Golden Days

My Great Aunt was diagnosed with Rheumatoid Arthritis when she was quite young. They believed it may have been related to her having had Rheumatic Fever when she was super young. They treated the debilitating pain with gold. I just found this out. They injected the precious metal into her system and it worked. She went to the doctor because her hands could not pick up her baby. After the gold treatment her hands started to work again, so she went to work as an administrative assistant and was typing on a typewriter for the next forty years. Then she w

as

typing on a computer

  for another twenty years

,

until she retired at age eighty-five. This year she’s ninety. We always say she has gold-plated bones, and now I know the meaning is literal.

For it’s a long long while / from May to December . . .
                                       — Kurt Weill (September Song)

Back in the ‘way

I had a blog before. It was called Vespaway. Although it was celebrated in mainstream press and underground circles alike, it did draw criticism. Most of the complaints I got centered on the idea that many posts were “off topic.” I never responded directly, but continued to blog and correspond in a way that I hoped would clarify the topic itself.

The topic was not Vespa per se. It was all about a way of life that was made a little easier and more enjoyable with a Vespa in it. Sure, sometimes it focused squarely on the anticipated release of a new model arriving from Italy, how the product had performed in European tests, and maybe what colors would be available.

Color commentary in a much larger sense and play-by-play coverage were somehow reversed in this game. One could say rather that the lifestyle provided the action and the scooter news provided the filler. It made perfect sense to plenty of people, but you could certainly see why many more were confused. They grabbed the RSS feed because they wanted to know when the GTS 250 would be released in the States. Maybe they had heard I would have the inside scoop on that. They were not interested in what I did with my family and friends while we waited, along with the rest of America’s eager riders, for that exciting day.

I mean, I wrote about riding an LX150 as fast as I possibly could on Ocean Parkway. But it was more about passing Jones Beach and stopping for clam chowder on the way to Fire Island than it was about whether I could get the thing up to 70MPH. And when I did do that (in full tuck with the wind at by back) the fun in the beautiful sunset was darkened by the reminder I would need a 250 if I wanted to make Manhattan by nightfall. Worse, I didn’t even go to Fire Island, so it was all chowder.

Now, five years later, I am sitting at the edge of a Chevy dealership, looking at trucks that might fit Harleys in the back. I could say, “hey, it’s not for me; it’s for a friend.” This would only punctuate the irony.

I’m not going for irony. Irony is a cheap thrill for those who are new to the realization that it is all one. Either that, or a routine fix for compulsive Deconstructionists. I am going for deeper understanding. OK, wait. Maybe I kid the kidders. I do find that both new perspectives and endless epistemelogical unravellings can create insight. Just as much as the next guy, right?

It’s just that what I am saying is that there is very little difference between having a Vespa and having a life or, for that matter having a Harley. That we as a Species are separated by one or two genomic differentiators from not only the monkeys but also the bananas is old news! Sometimes people seem to seek understanding, to find sense and meaning in things, only by determining simple differences. Big vs little. Man vs. Machine. Yankees vs. Red Sox. If you love baseball, you like both. If you love Leonardo da Vinci, you like both. If you love your mother you like both.

Because 7 8 9

On the Hampton Jitney, sitting next to Kung Fu Flash Kid who is sleeping off a 5-year-old birthday party, I am reading the FT Weekend. It happens to be the printed edition, not because I don’t love trees, but because I do love that we still have a newsstand right at the stoop to our apartment. Anyway, the paper tells me we are all as bad off as we may have imagined. It tells me laughter is the best medicine. It tells me this is a strange and beautiful world.

I am reminded how the quality of the writing is not at the peaks it had reached during the Clinton era. I am reminded of the time that even such a lover of nonfiction as nonfiction writer Simon Winchester asked me what, pray, in the Financial Times, I could possibly be laughing about, and I reminded him that the truth is funny. I am reminded today it never ends, neither the ugliness nor the wonder of it all.

That the journalism is less than perfect, I find it peculiarly encouraging on a personal level. That personal journaling can encourage others may be a vain notion, and yet a thoroughly worthwhile pursuit. My only task then is to begin, and then begin again.

Sixes and Sevens

Had a whole plan for June and now it’s July. Do I work through the backlog or simply skip ahead? This is the trouble with pet projects as opposed to those Client-sponsored endeavors I treat “like they were my own.”

First Degree

For the sixth day of the sixth month, I thought I would create a list in my Twitter account about the six degrees of separation. I refer to the phenomenon all lower case so as to distinguish it from the John Guare play of the same name, though the concept is big. If I have this right, the idea that there are “six degrees of separation” means I am connected to everyone alive by no more than six degrees. In other words, I know someone who knows someone who knows someone who knows someone who knows the President of China.

If Twitter were working for me right now I would have posted this mix of no-pretense and pretensiousness. It is my short list of important people with whom I have enjoyed live and direct unmediated conversation during my life on Earth (and what we discussed). This makes us first-degree connections whether or not we are Linked In or my phone number is in any of their handheld devices.

1. John Guare (Three of the five Boroughs of New York City, three of the thirty-one towns in Berkshire County, Massachusetts)
2. Brian Eno (drums, robots, airlines, contingency, irony, and solidarity)
3. Cecil Taylor (Elvin Jones, telephones, jiu-jitsu, home-made stew, home-made balms, CD-ROMs)
4. Amy Tan (Palo Alto, San Francisco, Macau, Shanghai, coffee, tea)
5. Zeljko Ivanek (Sandra Pearson, Anton Chekhov, Henrik Ibsen, Tennesee Williams, Eugene O’Neill, goulash)
6. Blythe Danner (Ballou Lane, bicycling, school, Summer, daughter, tea).

There we go; a couple of writers, couple musicians and a couple actors. It’s a typical New York dinner table except we’re missing architects, dancers and painters, nottomention no civil servants or physicists or surgeons are represented. Let’s remedy that in the second degree if we can.

Hello world!

Can’t think of Hello World without thinking of computer programming. I was thinking about it already, though, how the object-oriented programming model works for Twitter. ReTweeting is like inheriting a Class.

Note to self and other: look up tweets on this idea. I am sure many are way ahead of me.