Not Strong Enough
Alas, the affair has ended. I mourn the loss of the wavy hair; the melodious, lilting accent; the witty, intellectual banter abounding in allusion and metaphor. I’m still drawn to him. I still think of him. I would give anything to write like him. I have come, however, to the end of my love affair with Mark Steyn. I am simply not strong enough. I lack the strength to read his commentaries and listen to him on the radio because, quite frankly, he depresses me. Really, Mark, I have enough problems with my own family’s economy. I am much too overwhelmed to read week after week in your column how very much money our government is spending and how completely broke my children’s generation will be. You make it sound like doomsday, like total collapse, like no food for my future grandchildren. There is never any good news. Where is the good news? I know I
Team Player
Yes, I am aware than the NCAA basketball tournament is long over and I am late in writing about it. It’s just that I’ve had this player on my mind because of my children’s own athletic endeavors. Anthony Davis of the Kentucky Wildcats understands what it means to be a team player. Maybe he learned it from coaches. I have read that coach John Calipari knows how to train his players not to focus on their own scoring but on the team’s effort. In a world where everyone wants to be THE star, more coaches and more players need to see the importance of putting the team first. My son plays tennis for his high school. The students play against one another in order to secure starting spots on the team. It seems to me that this practice fosters competition among team members rather than a team spirit, but I doubt that in tennis there is any
The Wonders of Water in Suburbia
When Jack and I gallivant around the neighborhood, we make the most of every sight, sound, and odor. The place we live can be a delight if only we notice. Jack’s favorite scent is poop, and mine is the neighbor’s orange tree; the blossoms remind me of the rotten orange fights I had with my brothers in the orange groves back home. Oh, the nostalgia. Our recent walks have brought to us the beauty of running water, the likes of which could rival that of a national park, or not, but we liked it. We watched a city worker testing the fire hydrants with great curiosity. He twisted the top with the big tool thingy, and massive amounts of water gushed out powerfully and sparkly. It rushed down the gutter with a sound as impressive as a mountain waterfall. Jack and I ran after it. When it reached the storm drain, down it
Honor and Humanity
As I drive around town in my hybrid Toyota Highlander, I must admit that I often picture my dad rolling about in his grave, shouting, “You bought a Jap car? Are you crazy? What did I fight for?” He never spoke of his time in the Pacific during World War II, and my knowledge is pieced together from old photos and snippets of conversation. I know that he was a pharmacist’s mate, a navy corpsman, apparently the only navy man a marine truly respects. I know he treated wounded soldiers in a hospital in Hawaii, that he saw severely damaged soldiers after the battle at Iwo Jima. Signatures of marines he treated grace an old Leatherneck magazine that sits mouldering on a book shelf in my house. A high school chum of my dad’s once credited my dad with saving his life after he was wounded at Iwo Jima. My dad was loving and profound
Glee
There are moments of devastation in our lives that stick with us forever, popping up their gruesome heads when we least expect it. I wonder how many of my classmates from the Lake Wales High School class of ’83 were taken back 29 long years to one of those moments because of the final scenes of last night’s episode of Glee. Granted, it was a cheesy, predictable, overloaded episode that made my teenager roll her eyes a number of times. There were also fewer good songs than usual, although that version of the I Can Fly thing was truly amazing. It was a bit ridiculous that the writers tried to be so incredibly didactic as to render the storyline ludicrous. Well, I suppose we have all now learned not to bash gay people, not to attempt suicide, to listen when we think other people might be in trouble, to respect our competition, and
Stop and Enjoy the Music
Which of us possesses the wonder of a child — ears that perk up at the sound of good music, eyes that notice beauty around us, a sense of the importance of slowing down to appreciate the blessings we’ve been given? Today, my friend Laurie posted a video of a man playing the violin in a DC Metro station as crowds and crowds of people hurried by and almost no one stopped to listen. Famed violinist, Joshua Bell, was participating in an experiment for a Washington Post article by Gene Weingarten. (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hnOPu0_YWhw&feature=fvsr). I won’t go into all the details here, but what struck me was that the people who seemed most interested in stopping to take in the moment were children, and these children were rushed along by their parents, not allowed the time to take it in. I’m certain a sense of responsibility, a desire to be at work on time, and a drive to
Am I Old?
Facebook posts from my former students, all currently in high school: “Worst half-time show ever.” “Madonna is old.” “Did you see those wrinkles?” “Age has not been kind to Madonna.” “So gay. She’s like 55.” “What a boring half-time show.” Facebook posts from friends a little closer to my age: “How does she still look that good at her age?” “She still has it.” “I wish she would sing.” “Great half-time show; not quite as good as Prince, though.” Ah the generation gap. If we are old and remember dancing to Madonna songs in the clubs on Friday nights, we admire her longevity and appreciate her still. If we are young and more in touch with the stars of our own day, she is just old and boring. The new “Madonnas” are Lady Gaga and Nicki Minaj. I admit to thinking, even back in the 80s, that Madonna ‘s antics were rather silly
Unhappy Narcisists
Unhappy narcissists — that’s what Dennis Prager called Americans on his radio program today. He said we are becoming a “marriageless, childless culture of unhappy narcissists.” He went on to say that “unhappy narcissist” is most likely a redundant term. He was referring to the United States going the way of Europe to our detriment, and, of course, to the idea that one who is always looking inward will never be at peace. I must admit that I have noticed this trend all around me. So many people in my social sphere seem to have as their entire life focus the pursuit of fun rather than the pursuit of deeper meaning or accomplishment. Play seems to have become more valuable in their eyes than work. A day at Disneyland is more fulfilling than a day at church, a quiet day with family, or a day of learning. Rather than a job being something that one enjoys, it is now merely a
Jelly Beans, Coffee, and Mark Steyn
Three things I adore on a morning alone, sitting on the couch with my laptop, my lap dog, and my lap blanket: Jelly Belly jelly beans, coffee with tons of flavored creamer, and a Mark Steyn column in the newspaper. First, jelly beans. We used to live near the Jelly Belly factory. I love that place — free tour, free candy, cheap and massive bags of “belly flops”. Alas, I am nostalgic. Yesterday, to my great delight, I noticed a Costco coupon for several dollars off a large tub of Jelly Belly’s. Today it is the breakfast of champions, the snack that keeps my fingers moving on the keys, the sweetness that prompts my brain to think. The dog likes them, too. Good dog. Next, coffee. When I rose at 4:00 a.m., my husband made a pot of coffee before he went back to bed. I took a travel cup
Arthurian Literature
Today’s book suggestion is one I’ve passed on to friends numerous times. It ‘s an old book and not at all my typical style. Most of my friends know I am not a fan of the romance genre, but, though this book is romance, I somehow found it enchanting –kind of a fluffy fun. Perhaps it was the topic, Arthurian legend, one of may favorites, that drew me in. This book was like the crispy, torched sugar, all crunchy and sweet on top of the rich and delicious creme brulee that other books on the topic provide. Guinever’s Gift by Nicole St. John was published in 1977. I told you it was old. The characters live a similar love triangle to that of Lancelot, Arthur, and their beautiful queen. The protagonist marries a colleague of her deceased father, an artist and scholar whose historical specialty is King Arthur. She is intrigued and excited by
Purple Pipe
While walking my dog in our lovely, pristine neighborhood on this warm and sunny winter day, I came across a purple crack pipe. Don’t ask me how I knew what it was; I just knew, okay? On previous walks I have found soda cans used for this same foul habit, but now the neighborhood druggies are getting all ceramic on me. One would perhaps think that I live in the inner city. People who are not terribly familiar with southern California might sigh and think, “Well it is Los Angeles.” However, far from the inner city, our little enclave is a bastion of snobbery known as “The Land of Gracious Living.” In my mind, it bears the moniker “The Land of Spoiled Children.” In this place, everyone has everything. Spoiled children become bored children and finally addicted children. This certainly is not true of all my neighbors or the entire city, but
Hard Work and Success
Ordinary, Extraordinary People by Condoleeza Rice is my latest book find. What a coincidence that I finished reading this book just as I saw a Yahoo article about some “tax reform” people who want Kim Kardashian to pay a higher “higher” rate of Calfornia state taxes. I was amazed by the juxtaposition of values! There were numerous facets of Rice’s book which impressed me. First, there were the similarities between her interests and accomplishments and those of my children. Condoleeza spent many years pursuing a music career as a pianist. She studied music most of her life, and even though she became quite accomplished, she realized in college that music performance was among the most difficult of majors and required that the student have very little life outside of music. I see my son endeavoring to decide upon a college major — in love with music but seeing the earning potential in a
So Much Like Myself
“I try to write so much like myself that no one else could have written like that.” These profound words come from the website of my current favorite writer, Markus Zusak, the author of The Book Thief and I Am the Messenger. I dream of taking these words in and swallowing them, devouring them as inspiration, using them to help me become a writer most like myself. Instead, I find I am envious, coveting his talent, his incredible brain, his success, wishing I wrote like him rather than like me. I have so enjoyed reading him; shall I study him, as well? Or should I put him away in the hope of becoming more like myself? Suzak, indeed, writes like no other I have ever read. The mere concept of writing The Book Thief from the point of view of the angel of death was brilliant, but the technique that impresses most is his use of figures of
I Miss Tomatoes!
He looks at me earnestly, with concern for the pain he knows is there, and he says, “Why don’t you try not eating tomatoes, potatoes, peppers, and eggplant?” “I’m half Irish and half Italian. If I can’t eat tomatoes and potatoes, I’ll die,” is my admittedly histrionic repsonse. “Just try it,” he says. Thus commences my foray into the world of dietary testing, and I am so glad I began. I have had joint pain since I was a teenager. In high school, doctors said I had arthritis. They removed me from all sports and prescribed ten aspirin a day. I put up with that nonsense for two days, and then I decided dealing with the pain was the way to go. In college, I taught exercise classes for a living; my second job was as a receptionist for an othopedic surgeon. After a morning of teaching, my hips ached and I limped into the doctor’s office. I believe his exact
Adventures in Dog-Walking
Three things about our walk today: a proverb, a mystery, and a memory. First, the proverb. As we approach a greenbelt in the neighborhood, Jack stops and sniffs. It is a place where we regularly see a cat. He sniffs, and runs, and frightens, but he never gets close enough to catch that darn cat. So, today, I wait while he sniffs, and I run after him through the field because, quite frankly, chasing cats with no promise of catching them, is really rather fun. I’m just about to ask Jack why we haven’t seen the cat yet when we come face-to-face-, well twenty feet to face, with a well-fed coyote at least two times as big as Jack. We all stand still and stare at each other for about ten seconds. I try to slowly pull Jack back and head the other direction, but he will have none of that. He begins