I Love Books

My Mother instilled the joy of reading in me at a very early age. And for that alone I am completely indebted to her. If that were the only gift I received from her I would be among the luckiest people on the planet.

But she gave me more. She taught me not everyone was as lucky as I. She taught me that being healthy is a gift. She taught me that not everyone had all the advantages I had. She taught me to root for the underdog and to make friends with kids in school who didn't seem to have any. She taught me not to be boastful. Up until her death she continually reminded me that I had a very great deal about which I rightfully should remain modest. And she wasn't kidding.

But this is about books. Or, rather, one 'book'.

November 17, 2009 is the publishing date for Sarah Palin's memoir, 'Going Rogue: An American Life' with an initial printing of one million five hundred thousand copies.

From HarperCollins:

"Governor Palin has been unbelievably conscientious and hands-on at every stage, investing herself deeply and passionately in this project," Harper publisher Jonathan Burnham told the AP. "It's her words, her life, and it's all there in full and fascinating detail."

You bet.

Anyway. The thing is I love books and I admire writers. Life is to be lived and books explain what happened. This is how I approach reading. And I'm still old-fashioned enough to believe in the idea of a writer writing for a reader. And that is why I greet news of Palin's 400 page 'memoir' with a combination of profound cynicism and a touch of sadness.

Firstly I have no doubt Palin's is an interesting story. Secondly I have no doubt Palin hasn't had time in the past few months to think through and write the story herself.

And while in the great scheme of things this is one of life's completely minor tragedies

it still is a depressing episode. I'm all for as many generations of Palin's as possible enjoying financial security and the millions of dollars Sarah will rake in for this memoir should help a lot. That said there is no shortage of media Palin. Talk show appearances, interviews, speechifying. Blah. Blah. Blah.

But for me a book is something else. It suggest a solitary activity where a writer goes to work in his/her mind and eventually gets it down on paper. And I admit that is too often a rather romantic view of how books actually get made.

Oh Woe is Us Episode #10,652 July 2009

Anyone spending time in the blogosphere will quickly discover that one of the most popular themes is the 'decline' of the United States. Apparently there was a time when ‘traditional values’ were adhered to, each and every person enjoyed ‘liberty’ and ‘god’ was responsible for all of our ‘blessings’. And that time has passed and America is going to the dogs at ever increasing speed. And 'Liberals' are to blame.

The popularity of this theme, echoed in countless permutations, is astonishing.

Following are a couple of excerpts that captured my attention from a blog which contains its authors frequent musings on our fall. As a life-long resident of Seattle (minus a couple of years in the early 1970’s attending college in Eastern Washington) in my mid-50’s I was intrigued by the title.

Seattle Needs a Eulogy

Imagine my surprise. Sometime, somehow, the city where I make my home and earn my living had up and died. And I’d missed it. Of course it isn’t easy to spot. Even in this deep, deep recession Seattle is a vibrant and vital city. The music scene thrives. Bookstores do big business. Pro sports are popular among that crowd. Do it yourself sports are common. Municipal government keeps everyone loudly complaining. The most recent Presidential election had everyone engaged. Visitors throng to the city from all over the world during our summer months. This time of year it’s difficult to navigate my part of town without bumping into a tourist snapping a photo or consulting a map. Haven’t they heard the news?

This city is rotten from the inside, at its heart, where the real disease takes hold. Like there's a wellspring - but not for water - for hungry boll weevils, and our common sense is cotton to them

So it would appear we’re still a bit asymptomatic. It’s an internal thing. Anthropomorphic even. Our city has a ‘heart’ and it’s ‘rotten’. And interestingly enough, given our latitude, boll weevils are the culprits. I would have expected bark beetles. Still our cotton/common sense/bark is disappearing.

(Describing the aircraft carrier John Stennis sailing to Bremerton)

About a mile from where I stood to watch her glide so carefully and proudly through the sound, is an intersectionof roads, all four corners of which are regularly populated with citizens loudly protesting America's activities across the world. Signs, pamphlets, and sheepish, vacant glares - even some epithets scribbled groundward in sidewalk chalk, as if to invoke the children in this sordid orgy - saying that we love some unnamed American vision which you have just returned from destroying. Your criminal odyssey pauses here, sailors, in this vapid, desiccated womb where the conflicting messages of "we support our troops," and "we curse their actions" are somehow allowed to stand side by side without rebuke. Welcome home, sailors, and don't be discouraged. I promise someone here loves you.

My Father at 88 is a wounded and decorated veteran of WWII. He and my Mother (died at 88 in 2007) were life-long, liberal Democrats. They themselves built the first home (evenings after Father had finished work) we lived in a few years after the war. We built additions to the larger, (Father and I built a couple of decks-one off the third story- among other projects) nicer house with a major view of Puget Sound we moved into some years later. The view is important because we too watched various Navy ships (including Trident Submarines) navigate these waters over the past fifty years. And the truth of the matter is my parents often remarked at what a monumental waste of money those ships (particularly the Tridents) represented. Unusable weapons built at colossal expense in response to an exaggerated threat perpetuated for domestic political reasons over the course of the 'Cold War'. And weapons continuing in use today providing no actual defense against no conceivable enemy. That's how they saw it and I agree.

And this gets to the core of the 'rotten heart' business. My parents lived in a neighborhood where they were active in the PTA, Boy Scouts, Camp Fire Girls & various baseball teams I played on. They attended and generously supported the local Congregational Church at the annual pledge time and gave their time to serve on various committees. My Mother was a stay at home Mom and my Father was fairly successful in the timber industry. They donated to various charities and helped build a food bank in the neighborhood. They paid their taxes and did everything one could expect from the civic minded. They were very active with the Open Housing issue during the 1960's.

They attended City Council meetings and hearings. They hosted fund raisers for candidates running for local office. They door belled. They contributed financially. They were extremely well-informed on politics at the local, state and national levels. They were extremely well read in the area of politics and current events.

They were adamantly opposed to the Vietnam war. They were appalled by US intervention in Chile and US support for the junta in Argentina and the contras in Nicaragua. They were grudgingly accepting of the first Gulf War but not at all of the second.

In short, they were engaged citizens, active in their community and working within the framework of our participatory democracy to advance their views. Sometimes their side won, often it didn't. That's the way it works. On those frequent occasions when it didn't they would accept the result and move on to the next issue. Never, ever is there a shortage of problems to address.

Some things never change. I find that lawfully exercising rights is a major annoyance to some. Taking unpopular stands is somehow 'unpatriotic'. Questioning authority is considered 'sheepish'. Same thing back in the post-WWII days when the Canfield Committee (Washington State's version of HUAC) was active. Opposition to the Vietnam war was not at all popular until the early 1970's. Support of Open Housing and Civil Rights legislation in the 1960's was extremely unpopular. Then as now, fear colored debate. Fear causes citizens to denigrate those with whom they have political difference. Then, as now, patriotism is too often last refuge of the scoundrel, the intolerant and the hateful. And fear drives the 'arguments' such as the 'rotten core/heart of Seattle'. Fear of change. And fear on the part of a shrinking group of people terrified by a rapidly changing world and frightened to death of losing their privileges.

To which I can only add.

Get over it.

Musical Suggestion July 14, 2009

Volume #6 in the series of Bill Frisell live concert recordings. Boulder/Hong Kong 2003 with the Intercontinentals.

Not to be missed.

http://www.billfrisell.com/artists/Frisell/frisell_110503_link.html

So many books. So little time.

In the midst of a lifetime of reading it is axiomatic that the more I read the more I want to read. One book leads to another. And another. And another.

I have kept annual lists of the titles I've read over the past ten years and I average between 60 and 75 books a year. Mainly fiction. Novels and short stories are about 80% of what I read. Non-fiction, biography and memoir around 20%. Many read far more. Many less. Before I began tracking I probably read at about the same rate from my early 20's until my mid-40's. Before that I read quite a lot more.

Nonetheless there are vast gaps in my reading experience. Authors I haven't read. Authors I haven't even heard of. And happily, authors who have yet to publish. It is always a treat (and a not uncommon one) to discover a work by an author new to me.

Vladimir Nabokov.

Another in an endless list of omissions in my list of books. Until now. In my book group we're reading Nabokov's autobiography 'Speak Memory'. In addition I'm reading my first novel of his, 'Pnin'. Years ago I picked up a copy of 'Pale Fire' but it never made it off the shelf and presently languishes in a box somewhere in storage. Never turned a page. But 'Speak, Memory' got me started and 'Pnin' has my complete attention.

Marvelous word play and incredible descriptions. 'Pnin' is funny/sad. The opening paragraph is wonderful. Then it gets better.

http://books.google.com/books?id=A171LVf0WSoC&lpg=PP1&dq=pnin&pg=PA3

Father's Day Revisited

Father's Day 2009

My Mother died at home under hospice care December 2007. Dad stayed in the family home for several months with in home help then moved to an assisted living apartment where he stayed for only a month until it became clear he needed additional care and was transfered to the nursing wing of the same facility. We all had long figured Dad would go first. He suffered from various ailments including (but not limited to) diabetes, Parkinsons, congestive heart failure and angina. In fact my Mother had bought a house in Eastern Washington planning to live near her grandchildren and great-grandchildren. She was robust, extremely social and healthy.

Or so we thought. She was diagnosed with lung cancer early spring of 2007 and was dead within months. Go figure. But her last year was in many ways quite wonderful. I had met a woman after being single for a number of years, fallen in love and got married while Mother was able to enjoy the ceremony. For her part she remained in good spirits all summer and fall. Relatives and friends visited frequently and family was always around. We had ample opportunity to make our peace and express our thanks. She died at home with family present, free of pain and about as settled at the end life as a person could be.

After her death Dad stayed on in the house, enjoying his unimpeded view of Puget Sound, reading his newspaper and dozing. Repeating as necessary.

Fortunately Dad had done a couple of things right investment-wise over the years so his relocation to the Sisters of Providence and the high tariff is doable. Interestingly enough he has thrived during the year he's lived there. Always a loner he enjoys a chair next to a window with a lovely territorial view and, diminishing eyesight notwithstanding, spends the day reading his newspaper and dozing. In fact his pursuits are nearly identical to those he enjoyed twenty-odd years ago when he began his retirement.

Dad is located a few miles from my place and I visit a couple of times a week. It's a 25 minute ride on my bicycle with a major hill the last mile before the home. It's nice to have the opportunity to exercise and clear my thoughts before our visits as while we have always been quite congenial we haven't always been close. And it's difficult watching a parent decline. Still he likes it quite well. He thinks of it as a hotel and is no end of pleased with all the attention he receives from staff and the visits he receives from my sister and I. Happily he is past the point of grasping just how much his hotel stay is costing him. The number would shock. Often I'll visit and he'll pick up as if it hadn't been a few days since I'd last seen him but rather I'd just wandered back into the room after having gone down the hall or something. Dementia plays interesting tricks with time.

And it almost always plays out the same. I drop by his room to check if he's napping. Most often not and I find him in the dayroom with his newspaper at his window. We chat. I get him coffee. I have a cup myself. I ask how he's feeling. He always feels fine. I ask if he'd like to go outside or to the espresso bar or to the dining room for lunch and he, to each question, gives a somewhat puzzled look and says "maybe another time, I think I'll read the paper'. Then, invariably, after an hour or hour and one half or so, he'll look at me, look at his watch and thank me for stopping by (and bringing the sugar-free Aplets & Cotlets) and suggests it's probably time for me to go. The staff enjoys him very much. He's not much trouble at all. The extent of trouble being every once in a while he rolls his wheelchair into the elevator and wanders the building a bit but not so much. The other thing he'll do on occasion is give a shout if he is so much as bumped which can be a bit disconcerting to the uninitiated but a source of amusement to the veterans and to my sister and I. He's always been a wee bit of a complainer.

And so Father's Day wasn't much different. Brought a card from my wife and I and a box of candy and chatted for an hour or two. Read the paper, drank coffee and gabbed with the nurses and orderlies.

An hour and one half later it was time to leave.

Kyril Bonfiglioli

From the musings of one Charlie Mordecai:

'Bed . . . is not at all a good place for sex: sex should take place in armchairs, or in bathrooms, or on lawns which have been brushed but not too recently mown, or on sandy beaches if you happen to have been circumcised. If you are too tired to have intercourse except in bed you are probably too tired anyway and should be husbanding your strength. Women are the great advocates of sex in bed because they have bad figures to hide (usually) and cold feet to warm (always). Boys are different, of course. But you probably knew that.'

Above me and to my right shone the lights of the honest bungalow dwellers of Silverdale: I found myself envying them bitterly. It is chaps like them who have the secret of happiness, they know the art of it, they always knew it. Happiness is an annuity, or it’s shares in a Building Society; it’s a pension and blue hydrangeas, and wonderfully clever grandchildren, and being on the Committee, and just-a-few-earlies in the vegetable garden, and being alive and wonderful-for-his-age when old so-and-so is under the sod. 

Dissolute. Immoral. Middle aged. Portly. Arch and insufferably snobbish. Occasional thief. Art dealer by profession.

And one of the great characters in English comic fiction.

Mid-Life Crisis Part IV

Last autumn I experienced yet another in the seemingly endless series of mid-life crises I've endured since entering middle age at approximately seventeen years of age. Still, this was a difficult one. My Mother had died a few months before, my Father, unable to continue in the family home alone, moved into an assisted living facility where, after one month, it was determined he actually required a higher level of care and thus was sent down the hall to the other wing where the Sisters of Providence tend to him in the nursing facility. Turns out he loves it. Endless attention from the staff. Lots of naps. Good food. Lots of naps. It works well for the old timer.

Guys I know my age usually do one of a couple things when they have the sort of experience I had last October. They either chase younger women (not at all wise for we married types) or they buy a new car. Neither holds any attraction for me. I am happily married and I despise cars and haven't owned one in years. But I do like to bicycle. I don't race (nor actually train for that matter) and only very occasionally participate in organized rides. But I love to ride around my city (weather permitting) enjoying the views and enjoying the feeling of well-being strenuous exercise brings. When the weather is fine I ride most days an hour or two. When the weather is lousy it's spin class at the gym. I own a Kona Jake. A solid, aluminum frame cyclo-cross bike (ridden either on pavement or off) with fenders, a rack and my grocery bag. A sturdy, mostly efficient extremely stable ride ideal for running errands rain or shine.

But anyone who cycles eventually wants go faster. And in my time of crisis it seemed wise to neither pursue women nor buy a Porsche so a road bike seemed just the ticket. Matt is the younger fellow who works for us installing and making deliveries and he is an avid cyclist. Matt and his buddies head up for a loop around Mt. Rainier a few times during the summer (154 miles w/ 10,000 feet of elevation). They are more advanced cyclists than I. My maximum is two laps of Bainbridge Island (67 miles with 4,000 feet of elevation) which puts me to bed by seven o'clock and asleep for 9 or 10 hours.  With Matt advising I ventured onto eBay and into the world of gear heads and very fancy bicycles.

Pictured above is what I bought after searching the auctions for a couple of weeks. A 2005 Orbea. 20 speed. Lobular aluminum frame. Carbon seat post, front fork and rear stays. Shimano DuraAce 7800 gruppo, shifters and brakes. Etc. Etc. Something on the order of 17 pounds total weight and very, very nimble. The bike has a gorgeous paint job. No decals. The entire frame (logos et. al.) is painted and, as one can see, quite vivid. The bike is a replica of the bike Orbea (a Spanish/Basque manufacturer of high end frames and bikes) provided for the Polish cycling team CCC Polsat back in 2003 - 2005. CCC Polsat is a Polish shoe manufacturer/retailer which spend a couple of years backing a cycling team in Europe. Enough at least to create a market for amateurs to buy a replica of their gear. Go figure.

The bike belonged to a guy in Idaho who, according to he himself, had received an  ultimatum from his significant other to reduce the number of bicycles in their garage. Apparently they were running out of space for cars and the 10 or 12 bicycles on hand. Though only three years old and ridden very, very little, Mr. Idaho had upgraded the components and the wheels only 200 miles previous so that the bike I bought was essentially brand new. Thank goodness for obsessives with ample budgets to indulge their hobby. After consulting Matt I tracked the bike on the auction and ended up the only bidder. The market turmoil of October last helped me no small end in acquiring the bike for a ridiculously small amount of money. I paid less for the entire package than the guy had paid for the new components a couple of months prior. But his girlfriend was happy I suppose. She could park in the garage again. Perhaps.

So now that spring is emerging I take the orange bike out of the basement and ride. Dry pavement only. The bike is a serious upgrade over the Kona. 2-3 mph faster right from the get go. More agility. Better handling. It's similar to the difference between a Porsche 911 and a Volvo station wagon.

And here's another thing about cycling. 

No one looks good in spandex cycling shorts.

I repeat.

No one looks good in spandex cycling shorts.

Lance Armstrong and his professional cronies look acceptable but for the civilian population at large the spandex cycling short truly is a crime against nature and a crime against good taste. Normal people just don't look very good in skin tight spandex. Period. And as for the increased ability to discern gender via the shorts themselves...

It's heretical to ride a bike like my Orbea with shorts like these but I do and that's just the way it is. This is a pair of Swobo Rind baggy mountain bike shorts. Incredibly comfortable. Waterproof, windproof, with a very, very comfortable chamois pad for, as they are described, the delicate tissue. Just as it really is a bit silly to worry about six or seven ounces of weight on a bicycle when one is 20 or 30lbs. overweight, so too does it seem just a little silly to worry about increased drag wearing baggy vs. spandex shorts. But most riders do.

Personally I think I'm providing a benefit to humankind by going baggy. There are some things people just shouldn't see.