FeeFiFoto Blog

Remembering 9/11

This morning my daughter, Cupcake, and I caught some coverage of the commemoration of September 11, 2001. We saw flags being raised, names being read, bagpipes being blown, hymns being played, and many tears being shed. She asked lots of questions and I explained how so many people were killed, why so few were rescued from the collapsed buildings, how hijackers took over four planes, how some passengers managed to resist their captors, and how painstakingly the survivors attempted to recover and honor the remains of so many murder victims.

I was unable to describe sufficiently the intensity of grief and despair experienced by those who lost loved ones in September 2001 (my family lost no one), as well as those who saw the nation we loved under brutal attack. Ten years later I still sense it, I still feel it, I carry it with me every day.

I cannot convey to my kids the depth of sadness I feel for the friends and families of those who were lost, as well as our entire country. They have to take me at my word, that September 11, 2001 was one of the worst days of my life and in the history of the United States.

I pray they'll never have any reason to understand it for themselves.

Lions and Hydras and Boars, Oh My!

Cupcake's grade is just wrapping up their unit on Ancient Greece; last week they presented their play, based on the twelve labors of Heracles (Hercules).  Heracles was forced to perform twelve tasks to atone for having killed his wife and children in an insane rage.

Here's a recap (thanks to the Encyclopedia Mythica); italicized and/or pointless insightful comments are mine:

Heracles was the son of the god Zeus and Alcmene. His gift was fabulous strength; Heracles' main antagonist was Hera. She eventually drove him mad, during which time he killed his own children and his brother's. He was so grieved upon recovery that he exiled himself and consulted the oracle of Apollo. The oracle told him to perform twelve labors:

1. Kill the lion of Nemea. Its thick skin was impervious to weapons; after seeing his arrows just bounce off the animal's hide, Heracles strangled it.
2. Kill the nine-headed Hydra. Two new heads would grow on the Hydra from each fresh wound, and one was immortal. Heracles burned the eight and put the immortal one under a rock.  The Hydra in the fifth grade play looked suspiciously like a bunch of sock-adorned hands popping in and out of holes in a pink tablecloth.
3. Capture the Ceryneian Hind (a female red deer that belonged to the goddess Artemis).  Heracles chased it for many months, then captured it alive.
4. Kill the wild boar of Erymanthus.  The boar in the play was a stuffed pig with white tusks pinned inside its grinning mouth.  Rather than instilling fear in the audience, this hapless adorable swine inspired mainly snickers.
   
5. Clean the Augean Stables, which hadn't been mucked out in thirty years.  The muck was portrayed by several large brown (odorless, thank goodness -- or maybe thank Zeus) pillows.  Heracles diverted a nearby river to wash the muck away, with the aid of several actors dressed as cows.
6. Kill the carnivorous birds of Stymphalis.  What a surprise: fifth graders wearing feather boas, even pink ones, look exactly like man-eating birds.
7. Capture the wild bull of Crete.
8. Capture the man-eating mares of Diomedes, played by half a dozen of these:  
9. Obtain the girdle of Hippolyta, the queen of the Amazons.  Cupcake played Hippolyta and the girdle was a golden, woven leather belt that the actors found gaudily wonderful but which I actually used to wear back in the days when I had Duran Duran hair.  Cupcake had a rollicking death scene:     
   
10. Capture the oxen of Geryon.  Lots of livestock tending going on here.
11. Take the golden apples from the garden of the Hesperides. Heracles tricked Atlas into getting he apples by offering to hold the Earth for Atlas. When Atlas returned with the apples, Heracles asked him to take the Earth (a beach ball masquerading as a globe) for a moment so he could go get a pillow for his aching shoulders. Atlas did so (in one performance actually dropping the beach ball globe, but it wasn't the end of the world -- or was it?) and Heracles left with his apples.  Cupcake was the head of Atlas, supported by an unseen minion on each side:   

     Where have I seen this before?  Oh yes:   

12.  Bring Cerberus, the three-headed dog of Hades, to the surface world.  Cupcake also played Cerberus but with only one head instead of the traditional three because, as she noted on her blog, the other two were off duty.  I think she was supposed to evoke this image:     The best aspect of this role?  She got to eat a cookie in every show.

Feel free to compliment Cupcake and her class as much as you want.  If not, no problem; I'll still revisit this post every once in a while just to put a smile on my face.

Today We Celebrate Vivaldi, Rockne and Robin

Today is Holy Experiment Day, as well as the birthday of Knute Rockne and Antonio Vivaldi.

Here's a picture of Knute Rockne, who played football at Notre Dame!

And here's a quote!

"It isn't necessary to see a good tackle. You can hear it."

Ouch!

And here's a picture of Antonio Vivaldi, who played the violin in Italy!

And here's a quote!

...

Hold on -- there aren't really any engaging Vivaldi quotes, so here's some music!

And finally, here's a picture of Robin, who had a Holy _______ statement for Batman in any situation so he probably said "Holy Experiment Batman!" at one point!

And here's a video of an entire TV season's worth of Robin Holy Whatever quotes!

Whew!

 

Today Is National Anthem Day

Now, we all know the name of our national anthem, The Star Spangled Banner Which Is Impossible To Sing Unless You're Celine Dion And She's Canadian Anyway. So here's a selection of anthems from other countries:

• Acadia - Star of the Sea, We Hail Thee.  Ummm... Acadia?  Anyone?
• African Union - African Union Anthem.  Catchy name
• Alaskan Republic - The Star-Spangled Banner.  Is this Sarah Palin's doing?  Because I thought Alaska was part of, you know -- us.
• Andorra - The Great Charlemagne.  Charlemagne.  At least they're loyal.  Charlemagne died in 814.
• Azerbaijan - National Anthem of the Republic of Azerbaijan.  This one sounds like it was titled by Borat.
• The Bahamas - March On, Bahamaland.  Seriously?  March on?  Where -- to the beach?
• Belarusian National Republic - Come, We Shall March in Joint Endeavor.  I don't think I could say this with a straight face. 
• Cameroon - Rallying Song.  Didn't we sing this one at summer camp?
• Canada - O Canada.  In all seriousness, I love O Canada.
• China, People's Republic of - The March of the Volunteers.  Oh yes, they are all volunteers.
• Cuba - The Bayamo Song.  Is that another way of spelling Babalu?
• Egypt - My Homeland, My Homeland, My Homeland.  Yeah yeah yeah. 
• Eritrea - Eritrea, Eritrea, Eritrea.  Again, yeah yeah yeah.
• France - La Marseillaise.  Love this one too.
• Guam - Stand Ye Guamanians.  Be honest -- did you know they were called Guamanians?
• Israel - Hatikvah.  Love this one too.  In fact, we believe an ancestor of my brother-in-law wrote it.
• Italy - the Song of the Italians.  Completely appropriate.
• Jamaica - Jamaica, Land We Love.  I was hoping for the Banana Boat Song.
• Jordan - Long Live the King!  I think the exclamation point is mandatory!
• Libya - God Is Greatest!  But only when Gaddafi has the day off.
• Netherlands Antilles - Anthem Without a Title.  Does this count as a title?

Guess What? It's International Polar Bear Day.

Let's learn a little bit about polar bears.

What do you mean you don't want to learn about polar bears?  It's always good to learn stuff.  Now sit down and shut up.

• Male adult polar bears can grow up to 12 feet long; the females can reach 9 feet.  This disparity in size enables the males to change the highest light bulbs while the females look up and kibitz.
• Polar bear fur isn't actually white -- it's colorless and the long hairs are hollow.  The hollow hairs trap infrared light to help keep the bear warm.
• On a scale of 1 to 10, polar bears cubs are just about the cutest things on the planet:

Cute picture, huh?

• Polar bears are kept warm by thick fat, two layers of fur and compact ears and tails that help reduce heat loss.  They're made for snow just like Tibetan Terriers, although I can hardly imagine Miss Puppy supporting herself by hunting seals at the North Pole but I can picture her eating her fill of moles if there are in fact moles at the Pole.
• You can adopt a polar bear here, at Polar Bear International.

Today Is The Birthday Of W.E.B. Dubois...

Dubois was a 20th Century sociologist, intellectual, author and civil rights leader.  Poignantly, he died in Ghana the night before Martin Luther King delivered his "I Have a Dream" speech.

To learn more about King's speech and the events leading up to it, pick up Behind the Dream: The Making of the Speech that Transformed a Nation, by Clarence B. Jones and Stuart Connelly.  Were you aware that King's famous speech was largely improvised?  Me neither.

It's Hoodie Hoo Day

February 20 is Hoodie Hoo Day, a copyrighted holiday:

On this winter day, people go out at noon, wave their hands over their heads and chant "Hoodie-Hoo".

It is a day to chase away winter and bring in spring. After all, everyone in the northern hemisphere are sick and tired of winter at this point and a little crazy being cooped up inside all winter and not seeing the sun.

You first.  I'll be right behind you, I swear.

Let me know how it works out.

Today We Observe...

Pluto Day!

Pluto was the Roman god of the Underwear.  Oops -- I mean Underworld. Originally he was the god of metals but since metals came from mines underground he eventually took jurisdiction over all good things that come from underground, including jewels and precious metals but apparently not yams or carrots.

Pluto's jurisdiction over shiny stuff is probably why rule of the wealthy is referred to as a plutocracy.

Pluto used to be a planet but for the moment he's just a rock floating aimlessly in space on a path to crash through some crotchety old guy's cosmic window.  You might say he and the other real planets have a plutonic relationship.  On the other hand, you might show impeccable taste by not saying it and rolling your eyes when I say it.

How cool is this?

Today's Holiday Is...

Do a Grouch a Favor Day.

Did you know Oscar the Grouch was originally orange?  Guess all that trash made him moldy.

Let's Celebrate...

Ferris Wheel Day and National Heart to Heart Day.

It's Ferris Wheel Day in honor of the birthday of George Washington Gale Ferris, Jr., who invented a ride called the Gale Wheel (gotcha!  Just kidding.  It's really the George Washington Wheel) for the World's Columbian Exposition in Chicago in 1893.  Want to learn a little bit about the Chicago World's Fair and feel your toes curl up inside your Uggs at the same time?  Pick up Devil in the White City by Erik Larson, the story of the Fair intertwined with the nefarious doings of Dr. H.H. Holmes, a con artist who lured young women to his World's Fair Hotel and murdered them.

Oh, and it's also Valentine's Day.

I Remember Where I Was And What I Was Doing

I remember where I was.  I remember what I was doing. 

I was in my office, trying not to dwell on how much I hated HATED HATED my job, trying to concentrate on whatever research was on the agenda for that day, trying (unsuccessfully) not to be distracted by the construction of a 30-story office building across the street that was much more interesting than research.  The radio was tuned to the classical music station, the music soothing my rattled nerves and feeding my pretensions.

Music interrupted for news: the Space Shuttle had blown up.  Did I even know the Space Shuttle was taking off that morning?  Not a chance.

I sat at my desk, paralyzed, for 45 minutes, tensely, silently pleading for an "Oops! Never mind" moment.

I've heard how people reacted to the assassination of President Kennedy with panic and tears.  I felt panicky and vulnerable after September 11.

When Challenger broke apart my most pervasive feeling was of infinite sadness.  Sadness for the friends and families of the people who died in the incident.  Sadness for everyone who'd worked so hard on the Space Shuttle program.  Sadness for myself.

I remember watching the moon landing on television.  It was nearly midnight but my parents had told the babysitter we could stay up and watch.  They'd gone to a party up the street; my mother had propped a vitamin bottle cap with toothpick legs on top of a ball of green cream cheese to represent the moon and the lunar excursion module. 

We saw the moon landing happen in ghostly black and white.  Even as a callow eight-year-old I was hypnotized.  The greatness of the United States didn't occur me; I had no knowledge of Kennedy's 1960 pledge to send Americans to the moon before the end of the decade.  What got to my tangled mind was the infinity of infinity -- the weightlessness of space, the endlessness of space, the impossibility of space.  I tried to pin down space in my mind but everything about it seemed to generate more how how how questions: how much... how many... how long... how do they... how can...?  My finite mind couldn't truly understand infinity, so I had to be satisfied with luxuriating in the otherworldliness of the moment.  I knew that for the rest of my life I'd feel special because I was one of the (millions of) people who actually watched the event happen on television.

My feeling of specialness suffered a concussion that January morning.  The infinite possibility of space travel and exploration was suddenly rendered finite by the failure of a rubber O ring similar to the one that keeps my blender from leaking.

There's lots of coverage this week of the 25th anniversary of the Challenger explosion.  The videos will be played and replayed and rereplayed.  I'm providing something else, as a respite from the true sadness of the memory of Challenger.

I remember.  I wish I didn't.  I wish there were nothing to remember.

What do you remember?

A Modest Proposal For Limiting Our Plastic Bag Use

And no, it doesn't involve eating them.

It seems I can make major, life-altering decisions, but I can't decide if I want paper or plastic.

FUNNY STORY GOES HERE:
A friend's husband (bright guy but easily the village idiot when it came to anything besides the Chicago Bulls or the practice of law) once made a trip to a grocery store while his wife was in the hospital having a baby or something.  When the checker asked if he preferred paper or plastic he looked at her like she was mental and replied: "Cash."

I bring canvas bags to grocery stores so I don't get stuck with an armload of plastic bags to recycle (I'm not convinced those recycling people really recycle anyway) or to make clothing or housewares out of. 

If you think I'm holy, you can begin applauding now.

But when I buy a trunkload of stuff at one of those superstores I come home with bags I don't need or want, which I conscientiously store in a basket and then conscientiously tote to a recycling bin at the grocery store, conscientiously trying not to worry that the grocery stores not so conscientiously just throw everything in the dumpster after closing time.

I worry about what's going to become of all those unwanted plastic bags.  Will they be adopted and treasured, like Windy, their every flutter monitored and birthday cakes consumed in their honor?  Sadly, not likely.

Take a look at these stats from Reuseit.com:

• 500 billion to 1 trillion plastic bags are used every year, worldwide.
• A single plastic bag can take between 20 and 1000 years to degrade.
• More than 3.5 million tons of plastic bags, sacks and wraps were discarded in 2008.
• Plastic bags remain toxic even after they break down.
• Every square mile of ocean has about 46,000 pieces of plastic floating in it.
• The average family accumulates 60 plastic bags in only four trips to the grocery store.

Feeling tormented yet?

See also: EPA.GOV

Oh sure, you can make stuff from discarded plastic bags.  There's the purse:

And the belt:

I think we can all agree that these are Uncommon Goods.

Then there's these:

This is pretty but its usefulness is a bit limited:

By artist Laura Marsden

But making things out of discarded plastic bags isn't my bag.  I prefer knitting.  I want to bring home fewer plastic bags from the get go, so I don't have to find ways to dispose of them.

When I'm feeling sufficiently impulse-controlled not to buy 17 bags of sweat socks and a decade's supply of pizza bagels I shop at Sam's Club, where they load my stuff directly into a cart without bagging or boxing. Sam's seems to understand that if I'm buying a mattress-size bag of oranges, I don't need a bag to put my bag in -- it's already in a bag. 

You might say that Sam's gets me.

Sometimes if I'm feeling particularly virtuous and lucky, I'll ask a supermarket bagger not to bag bigger items.  I don't need a bag to carry a jug of laundry detergent or a gallon of white vinegar or a jumbo bag of frozen blueberries.  I have to sense a lucky streak to make this request, though, since it usually throws baggers into a tailspin: 

You don't want big stuff in bags? 

No, thanks, I can carry the big stuff without a bag. 

How about the soda? 

No, that's fine. 

What about the potatoes? 

No, they're already in a bag. 

The bag of charcoal?  The dog food?  This gigantic watermelon?  The five pounds of bird seed?

Nope, no bags.

With each perplexed challenge my ambition to be holy and noble withers and doesn't regenerate until, no less than a month later, I'll forget the pain of the experience as women forget the details of labor and my sister and I block out memories of family vacations gone wrong.

So I've been thinking.

• At the supermarket, they ask if I want paper or plastic.
• At most other stores they never ask; I just get plastic.
• At Sam's I get nothing, but I'm fine with that because most of the stuff I buy there is large or not fragile.
• Whenever I try to explain that I don't need bags for the large things, the bagger at the supermarket blows a gasket trying to wrap his habit-ridden brain around my outside-the-box (bag?) demand.

Remember when stores used only paper bags?  And then they added plastic bags and the baggers had to be trained (perhaps with electric collars) to inquire: "Paper or Plastic?"  And their heads didn't explode?

Why can't there be one more option at the checkout counter?  Why can't they ask me if I want, for instance, "full packing" or "partial packing"?  Why can't I tell them I want partial packing and have them already know that that means I don't want bags for the big stuff so I don't have to explain how it works every time I shop?

In college I developed a fondness for iced coffee.  When I moved back home I tried to order it in restaurants and usually had to teach servers how to make it.  Do you have coffee?  Do you have ice?  Do you have glasses?  Do you know how to make iced tea?  Well, iced coffee is just like that, only with coffee.  It's okay if the ice melts -- you can add more ice.  I promise I won't be mad.  More than once I received a mug of coffee garnished with floating ice cubes.  Eventually servers learned how to make iced coffee (I credit Starbucks) and I no longer had to draw diagrams on the tablecloth.

Why can't checkout baggers be trained to ask customers to follow up "Paper or Plastic" with "Full Packing or Partial Packing"?

I know!  Let's start a campaign.  Why not Stumble this post, or mention it on your own blog, or on your Facebook page or Twitter feed?  Why not forward it to news organizations?  Why not ask the bagger not to bag the big stuff the next time you shop?  We can make blog badges, bumper stickers, tee shirts with the slogan: "Ask for Partial Packing!"  If we all pull together we can teach them, yes we can!

Otherwise we might all be doomed to wearing hand-crocheted plastic bag sandals.

Darn Right He Deserved The Nobel Prize

Yesterday Robert Edwards, a British physiologist who helped pioneer the development of in vitro fertilization, was awarded the Nobel Prize in Medicine; his research resulted in the birth of first test tube baby in 1978 and many millions of healthy babies since then.  According to the New York Times, a delay of 30 years in deciding to award the prize after a scientific development or discovery is unusual, and might have resulted from concern over the morality of playing G-d in the laboratory, or from concerns about Dr. Edwards's standing as a committed socialist.

There are still some who maintain that Assisted Reproductive Technology involves illicitly interfering with nature.

I'm not one of them.

Neither are all the well wishers who have posted messages to the ailing Dr. Edwards on the Nobel Prize web site, from Algeria, Argentina, Australia, Azerbaijan, Bangladesh, Bolivia, Bosnia, Brazil, Canada, Chile, China, Colombia, Cuba, Cyprus, Denmark, Dubai, Ecuador, Egypt, England, Ethiopia, Finland, France, Germany, Ghana, Greece, Hong Kong, Indonesia, Iran, Israel, Italy, Jamaica, Japan, Kenya, Korea, Macedonia, Malaysia, Mexico, Morocco, Mozambique, Nepal, the Netherlands, Nigeria, Oman, Pakistan, Peru, the Philippines, Poland, Puerto Rico, Romania, Russia, Saudi Arabia, Scotland, Singapore, South Africa, Spain, Sri Lanka, Sweden, Taiwan, Thailand, Uganda, Ukraine, the United States, Uzbekistan, Venezuela, Vietnam...

Oh, and?

Me.  And my minions:

How about you?

If You Can't Stand The Book, Try The Movie

You know how sometimes they make movies based on books so you can just watch the movie and pretend you know what you're talking about when someone mentions the book?  Or you can even show the movie to your kids because it's completely the same as reading the story? 

Not that I've ever done that, but I've heard of some careless, neglectful parents who do.

Well, back in the days when movie tickets cost a nickel and if you wanted to see the movie again you had to either pay another nickel or hide under the seats until the lights went back down and it was pointless to wait for the movie to come out on video because there was no such thing as video and recording a movie off of a television broadcast wasn't a reliable alternative since nobody owned televisions, you couldn't simply show your kids the movie to get them to stop nagging you to read them the story.  You might, however, be able to find stories on the radio (radio: it's that thing in the car dashboard that you can use to tune in to baseball games when you're not texting, emailing, shaving or snacking).

It just so happens that Orson Welles (remember him?  Citizen Kane?  any of this ringing a bell?) operated this intellectualistic theater company that broadcast productions on CBS radio.  One Sunday night, just before Halloween 1938, Orson and his colleagues broadcast a play based on H.G. Wells's (no relation) War of the Worlds, updated to present day and integrated into a seemingly innocuous fake ballroom music program.  The music was interrupted by fake news bulletins reporting the discovery of strange metal cylinders in New Jersey (of all places) and the subsequent rampage of Martians, until some mysterious virus brought them down in a way mere humans couldn't because Jeff Goldblum hadn't even been born yet.

Well.  Even though the program was introduced by an announcement that it was just a dramatization... and even though this announcement was repeated several times throughout the show... and even though radio listings in the newspaper for that evening announced an hour-long radio play called War of the Worlds...

People across the country went nuts.

Here's a long excerpt from a much longer article that appeared in the New York Times on October 31, 1938.

"A wave of mass hysteria seized thousands of radio listeners... last night when a broadcast of a dramatization of H. G. Wells's fantasy, "The War of the Worlds," led thousands to believe that an interplanetary conflict had started with invading Martians spreading wide death and destruction in New Jersey and New York.

The broadcast... disrupted households, interrupted religious services, created traffic jams and clogged communications systems... At least a score of adults required medical treatment for shock and hysteria.

In Newark, in a single block… more than twenty families rushed out of their houses with wet handkerchiefs and towels over their faces to flee from what they believed was to be a gas raid…

Throughout New York families left their homes, some to flee to near-by parks. Thousands of persons called the police, newspapers and radio stations… seeking advice on protective measures against the raids.

The radio play, as presented, was to simulate a regular radio program with a "break-in" for the material of the play. The radio listeners, apparently, missed or did not listen to the introduction, which was: "The Columbia Broadcasting System and its affiliated stations present Orson Welles and the Mercury Theatre on the Air in `The War of the Worlds' by H. G. Wells."

They also failed to associate the program with the newspaper listening of the program, announced as "Today: 8:00-9:00--Play: H. G. Wells's `War of the Worlds'--WABC." They ignored three additional announcements made during the broadcast emphasizing its fictional nature.

Mr. Welles opened the program with a description of the series of which it is a part. The simulated program began... An announcer remarked that the program would be continued from a hotel, with dance music. For a few moments a dance program was given in the usual manner. Then there was a "break-in" with a "flash" about a professor at an observatory noting a series of gas explosions on the planet Mars.

News bulletins and scene broadcasts followed, reporting… the landing of a "meteor" near Princeton N. J., "killing" 1,500 persons, the discovery that the "meteor" was a "metal cylinder" containing strange creatures from Mars armed with "death rays"…

Telephone lines were tied up with calls from listeners or persons who had heard of the broadcasts. Many sought first to verify the reports. But large numbers, obviously in a state of terror, asked how they could follow the broadcast's advice and flee from the city, whether they would be safer in the "gas raid" in the cellar or on the roof, how they could safeguard their children…"

Tee hee.

Seventy years later it is kind of funny, although I definitely would have been among the first to run screaming from the room.

Anyway -- it just so happened that I own a recording of the original radio broadcast of War of the Worlds.  It looks like this:

And it sounds like this:

I don't know why I own this record.  I bought it a long time ago, probably around the same time I bought the soundtrack to Star Wars. Even though I've forgotten why I own it, though, I remembered that I own it, and even where it was, and I showed it to Cupcake and then took her to my parents' house so she could listen to the record on a real turntable, since I haven't had one of those for years.

Frankly, she was more interested in operating the turntable and asking questions about records (what do you mean you have to turn it over?) than listening to the recording, but I feel I've done my job and I'm finished with War of the Worlds in any form.

When the group chooses Moby Dick, I'm off duty.

More Of What I've Been Reading Lately

Provenance: How a Con Man and a Forger Rewrote the History of Modern Art, by Laney Salisbury and Aly Sujo, 2009

I've cruised museums and galleries with more than my share of smugness over how knowledgeable, worldly and sophisticated I must be to recognize and enjoy the work of great artists.  Then along comes Provenance, the meticulously detailed true crime story (hey, art forgery is a crime, isn't it?) of John Myatt, a down-and-out, reasonably talented artist who gets caught up in a complex forgery scheme orchestrated by John Drewe, a chronic liar who variously portrays himself as a nuclear physicist, professor, historian, army officer, and weapons expert.  The con man ropes the painter into creating paintings in the styles of famous artists.  Meanwhile, Drewe creates false provenance using documents torn from vintage books and stolen from museum libraries.

This book made me slightly paranoid.  Now I glance sideways at the art in my home and think "Ah haaahh... is this the real thing?  Or is it fake?  It could be fake and how would I know?  I'd never know.  I've been duped, I just know it!"

Lately I recognize new advantages to decorating with my kids' artwork.  At least I know it's authentic.

This book was as exciting as any fiction thriller.  Even my mother praised it and if you knew my mother you'd be just as surprised as I am.  I had only one issue with Provenance, though: where are the pictures?  Seriously, there's not one photo of the characters, documents or artworks, forged or otherwise, although there is a very useful cast of characters at the beginning to which I referred many times.  But really -- a book about pictures with no pictures?

__________________________________________________________________

Freedom Summer: The Savage Season That Made Mississippi Burn and Made America a Democracy, by Bruce Watson, 2010

What do I remember about Freedom Summer?  Nothing.  I know 1964 was the summer my parents took my sister and me to Florida, where we tried to catch fish in the hotel lobby fountain, then commandeered an elevator for possibly an entire afternoon, until a couple of bellboys caught up with us.  Little wonder we didn't take another family vacation until I was 12. 

As I was wreaking havoc in Miami, dozens of college students, mostly white, were traveling to Mississippi to register black Americans who'd been cheated out of their constitutional rights by white neighbors claiming that Negroes neither needed nor wanted the vote.  Since no more than 7% of the state's black population was registered before 1964, the white opponents of black suffrage claimed this proved their point; they conveniently failed to acknowledge that beatings, shootings, harassment, threats, vandalism, and murder probably served as effective deterrents.  The story partially revolves around the murders of three Freedom Summer workers, Michael Schwerner, James Chaney, and Andrew Goodman; the search for their bodies; and the 40-year campaign for justice against their killers. 

This is a story everyone needs to know.  It's a story of how wrong things can be; how insults and barbarism can be counteracted gradually through years of effort by many dedicated people; how you just possibly might not be right simply because you claim to be.

_________________________________________________________________

In Cold Blood, by Truman Capote, 1965

 

The first time I read In Cold Blood, in my twenties, I had no living daylights left in me to speak of.  The story of a quadruple murder on a prosperous Kansas farm before Thanksgiving in 1959, the search for the killers, their trial and hanging, made me quiver like a feather, and not in a good way.  I've avoided rereading literature's original non-fiction novel for fear of another succession of sleepless, freaked-out nights, but this summer, due to a new interest in Truman Capote, I gritted my teeth and determined to read it again even if I had to confine my reading to daylight hours, turn all the lights on, lock the doors and engage the burglar alarm. 

But this time -- no willies, no heebie-jeebies.  Nothing but utter engrossment in a charismatic story that flows like the music of Beethoven. 

The fact that I made it through In Cold Blood with no trouble this time must indicate that I'm jaded and more cynical than I was in my 20s.  Maybe a dose of cynicism isn't so bad; I suppose I'd be an insufferable bore if I were as delicate and innocent now as I was back then.

____________________________________________________________________________

The common thread in all these books?  Deception, especially self-deception.  How Capote's killers convinced themselves that all their problems and issues and challenges were the fault of someone else, certainly not themselves, and how even their victims were somehow to blame for their own murders.  How John Myatt convinced himself that what he was doing wasn't really hurting anybody and was bringing in much needed money to support his family, and how John Drewe convinced everyone he encountered, including himself, that he was brilliant and entitled.  The scene near the end where Drewe tirades about his innocence and the injustice of putting him on trial for forgery is especially poignant.  And finally, how many, but not all, Mississippi whites convinced themselves that terrorizing their black neighbors who wanted to vote was appropriate and even decreed by the Lord.

What I've Been Reading Lately

Hattie McDaniel: Black Ambition, White Hollywood, Jill Watts, 2007

Hattie McDaniel should be a permanent Hollywood icon: a singer, a comedian and, as anyone knows who's paid due attention to her performance as Mammy in Gone with the Wind, a gifted actress who could have conquered any role brilliantly, a la Tom Hanks.  Because of her race, McDaniel was pigeon-holed as a domestic worker or minstrel show performer in every movie role she ever played.  Small consolation that she paved the way for so many talented actors; she deserved better. 

Despite the heavy-handedness and occasional inaccuracies in the prose (McDaniel's full name is overused, and at least one photograph is mislabeled), this story of the neglect of an extreme talent is touching and maddening.

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Fifth Avenue, 5 A.M.: Audrey Hepburn, Breakfast At Tiffany's and the Dawn of the Modern Woman, Sam Wasson, 2010

Ahh -- Audrey Hepburn.  I'm swooning a little bit right now.  The face.  The dress.  Who is there who doesn't adore Audrey Hepburn?

This book is the captivating story of the making of one of the most beloved films out there, a film based on a novel about a carefree hooker and her gay best friend during World War II. 

Sound familiar?  No?  That's because the movie's producers, paralyzed by anxiety over having to sell as a hooker a star who might as well have been a certified princess, dumbed down the original story to get it past the censors and the public.  Gay narrator becomes straight gigolo in love with Holly.  Hooker becomes party girl.  Instead of disappearing to South America and then Africa, Holly retrieves her nameless cat, kisses "Fred," and they presumably stay together. Mickey Rooney does a resoundingly  unfortunate turn as a Japanese photographer with ridiculously squinty eyes and such a crowd of teeth that he looks like he's wearing somebody else's dentures along with his own.

The result?  A somewhat generic (in 2010 terms, that is; it was groundbreaking in 1961) love story about a girl looking for her place in the world.

Still, the narrative nimbly transports the reader, especially the parts about how Henry Mancini created a completely fresh musical idiom, and why Blake Edwards's miraculous cocktail party scene, which lasts about ten minutes, took a week to film.

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What Is Life Worth?: The Unprecedented Effort to Compensate the Victims of September 11th, Kenneth Feinberg, 2006

 

Kenneth Feinberg, currently charged with administering the $20 billion BP fund to compensate those harmed by the Gulf oil spill, wrote this memoir about his role as Special Master of the federal September 11th Victim Compensation Fund.  This is the story of the humanity Feinberg invested in attempting to help ease the pain of the inhuman events of September 11, 2001.  He and his law firm tackled the job pro bono, spending months meeting with every potential claimant to determine eligibility for compensation and arrive at a fair settlement.  "Poignant" doesn't begin to describe the tone of this book; one of the most wrenching vignettes comes near the end, when Feinberg describes his profound sadness at being unable to get through to seven families so paralyzed by grief that they were unable to apply to the compensation fund, even though he and his staff begged to be allowed to fill out all the paperwork for them.

Independence Day Is Just The Beginning: Bizarre July Holidays

Make personalized calendars even more personal with the addition of peculiar dates; here are some for July. 

The kids and I design calendars for our family on our web site, FeeFiFoto, and in addition to the usual birthdays and anniversaries, we choose one day each month for a fictitious holiday just to see if anyone is paying attention. January 16 was Talk Like Pirates Day, February 24 was Walk Backwards Day, March 1 was Talk Really Fast Day, August 17 was Snowball Fight Day, and November 2 was Kiss Your Mom Day. We also acknowledged some legitimate holidays and anniversaries, like the Ides of March (March 15), Beethoven's Birthday (December 16) and the anniversary of Paul Revere's Ride (April 18). It was fun and silly.

Don't forget: as of today, June 30, there are 177-odd days left until Christmas.  Why not begin designing holiday calendars now?

1
Canada Day
Creative Ice Cream Flavor Day
Build A Scarecrow Day
Second Half of the Year Day

Duh

2
Visitation Of The Virgin Mary Day
I Forgot Day
Thurgood* Marshall, b. 1908

Really?  I Forgot Day?  Seriously?

3
Stay Out Of The Sun Day
Compliment Your Mirror Day
Disobedience Day
George M. Cohan, b. 1878

 

4
National Country Music Day
Tom Sawyer Fence-Painting Day
Rube Goldberg, b. 1883

You'll need that napkin to wipe the melting ice cream off your face and hands.

5
Workaholics Day
P.T. Barnum, b. 1810

6
National Fried Chicken Day
John Paul Jones, b. 1747

Fried chicken goes well with ice cream.

7
National Strawberry Sundae Day
Chocolate Day

Every day is Chocolate Day, isn't it?

8
Video Games Day

9
National Sugar Cookie Day
Nicola Tesla, b. 1856

Sugar cookies go well with ice cream.  And chocolate.

10
Clerihew Day
Don't Step on a Bee Day

11
National Cheer Up The Lonely Day
E.B. White, b. 1899

12
International Town Criers Day
National Pecan Pie Day

Pecan pie goes well with ice cream.

13
Gruntled Workers Day
Fool's Paradise Day

14
National Nude Day

 
15
Blame Respect Canada Day
National Tapioca Pudding Day
Rembrandt Van Rijn, b. 1606

16
International Juggling Day

17
National Peach Ice Cream Day
Art Linkletter*, b. 1912

18
National Ice Cream Day
National Caviar Day
Red Skelton, b. 1913

19
Flitch Day
National Raspberry Cake Day

20
Ugly Truck Contest Day
Mood Day
National Lollipop Day

21
National Tug-Of-War Tournament Day
Isaac Stern, b. 1920

22
Ratcatcher's Day
Hammock Day
Alexander Calder, b. 1898

23
National Vanilla Ice Cream Day
Hot Dog Day
Harold "Pee Wee" Reese, b. 1918

24
Amelia Earhart Day

I've always wondered who'd be brave enough to use an Amelia Earhart postage stamp.  Wouldn't you worry that your letter would be lost?

25
Threading The Needle Day

26
All Or Nothing Day
Vivian Vance, b. 1912

27
Take Your Pants For A Walk Day (graphic from the BBC)
Walk on Stilts Day

28
National Milk Chocolate Day
Beatrix Potter, b. 1866

29
Cheese Sacrifice Purchase Day
Chili Dog Day

30
National Cheesecake Day
Emily Bronte, b. 1818

Cheesecake goes well with ice cream.

31
Parent's Day

*Spellcheck offered Thursday, and Newsletter

Bamboozled: The Advantages Of Planting The Right Sort Of Bamboo In The Yard

Last week we did it.  Planted bamboo, I mean.  Here are a couple pictures of the little tykes:

Why bamboo?  First, personal reasons. 

We live on a very wooded property, which means we have lots of volunteer moss, weeds and miscellaneous plants, along with thousands and millions of leaves every fall.  What we don't have a lot of is grass, or, as some might put it, lawn. 

 

Photo originated here.

I tried planting sod and grass seed, which would enthusiastically flourish the first summer, and never return.  It took me a couple years to catch on but catch on I finally did, that while the grass seemed to enjoy summering with us, for some reason we weren't the best of year-round grass hosts, and after a winter slumbering in the shade, the grass moved to greener pastures every spring.

So I planted ivy, in anticipation of a thick, lush yard of dark green springy vines.  Every year I planted a little more ivy.  And every year... I planted a little more ivy.  Yet there never seemed to be any more ivy than when I'd started.  Finally the guy who cuts my weeds (since I have no grass) summoned the courage to suggest that maybe ivy doesn't like the acid from the oak leaves. 

So I crossed ivy off my list.

And then I read an article in the New York Times about bamboo that suggested using it as a ground cover.  And I thought, Hey!  I have ground!  And it needs covering!  Bamboo might do.

Second, environmental reasons.

According to the Times:

"Bamboo is a workhorse at sequestering carbon dioxide and pumping out oxygen. It is a tough plant that manufactures its own antibacterial compounds and can thrive without pesticides."

 

Additionally:

"As a natural and renewable resource bamboo offers an opportunity to turn away from the destruction of native forests towards managed commercial plantations that can be selectively harvested annually without the destruction of the grove or stand. Tree plantations obviously have to be chopped down and their nutrient arrest terminated at harvest. Bamboo keeps on keeping on, with edible shoots capable of extraction after less than five years. ...  bamboo can be harvested without the destruction of the grove or stand.

Bamboo minimizes CO₂ gases and generates up to 35% more oxygen than equivalent stand of trees."

That sequestering carbon dioxide thing made so much sense I felt quite stupid for not figuring it out myself without having to be told so by the New York Times.  Here's how it works:

• Bamboo, like all plants, sucks in carbon dioxide and emits oxygen.
• The carbon  dioxide becomes part of the plant, making it a carbon-based life form (a characteristic it shares with Paris Hilton).
• The carbon remains locked in the plant instead of being released into the atmosphere.
• The angels sing, the ozone layer is repaired and global warming is stopped in its tracks, although, sadly, Paris Hilton is still at large.

But bamboo grows like... a weed, I suppose.  And the last thing I need is the burden of maintaining my property with a machete in an attempt to subdue a plant:

Image from Movie Dearest

Thank goodness Nature thinks of everything.  Who knew?  There are TWO kinds of bamboo: 

"One can divide bamboos into “Runners” and “Clumpers”. The Clumpers don’t invade. To remove a clumper, just dig it out (and transplant it.) Runners can be well-behaved in cold climates, but some kinds when in a warm climate, and given plenty of water, can become a serious problem. Don’t plant a runner in a small yard in a warm climate, unless you put a barrier around it.

Homer running

If new shoots of bamboo are coming up all over your yard, it is a running bamboo. To get rid of it, there are four steps:

1. Cut it off.

2. Cut it down.

3. Water and fertilize the area, to cause new growth.

4. Cut it down again. And again."

And again and again and again.

See, it's that "again and again and again" part I can live without.

But there are many varieties of Clumping bamboo.  Clumping bamboo, unlike horizontally spreading bamboo, sends out individual rhizomes, allowing the plant to spread only a few inches a year and maintain its original shape.

And... GOOOOOOOOAL!  We have a slow-growing ground cover that helps renew the environment and can stand up to shade and leaves and acid and Miss Puppy.

Take that, weeds.

Bar Mitzvah Final Report -- Maybe

Try to read this:

cldnt blv tht cld ctll ndrstnd wht ws rdng th phnmnl pwr f th hmn mnd ccrdng t rsrch tm t mbrdg nvrst t dsnt mttr n wht rdr th lttrs n wrd r th nl mprtnt thng s tht th frst nd lst lttr b n th rght plc h rst cn b ttl mss nd y cn stll rd t wtht prblm ths s bcs th hmn mnd ds nt rd vr lttr b tslf bt th wrd s whl sch cndtn s pprprtl clld typglcm

All vowels (including the letter Y when used as a vowel) have been eliminated.  Do you have any idea what's being said?  Some of the words, such as "ndrstnd" and "mprtnt", make sense if you're the kind of person who abbreviates when taking notes or making a shopping list, but the rest of it is blah blah blather.  As if that weren't challenging enough, there is no punctuation.

Now try it this way:

I cdnuolt blveiee taht I cluod aulaclty uesdnatnrd waht I was rdanieg The phaonmneal pweor of the hmuan mnid Aoccdrnig to rscheearch taem at Cmabrigde Uinervtisy, it deosn't mttaer in waht oredr the ltteers in a wrod are, the olny iprmoatnt tihng is taht the f!rist and lsat ltteer be in the rghit pclae.  The rset can be a taotl mses an you can sitll raed it wouthit a porbelm.  Tihs is bcuseae the huamn mnid deos not raed ervey lteter by istlef, but the wrod as a wlohe.  Such a cdonition is arppoiately cllaed Typoglycemia.

The difference is that the second paragraph includes all the required letters in the wrong order; your brain rearranges the letters to form real words and make sense.

Why am I bothering telling you this?  Because the difference between the two above paragraphs illustrates the challenge Robespierre had to face in preparing for his Bar Mitzvah.

The highlight of a Bar Mitzvah comes when the boy reads from the Torah.  The Torah is formidable -- it's hand written in Hebrew by trained scribes who use a feather quill, special ink and specially prepared parchment.  Anything resembling a vowel is eliminated in the inking of the Torah, so the reader has to guess at pronunciation based on the context of the narrative. 

Why produce a document containing nearly 80,000 words and a total of 304,805 letters (how many more would it be with the vowels thrown in?) without providing any vowels to help you along the way?  I don't know -- maybe G-d really wanted to make sure the Jews were truly committed to being Jewish before laying on them all the benefits (matzah balls) and drawbacks (plain matzah - blech) that come with being a Jew.  Maybe G-d didn't want the Hebrew scribes to suffer from carpal tunnel or writer's (scribe's?) cramp. 

I wish I could say I'd figured out this next part myself; let's just say I'm proud I remembered reading about it somewhere so I could dig it up and quote it here:

Alphabets with vowels tend to be written from left to right. Those, like biblical Hebrew, that contain only consonants but not vowels, tend to be written from right to left.

The left brain is analytical, detached, linear and logical. It splits things into their components. The right brain is holistic, integrative, even intuitive. It is good at recognising patterns and handling personal relationships, including nonverbal expressions. It plays a big part in emotional intelligence.

The left hemisphere controls the right side of the body, and vice versa. When we move our head to the right, we are using the left hemisphere. When we move it to the left, we are bringing the right hemisphere into play.

When we read something written in an alphabet, like English, that contains vowels, each word is more or less intelligible on its own. So we can use the linear, sequential left brain, which controls rightward movement, which is why English is written from left to right.

Not so when we read a text written in an alphabet without vowels. Imagine English without vowels. The letters ht, for example, might mean any of hot, hat, hit, hut, heat or hate. How do you tell which? Only by understanding the context, and perhaps even how the sentence ends. For that you need to use the integrative and holistic right brain, which controls leftward motion. That is why vowel-less alphabets tend to be written from right to left.

So the reading of Hebrew is more arduous than just studying letters and learning how to pronounce the words they form, since in Hebrew the vowels on which we English readers depend to give words much of their kick and personality, are left up to the reader's best guess.  This challenge is even more pronounced if the reader is a left brain kind of guy who's unaccustomed to reading between the lines to pin down the meaning of a story (Robey, put your hand down).

Many people who prepare for a Bar Mitzvah learn a Torah portion, rattle it off from memory, thank their parents and then head off to the bank to deposit checks.

Now Robespierre, whatever he may be, is not what I'd call inherently intuitive.  He's a concrete thinker: a math guy.  If you ask him about a story he's read he'll regale you with all sorts of details about what happens and then what happens and what happens next, and very likely will never get to the end.  If you ask him to discuss the theme or interpret the meaning he'll change the subject.  Reading Hebrew, a right to left language that requires a lot of creative speculation, would not seem to come naturally to him.

But he did it, and not only did he do it but he absolutely blew it away.  He chanted his Torah portion and all the related Hebrew prayers and readings confidently and fluently, speaking out boldly and bravely with no hesitation.

Is it because he's so brilliant that he pulled it off splendidly, without a hitch?  Is it because young people's flexible brains are better able to pick up unfamiliar concepts than a brain like mine, for instance?  Is it because he has a hidden and previously untapped resource of right braininess?

Who knows?  I'm not even sure I want to know.  I do know that Robey has an awful lot to be proud of.

Cupcake's next.

Dear State Senator

Dear State Senator:

Next time you're standing on the Senate floor debating a fellow state senator and hoping to make yourself appear big and important and well-informed and stuff, and you describe yourself as a Jesse James aficionado and announce that Jesse James, in an interview, once said he robbed banks because that's where the money is, please be aware of the following:

1. Jesse James (the outlaw Jesse James, not Sandra Bullock's husband), one of the most notorious outlaws in United States history, was never interviewed by anyone for any reason.  With a $5000 bounty on his head offered by the Missouri governor, no one would have bothered to "interview" him when they only had to bring him in dead or alive to collect a substantial reward.
2. The outlaw who supposedly claimed to rob banks because "that's where the money is" was Willie Sutton, 1901-1980.
3. Anyone claiming a childhood fascination with Jesse James (the outlaw Jesse James, not Sandra Bullock's husband) ought to know the difference.
4. When you bungle a quotation supposedly made by someone on whom you claim a degree of expertise, you make yourself look like a blockhead.

Thank you for your support.