Manda and I are leaving for Europe in less than 21 hours. I am so excited I can’t stand it. Now that the moment is here, there is no focus.
At work, I was a waste. The internet offers far too many distractions for the traveler, from the Louvre and the Vatican to Disneyland Paris and European sports bars. Oh, yeah, I looked up their sports bars. It might be bad, but I still have to try a French beer; chalk another nation off the list of brews I’ve sampled. I’ve had enough Italian beer to be covered there, thank you very much, and I look forward to their wines and German imports. Ick.
As amazing as I’m sure Paris will be, I’m positive Rome will torch it. Rome was the most important city in the world for 1,000 years. I don’t know what else I need to say about it. It was New York combined with Washington, D.C., for four times as long as America has existed. The Coliseum, Vatican City, the Pantheon, the museums and churches and temples and statues…. My only regret is that I have only one week to spend there. I’m sure I could leave a month of my life behind there without regretting a second of it. The Italians have the love for life of the French without the quasi-fascist levels of nationalism. That’s a helluva one-two punch for enjoyablity.
I’ll be back in roughly 16 days. Make sure the country doesn’t fall apart without me here to hold it together.
Ciao and adieu.
Thursday, November 6, 2008
Tuesday, October 14, 2008
Homecoming
Returning home after getting away for a long weekend at Lake Tahoe, the dogs made it pretty clear that they were not happy about the separation, and they were quite glad at the reunion.
Their jubilations were so emphatically ‘dog’ as to be nearly stereotypical, but the sincerity of it all nearly brought tears to my eyes. No matter how much you love your dog, chances are it’s one of many parts of your life. An important part, certainly, but still just one piece in a very full life. On the reverse side, our dogs literally live for us. I was happy to see my dogs, and thrilled to pet and wrestle them immediately upon entering the house, but their reactions were of another sort altogether.
A cyclone of mutt enveloped me as I opened the back door. Tails were wagging, and tongues were hanging out in that incredibly refined manner that is the hallmark of a happy canine. Having knelt to repay their affections, it was literally seconds before my work clothes were more hair than not. In addition, every inch of available skin had been met with wet noses and doggy kisses time and time again.
It never ceases to amaze me that I could be so loved. I think we all know a little too much about ourselves to really love everything inside. We know our weaknesses, and our failings, and so to apply unconditional love, whether from a beast or a human, to such an imperfect object runs contrary to everything fair in the world.
Still, ours dogs love us so.
Their jubilations were so emphatically ‘dog’ as to be nearly stereotypical, but the sincerity of it all nearly brought tears to my eyes. No matter how much you love your dog, chances are it’s one of many parts of your life. An important part, certainly, but still just one piece in a very full life. On the reverse side, our dogs literally live for us. I was happy to see my dogs, and thrilled to pet and wrestle them immediately upon entering the house, but their reactions were of another sort altogether.
A cyclone of mutt enveloped me as I opened the back door. Tails were wagging, and tongues were hanging out in that incredibly refined manner that is the hallmark of a happy canine. Having knelt to repay their affections, it was literally seconds before my work clothes were more hair than not. In addition, every inch of available skin had been met with wet noses and doggy kisses time and time again.
It never ceases to amaze me that I could be so loved. I think we all know a little too much about ourselves to really love everything inside. We know our weaknesses, and our failings, and so to apply unconditional love, whether from a beast or a human, to such an imperfect object runs contrary to everything fair in the world.
Still, ours dogs love us so.
Sunday, June 29, 2008
The Kite Runner
Posting again on the subject of gratitude, allow me to bring up another book I finished recently, The Kite Runner. Author Khaled Hosseini was born in Afghanistan, and his novel is set there prior to the rise of communism. This incredible story traces a first person account of Amir’s wealthy childhood there and his transition to an immigrant life in the United States.
Beyond the view of another culture, the story is particularly noteworthy for how it captures the magic of moments that are of great importance to those partaking in them and to no one else. An engagement of a couple is a wonderful thing, but outside of friends and family, it doesn’t matter. It does not impact the world. It is not difficult to believe because it is equally simple to achieve. But to the man and the woman, it is everything, a moment of everyday wonder. Hosseini grabs every drop of enchantment in such flashes of life, and it reminds you that these are what make life worth living.
While the story is beautiful and riveting, I recommend the book partially because of the view it provides of how “the other half lives”. While that statement is typically used in America referring to the lifestyles of the rich and famous, we fail to understand that we are the rich and the glamorous. You, me, all of us. In further adjustment to the adage, “half” doesn’t cover it either. To understand who we are and how we live, realize that 90% of Americans are richer than 90% of the rest of the world. Basically, if you are above the poverty line here, you are wealthier than 90% of the planet. That’s rich.
Food is not an issue in the US. Granted, ethanol and oil have driven up prices, and there are some homeless who hunger, and a few others in horrific situations that do as well, but these are, in a world view, statistically insignificant. Poor Americans are even fatter than the upper and middle class. How many Ethiopians would love to have the “problem” of being overweight? Most of our poor here also have cable, and many have air conditioning. We do not understand poverty in this nation. As a concept it is something studied in history books in the chapters on the Great Depression and the Gilded Age. Or on commercials for foreign children that interrupt our programs, 30 seconds at a time. As a people, we have forgotten how it feels to hunger. Perhaps I’m wrong, as, fortunately, Americans are by far the most generous givers in the world, both in total dollars and as a percentage of our incomes. Maybe we do still remember, and we do appreciate what we have.
A particularly captivating scene occurs as Amir describes life in America to a friend from his childhood. He talks of grocery stores, where the shelves are always filled, and how there is every type of bread he could imagine, how the milk and eggs are always cold and never spoiled. He describes a TV in every home, with a minimum of dozens of channels, sometimes hundreds. Amir tells him that children don’t work here, but go to school. Every family has a car, and most have more than one. The juxtaposition of the life of an incredibly rich Afghan family and of a poor immigrant American one is as startling for the similarities in lifestyle as it is for the differences.
While the title character was not, Afghanis are poor. Poor back in the monarchy prior to communism, worse yet under Soviet control, and poorer still under the Taliban. The Kite Runner takes us to pieces of each of them; unforgettable moments, most of which contain suffering that is anything but everyday.
Well, not everyday for this rich American. This is another reason to be grateful. We all won the genetic lottery, where the ticket is being born and the prize is birthing in Canada, Oceania, Western Europe or America. We had better all hope that Matthew 19:24, Mark 10:25, Luke 18:25 are all mistaken, and that it is in fact easier for a rich man to enter Heaven than for a camel to pass through the eye of the needle. If not, we are all going to Hell.
You know, where the rest of the world has been all along.
Thursday, June 19, 2008
Angela's Ashes
Since the greatest purpose of this blog is to catalog the things for which I am grateful (yes, I'm easily distracted) I think I'll hop back on track for a post. Of course, it's easy to be grateful for what I have after reading about life in Ireland during the Great Depression.
Angela's Ashes is Frank McCourt's memoir of his childhood. While very funny in parts, courtesy of McCourt's dry wit and terrific phrasing, this book is not a real fun read. Hearing how he lived in near-starving conditions, it was great when he described the Friday's when his dad would bring home a paycheck. He painted a picture of the family having eggs (no meat for Catholics on Friday), everything getting cleaned, and, basically, fundamental human needs were being met. I took no pleasure knowing that most Fridays his dad would take his paycheck and blow it all at the pub.
At the beginning of the book, McCourt says it is terrible to have a poor childhood, but infinitely worse to have a poor Irish childhood. Alcoholism is always a blight upon the families it infects, but its cultural epidemic upon the Irish working class was more of a holocaust.
In addition to the value of the book for purely literary purposes, it was a blinding reminder to be grateful for my childhood and, in particular, my father. Seeing the destruction alcoholism causes in the lives of Frankie and his family, I feel pretty blessed having a dad who was never drunk. Ever. Dad never stumbled home, angry or depressed. He came home and then took us to whichever sport team we were on -and he was coaching. I suppose instead of hitting his kids, he just us that he was proud of us and loved us. Instead of declaring the cruelties of life over a drink, he consistently referred to himself as the luckiest man in the world. Most of my weekend mornings were started hearing my dad singing at the top of his lungs: Al Jolsen, Nat King Cole, Bing Crosby.
To be fair, I do remember the first time I saw my dad drunk. I was in college, and we were playing beer pong together at my fraternity's father-son tournament. Seriously. It was a great night. Much to my embarrassment at the time, I learned my dad is the EXACT same kind of drunk I am: cheerful, friendly, and overly affectionate in that mortifying "I-love-you-maaaan" kind of way. God. anyway, looking back, I don't have a lot to complain about. If my experiences read like a storybook, it's probably because that's where tales such as mine usually are found.
My dad isn't perfect but not a lot of people are. To be sure though, he has always loved and cared for his wife and children, and that is about the greatest measure of a man. To summarize this review and homage, I leave you with a piece from Angela's Ashes. Just try and view my life as one where nothing like this could ever happen, and you'll do a decent job of figuring me out.
At one point, little Frankie steals fish and chips, still in wrapper, that a drunken man has let fall to the floor in a pub. Realizing he’d go to Hell if he were to die that night, he finds a church to confess in while on the way home. Here is that conversation.
Frankie: “Bless me father for I have sinned, it’s a fortnight since my last confession.” I tell him the usual sins and then, “I stole fish from a drunken man.”
Father: “Why, my child?”
“I was hungry, Father.”
“Why were you hungry?”
“There was nothing in my belly, Father.” He says nothing, and even though it’s dark I know he’s shaking his head.
“My child, why can’t you go home and ask your mother for something?”
“Cause she sent me out looking for my father in the pubs, Father, and I couldn’t find him. And she hasn’t a scrap in the house cause he’s drinking the five pounds Grandpa sent from the North for the new baby, and she’s raging by the fire because I can’t find my father.”
I wonder if this priest is asleep. Cause he’s very quiet till he says, “My child, I sit here, I hear the sins of the poor, I assign the penance, I bestow absolution, I should be on my knees, washing their feet. Do you understand me, my child?”
I tell him I do, but I don’t.
“Go home child, pray for me.”
“No penance, Father?”
“No, my child.”
“I stole the fish and chips, I’m doomed!”
“You’re forgiven. Go. Pray for me.”
He blesses me in Latin, talks to himself in English. I wonder what I did to him.
Angela's Ashes is Frank McCourt's memoir of his childhood. While very funny in parts, courtesy of McCourt's dry wit and terrific phrasing, this book is not a real fun read. Hearing how he lived in near-starving conditions, it was great when he described the Friday's when his dad would bring home a paycheck. He painted a picture of the family having eggs (no meat for Catholics on Friday), everything getting cleaned, and, basically, fundamental human needs were being met. I took no pleasure knowing that most Fridays his dad would take his paycheck and blow it all at the pub.
At the beginning of the book, McCourt says it is terrible to have a poor childhood, but infinitely worse to have a poor Irish childhood. Alcoholism is always a blight upon the families it infects, but its cultural epidemic upon the Irish working class was more of a holocaust.
In addition to the value of the book for purely literary purposes, it was a blinding reminder to be grateful for my childhood and, in particular, my father. Seeing the destruction alcoholism causes in the lives of Frankie and his family, I feel pretty blessed having a dad who was never drunk. Ever. Dad never stumbled home, angry or depressed. He came home and then took us to whichever sport team we were on -and he was coaching. I suppose instead of hitting his kids, he just us that he was proud of us and loved us. Instead of declaring the cruelties of life over a drink, he consistently referred to himself as the luckiest man in the world. Most of my weekend mornings were started hearing my dad singing at the top of his lungs: Al Jolsen, Nat King Cole, Bing Crosby.
To be fair, I do remember the first time I saw my dad drunk. I was in college, and we were playing beer pong together at my fraternity's father-son tournament. Seriously. It was a great night. Much to my embarrassment at the time, I learned my dad is the EXACT same kind of drunk I am: cheerful, friendly, and overly affectionate in that mortifying "I-love-you-maaaan" kind of way. God. anyway, looking back, I don't have a lot to complain about. If my experiences read like a storybook, it's probably because that's where tales such as mine usually are found.
My dad isn't perfect but not a lot of people are. To be sure though, he has always loved and cared for his wife and children, and that is about the greatest measure of a man. To summarize this review and homage, I leave you with a piece from Angela's Ashes. Just try and view my life as one where nothing like this could ever happen, and you'll do a decent job of figuring me out.
At one point, little Frankie steals fish and chips, still in wrapper, that a drunken man has let fall to the floor in a pub. Realizing he’d go to Hell if he were to die that night, he finds a church to confess in while on the way home. Here is that conversation.
Frankie: “Bless me father for I have sinned, it’s a fortnight since my last confession.” I tell him the usual sins and then, “I stole fish from a drunken man.”
Father: “Why, my child?”
“I was hungry, Father.”
“Why were you hungry?”
“There was nothing in my belly, Father.” He says nothing, and even though it’s dark I know he’s shaking his head.
“My child, why can’t you go home and ask your mother for something?”
“Cause she sent me out looking for my father in the pubs, Father, and I couldn’t find him. And she hasn’t a scrap in the house cause he’s drinking the five pounds Grandpa sent from the North for the new baby, and she’s raging by the fire because I can’t find my father.”
I wonder if this priest is asleep. Cause he’s very quiet till he says, “My child, I sit here, I hear the sins of the poor, I assign the penance, I bestow absolution, I should be on my knees, washing their feet. Do you understand me, my child?”
I tell him I do, but I don’t.
“Go home child, pray for me.”
“No penance, Father?”
“No, my child.”
“I stole the fish and chips, I’m doomed!”
“You’re forgiven. Go. Pray for me.”
He blesses me in Latin, talks to himself in English. I wonder what I did to him.
Friday, May 30, 2008
The Parent Dog
As you have probably gathered by now, my dog Parker is a special creature. Creatures with his capacity to love are truly rare and incredibly invaluable to those lucky enough to know them. Last week, I was reminded of another facet of his, well, love.
Parker is a parent to all puppies. I first experienced this first hand when my wife's sister brought over her new bulldog pup, Murphy. Or as my sister calls it, "the fat one". Now this animal is your classic English bulldog, in that it is so ugly it is cute. Seriously, it looks like someone bashed in the poor dog’s face with a flat shovel. Now my parents have a wonderful mutt named Bounder, who also came equipped with a capacity to love that is infinite. But he does get a tad jealous every now and then. With a new puppy at the house, and that pup being, shall we say, un-snipped, Bounder came awful close to putting the hurt down on Murphy. Parker and Bounder are steadfast friends, yet when Bounder strode towards Murphy, with intentions fully bared, Parker intercepted, and walked shoulder to shoulder with Bounder, guiding him away from the pup.
It was no accident, and the scenario replayed in similar form several times that night. Gentle but steadfast, Parker didn't let the pup get what it arguably deserved. My family and I were in awe.
A couple weekends ago, we brought Parker to my wife's brother's house to meet their new puppy. As Parker's former owner, my brother in law was thrilled to see him (who wouldn't be?), and it was a homecoming party and puppy introduction in one. Not lost in the human interactions, however, were the dog ones. Their new puppy Katie is also an American bulldog, virtually all-white to Parker's tiger-stripe brindle. A sweet dog (what puppy isn't?), she was terrified of Parker, and sat literally shaking in the lap of my sister in law. Parker seemed to understand the poor dog's fear, and he set about teaching her dog interactions.
When he approached, at first she would growl, and he would walk on. Obviously not intimidated, Parker just didn't want to scare her. As the night progressed, every fifteen minutes or so, he would pause by her, wait till she would tremor or growl, and then continue on. There was no pressure, just the option. Then he'd go and lie somewhere else, enjoying all the attention from his former owners.
At the end of the night, as we got up to leave, he walked past her one last time. No growl. Longer pause. Katie nervously stretched forward to sniff him. Statues move more than Parker in that moment. He then turned, slowly and softly, every move deliberate, and gave her a small sniff. She then stepped forward, out of the lap of a human, to meet this non-threatening entity. As they sniffed we couldn't help but laugh. He had taught her rule #1 in canine etiquette, and in a way so clear and effective it couldn't have been real. As we walked away, she half-followed, going to the door to watch Parker go.
I can't tell you how blessed I am to have this dog. I swear he teaches me new things every week. Oh, and if you were wondering, he's still whipping some cancer butt.
Parker is a parent to all puppies. I first experienced this first hand when my wife's sister brought over her new bulldog pup, Murphy. Or as my sister calls it, "the fat one". Now this animal is your classic English bulldog, in that it is so ugly it is cute. Seriously, it looks like someone bashed in the poor dog’s face with a flat shovel. Now my parents have a wonderful mutt named Bounder, who also came equipped with a capacity to love that is infinite. But he does get a tad jealous every now and then. With a new puppy at the house, and that pup being, shall we say, un-snipped, Bounder came awful close to putting the hurt down on Murphy. Parker and Bounder are steadfast friends, yet when Bounder strode towards Murphy, with intentions fully bared, Parker intercepted, and walked shoulder to shoulder with Bounder, guiding him away from the pup.
It was no accident, and the scenario replayed in similar form several times that night. Gentle but steadfast, Parker didn't let the pup get what it arguably deserved. My family and I were in awe.
A couple weekends ago, we brought Parker to my wife's brother's house to meet their new puppy. As Parker's former owner, my brother in law was thrilled to see him (who wouldn't be?), and it was a homecoming party and puppy introduction in one. Not lost in the human interactions, however, were the dog ones. Their new puppy Katie is also an American bulldog, virtually all-white to Parker's tiger-stripe brindle. A sweet dog (what puppy isn't?), she was terrified of Parker, and sat literally shaking in the lap of my sister in law. Parker seemed to understand the poor dog's fear, and he set about teaching her dog interactions.
When he approached, at first she would growl, and he would walk on. Obviously not intimidated, Parker just didn't want to scare her. As the night progressed, every fifteen minutes or so, he would pause by her, wait till she would tremor or growl, and then continue on. There was no pressure, just the option. Then he'd go and lie somewhere else, enjoying all the attention from his former owners.
At the end of the night, as we got up to leave, he walked past her one last time. No growl. Longer pause. Katie nervously stretched forward to sniff him. Statues move more than Parker in that moment. He then turned, slowly and softly, every move deliberate, and gave her a small sniff. She then stepped forward, out of the lap of a human, to meet this non-threatening entity. As they sniffed we couldn't help but laugh. He had taught her rule #1 in canine etiquette, and in a way so clear and effective it couldn't have been real. As we walked away, she half-followed, going to the door to watch Parker go.
I can't tell you how blessed I am to have this dog. I swear he teaches me new things every week. Oh, and if you were wondering, he's still whipping some cancer butt.
Saturday, May 3, 2008
Beautiful Day
First, some back story. Shortly after my first post on this blog, we learned my dog Parker had lymphoma. The weeks since then have been tough, to say the least. From chemo to his weight loss, incontinence, and exhaustion, I really haven't felt like writing about it, so I didn't.
But throughout the process, there has been hope. The swollen lymph nodes in his neck that originally got me to take him to the vet immediately shrank back down. His white blood cell count has remained high enough that we have been able to pursue chemotherapy in a fully aggressive manner. For a while he just didn't know he needed to go bathroom, but that, too, has passed.
About the only issue left has been his exhaustion. From a dog that would sprint up and down hills non-stop for an hour to one who couldn't match my walking pace, it has been devastating to witness his weakening. He was still happy, but he just couldn't do what he loves to do. No matter how loving he was, and how happy I thought he still was, I couldn't help but question if I was making him suffer for selfish reasons.
Today, Parker struck back. With a week and a half since his most recent chemo appointment, Parker has gotten stronger and stronger, more and more like his old self. Taking him up into the hills for a bathroom stroll this morning, he was his old self. After over a month of only walking, we had running. He was jumping over bushes, traversing hillsides and sending birds flying from every bush and tree. Instead of me slowing down my walk so he could keep up, it was me jogging and yelling for him stay in my line of sight.
So maybe he still didn't have 100% of his explosive power back, maybe not even 80. And the hike only lasted about 20 minutes, instead of our old hour long treks. I don't care. Because for the first time in over a month I had my dog back, and I got to see that making him fight the cancer was the right choice, with absolute evidence. He's been hanging tough the entire time, and we've done everything possible to keep him strong and healthy and, finally, I saw the tide turn. Yes, today is a beautiful day.
But throughout the process, there has been hope. The swollen lymph nodes in his neck that originally got me to take him to the vet immediately shrank back down. His white blood cell count has remained high enough that we have been able to pursue chemotherapy in a fully aggressive manner. For a while he just didn't know he needed to go bathroom, but that, too, has passed.
About the only issue left has been his exhaustion. From a dog that would sprint up and down hills non-stop for an hour to one who couldn't match my walking pace, it has been devastating to witness his weakening. He was still happy, but he just couldn't do what he loves to do. No matter how loving he was, and how happy I thought he still was, I couldn't help but question if I was making him suffer for selfish reasons.
Today, Parker struck back. With a week and a half since his most recent chemo appointment, Parker has gotten stronger and stronger, more and more like his old self. Taking him up into the hills for a bathroom stroll this morning, he was his old self. After over a month of only walking, we had running. He was jumping over bushes, traversing hillsides and sending birds flying from every bush and tree. Instead of me slowing down my walk so he could keep up, it was me jogging and yelling for him stay in my line of sight.
So maybe he still didn't have 100% of his explosive power back, maybe not even 80. And the hike only lasted about 20 minutes, instead of our old hour long treks. I don't care. Because for the first time in over a month I had my dog back, and I got to see that making him fight the cancer was the right choice, with absolute evidence. He's been hanging tough the entire time, and we've done everything possible to keep him strong and healthy and, finally, I saw the tide turn. Yes, today is a beautiful day.
Saturday, April 12, 2008
Women Through the Ages
http://www.saatchi-gallery.co.uk/blogon/mtvideobox.php?video_id=78
I thought this was beautiful. Just breathtaking. I thought it was incredible how often I could see the faces of my Beloved and other women I love. Fashions, hair styles, and "ideal bodies" may all change but true beauty is forever.
I thought this was beautiful. Just breathtaking. I thought it was incredible how often I could see the faces of my Beloved and other women I love. Fashions, hair styles, and "ideal bodies" may all change but true beauty is forever.
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