellent father figure, despite having no children of his own. When he learned I could not afford a mammogram a year after completion of breast cancer treatment, when I was uninsured, he sent me a check with instructions to make an appointment immediately.
Founding Mother (so called because she founded a chapter of our alumni association in our town) is possessed of a true sixth sense: she is an empath, and has predicted events to the effet of averting disaster. Founding Mother is, without question, the most intuitive person to come into my life.
Founding Mother nominated me for an alumni award, which I won. I was and remain so touched.
I remember with embarrassment a day she asked me to lunch. I forgot about the appointment (very out of character for me), and went to lunch with a co-worker. It was not until I saw her sitting in the restaurant did I remember our date. She was totally forgiving. Even 15 years after moving away, she invited me to her daughter's wedding in Flagstaff, Arizona.
Friendship is a two-way street
When I was a child, I asked my mysterious European-born maternal grandfather what he did at shul (synagogue). He said he counted his blessings.
It's a lesson I endeavor to apply to my life. Despite the content of this post, I still spend time every evening counting my blessings.
My mind is not in a very good place on the friendship scale. Of late, several friends--or women I thought were friends--revealed themselves to be manipulators who availed themselves to my good nature, helpfulness, compassion, then cut me loose when my utility to them had run its course. In short, they used me.
Artiste/Cleric declared, almost self-righteously, that she was using me. She needed to vent (same almost-verbatim rant on four separate occasions), and I was "available" one time and more or less a captive audience the other three times. I listened with care and compassion--all four times--despite the fact that I had pressing tasks and a limited amount of time. Now that I've served my purpose, Artiste/Cleric has no further use for me. She said she had no intention of ever pursuing a friendship. For others in our community service organization, she spoke of books; to me, rants and venting. And I was glad to listen. She told me I should be happy to have served a purpose. Happy to have served a purpose! I'm not happy, however, to be used and discarded.
Entomologist, from a previous post, summoned me for multiple vent sessions, under the guise of inviting me for a hike. She asked if I wanted to meet her in a nature area south of town in 15 minutes, although she was aware the trailhead was at least a 20-minute drive from my house. Ostensibly, I was to drop what I was doing and hightail it on down there. Both times I had just returned from a long bicycle ride. Not only was I coated in sweat and salt from evaporated sweat, but I was wearing bicycle garb and shoes, so had to at least change clothes, fill up a water bottle, and find a hat. A quick shower would have been nice. Both times I said I could meet in 45 minutes. But you know: a friend in need is a friend indeed, or so I thought. I was delighted at first to have found a hiking partner, not so much when every hike was an unrelenting rant about her work and personal life. I was not permitted so much as a word. Of course, she had no interest in reciprocating when my life hit a rough patch.
It's a lesson I endeavor to apply to my life. Despite the content of this post, I still spend time every evening counting my blessings.
My mind is not in a very good place on the friendship scale. Of late, several friends--or women I thought were friends--revealed themselves to be manipulators who availed themselves to my good nature, helpfulness, compassion, then cut me loose when my utility to them had run its course. In short, they used me.
Artiste/Cleric declared, almost self-righteously, that she was using me. She needed to vent (same almost-verbatim rant on four separate occasions), and I was "available" one time and more or less a captive audience the other three times. I listened with care and compassion--all four times--despite the fact that I had pressing tasks and a limited amount of time. Now that I've served my purpose, Artiste/Cleric has no further use for me. She said she had no intention of ever pursuing a friendship. For others in our community service organization, she spoke of books; to me, rants and venting. And I was glad to listen. She told me I should be happy to have served a purpose. Happy to have served a purpose! I'm not happy, however, to be used and discarded.
Entomologist, from a previous post, summoned me for multiple vent sessions, under the guise of inviting me for a hike. She asked if I wanted to meet her in a nature area south of town in 15 minutes, although she was aware the trailhead was at least a 20-minute drive from my house. Ostensibly, I was to drop what I was doing and hightail it on down there. Both times I had just returned from a long bicycle ride. Not only was I coated in sweat and salt from evaporated sweat, but I was wearing bicycle garb and shoes, so had to at least change clothes, fill up a water bottle, and find a hat. A quick shower would have been nice. Both times I said I could meet in 45 minutes. But you know: a friend in need is a friend indeed, or so I thought. I was delighted at first to have found a hiking partner, not so much when every hike was an unrelenting rant about her work and personal life. I was not permitted so much as a word. Of course, she had no interest in reciprocating when my life hit a rough patch.
Entomologist once told me her family was going to spend a week at a beach house. Stupid me! I actually thought she was inviting me for a day or two! Nope. My task was to 50 miles round-trip daily for a week to caretake her one-acre vegetable garden, six cats, dog, fish, ornamental plants, plus feed the squirrels and birds. The second and third year, Entomologist just assumed I would be caretaking and summonmed me to each year to pick up the key and receive my instructions.
Yes, once again, a friend in need.
(I know; I know, several people have told me I was on a fool's errand, and if were stupid enough to accept this task then I deserved the consequences.)
It's in my nature to be a good, loyal friend, to be supportive when people are in need. Why do these seemingly good people treat me as a utility rather than as a friend?
Yes, once again, a friend in need.
(I know; I know, several people have told me I was on a fool's errand, and if were stupid enough to accept this task then I deserved the consequences.)
It's in my nature to be a good, loyal friend, to be supportive when people are in need. Why do these seemingly good people treat me as a utility rather than as a friend?
Wednesday, December 29, 2010
Café closed (but blog continues)
The small café that inspired this blog, sadly, has closed after about 10 years of operation. Sadly. The trough of the economic downturn has reached our fair burg, forcing the owners to call it quits. The presence of a huge state university created shielding economic bubble, but finally the center on could not hold. The place attracted a business lunch crowd, but not so much dinner
The 50-year old stand-alone brick building with two large front windows on either side of the door, started as a beer joint/domino hall, and is owned by the descendents of the original proprietor. The dining room walls were chockfull with fishing artifacts: hooks, poles, a framed display of knots, nets, reels, oil paintings, pulleys. Neon beer signs provided a warm glow. The used wooden chairs and tables had been sanded and refinished to a gloss.
The kitchen was all stainless steel appliances, food prep areas, shelves, and sinks. This restaurant routinely scored 100s on health department inspections. The chef was meticulous about food safety and cleanliness.
Although the menu was roadhouse fare—chicken-fried steak, catfish, ribeye steaks, hamburgers, BLTs—the menu contained some surprises: crawfish etouffé and occasionally, seafood gumbo. For special occasions, such as Valentine’s Day, the chef (grandson of the original owner) would whip up sublime entreés, such as fish in a white wine sauce. Everything was prepared from scratch: even the onion rings were meticulously cut buy hand and dipped in a house-prepared batter.
The chef/owner routinely employed waitstaff from a substance-abuse halfway house. All those I worked with were outstanding, smart, efficient, and hard-workers. It was a great place to work and, to my thinking, a cultural icon.
The 50-year old stand-alone brick building with two large front windows on either side of the door, started as a beer joint/domino hall, and is owned by the descendents of the original proprietor. The dining room walls were chockfull with fishing artifacts: hooks, poles, a framed display of knots, nets, reels, oil paintings, pulleys. Neon beer signs provided a warm glow. The used wooden chairs and tables had been sanded and refinished to a gloss.
The kitchen was all stainless steel appliances, food prep areas, shelves, and sinks. This restaurant routinely scored 100s on health department inspections. The chef was meticulous about food safety and cleanliness.
Although the menu was roadhouse fare—chicken-fried steak, catfish, ribeye steaks, hamburgers, BLTs—the menu contained some surprises: crawfish etouffé and occasionally, seafood gumbo. For special occasions, such as Valentine’s Day, the chef (grandson of the original owner) would whip up sublime entreés, such as fish in a white wine sauce. Everything was prepared from scratch: even the onion rings were meticulously cut buy hand and dipped in a house-prepared batter.
The chef/owner routinely employed waitstaff from a substance-abuse halfway house. All those I worked with were outstanding, smart, efficient, and hard-workers. It was a great place to work and, to my thinking, a cultural icon.
Whither blog?
A tacit rule of the blogosphere is that one should post regularly. But my work hours prevent much activity on weekday evenings, and my quotidian ramblings don’t strike me as compelling reading. But I love the idea of a blog, and I love having this outlet, so I will continue.
When I started this blog, the intent was an outlet for amusing anecdotes from waiting tables at a small, independent roadhouse-type café. The café, its customers, and my fellow employees provided a wealth of material: addressing as “Hon” the former president of the enormous and famous state university in this fair city, appreciation of the hell-like atmosphere under which cooks work, the stage-whispered comments about a collegiate locker room from a well-respected community member, and admiration for the hard-working recovering substance abusers who served and cooked.
Later the reconstruction of my house from the ground up provided good material and photos. That project is on hold at the moment, to be resumed December 27. And there was the occasional completed craft project photo, home-crafted whittled crochet hook, farmers’ market.
I notice photos of dinner and restaurant reviews are popular, but I rarely dine out. I did post a review of a particularly bizarre experience at what had been my favorite restaurant, Square One Bistro, on Tripadvisor. The restaurant recently reinvented itself and, I hope, with an improved outlook. I joined a warm and welcoming Book and Dinner Club Meetup, affording me the opportunity to try new restaurants while enjoying good conversation. Stay tuned.
When I started this blog, the intent was an outlet for amusing anecdotes from waiting tables at a small, independent roadhouse-type café. The café, its customers, and my fellow employees provided a wealth of material: addressing as “Hon” the former president of the enormous and famous state university in this fair city, appreciation of the hell-like atmosphere under which cooks work, the stage-whispered comments about a collegiate locker room from a well-respected community member, and admiration for the hard-working recovering substance abusers who served and cooked.
Later the reconstruction of my house from the ground up provided good material and photos. That project is on hold at the moment, to be resumed December 27. And there was the occasional completed craft project photo, home-crafted whittled crochet hook, farmers’ market.
I notice photos of dinner and restaurant reviews are popular, but I rarely dine out. I did post a review of a particularly bizarre experience at what had been my favorite restaurant, Square One Bistro, on Tripadvisor. The restaurant recently reinvented itself and, I hope, with an improved outlook. I joined a warm and welcoming Book and Dinner Club Meetup, affording me the opportunity to try new restaurants while enjoying good conversation. Stay tuned.
Monday, December 27, 2010
Community Potluck
The Venn diagram of organizations functionally overlapped with the Brazos Valley Farmers’ Market is a type of paradigm-shifting, progressive, socially responsive roadmap of the Brazos Valley.
One Friend of the Brazos Valley Farmers’ Market is active in the Association for Social Entrepreneurship. A member of this group informed me of the twice-weekly community. Every Saturday and 5:00 p.m. and Sunday at 1:00 p.m., this group hosts a potluck open to all at Neal Recreation Center.
One market day, customers could purchase vouchers for food that was donated to that weekend’s potluck after the close of market. Great idea, and a carload of gorgeous greens were delivered.
For two weekends now, I have prepared a dish to share: large crockpot of beans and greens and other vegetables and yesterday, a vegetarian lasagne with a picante kick to share for the Sunday midday meal. About 50 persons played soccer or warmed themselves around a wood fire on the grill. Others set up the table. Some of the folks appeared to be homeless or down on their luck. Others appeared to be nice, socially conscious college students. One young man had a comprehensive knowledge of the warming “quotient” of various fabrics (polyester, silk, wool) gained from “field study” while homeless. Admirably, he is now a college student.
The group—adults and children alike—took hands in a large circle. One regular member gave thanks for the meal we were about to enjoy, followed by introductions around the circle. The man to my right tenderly gripped my hand and that of his right neighbor, the entire time, even as he said the prayer of thanks.
I am a huge fan of potlucks. After another session of warming myself by the fire, I got in line. There was chicken and all manner of vegetables, salads, breads, lots of Christmas goodies. Iced tea.
After I found a seat, I noticed some of the college student-looking folks were not eating. Should I have abstained? No, a few were partaking. One college student said some more fortunate people make a distinction and consider themselves to be serving those left fortunate. But it was all good. I can hardly wait to return.
Multibeans1 1-lb package mixed beans, with kidney beans removed and replaced with mayocoba beans
many types of peppers, including a jalapeno or three, diced
1 can stewed tomatoes
1 bunch collards
1 bunch beet greens
3 or 4 bay leaves (laurel)
1 teaspoon basil
chile powder
pepper
kosher salt
Soak beans overnight. Discard soaking liquid.
Four or five hours before the event, sauté diced onions and peppers. Rinse greens, stack, roll up, and cut into strips. Throw everything into a 6-quart slow cooker with about twice the volume of water as vegetables. Cook on high four hours. (Important note: if it is necessary to add more water, add boiling water. Adding cool water will cause beans to harden.) Discard bay leaves (choking hazard).
One Friend of the Brazos Valley Farmers’ Market is active in the Association for Social Entrepreneurship. A member of this group informed me of the twice-weekly community. Every Saturday and 5:00 p.m. and Sunday at 1:00 p.m., this group hosts a potluck open to all at Neal Recreation Center.
One market day, customers could purchase vouchers for food that was donated to that weekend’s potluck after the close of market. Great idea, and a carload of gorgeous greens were delivered.
For two weekends now, I have prepared a dish to share: large crockpot of beans and greens and other vegetables and yesterday, a vegetarian lasagne with a picante kick to share for the Sunday midday meal. About 50 persons played soccer or warmed themselves around a wood fire on the grill. Others set up the table. Some of the folks appeared to be homeless or down on their luck. Others appeared to be nice, socially conscious college students. One young man had a comprehensive knowledge of the warming “quotient” of various fabrics (polyester, silk, wool) gained from “field study” while homeless. Admirably, he is now a college student.
The group—adults and children alike—took hands in a large circle. One regular member gave thanks for the meal we were about to enjoy, followed by introductions around the circle. The man to my right tenderly gripped my hand and that of his right neighbor, the entire time, even as he said the prayer of thanks.
I am a huge fan of potlucks. After another session of warming myself by the fire, I got in line. There was chicken and all manner of vegetables, salads, breads, lots of Christmas goodies. Iced tea.
After I found a seat, I noticed some of the college student-looking folks were not eating. Should I have abstained? No, a few were partaking. One college student said some more fortunate people make a distinction and consider themselves to be serving those left fortunate. But it was all good. I can hardly wait to return.
Multibeans1 1-lb package mixed beans, with kidney beans removed and replaced with mayocoba beans
many types of peppers, including a jalapeno or three, diced
1 can stewed tomatoes
1 bunch collards
1 bunch beet greens
3 or 4 bay leaves (laurel)
1 teaspoon basil
chile powder
pepper
kosher salt
Soak beans overnight. Discard soaking liquid.
Four or five hours before the event, sauté diced onions and peppers. Rinse greens, stack, roll up, and cut into strips. Throw everything into a 6-quart slow cooker with about twice the volume of water as vegetables. Cook on high four hours. (Important note: if it is necessary to add more water, add boiling water. Adding cool water will cause beans to harden.) Discard bay leaves (choking hazard).
Saturday, December 25, 2010
Good-bye and Godspeed, Daddy
My father passed away December 11, 2010, almost a decade after being diagnosed with chronic lymphocytic leukemia, and was laid to rest with military honors at the National Memorial Cemetery of Arizona in Cave Creek. The service was a celebration of life rather than a funeral: a 21-gun salute and solemn prayer provided by the Disabled American Veterans, the presentation of the flag to my Mom by a Marine contingent, the mourner's kaddish by our neighbor and good friend of almost 40 years. Mom and each of us four children read an anecdote or two (to some knowing laughter). The ceremony ended with a bittersweet and utterly lovely rendition of Sunrise, Sunset by a professional singer, a friend of the younger of two brothers.
He was an electrical engineer, avid hobbyist photographer, outdoor adventurer (camping, hiking, whitewater rafting, sailing), tennis player, husband, father of four and grandfather of seven. He had served in the Marines and always identified with The Few, The Proud. In 1970, he determined Arizona was the place to raise a family, so my parents left everything and everyone they knew on Long Island, New York, and moved to Scottsdale, Arizona.
I credit my father with with my love the the outdoors, of classical music, and more recently, of dogs.
We made peace at the end. I wish it had come sooner, but that one conversation I will always treasure.
Dad on a photography outing.
I credit my father with with my love the the outdoors, of classical music, and more recently, of dogs.
His public and private personas were different. During my Thanksgiving visit, I learned of a side of my father I never knew. Throughout our lives, we had a contentious relationship. I learned recently, that he had a large cadre of loyal friends from his photography and outdoor adventure interests, as well as his dog-walking friends. The telephone never stopped ringing with calls for him, and there was a constant stream of visitors.
Wednesday, December 8, 2010
Found on a commute
Moving down the road at 12 mph, I’ve found all manner of items—
I charged up the iPhone using the sync cable from my iTouch, figured out the name of the owner via Facebook, and sent her a message. Very grateful, this young mother picked up her telephone, and gave me a small poinsettia and a cool bookmark of copper wire and a stone as a token of appreciation.
A Washington, D.C., commuter found a pannier belonging to another cyclist. A few years ago, I read a blog limited to items other cyclists had found along the way.
- Leatherman precision multipurpose tool and leather pouch
- wood-handled screwdriver
- crescent wrench/pliers combo
- lots of towels (chain cleaners)
- wallet with money but not ID removed (tried for months without success to find owner)
- all manner of clothing.
I charged up the iPhone using the sync cable from my iTouch, figured out the name of the owner via Facebook, and sent her a message. Very grateful, this young mother picked up her telephone, and gave me a small poinsettia and a cool bookmark of copper wire and a stone as a token of appreciation.
A Washington, D.C., commuter found a pannier belonging to another cyclist. A few years ago, I read a blog limited to items other cyclists had found along the way.
Friday, November 12, 2010
A shellacking
The pendulum, folks! As a body politic, we need to achieve some type of equilibrium.
Remember two and a half years ago, at the nadir of the financial crisis, when the country was made aware of the evildoers–of Wall Street—the rampant greed, the neutered Security and Exchange Commission (courtesy Bush '41), the cratering of the real estate market, the demise of Bear Stearns? Even hard-core Republicans saw the error of the ways of their aging, alcoholic, dirty joke-telling, slacker frat-boy good ol' boy W ('43) and the holier-than-thou right wingers and we voted in droves for the Democrats.
Now, two years later, and the pendulum swings the other way, to the lunatic, hateful Tea Partiers.
We need to become more stabilized and less polarized. Where are the Adalai Stevensons, Lyndon Johnsons, Sam Rayburns, Shirley Chisolms, Robert Byrds, Hubert Humphreys, and Harry Trumans of today?
It was a sad November 3 to wake up and find the politically savvy Linda Chavez-Thompson, vice chair of the Democratic National Committee and force who rose from migrant laborer to executive vice-president of the AFL-CIO lost to the wealthy, dissipated, and elite David Dewhurst for Texas lieutenant governor, the real power center in Texas.
Maybe it was a good thing the public was not aware of components of every deal, but at least our elected
officials worked together for what they thought was the good of the country.
Hey, Tea Partiers! It's not about ideology, it's about the welfare of the country.
Update: at the November 13 Brazos Valley Farmers' Market, a retired judge and I struck up a conversation. I had taken him for a rock-ribbed conservative East Texas Republican, but–surprise!–he is a dyed-in-the-wool Democrat, a delegate to the National Democratic Convention that nominated Bill Clinton and the son of a old-time Texas state representative. He added Mike Mansfield and even the conciliatory Barry Goldwater to my list of willing-to-negotiate politicians.
Remember two and a half years ago, at the nadir of the financial crisis, when the country was made aware of the evildoers–of Wall Street—the rampant greed, the neutered Security and Exchange Commission (courtesy Bush '41), the cratering of the real estate market, the demise of Bear Stearns? Even hard-core Republicans saw the error of the ways of their aging, alcoholic, dirty joke-telling, slacker frat-boy good ol' boy W ('43) and the holier-than-thou right wingers and we voted in droves for the Democrats.
Now, two years later, and the pendulum swings the other way, to the lunatic, hateful Tea Partiers.
We need to become more stabilized and less polarized. Where are the Adalai Stevensons, Lyndon Johnsons, Sam Rayburns, Shirley Chisolms, Robert Byrds, Hubert Humphreys, and Harry Trumans of today?
It was a sad November 3 to wake up and find the politically savvy Linda Chavez-Thompson, vice chair of the Democratic National Committee and force who rose from migrant laborer to executive vice-president of the AFL-CIO lost to the wealthy, dissipated, and elite David Dewhurst for Texas lieutenant governor, the real power center in Texas.
Maybe it was a good thing the public was not aware of components of every deal, but at least our elected
officials worked together for what they thought was the good of the country.
Hey, Tea Partiers! It's not about ideology, it's about the welfare of the country.
Update: at the November 13 Brazos Valley Farmers' Market, a retired judge and I struck up a conversation. I had taken him for a rock-ribbed conservative East Texas Republican, but–surprise!–he is a dyed-in-the-wool Democrat, a delegate to the National Democratic Convention that nominated Bill Clinton and the son of a old-time Texas state representative. He added Mike Mansfield and even the conciliatory Barry Goldwater to my list of willing-to-negotiate politicians.
Sunday, November 7, 2010
Courteous Mass
Finally, my work schedule allowed me to participate in Courteous Mass in Bryan/College Station. With grassroots groups countrywide, as I understand it, Courteous Mass is a bicycle party with the mission of raising awareness of bicyclists rights to the road.
Usually, cleanup detail following Friday afternoon seminars keep me from busy long past the Courteous Mass departure time, but no seminar was scheduled last Friday.
The crew of about 30 was motley, a good thing. In evidence were the expected fixed gear bicycles, but also a number of casual cyclists on all kinds of bicycles. Not one person attired in bicycling gear. One fixed-gear enthusiast on a bicycle painted in circus-like colors with large lime-green handgrips fwarmed up/amused himself with a bit of trick riding, including riding backward (doable on a fixed-gear machine), bumping into a fixed object to rear up on the front wheel, and pulling a wheelie and spinning around on the rear wheel. I was impressed and entertained.
I was reminded how much I missed riding with a group. It is so great that someone—a colleague, actually— has taken the reins not only to organize this group, but to lobby for cyclists' right to the road in the Brazos Valley.
Other bicycles: mountain bikes, conventional road bikes, pastel-colored beach cruisers, and my Downtube folding bicycle with its 20-inch wheels.
The group gathers in the Northgate area Texas A&M University and rides to the downtown Bryan to join in the monthly First Friday celebration. Just prior to departure, the organizer (or main motivational force) asked everyone to sign a waiver of liability (standard practice at every bicycle event) and described the route. The route would actually ride about a half-mile in the left lane on Texas Ave., a road forbidden to cycling. Okay, this is interesting. One cyclist carried the music, loud enough to energize without annoying motorists.
I volunteered to bring up the rear. Within 50 feet of the starting point, I knew the slowest cyclist would present problems. A female, probably an inexperienced cyclist, would not or could not go faster than about 5 miles per hour, despite my verbal and her companion's physical (push forward) encouragement. Although the group pace was slow, she seemed to want to get caught by traffic light, and allowed the group to pull ahead. I stayed with them, but apparently they decided to give it up at the next intersection. I tried to catch up to the group further on in the ride, but they were too far ahead.
No problem; my house is on the route. And after months of anticipation, finally I was a part of Courteous Mass. I will definitely return next month.
Usually, cleanup detail following Friday afternoon seminars keep me from busy long past the Courteous Mass departure time, but no seminar was scheduled last Friday.
The crew of about 30 was motley, a good thing. In evidence were the expected fixed gear bicycles, but also a number of casual cyclists on all kinds of bicycles. Not one person attired in bicycling gear. One fixed-gear enthusiast on a bicycle painted in circus-like colors with large lime-green handgrips fwarmed up/amused himself with a bit of trick riding, including riding backward (doable on a fixed-gear machine), bumping into a fixed object to rear up on the front wheel, and pulling a wheelie and spinning around on the rear wheel. I was impressed and entertained.
I was reminded how much I missed riding with a group. It is so great that someone—a colleague, actually— has taken the reins not only to organize this group, but to lobby for cyclists' right to the road in the Brazos Valley.
Other bicycles: mountain bikes, conventional road bikes, pastel-colored beach cruisers, and my Downtube folding bicycle with its 20-inch wheels.
The group gathers in the Northgate area Texas A&M University and rides to the downtown Bryan to join in the monthly First Friday celebration. Just prior to departure, the organizer (or main motivational force) asked everyone to sign a waiver of liability (standard practice at every bicycle event) and described the route. The route would actually ride about a half-mile in the left lane on Texas Ave., a road forbidden to cycling. Okay, this is interesting. One cyclist carried the music, loud enough to energize without annoying motorists.
I volunteered to bring up the rear. Within 50 feet of the starting point, I knew the slowest cyclist would present problems. A female, probably an inexperienced cyclist, would not or could not go faster than about 5 miles per hour, despite my verbal and her companion's physical (push forward) encouragement. Although the group pace was slow, she seemed to want to get caught by traffic light, and allowed the group to pull ahead. I stayed with them, but apparently they decided to give it up at the next intersection. I tried to catch up to the group further on in the ride, but they were too far ahead.
No problem; my house is on the route. And after months of anticipation, finally I was a part of Courteous Mass. I will definitely return next month.
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