THREE SOUTH PARK CLIPS
Today I played tennis with a liberal writer/historian who had never heard of South Park.
So that got me experimenting with You Tube etc.
Enjoy.
----- o -----
Wednesday, November 29, 2006
Poem: DATE
DATE
A pomegranate on the wall,
An orange juice bottle prominent
On the coffee table, his talk,
Of marijuana pancakes,
“Imagine,” he said, “pancakes!”
And on his head in curls
Brown hair, he spooned my first taste
Of halvah from a bright blue can.
© Copyright 2006 William Morrissey All Rights Reserved
Monday, November 27, 2006
Sunday, November 26, 2006
MY GOOD NAME
I’m grateful to my parents for giving me a normal name: William George. Also, my brother got a normal name: Michael Joseph.
I mentioned this to my mom and she said it had been a concern; she and my dad did not want to burden their kids with unusual names that could draw teasing in the early grades of school.
I mentioned this to my mom and she said it had been a concern; she and my dad did not want to burden their kids with unusual names that could draw teasing in the early grades of school.
Three of those four names were associated with relatives or cronies. I think both of my names packed double whammies. Once my mom cautioned me that there were two Williams out there, one my godfather, the other an uncle by marriage, who both thought I was named after them.
Joseph was my dad’s name. Michael was the unattached name. I think they chose it because it’s so normal and so strong.
We Catholics are supposed to be named after Catholic saints. Anyway, there was for me the idea that one’s name connected one to famous people in history with the same name.
For instance, William the Conqueror, Saint George the dragonkiller, Michael the Archangel, Joseph and Mary.
Actually, the story of St Joseph, husband of Mary and stepfather to Jesus doesn’t sound like much fun. I wonder if poor St Joseph’s predicament has ever been used to satirize the Christ story.
But before him, another Joseph got a coat of many colors, and pissed his brothers way off. And he went to Egypt, too. [These poor Jews with asses and foot power made it to Egypt on a regular basis and our fucking president-to-be couldn’t hop a 707 to Europe. – P. Wilson.]
People tell me I look a little like William III, above.
What made me think of this was the heartbreaking picture of two young boys who went missing on a Native American reservation. The older one was four years old with big plump cheeks; his name was Tristin.
The first Google hit says it’s related to “Tristan,” the Arthurian knight of the Tristan and Isolde story, and it might have the word for “sad” as its root. They say it’s a boy’s and girl’s name.
I think that was a criterion for my folks: the name had to clearly indicate the sex of the child.
Then there’s the boy-named-Sue approach, or the ancestral approach which propagates Clarences and Sebastians and Aloysiuses. A name is something worth fighting for.
The second syllable of Sebastian is very harsh to an English speaker’s ear. And there aren’t good diminutives. And St Sebastian is the guy with all the arrows stuck in him so homoerotically.
One of the great names from the history of baseball is Tris Speaker.
The name Tristam didn’t get in the way of a lifetime .344 average. So I guess I’m full of shit.
One of the funniest things I ever said was at work in UCSF’s Accounting Office. A young, shy, first-generation Chinese American girl was very pregnant with her first child and would soon be on leave.
“Faye,” I said, “I’ll give you ten dollars if you’ll name your son “Bill.”
She had to think for awhile (to realize I was joking) before she smiled and shook her head, no.
“Ok,” I said, “a hundred dollars.”
It’s true, though, we’ll have a president named Barak, long before we ever have one named “Timothy,” or “Tristin.”
----- o -----
Wednesday, November 22, 2006
FALL NOTES
WHO’S TO BLAME?
Major life changes, such as changing jobs, changing domiciles, the loss of loved ones, are usually stressful. Such changes put unusual and possibly difficult tasks on one’s to-do list.
If these changes are unwelcome or unexpected, one can react by blaming the people who precipitate the changes. One thus avoids or ignores the undesirable new tasks on one’s to-do list and expends energy in recrimination and bitterness. I know this from personal experience.
Whether or not someone else is to blame, such major changes really are a normal part of life.
A lesbian teammate cried on my shoulder one evening. She’d been dumped unexpectedly by her girlfriend of eight years. “I thought this was it,” she said, “that me and Jane would be together the rest of our lives.”
It seems to me such an attitude comes from willful ignorance. There is so much in our literature that cautions against such illusion, while advocating the enjoyment of good things while they last.
The notion of achieving a state of lasting earthly happiness is something we hate to give up, but it’s certainly not something we can reasonably expect.
Job loss? Lots of blame and bitterness.
Death of a loved one? Who would have thought?
Hurricane? Shake your faith in God.
The Greeks had it right: Let no man count his life happy, until he is dead.
LEARNING FROM LIT
When I was young and timid I witnessed the sexual chaos that accompanies the end of long cold Lincoln, Nebraska winters.
Among my college age peers there was experimentation, and cheating, and finding out the hard way about the grim dynamics of relationships.
Once I complained to my shrink about all the unnecessary pain and hurt feelings. “The outcomes seem so obvious,” I said, “Don’t these people read novels?”
My shrink couldn’t help himself, “No, Willie,” he said, “some people want to experience life first-hand.”
Cheap-o punch line, but not completely errant.
SICK LEAVE
When my dad retired at age 67 from a 20-year career at CPS, he had a month or more of accumulated unused sick leave.
His peers at work, who were senior management, encouraged my dad to use the sick leave as an extra month of salary.
My dad wouldn’t do it. It was a big deal. He said he wouldn’t take sick leave because he wasn’t sick.
His colleagues thought he was crazy.
My choice of lump-sum cash out at retirement meant that my unused sick leave just went away (if I’d taken a monthly pension, unused sick leave would have been factored in).
I had only about 50 hours of sick leave accumulated. It was so low because of the five weeks of family leave I’d taken when my mom was dying.
People encouraged me to use the sick leave up, which would have meant lying. I didn't bother.
SHOOT ME FIRST
Pud and I felt really bad about the Amish schoolhouse massacre. But we sensed a painful contradiction.
Our hearts go out especially to the Amish because they’re so simple, and gentle, and good.
We were disturbed by the reports that the teachers and other adults in the school, along with the boy-students, obeyed the gunman and exited the schoolhouse—LEAVING THE GIRL STUDENTS BEHIND!
As Pud put it, “They fucking skee-daddled!”
Later, when the gunman’s intent became clear, one of the girl-students told him, “Shoot me first.”
“Now that’s Amish,” Pud said.
VIVALDI CORN
Call me corny, but I think Vivaldi was a great melodist. Many of his slow movements make me cry. They are so simple and clear, the tensions build so gradually, the resolutions are so inevitable, it’s hard to believe I fall for it, but I do.
This afternoon, in a moment of repose, I heard a Vivaldi sonata played by guitar and organ, a strange pairing with some unexpected sonorities.
The middle movement was so beautiful that once again I misted up.
Then I thought of a friend of mine who is still struggling with the effects of childhood abandonment. I wondered if he could feel the same way about the Vivaldi piece.
I pictured myself playing it for him, trying to share the profound sense of well being it imparts.
In my thought-experiment I imagined my friend unable to relax and “get into” the music. He probably couldn't have stayed still for more than a few bars. I imagine that the emotional dissonance drowns out a lot of stuff.
When I thought of this unavailability, I cried actual tears.
Those three words, “Shoot me first,” are sweeter than any melody ever written.
Major life changes, such as changing jobs, changing domiciles, the loss of loved ones, are usually stressful. Such changes put unusual and possibly difficult tasks on one’s to-do list.
If these changes are unwelcome or unexpected, one can react by blaming the people who precipitate the changes. One thus avoids or ignores the undesirable new tasks on one’s to-do list and expends energy in recrimination and bitterness. I know this from personal experience.
Whether or not someone else is to blame, such major changes really are a normal part of life.
A lesbian teammate cried on my shoulder one evening. She’d been dumped unexpectedly by her girlfriend of eight years. “I thought this was it,” she said, “that me and Jane would be together the rest of our lives.”
It seems to me such an attitude comes from willful ignorance. There is so much in our literature that cautions against such illusion, while advocating the enjoyment of good things while they last.
The notion of achieving a state of lasting earthly happiness is something we hate to give up, but it’s certainly not something we can reasonably expect.
Job loss? Lots of blame and bitterness.
Death of a loved one? Who would have thought?
Hurricane? Shake your faith in God.
The Greeks had it right: Let no man count his life happy, until he is dead.
LEARNING FROM LIT
When I was young and timid I witnessed the sexual chaos that accompanies the end of long cold Lincoln, Nebraska winters.
Among my college age peers there was experimentation, and cheating, and finding out the hard way about the grim dynamics of relationships.
Once I complained to my shrink about all the unnecessary pain and hurt feelings. “The outcomes seem so obvious,” I said, “Don’t these people read novels?”
My shrink couldn’t help himself, “No, Willie,” he said, “some people want to experience life first-hand.”
Cheap-o punch line, but not completely errant.
SICK LEAVE
When my dad retired at age 67 from a 20-year career at CPS, he had a month or more of accumulated unused sick leave.
His peers at work, who were senior management, encouraged my dad to use the sick leave as an extra month of salary.
My dad wouldn’t do it. It was a big deal. He said he wouldn’t take sick leave because he wasn’t sick.
His colleagues thought he was crazy.
My choice of lump-sum cash out at retirement meant that my unused sick leave just went away (if I’d taken a monthly pension, unused sick leave would have been factored in).
I had only about 50 hours of sick leave accumulated. It was so low because of the five weeks of family leave I’d taken when my mom was dying.
People encouraged me to use the sick leave up, which would have meant lying. I didn't bother.
SHOOT ME FIRST
Pud and I felt really bad about the Amish schoolhouse massacre. But we sensed a painful contradiction.
Our hearts go out especially to the Amish because they’re so simple, and gentle, and good.
We were disturbed by the reports that the teachers and other adults in the school, along with the boy-students, obeyed the gunman and exited the schoolhouse—LEAVING THE GIRL STUDENTS BEHIND!
As Pud put it, “They fucking skee-daddled!”
Later, when the gunman’s intent became clear, one of the girl-students told him, “Shoot me first.”
“Now that’s Amish,” Pud said.
VIVALDI CORN
Call me corny, but I think Vivaldi was a great melodist. Many of his slow movements make me cry. They are so simple and clear, the tensions build so gradually, the resolutions are so inevitable, it’s hard to believe I fall for it, but I do.
This afternoon, in a moment of repose, I heard a Vivaldi sonata played by guitar and organ, a strange pairing with some unexpected sonorities.
The middle movement was so beautiful that once again I misted up.
Then I thought of a friend of mine who is still struggling with the effects of childhood abandonment. I wondered if he could feel the same way about the Vivaldi piece.
I pictured myself playing it for him, trying to share the profound sense of well being it imparts.
In my thought-experiment I imagined my friend unable to relax and “get into” the music. He probably couldn't have stayed still for more than a few bars. I imagine that the emotional dissonance drowns out a lot of stuff.
When I thought of this unavailability, I cried actual tears.
Those three words, “Shoot me first,” are sweeter than any melody ever written.
----- o -----
Friday, November 17, 2006
FAILURE TO BONE UP
Pud returned from his annual checkup with a rant (surprise!).
“The goddamn doctor offered me Viagra!
“I told him, ‘Doctor, that ain’t my problem. Actually it’s the opposite. Since I was ten I’ve been trying to get the thing to go down, but with only limited, temporary success.’
“One of the problems of human nature is that during their most productive years men tend to think with their dicks. Supposedly, as we grow older, some of the thought process shifts to our brains. This is why it’s sort of a cliché to seek advice from older people.
“So they see the boomers approaching the transition from dick-thought to brain-thought and they find that unacceptable.
“So they put the best minds to work to develop a hard-on pill. The world is being destroyed by the ever burgeoning human population, and what do they determine we need? –more sex!
“The goddamn doctor offered me Viagra!
“I told him, ‘Doctor, that ain’t my problem. Actually it’s the opposite. Since I was ten I’ve been trying to get the thing to go down, but with only limited, temporary success.’
“One of the problems of human nature is that during their most productive years men tend to think with their dicks. Supposedly, as we grow older, some of the thought process shifts to our brains. This is why it’s sort of a cliché to seek advice from older people.
“So they see the boomers approaching the transition from dick-thought to brain-thought and they find that unacceptable.
“So they put the best minds to work to develop a hard-on pill. The world is being destroyed by the ever burgeoning human population, and what do they determine we need? –more sex!
“It’s difficult to focus on the historic Sunni-Shia rivalry when you have a four-hour erection!
“You know,” Pud concluded, “ the Puritans’ witch-burning thing--not so much wrong, just futile.”
----- o -----
AND MORE LIES
A standard instruction allows jury members, when they believe a witness has lied about one material fact, to discount all of that witness’ testimony.
It’s common sense. If a person lies to you once, you can’t trust them not to lie to you again.
It’s common sense. If a person lies to you once, you can’t trust them not to lie to you again.
It’s disheartening to catch someone in a lie, not because of some moral outrage, but because it means that future statements by that person will require some scrutiny and verification, which is unwanted work.
So, Americans have seen demonstrated in recent months that leaders of major corporations lie, and can’t be trusted. Leaders of major religions, both traditional and emergent, are liars and can’t be trusted.
And our president and his administration, it’s finally dawning on the American people, actually did lie knowingly to justify an illegal, birdbrained invasion.
Thousands of humans killed and maimed.
Thousands of humans killed and maimed.
Rush Limbaugh admits lying about his views on political issues in order to “carry the water” of the Republican regime.
I know, ho-hum, gambling at Ricks… but what about the 50% of Americans who are of below average intelligence? They rely on smart people to help them figure things out. Tell them to go kill Iraqis, and they’ll actually do it. Lying to them is a sin.
They are bewildered. Who can they believe?
----- o -----
POWER IS RADIOACTIVE
The old “power corrupts” saying tells us that even good people, once they acquire power, become corrupt.
The idea of term limits seems to be aimed at this problem.
Cincinnatus is certainly an example of an uncorrupted power-wielder. He got in and out.
The image is of Chernobyl after the accident. Some workers volunteered to go in and accept death. But most, I think, went in for very brief stints, so that the radiation dose wouldn’t kill them.
Like D.C.
----- o -----
Monday, November 13, 2006
LIES LIES LIES
Early reports of exit polling puts corruption at the top of voters’ concerns, just above the war in Iraq. Starting with Bush’s best friend, Ken Lay’s exposure and conviction and the other big biz financial scandals, through Tom Delay, Duke Cunningham, Jack Abramoff, ending up with Mark Foley, the flow of corruption became an avalanche.
Possibly the final nail was the revelation that the leader of Bush’s Evangelical base was a closet gay drug abuser.
A few days before the election we were able to compare the integrity of Ted Haggard to the integrity of a (former) drug-involved gay prostitute. Mike Jones even admitted that he timed the revelation to affect the election (including anti-gay Colorado initiatives).
Even members of Haggard’s megachurch, have reportedly thanked Mr Jones for exposing a problem, for which the reverend can now get help.
Karl Rove mentions the Haggard scandal as one of the contributors to the rout. Most lefties are ignoring the exit polls regarding corruption. They say it’s Iraq, Iraq, Iraq.
But our invasion of Iraq is itself a scandal. We were lied to about the reasons for going into Iraq. We still haven’t been told the honest truth about that.
Their annual reports are lies. Their state of the union messages are lies. Their assignment of priests are based on lies. Their oaths of office are lies. Their sermons are lies.
And the media’s incredulity is a lie.
Nobody likes to be lied to, at least not about important things, for instance the safety of one’s life-savings, or the reason one’s son was sent to die in combat.
So, the Republicans were turned outof office, not because they are war criminals and torturers (which they are), or thieves (certainly) but because they’re such goddamned liars. How “quaint.”
----- o -----
Sunday, November 05, 2006
ETERNAL DAMNATION
My friend, Pudinhand Wilson, is worried.
“If I go to hell for being gay,” he asked, “will I have to hang out with that creepy minister from Colorado?”
“Pud,” I reassured him, “if there were a God you’d be dead. If there were a hell, you’d already be there.”
“Thanks,” he said, “I forgot.”
“If I go to hell for being gay,” he asked, “will I have to hang out with that creepy minister from Colorado?”
“Pud,” I reassured him, “if there were a God you’d be dead. If there were a hell, you’d already be there.”
“Thanks,” he said, “I forgot.”
----- o -----
Friday, November 03, 2006
SEX WORK
So another rightwing Christian leader gets caught consorting with a male prostitute. It would still be news, but less juicy, if the prostitute had been female. Seems anymore it has to be gay or underage for anyone to care.
As an opponent of sex-fun in general and gay sex especially, Rev Ted Haggard is disgraced as a hypocrite.
Lost in this is his utter failure of pastoral duty.
When a Christian minister meets a prostitute, the minister’s response should be to help the prostitute find a better line of work, not to ask, “How much?”
The larger question for me is the dignity of sex work in general. Prostitution seems like a default source of income, when nothing else is available, and it beats dieing of starvation. But that’s probably not always the case
I think I wouldn’t enjoy having sex with people not of my choosing. But I can imagine how someone could find it more fun and rewarding than flipping burgers.
My mom used to say, “Young people think it’s all about sex. Gradually you learn that it’s really about power.”
The reported male prostitute in Denver, Mike Jones (I used to know a Mike Jones), who reportedly has audio tapes of the minister, is probably a nice man with diverse interests who does prostitution as a sideline and could survive without it; at this moment he has a lot more power than the disgraced minister.
BTW: Reports say Mike is 49, and still selling it? You go, girl!
----- o -----
PUD'S GP LIST GROWS
Pud was glad to see that PW Botha had finally died. “How do these evil fucks live so long?” he asks. Then answers himself, “Because they know what’s coming when they die.”
Pud was clearly overwhelmed by the idea of a flight to “South fucking Africa.”
“Maybe you don’t have to piss on Botha’s grave, Pud,” I suggested, “Maybe this obituary from the Guardian does the job for you. Check it out.”
PW BOTHA
Dan van der Vat
Thursday November 2, 2006
The Guardian
PW Botha, who has died aged 90, ruled South Africa under apartheid for 11 years until 1989, and was gradually exposed during his long decline as one of the most evil men of the 20th century, committed to state terrorism, war and murder to thwart black majority rule.
Pud seemed genuinely relieved. “Thanks,” he said, “I can’t tell you what a good feeling it gives me to read that.”
----- o -----
Thursday, November 02, 2006
INDEX OF POSTS
I've created a list of previous posts on this blog. For now it has only dates and titles. To access this list, click the INDEX link in the right sidebar.
from: MY LITERARY EDUCATION
It took only a few days for me to discover that I wasn’t the smartest kid in the freshman class at St Ignatius. I wasn’t even the smartest kid in my alphabetically derived group of forty known as Class 1D. I did well enough as a freshman, however, to be put in the “honor class” for the remaining three years.
The honor class comprised the forty smartest kids out of a freshman class of 280, so, the top 15%. Considering that SI was the most academically rigorous of San Francisco’s three Catholic boys high schools, there were some really smart kids in the honor class.
The honor curriculum included two years of Homeric Greek, while the other kids got Spanish instead, and four years of Latin, instead of just two. This exposure to the classics, pagan classics, is the platform from which I’ve taken my literary dive.
When you ask me what a word means I immediately think etymology. Not that I’m a scholar, I’m a non-scholar, but I’m a non-scholar of the Classics. I pick up stuff by osmosis.
In the first week of Sophomore year in the honor class, we received an English assignment, to write a Shakespearian sonnet, the subject didn’t matter but it had to be iambic pentameter, the standard rhyme scheme, and three quatrains and a couplet.
When Mr McCurdy returned the graded sonnets he asked one kid to stand and read his aloud. I was astounded. This kid, Don Casper, had written his sonnet in Latin! A perfect Shakespearian sonnet, but in Latin! This was a another good hint to me that I was out of my depth. When the teacher asked him to tell the class what grade he had received, Don’s face reddened, “An F,” he said. The point was that this was English class, not Latin class. Whoa!
Anyway, I quickly became a role-player. It turns out I had a decent ear, so the elite students enjoyed my writing, and my, even then, skewed world view. And I filled, in a very mild way, the role of class clown.
In Sophomore English class I sat at the front of the room. Mr McCurdy would start each session reviewing a word from the previous night’s reading assignment. His first question was always, “Who can tell us the etymology of this word.”
My hand would always shoot up enthusiastically, and Mr McCurdy would call on me. Most of the time I had no idea of the etymology, so I would make something up. In addition to identifying the Latin or Greek root, we were supposed to give its “principle parts.” I would model my answers on highly irregular verbs and nouns.
Mr McCurdy: The word is “consist.” Who can tell us the root of the word “consist”? Mr Morrissey?
sfwillie: Yes, Mister. It comes from the Latin verb sist. The principle parts are sistor, sistex, sistivi sum. It means to act in the capacity of a sister.
The class would laugh and groan while I feigned hope that my “guess” had been correct.
Mr McCurdy: Wrong. Can somebody help Mr Morrissey out?
Then I’d punch the air, or slap my forehead, to show my supposed disappointment, and flop back in my seat deflated. I guess people enjoyed it, because it became ritual. Of course, every once in a while I’d actually know the correct answer, in which case the class would erupt in applause and I’d take a deep bow.
That year the really smart kids amused themselves by composing sentences in Latin, which when read aloud, made sense in English.
Anyway, the honor class rendered me completely comfortable about my own enormous ignorance. I have a younger-brother strategy. I hang around people who are smarter than me or know more than me, ask questions, and keep my ears open.
The honor class comprised the forty smartest kids out of a freshman class of 280, so, the top 15%. Considering that SI was the most academically rigorous of San Francisco’s three Catholic boys high schools, there were some really smart kids in the honor class.
The honor curriculum included two years of Homeric Greek, while the other kids got Spanish instead, and four years of Latin, instead of just two. This exposure to the classics, pagan classics, is the platform from which I’ve taken my literary dive.
When you ask me what a word means I immediately think etymology. Not that I’m a scholar, I’m a non-scholar, but I’m a non-scholar of the Classics. I pick up stuff by osmosis.
In the first week of Sophomore year in the honor class, we received an English assignment, to write a Shakespearian sonnet, the subject didn’t matter but it had to be iambic pentameter, the standard rhyme scheme, and three quatrains and a couplet.
When Mr McCurdy returned the graded sonnets he asked one kid to stand and read his aloud. I was astounded. This kid, Don Casper, had written his sonnet in Latin! A perfect Shakespearian sonnet, but in Latin! This was a another good hint to me that I was out of my depth. When the teacher asked him to tell the class what grade he had received, Don’s face reddened, “An F,” he said. The point was that this was English class, not Latin class. Whoa!
Anyway, I quickly became a role-player. It turns out I had a decent ear, so the elite students enjoyed my writing, and my, even then, skewed world view. And I filled, in a very mild way, the role of class clown.
In Sophomore English class I sat at the front of the room. Mr McCurdy would start each session reviewing a word from the previous night’s reading assignment. His first question was always, “Who can tell us the etymology of this word.”
My hand would always shoot up enthusiastically, and Mr McCurdy would call on me. Most of the time I had no idea of the etymology, so I would make something up. In addition to identifying the Latin or Greek root, we were supposed to give its “principle parts.” I would model my answers on highly irregular verbs and nouns.
Mr McCurdy: The word is “consist.” Who can tell us the root of the word “consist”? Mr Morrissey?
sfwillie: Yes, Mister. It comes from the Latin verb sist. The principle parts are sistor, sistex, sistivi sum. It means to act in the capacity of a sister.
The class would laugh and groan while I feigned hope that my “guess” had been correct.
Mr McCurdy: Wrong. Can somebody help Mr Morrissey out?
Then I’d punch the air, or slap my forehead, to show my supposed disappointment, and flop back in my seat deflated. I guess people enjoyed it, because it became ritual. Of course, every once in a while I’d actually know the correct answer, in which case the class would erupt in applause and I’d take a deep bow.
That year the really smart kids amused themselves by composing sentences in Latin, which when read aloud, made sense in English.
Anyway, the honor class rendered me completely comfortable about my own enormous ignorance. I have a younger-brother strategy. I hang around people who are smarter than me or know more than me, ask questions, and keep my ears open.
----- o -----
Monday, October 16, 2006
Some SEX-EC
DEBT IN VENICE
Recently I attended a one-man stage adaptation of Thomas Mann’s Death in Venice. As theater it was a surprising success, but only because, like the novella itself, it was presented as a toss-off—eighty minutes, no intermission—not a complete evening of dramatic entertainment.
I saw it maybe three weeks before the Congressman-Foley-chasing-after-teenage-pages-scandal broke. Too bad. I’d like to see the actor going on about Tadzio’s godlike beauty, against the background of Foley’s take-your-boxers-off IMs. Could he keep a straight face, so to speak?
Recently I attended a one-man stage adaptation of Thomas Mann’s Death in Venice. As theater it was a surprising success, but only because, like the novella itself, it was presented as a toss-off—eighty minutes, no intermission—not a complete evening of dramatic entertainment.
I saw it maybe three weeks before the Congressman-Foley-chasing-after-teenage-pages-scandal broke. Too bad. I’d like to see the actor going on about Tadzio’s godlike beauty, against the background of Foley’s take-your-boxers-off IMs. Could he keep a straight face, so to speak?
When I first read the book and then saw the movie, I was a coming-out-gay leftist English lit major. I saw the moral of the story as simple, and comic: Fuck when you’re young—don’t become a pathetic old man following young boys through the streets.
Now, after thirty years of not thinking much about it, I have to agree with my earlier assessment It’s a simple cautionary tale regarding age-appropriateness. Aschenbach’s predicament in Venice balances the inappropriate choices he made in childhood.
Rather than pursue pleasure in play and companionship in his youth, activities for which he felt inadequate, Aschenbach became a loner and grinder, achieving academic excellence not though brilliance but by dull lead-assedness. His literary achievement, Mann tells us, was substantial but mediocre. The only thing notable in his style was impeccableness, as opposed to, say, verve.
So, in his sixties, when vague impulses draw him to a vacation alone in Venice, he sees and develops a crush on a fourteen year old boy. The overwhelming effect on Aschenbach makes him think that there is something very special about the boy, Tadzio. Aschenbach gushes, mentally, just like an adolescent girl with her first major crush, on “the most beautiful boy in the world.” Tadzio “rises godlike” from the waves of the Adriatic.
There is nothing wrong about this experience and response, we’ve all gone through it, but it’s supposed to happen around age 13 or 14 or 15, not 62. By the time a man reaches his sixties, he should know that the response, “that’s the most beautiful (boy, girl, man, woman) in the world,” is common and fleeting.
The climax of the story comes when Aschenbach utters the words, regarding but not to Tadzio, “I love you.” And, Aschenbach knows, the words are completely appropriate, except they’re uttered fifty or so years too late.
Aschenbach dies, never having touched or even spoken to Tadzio. There is a kind of perfection in this, that could be called tragic. It’s like the lovers on Keat’s Grecian Urn who will always love but never kiss, and never, presumably, smell each other’s farts.
The inability or failure to form a relationship with a perfectly beautiful person can be thought tragic. But consider the disappointment consequent to actually forming such a relationship. I think of the serious young doctor marrying the mayor’s daughter, “a perfection of blondness,” in Middlemarch.
The young doctor found that sexual possession of a beautiful object was entirely possible, but that while being perhaps a necessary condition for happiness, it was certainly not sufficient.
The human species is so successful due at least in part to it’s extraordinary sex drive. A human male, when it comes right down to it, will fuck almost anything. Human females love their offspring beyond all else.
Human sex drive is so strong it crushes us. Aschenbach thought he could avoid it entirely. But Eros’ due could not be denied. Aschenbach paid his debt in Venice.
BTW: In the stage presentation, the actor would shift into the voices of those with whom Aschenbach interacted. I realized that throughout the story Aschenbach talks only with members of the serving classes or occupations—gondoliers, hotel managers, barbers, travel agents, etc. He never speaks with a peer. And he never speaks, or is directly acknowledged by Tadzio, except by glances, never, say, a head nod. This seems odd to me.
The story makes more sense if we assume that Aschenbach is felled by a stroke or something, back in Munich when he encounters the red-haired man with the rucksack, from which he never regains consciousness. The trip to Venice is Aschenbach’s deathbed dream.
TRADE IN D.C.
In his first throes of love, Aschenbach tries to think what kind of relationship he could possibly form with Tadzio, and he considers two paradigms from Greece, Zeus’ “rape” of Ganymede, and Socrates’ relationship with Phaido.
At one point Aschenbach approaches Tadzio from behind and is about to touch his shoulder and speak to him for the first time but Aschenbach gets heart-flutteringly weak in the knees and pulls back. He is not Zeus. He is not Socrates. Why would Tadzio want to interact with Aschenbach?
Tadzio, as we see him in the novella, has no male-adult contact. The father is absent. Tadzio would probably enjoy some supportive, fatherly attention from a kindly grown-up man, but Aschenbach, stupefied by physical attraction, is much needier than Tadzio. Nope, it just can’t work.
What we see in the Mark Foley hit-on-pages scandal is an alternative to true love called “trade.” This was a pre-Stonewall gay term of art I heard when I was coming out. It’s was used to describe a class of potential sex partners, who were “not gay” but were more than willing to engage in gay sex in exchange for some non-sexual valuable consideration. I heard terms like young trade, butch trade, rough trade.
Foley, apparently, was looking for male pages who wanted help along their career paths. Association with a sitting congressman could be extremely helpful for a young person with certain ambitions. Some pages could experience revulsion at Foley’s first innuendos. At the other end, some pages might already have a crush on Rep Foley. In the middle we might find pages who would put up with a certain amount of sex-talk, or even sex acts, in return for the congressman’s attention. That’s trade.
Foley’s activity is called “sexual harassment on the job.” It’s against the law and it’s against the golden rule, regardless of the ages of the people involved.
The most pathetic line in the revealed communications is Foley asking a page, “do I turn you on?” And the page replies, “a little.” Hey, Mark, if you have to ask, the answer is “no.” Foley has been mocked by comparison to Austin Powers sticking out his plaid-polyester-clad butt to his lovely costar and asking her if that turns her on.
Needless to say, this is not a question Zeus would ever pose to Ganymede, nor Socrates to Phaido.
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Wednesday, October 11, 2006
ERRATUM, NOT!
The defensive scramble we see in the GOP House leadership’s offices is nothing compared to the turmoil in Pud’s fact-check “mill” this last week. Forget about middle-aged politicians hitting on 16 year-olds, which has been going on at least as long as gambling at Rick’s. SFWILLIE’S BLOG was charged last week with MAKING A MISTAKE!
Apparently a new reader had nothing better to do than to put the entire archive of SFWILLIE’S BLOG under painstaking scrutiny. Our new reader’s effort produced news that is both good and bad: he found one factual mistake (alleged), in a June '06 post regarding zero (much ado about nothing).
As CEO of this enterprise, I was pleased with this result—even gold glovers make errors. But Pud was upset beyond belief.
To his credit Pud took full responsibility. “It’s my fault for hiring these incompetent assholes,” he said, referring to his fact-check crew. “You get what you pay for,” Pud said in disgust when I mentioned that his fact-checkers don’t get paid. “But I gave them business cards,” Pud exclaimed, “and a reason to live. In Oz, a business card’s as good as an occupation.”
It’s true, Pud’s three fact-checkers are old, decrepit, and mostly depressed. Their major qualification, according to Pud, is that they answer their phones. And Pud is right, they do enjoy the charade. “And no one will accuse me of hitting on these subordinates.”
So Pud called a meeting (actually he took them out to lunch), and read them his standard riot act “…Fact-checking is more than spell-checking, etc…” Pud returned elated!
“We weren’t wrong! Arabic numerals WERE invented by the Arabs. The story that Arabic numerals, especially zero, come from India is a Nazi lie! The German pre-eminence in classical studies was turned to the service of the Thousand Year Reich in a despicable intellectual ripoff .
“The Germans have a reputation for valuing precision and detail. Numbers are important to them. They wanted to kill all Jews, for instance, but they wanted to know exactly how many that was.
“Just as Hitler had to obliterate knowledge of his own Jewish ancestry, so too, he couldn’t stand the idea that the numbering system which was to quantify the glory of his Reich was invented by Jews, well, Semites. So he put his Nazi scholars to work.
“And what did the Nazi scholars come up with? They ‘discovered’ that Arabic numerals, especially zero, weren’t invented by Semites (Arabs) after all.
Apparently a new reader had nothing better to do than to put the entire archive of SFWILLIE’S BLOG under painstaking scrutiny. Our new reader’s effort produced news that is both good and bad: he found one factual mistake (alleged), in a June '06 post regarding zero (much ado about nothing).
As CEO of this enterprise, I was pleased with this result—even gold glovers make errors. But Pud was upset beyond belief.
To his credit Pud took full responsibility. “It’s my fault for hiring these incompetent assholes,” he said, referring to his fact-check crew. “You get what you pay for,” Pud said in disgust when I mentioned that his fact-checkers don’t get paid. “But I gave them business cards,” Pud exclaimed, “and a reason to live. In Oz, a business card’s as good as an occupation.”
It’s true, Pud’s three fact-checkers are old, decrepit, and mostly depressed. Their major qualification, according to Pud, is that they answer their phones. And Pud is right, they do enjoy the charade. “And no one will accuse me of hitting on these subordinates.”
So Pud called a meeting (actually he took them out to lunch), and read them his standard riot act “…Fact-checking is more than spell-checking, etc…” Pud returned elated!
“We weren’t wrong! Arabic numerals WERE invented by the Arabs. The story that Arabic numerals, especially zero, come from India is a Nazi lie! The German pre-eminence in classical studies was turned to the service of the Thousand Year Reich in a despicable intellectual ripoff .
“The Germans have a reputation for valuing precision and detail. Numbers are important to them. They wanted to kill all Jews, for instance, but they wanted to know exactly how many that was.
“Just as Hitler had to obliterate knowledge of his own Jewish ancestry, so too, he couldn’t stand the idea that the numbering system which was to quantify the glory of his Reich was invented by Jews, well, Semites. So he put his Nazi scholars to work.
“And what did the Nazi scholars come up with? They ‘discovered’ that Arabic numerals, especially zero, weren’t invented by Semites (Arabs) after all.
“And guess who the Nazi scholars say DID invent so-called Arabic numerals especially zero? The ARYANS (Indians). Surprise, fucking surprise!
“So it’s bullshit, just more blond haired blue eyed Euro-fascist bullshit. Of course the Arabs invented Arabic numerals. Duh!
Pud actually took a bow.
“My fact-checkers are geniuses. I should give them a raise!”
“So, Pud,” I asked, “how did you find out about this Nazi plot to alter history?”
“Oh,” he replied, “it’s just a theory. But history is just theory.”
“But you’re accusing lots of researchers and scholars of being Nazis. You can’t really mean that.”
“Ok,” Pud said, “’Euro-centric’. But let’s face it, Nazism is just an extreme manifestation of Euro-centrism.
“And,” Pud concluded, “Arabs already hate us enough. Even if the Aryans actually did invent Arabic numerals, this is not a great time to bring it up.”
“So it’s bullshit, just more blond haired blue eyed Euro-fascist bullshit. Of course the Arabs invented Arabic numerals. Duh!
Pud actually took a bow.
“My fact-checkers are geniuses. I should give them a raise!”
“So, Pud,” I asked, “how did you find out about this Nazi plot to alter history?”
“Oh,” he replied, “it’s just a theory. But history is just theory.”
“But you’re accusing lots of researchers and scholars of being Nazis. You can’t really mean that.”
“Ok,” Pud said, “’Euro-centric’. But let’s face it, Nazism is just an extreme manifestation of Euro-centrism.
“And,” Pud concluded, “Arabs already hate us enough. Even if the Aryans actually did invent Arabic numerals, this is not a great time to bring it up.”
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Tuesday, October 03, 2006
STREET CLEANING
On my block, no-parking due to street cleaning is 1 – 3pm, Tuesdays my side, Fridays the other side. A violation is probably around $35. The good news is that they actually clean the streets during those times. The meter-maid precedes the sweeping vehicle by a couple of blocks. So if you get a ticket, at least you know that you actually got in someone’s way.
Not so in Los Angeles, where the street-cleaners come around only once a month, but the meter maids (parking enforcement officers) come around every week. So, if you get a ticket in Los Angeles for violating street-cleaning parking restrictions, chances are they didn’t clean the street that day anyway.
The city council, in response to citizen complaints about this, admitted that it seemed unfair, but that the existing revenue stream coming from weekly ticketing was funding necessary programs, and that, blah, blah, blah, the overall best thing for the residents of Los Angeles was to continue the weekly ticketing. So it’s actually a strange kind of hidden tax, a regressive tax.
This in the long run is terrible public policy and breeds disrespect for the law. Law and penalty must serve a public purpose other than just generating public revenue. It’s not a huge deal. I thought of it because I just heard the street cleaner rumble by.
Consider how pathetic is the job of the meter maid in LA giving tickets when no street cleaning will happen. Obviously parking officers have personal goals that brought them to their jobs, and the compensation is probably pretty high in relation to skill level, but there is no value delivered. It’s a charade. It’s soul-less.
Not so in Los Angeles, where the street-cleaners come around only once a month, but the meter maids (parking enforcement officers) come around every week. So, if you get a ticket in Los Angeles for violating street-cleaning parking restrictions, chances are they didn’t clean the street that day anyway.
The city council, in response to citizen complaints about this, admitted that it seemed unfair, but that the existing revenue stream coming from weekly ticketing was funding necessary programs, and that, blah, blah, blah, the overall best thing for the residents of Los Angeles was to continue the weekly ticketing. So it’s actually a strange kind of hidden tax, a regressive tax.
This in the long run is terrible public policy and breeds disrespect for the law. Law and penalty must serve a public purpose other than just generating public revenue. It’s not a huge deal. I thought of it because I just heard the street cleaner rumble by.
Consider how pathetic is the job of the meter maid in LA giving tickets when no street cleaning will happen. Obviously parking officers have personal goals that brought them to their jobs, and the compensation is probably pretty high in relation to skill level, but there is no value delivered. It’s a charade. It’s soul-less.
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