Is there an easier job in Central Ohio than TV meteorologist? The sheer sketchiness of our weather patterns turn their radars into works of fiction more often than not. This week alone, a spat of sudden yet severe storms crashed down, some so quickly the sun easily broke through on both ends of the rain-bearing clouds.
The summer weather crapshoot, luckily, travels two directions. Last night was beautiful, with some heat, low humidity and enough breeze to dress up a late June day convincingly in springtime fashion. Riding the Olentangy path home in the gloaming was wonderful. The river brought the temperature down a few more degrees and the pink light of dusk (there's that color again) spiking out between the clouds cast an interesting cloak upon it all.
And on Saturday, the humidity, high temperatures and showers return. Welcome to Central Ohio weather ...
Friday, June 30, 2006
Thursday, June 29, 2006
Yours sincerely, Wasting Away
With two months at my new apartment, I was starting to believe I might be the only one actually living in my part of the 12-unit building (four units share a stairwell). Aside from the television that blares late into the night, there's been hardly a noise and not a soul anywhere. Warning signs on one apartment door downstairs proclaim the use of oxygen inside and warn smokers and grillmasters. I'd never seen any sign of life.
Due to happenstance Friday, I finally met my neighbor. Running to drop some recyclables in my trunk, I opened the main door and saw the very elderly, rail-thin lady with tubes attached to her nostrils. So the warning signs were right; her apartment served as a single, huge oxygen tent. She was friendly, took me on a tour of her apartment, its decor firmly entrenched in the 1970s, though she'd lived there for 12 years. The television that broadcasted midnight's background noise was of an even older vintage.
The awkward conversation carried on for five minutes, then I gave her my phone number in case of emergency. Not a monumental meeting, just an introduction so the next time I enter the building and catch her checking her mail, it dulls the shock.
It's kind of ironic, in a sad, mortal way: She smoked heavily and now she can't breathe without extra oxygen, which prevents everyone else from smoking. Seeing the withering results of decades of cigarettes almost makes me want to stop my drinking/smoking combo entirely. So maybe tomorrow....
Due to happenstance Friday, I finally met my neighbor. Running to drop some recyclables in my trunk, I opened the main door and saw the very elderly, rail-thin lady with tubes attached to her nostrils. So the warning signs were right; her apartment served as a single, huge oxygen tent. She was friendly, took me on a tour of her apartment, its decor firmly entrenched in the 1970s, though she'd lived there for 12 years. The television that broadcasted midnight's background noise was of an even older vintage.
The awkward conversation carried on for five minutes, then I gave her my phone number in case of emergency. Not a monumental meeting, just an introduction so the next time I enter the building and catch her checking her mail, it dulls the shock.
It's kind of ironic, in a sad, mortal way: She smoked heavily and now she can't breathe without extra oxygen, which prevents everyone else from smoking. Seeing the withering results of decades of cigarettes almost makes me want to stop my drinking/smoking combo entirely. So maybe tomorrow....
Wednesday, June 28, 2006
Littering the past
Unless you live in Eastlake or Lake County in Northeast Ohio, the headlines about a former mayor pleading guilty to greasing the wheels for a developer who reneged on his plan to build an industrial park. As the city swims in debt, the name of the mayor who led it into deep waters doesn't interest me as much as the developer. The ex-mayor, DiLiberto, played ball with the investigators and brought down deadbeat developer John Chiappetta (all detailed in issues of Cleveland Scene, The Plain Dealer and the News-Herald from Lake County).
So why care? To start, this guy hired me to work in his metal fabrication company's paint shop when I was cashless and desperate for summer work. It was miserable, sweltering work, prepping and cleaning metal parts, checking them for defects when they emerged from an giant oven baking them at 400-plus degrees. But it was a job, the people were generally nice and that labor hammered on the importance of my last college year. Yeah, I wasn't coming back --- the people there agreed I was better off.
Shortly before I returned to school, I remember the employees' excitement over the new facility (they'd been spread around a cluster of buildings in a Mentor office park). Years later, they were all unemployed, their health benefits gone when E & W Services went under and JC took money from the health care fund (he's looking at 3 years in federal prison for that one).
My parents saw the Rat Pack with him, his family and other friends on his 40th birthday. We once sat in his loge at the old Cleveland Muni Stadium for an Indians/Athletics game.
(A digression on the most infuriating moment of my painted summer)We all stayed on the clock during the last hour of work for a mandatory employee BBQ on the front lawn of the paint shop with Chiappetta's county commissioner buddy who was running for another term that fall (JC was a big donor to Ohio Republicans) ... all coincidental, I'm sure. My anger at the carefully orchestrated p.r. event was personal -- it was my 21st birthday and only the commissioner's platitudes and the BMV line stood between me and Night No. 1 of legal debauchery. But no one minded that I was still intoxicated the next morning at work.
So Chiappetta gets a prison sentence for his other charges later this week. Summer job or not, guilty plea or not, he hurt a lot of people already living close to the edge. He will spend his last good days on earth in captivity, thinking about that harm ... At least I'd hope he would. Maybe he'll think about the Rat Pack instead.
He earned that time behind the razor wire (I know, they're not sending this guy to Leavenworth).
But I'm still glad he gave me that job.
So why care? To start, this guy hired me to work in his metal fabrication company's paint shop when I was cashless and desperate for summer work. It was miserable, sweltering work, prepping and cleaning metal parts, checking them for defects when they emerged from an giant oven baking them at 400-plus degrees. But it was a job, the people were generally nice and that labor hammered on the importance of my last college year. Yeah, I wasn't coming back --- the people there agreed I was better off.
Shortly before I returned to school, I remember the employees' excitement over the new facility (they'd been spread around a cluster of buildings in a Mentor office park). Years later, they were all unemployed, their health benefits gone when E & W Services went under and JC took money from the health care fund (he's looking at 3 years in federal prison for that one).
My parents saw the Rat Pack with him, his family and other friends on his 40th birthday. We once sat in his loge at the old Cleveland Muni Stadium for an Indians/Athletics game.
(A digression on the most infuriating moment of my painted summer)We all stayed on the clock during the last hour of work for a mandatory employee BBQ on the front lawn of the paint shop with Chiappetta's county commissioner buddy who was running for another term that fall (JC was a big donor to Ohio Republicans) ... all coincidental, I'm sure. My anger at the carefully orchestrated p.r. event was personal -- it was my 21st birthday and only the commissioner's platitudes and the BMV line stood between me and Night No. 1 of legal debauchery. But no one minded that I was still intoxicated the next morning at work.
So Chiappetta gets a prison sentence for his other charges later this week. Summer job or not, guilty plea or not, he hurt a lot of people already living close to the edge. He will spend his last good days on earth in captivity, thinking about that harm ... At least I'd hope he would. Maybe he'll think about the Rat Pack instead.
He earned that time behind the razor wire (I know, they're not sending this guy to Leavenworth).
But I'm still glad he gave me that job.
Tuesday, June 27, 2006
The infinite stigma of pink
Wearing a shirt five times in nine months should not generate overwhelming stares and comments. But when the shirt arrives, pressed, neat and in the taboo color of pink, the white hetero male gets all brands of undeserved attention.
In fairness, it is a particularly bright pink. In anger, it's just a shirt, people. As a longtime wearer of everything black, white and navy blue, the closet desperately needed an infusion of new colors.
Pink has immortal film moments to back the stigma. In Reservoir Dogs, Steve Buscemi questions why he gets the name Mr. Pink only to be shot down with "Because you're a faggot."
So there it is, or isn't.
Either way it's migraine time and luckily my deadlines are met, so two page checks from now, I can try to shake off the raw sensation behind my eyes....
In fairness, it is a particularly bright pink. In anger, it's just a shirt, people. As a longtime wearer of everything black, white and navy blue, the closet desperately needed an infusion of new colors.
Pink has immortal film moments to back the stigma. In Reservoir Dogs, Steve Buscemi questions why he gets the name Mr. Pink only to be shot down with "Because you're a faggot."
So there it is, or isn't.
Either way it's migraine time and luckily my deadlines are met, so two page checks from now, I can try to shake off the raw sensation behind my eyes....
Maybe the jingo took your baby
If he didn't take that, he's probably taken away your protest song, a style of music that suffered from neglect up until the tanks started the crawl to Baghdad.
But the actual quality of the music lags far behind anything put out in the days of Vietnam.
Neil Young's recent album Living With War hit a few good notes, but its main carrot is as the second Young album in 8 months and that he penned most of the songs the day he recorded them, giving it an immediacy few modern albums can claim.
At the same time, it's an album frozen in the moment, and there isn't a seminal anthem like Young's emotional tribute to the dead at the Kent State riots("Ohio"). Bruce Springsteen released his album of old standards and Pete Seeger songs, but new protest music is sorely lacking.
We do have the other side, the Toby Keith and Lynyrd Skynyrd brand of pop-country/Southern-rock made for labeling anyone not in step with the president's lead as a traitor. That's overly general, but I have a hard time taking the overzealous flag-waving seriously from a guy writing songs specifically for Ford F-150 commercials. But hell, that's the audience.
With the War on Terrorism and the Iraqi occupation, this time there is no "Universal Soldier," the Buffy Sainte-Marie song made into a hit by Donovan. It author calls it a take on individual responsibility in a time of war and it definitely doesn't fit the support the troops uber alles mentality that has taken over America. But look at how the song runs down a list of soldier types and the line "Without him Caesar would have stood alone" will not let anyone forget that dictators cannot rise to the top without a base of loyal soldiers.
One song stands out from the pack: Tom Waits' acoustic "The Day After Tomorrow," written as a soldier's letter to family members shortly before he leaves the war for home. It brims with observations about the war, and all the while carries the weight of someone just hoping to survive these last few days of conflict.
The song is the gravel-voiced Waits -- and the popular view on what the war has become --- boiled down to its core.
But the actual quality of the music lags far behind anything put out in the days of Vietnam.
Neil Young's recent album Living With War hit a few good notes, but its main carrot is as the second Young album in 8 months and that he penned most of the songs the day he recorded them, giving it an immediacy few modern albums can claim.
At the same time, it's an album frozen in the moment, and there isn't a seminal anthem like Young's emotional tribute to the dead at the Kent State riots("Ohio"). Bruce Springsteen released his album of old standards and Pete Seeger songs, but new protest music is sorely lacking.
We do have the other side, the Toby Keith and Lynyrd Skynyrd brand of pop-country/Southern-rock made for labeling anyone not in step with the president's lead as a traitor. That's overly general, but I have a hard time taking the overzealous flag-waving seriously from a guy writing songs specifically for Ford F-150 commercials. But hell, that's the audience.
With the War on Terrorism and the Iraqi occupation, this time there is no "Universal Soldier," the Buffy Sainte-Marie song made into a hit by Donovan. It author calls it a take on individual responsibility in a time of war and it definitely doesn't fit the support the troops uber alles mentality that has taken over America. But look at how the song runs down a list of soldier types and the line "Without him Caesar would have stood alone" will not let anyone forget that dictators cannot rise to the top without a base of loyal soldiers.
One song stands out from the pack: Tom Waits' acoustic "The Day After Tomorrow," written as a soldier's letter to family members shortly before he leaves the war for home. It brims with observations about the war, and all the while carries the weight of someone just hoping to survive these last few days of conflict.
The song is the gravel-voiced Waits -- and the popular view on what the war has become --- boiled down to its core.
Chill out, all ye coalminers
If you've gotten this far, you know I actually have nothing to say about coalminers right now.
So I'll talk about my fallback career instead (and no, I won't be breaking chunks of ore fall below the earth): professional mover. If there were an apprenticeship for moving, I think the past eight months would qualify me at some level.
After helping nearly a dozen people fill up new dwellings and storage units with their wares, I have some rudimentary grasp of scraping a 1990s entertainment center through a 1920s-era hallway not built in anticipation of TVs and stereo components.
Or taping down a sleep sofa with its feet removed so the metal frame doesn't flop out to pin its carriers against the wall.
If anything, moving provides new perspective on major appliances and how everything about them is naturally cumbersome. No appliance is ever so three-dimensional as when it's being hoisted toward a new location.
When sweat forces your eyes shut during a break in a humid stairwell, handles on a mattress' short end make entirely too much sense.
So that's where I go from here. It has to pay better than journalism, right? I suppose that depends on what value you place on free exercise and sore hamstrings the next morning.
So I'll talk about my fallback career instead (and no, I won't be breaking chunks of ore fall below the earth): professional mover. If there were an apprenticeship for moving, I think the past eight months would qualify me at some level.
After helping nearly a dozen people fill up new dwellings and storage units with their wares, I have some rudimentary grasp of scraping a 1990s entertainment center through a 1920s-era hallway not built in anticipation of TVs and stereo components.
Or taping down a sleep sofa with its feet removed so the metal frame doesn't flop out to pin its carriers against the wall.
If anything, moving provides new perspective on major appliances and how everything about them is naturally cumbersome. No appliance is ever so three-dimensional as when it's being hoisted toward a new location.
When sweat forces your eyes shut during a break in a humid stairwell, handles on a mattress' short end make entirely too much sense.
So that's where I go from here. It has to pay better than journalism, right? I suppose that depends on what value you place on free exercise and sore hamstrings the next morning.
Monday, June 26, 2006
Warren Buffett: Officially the coolest rich guy ever
So one multi-billionaire bequeaths the vast portion of his to ... The only guy on the list above him? Luckily, it isn't a case of the rich just getting richer, but a level of philanthropy and justice I doubted I'd ever see ... Berkshire Hathaway chairman Warren Buffett plans to give away his the bulk of his fortune to five charitable foundations, including the Melinda Gates Foundation.
While the donation surprises me, the source really doesn't. Buffett has always struck away from the rich guy pack, and still owns the house he bought in Omaha for $31,500 (aka, my price range). As with many things, I came late to the Buffett bandwagon, first hearing his name in a George magazine interview in the late 1990s, when he handed out a few nuggets of financial advice that stuck with me (and improved my view of a degree from an anonymous liberal arts college in Pennsylvania.
Just look at that dollar figure- $37 billion of shares at today's value- then divide it by your salary. In my case, that's my salary through the earth's next 3 or 4 ice ages .... Hell, I give blood because I don't have as many cash to dole out to charities as I'd like. Giving what you can is all you can ask.
Just think of how unusual this quote is. In a story posted today by CNNMoney.Com writer Amanda Cantrell, Buffett says, "I'm not an enthusiast for dynastic wealth, especially when the alternative is six billion people much poorer (than we are) having a chance to benefit from the money." America is all about dynastic wealth these days, hence the opposition to the estate tax that affects so few people anyway.
I doubt Buffett will set the benchmark and other barons/tycoons will come out of the antique woodwork to benefit so many others. For now, I'll just be glad that one did.
While the donation surprises me, the source really doesn't. Buffett has always struck away from the rich guy pack, and still owns the house he bought in Omaha for $31,500 (aka, my price range). As with many things, I came late to the Buffett bandwagon, first hearing his name in a George magazine interview in the late 1990s, when he handed out a few nuggets of financial advice that stuck with me (and improved my view of a degree from an anonymous liberal arts college in Pennsylvania.
Just look at that dollar figure- $37 billion of shares at today's value- then divide it by your salary. In my case, that's my salary through the earth's next 3 or 4 ice ages .... Hell, I give blood because I don't have as many cash to dole out to charities as I'd like. Giving what you can is all you can ask.
Just think of how unusual this quote is. In a story posted today by CNNMoney.Com writer Amanda Cantrell, Buffett says, "I'm not an enthusiast for dynastic wealth, especially when the alternative is six billion people much poorer (than we are) having a chance to benefit from the money." America is all about dynastic wealth these days, hence the opposition to the estate tax that affects so few people anyway.
I doubt Buffett will set the benchmark and other barons/tycoons will come out of the antique woodwork to benefit so many others. For now, I'll just be glad that one did.
Weary and surprisingly tan
Somehow I left Comfest with the first decent tan on my face in years and not my typical beet-red burn or untouched pasty white. That's not a color I'd have predicted as I walked through Victorian Village in Friday's gloom. But spending upwards of 28 hours in Goodale Park across three days, two of which were as sunny and pleasant as any summer day has a right to be, and even I can drop down a few shades.
A friend I saw Friday and Sunday was right --- if you take a vacation day for Comfest Friday, extra sleep on the Monday After is equally essential. I felt somewhere near 80 when my aching legs creaked into action this morning. If only that crazy amount of walking fit my everyday calendar.
Once I again, I failed to make the bike ride to Goodale. My excuse is simple enough --- a 40-minute ride would do my muscles good, but it wouldn't encourage me to romp through the park for 7-8 hours or drink the 5-6 obligatory mugs of beer.
I didn't have the chance to crow about it in my weekly column, but Tiara's last shot at Comfest on Sunday evening was one mighty fine performance. Aside from a nice mix of songs putting their indie-pop credentials on display, I always appreciated the way the band members locked in with each other.
As of Saturday, when they play two final shows, they will be missed ...
A friend I saw Friday and Sunday was right --- if you take a vacation day for Comfest Friday, extra sleep on the Monday After is equally essential. I felt somewhere near 80 when my aching legs creaked into action this morning. If only that crazy amount of walking fit my everyday calendar.
Once I again, I failed to make the bike ride to Goodale. My excuse is simple enough --- a 40-minute ride would do my muscles good, but it wouldn't encourage me to romp through the park for 7-8 hours or drink the 5-6 obligatory mugs of beer.
I didn't have the chance to crow about it in my weekly column, but Tiara's last shot at Comfest on Sunday evening was one mighty fine performance. Aside from a nice mix of songs putting their indie-pop credentials on display, I always appreciated the way the band members locked in with each other.
As of Saturday, when they play two final shows, they will be missed ...
Thursday, June 22, 2006
No sleep till Goodale (twas night before Comfest)
In a column last year for my day job --- not-always-mild-mannered reporter for a minor weekly newspaper chain if you're taking notes --- I proclaimed Comfest as the greatest three days of summer in Columbus. Comfest hasn't altered its credo, so I see no reason to drop my statement.
Here's a little window as to why:
Can't miss show: the soon to disband Tiara, Offramp Stage, 5:20 p.m. Sunday (weed-smoking-time in Nova Scotia, I guess). The local band I believe most deserved a chance to hit the national stage, but never did (they are big in Japan, for what it's worth). The Evil Queens are always at their best outdoors (8 p.m. Saturday). But go with your tastes --- you won't walk far to find something worthwhile. Unless you get trapped at the Live Arts stage ...
As they say for three days in June, "Happy Comfest," y'all.
Here's a little window as to why:
- Free music from all genres;
- tens of thousands of people (all types are welcome);
- muggy weather (a Saturday rainout made Sunday all the more memorable last year);
- a strangely calm atmosphere (there are no fights at Comfest);
- no corporate sponsors (making it one of the larger events of that ilk);
- generous volunteers at the beer tent (anyone surprised I left that for last?)
Can't miss show: the soon to disband Tiara, Offramp Stage, 5:20 p.m. Sunday (weed-smoking-time in Nova Scotia, I guess). The local band I believe most deserved a chance to hit the national stage, but never did (they are big in Japan, for what it's worth). The Evil Queens are always at their best outdoors (8 p.m. Saturday). But go with your tastes --- you won't walk far to find something worthwhile. Unless you get trapped at the Live Arts stage ...
As they say for three days in June, "Happy Comfest," y'all.
Wednesday, June 21, 2006
Curse you, Steve Jobs, and your relentless innovations
I shake my fist at technology's cutting edge but walk out of the store weighted down with a laptop, printer and a handful of frills.
After dropping a mighty amount of coin last night on needs and wants at the Apple store last night (relatively speaking --- I spent almost two paychecks, the first major purchase I made since I landed the Corolla in October 2001), I feel justified in saying that to Mr. Jobs. Apple was dying before he returned to the company; try to picture our nation without it now.
But if you'll excuse me, I have to work finish. I'm about eight years behind in my downloading and burning ...
After dropping a mighty amount of coin last night on needs and wants at the Apple store last night (relatively speaking --- I spent almost two paychecks, the first major purchase I made since I landed the Corolla in October 2001), I feel justified in saying that to Mr. Jobs. Apple was dying before he returned to the company; try to picture our nation without it now.
But if you'll excuse me, I have to work finish. I'm about eight years behind in my downloading and burning ...
Tuesday, June 20, 2006
When I'm 84
Forget Paul McCartney and all this much ado about his 64th birthday (that Liverpool bugger lost my respect when he waited until George died to switch the Lennon/McCartney writing credit; still, he once wrote many great tunes).
When I'm 84, I want to look like retired Washington Post executive editor Ben Bradlee. As for whether or not I'll possess same truckloads of journalistic acclaim that Bradlee does, I don't intend to forecast the future --- even a future with as slim a chance at reality as that.
Watching his crusty yet honest interview with Jim Lehrer last night, I didn't see an elderly man; this guy looked more robust than people 20, 30 years his junior. Hopefully his name isn't one of those blacked out on the Jason Grimsley affidavit for using Human Growth Hormone. I'm guessing not, since all of those names were of baseball players.
Anyway, listening to Bradlee talk about living down the block from then-Sen. John F. Kennedy, the obvious Watergate recollections, the false 8-year old heroine addict story that won a Pulitzer then severely damaged the reputation of Bradlee and the Post, and hearing him talk about the state of journalism today was amazingly refreshing.
As he said, journalists don't write about the dozens of planes that land perfectly every day; they write about the one that doesn't. And people often grow weary of those bringing the bad news, even if they're just reporting it. Just like the statement we often hear ---"Why don't you write positive stories about City Council?" I estimate 75-90 percent of what appears on the reader's porch every Wednesday contains mostly positive or neutral news, but they choose to file away the negative stuff for future reference.
Most interesting was Bradlee's advice that journalists should eschew joining any organizations which could induce bias in their work. He never joined the press club in D.C. and avoids country clubs and other organizations for that reason. As for marching for any cause --- as I know a few colleagues did in the lead-up to the Iraq Invasion-- forget it. I suppose it's for the best that I placed my own spell of political activism on hiatus (we founded a campus chapter of Students for a Free Tibet that went on to membership much greater than we ever imagined) for the neutral ground of journalism. For now...
When I'm 84, I want to look like retired Washington Post executive editor Ben Bradlee. As for whether or not I'll possess same truckloads of journalistic acclaim that Bradlee does, I don't intend to forecast the future --- even a future with as slim a chance at reality as that.
Watching his crusty yet honest interview with Jim Lehrer last night, I didn't see an elderly man; this guy looked more robust than people 20, 30 years his junior. Hopefully his name isn't one of those blacked out on the Jason Grimsley affidavit for using Human Growth Hormone. I'm guessing not, since all of those names were of baseball players.
Anyway, listening to Bradlee talk about living down the block from then-Sen. John F. Kennedy, the obvious Watergate recollections, the false 8-year old heroine addict story that won a Pulitzer then severely damaged the reputation of Bradlee and the Post, and hearing him talk about the state of journalism today was amazingly refreshing.
As he said, journalists don't write about the dozens of planes that land perfectly every day; they write about the one that doesn't. And people often grow weary of those bringing the bad news, even if they're just reporting it. Just like the statement we often hear ---"Why don't you write positive stories about City Council?" I estimate 75-90 percent of what appears on the reader's porch every Wednesday contains mostly positive or neutral news, but they choose to file away the negative stuff for future reference.
Most interesting was Bradlee's advice that journalists should eschew joining any organizations which could induce bias in their work. He never joined the press club in D.C. and avoids country clubs and other organizations for that reason. As for marching for any cause --- as I know a few colleagues did in the lead-up to the Iraq Invasion-- forget it. I suppose it's for the best that I placed my own spell of political activism on hiatus (we founded a campus chapter of Students for a Free Tibet that went on to membership much greater than we ever imagined) for the neutral ground of journalism. For now...
Monday, June 19, 2006
When the reflecting pool stops staring back.
As it does on Shrock Lake (which is an overestimate if I ever heard one; it's a glorified pond) on a humid Saturday morning, it's time for the conservationists to take a look.
With scores of Canadian geese hissing from the docks and leaving their mess in the water, it's a wonder anything else lives below the pond's surface.
But that's a quibble and the rest of the bike route through Sharon Woods felt tremendous. For the first time in ages, I balanced precariously on my mountain bike's pedals without a chorus of groans and pops rising up from the gear wheels.
Columbus has a long way to go before earning a bike-friendly stamp of approval, but those narrow lanes on Shrock Road make a biker's life easier. Having the bike back in decent health --- aside from the dead shocks the repair shop clerk urged me to repair yet told me I could live with for another season --- means my rides will grow longer and more meandering.
There's too much landscape I've not seen from the vantage point of handlebars. Highbanks, Hilliard, Bexley, even Delaware in a few weeks --- everything I've not seen now sits within range. It's amazing the difference silent gears can make. Unfortunately, they'll spend more time at rest this week, given the hectic schedule (a community meeting in Grandview Heights tonight, moving furniture tomorrow). Still, they will turn again.
It's hard to credit so simple an action with leading in major life changes. But the bike and its impact on my health, lifestyle and routines,has in its way forced a revolution.
With scores of Canadian geese hissing from the docks and leaving their mess in the water, it's a wonder anything else lives below the pond's surface.
But that's a quibble and the rest of the bike route through Sharon Woods felt tremendous. For the first time in ages, I balanced precariously on my mountain bike's pedals without a chorus of groans and pops rising up from the gear wheels.
Columbus has a long way to go before earning a bike-friendly stamp of approval, but those narrow lanes on Shrock Road make a biker's life easier. Having the bike back in decent health --- aside from the dead shocks the repair shop clerk urged me to repair yet told me I could live with for another season --- means my rides will grow longer and more meandering.
There's too much landscape I've not seen from the vantage point of handlebars. Highbanks, Hilliard, Bexley, even Delaware in a few weeks --- everything I've not seen now sits within range. It's amazing the difference silent gears can make. Unfortunately, they'll spend more time at rest this week, given the hectic schedule (a community meeting in Grandview Heights tonight, moving furniture tomorrow). Still, they will turn again.
It's hard to credit so simple an action with leading in major life changes. But the bike and its impact on my health, lifestyle and routines,has in its way forced a revolution.
Thursday, June 15, 2006
People-watching, the sport of honorable mentions...
Another trip to the lame-duck ballpark inspired me to put this in print, even though it would never fly for my day-job publication...
The Cooper Stadium column I didn’t write
I see a crowd that life has not treated kindly, and I don’t see a lot of people hip to its upcoming displacement.
That’s Cooper Stadium these days – aside from the baseball fans, it’s a lot like riding a COTA bus – the poor, the mentally handicapped, the elderly. I'm not casting aspersions --- break down a crowd on West Mound Street at game time, and often, these are the people you will find.
A $5 general admission seat means a lot to many in attendance.Throughout the night, my eye came back to a man hobbling badly to one side with a cane.
An older model plastic leg trailed behind him, bowing slightly in the middle upon each step.
We see so many state-of-the-art prosthetics allowing Iraq War veterans the mobility they knew with flesh and bone that we forget some people still walk on last decade’s model.
Before the introductions and anthem, I saw a quartet of mentally disabled people, led by a facilitator, walked the aisles between the seating sections, and no one treated them any differently than any other fan.
I was blessed with a good memory for faces, and one of them struck me immediately as to where I had seen him – on Page 1A of the Columbus Dispatch, about a month ago, with his parents.
His parents donated their house to a non-profit to allow him and three roommates to live there after the septuagenarian parents died. Another reminder of who couldn’t join me at the ballpark.
As I sat with my elderly companion, who as a boy saw Lou Gehrig deliver his “Luckiest Man” speech at Yankee Stadium, we talked a lot about the handicapped. We both knew more about the subject than we let on.
I told him about Joe, my severely autistic brother, and he told me about his son, who was handicapped yet functioned well enough to hold a job for the past 29 years.
As dusk crawled across the outfield and the lights clicked in, I thought more frequently about the one who wasn’t here. We took Joe to ball games when we were younger and his behavior was better.
But bringing him out anymore – he pushes close to 300 pounds, doesn’t speak, wears diapers and garners stares from all sorts – is difficult. Joe is normal in this aspect – he’s set in his ways and doesn’t deal well with diversions. He possesses a very distinct and polished personality for someone unable to communicate by normal means.
And whether his personal world extends far enough beyond Sesame Street records, wind-up bears and goldfish crackers to include baseball is impossible to quantify.
So are visions of a brother who could have filled a seat at Cooper Stadium that night.
The Cooper Stadium column I didn’t write
I see a crowd that life has not treated kindly, and I don’t see a lot of people hip to its upcoming displacement.
That’s Cooper Stadium these days – aside from the baseball fans, it’s a lot like riding a COTA bus – the poor, the mentally handicapped, the elderly. I'm not casting aspersions --- break down a crowd on West Mound Street at game time, and often, these are the people you will find.
A $5 general admission seat means a lot to many in attendance.Throughout the night, my eye came back to a man hobbling badly to one side with a cane.
An older model plastic leg trailed behind him, bowing slightly in the middle upon each step.
We see so many state-of-the-art prosthetics allowing Iraq War veterans the mobility they knew with flesh and bone that we forget some people still walk on last decade’s model.
Before the introductions and anthem, I saw a quartet of mentally disabled people, led by a facilitator, walked the aisles between the seating sections, and no one treated them any differently than any other fan.
I was blessed with a good memory for faces, and one of them struck me immediately as to where I had seen him – on Page 1A of the Columbus Dispatch, about a month ago, with his parents.
His parents donated their house to a non-profit to allow him and three roommates to live there after the septuagenarian parents died. Another reminder of who couldn’t join me at the ballpark.
As I sat with my elderly companion, who as a boy saw Lou Gehrig deliver his “Luckiest Man” speech at Yankee Stadium, we talked a lot about the handicapped. We both knew more about the subject than we let on.
I told him about Joe, my severely autistic brother, and he told me about his son, who was handicapped yet functioned well enough to hold a job for the past 29 years.
As dusk crawled across the outfield and the lights clicked in, I thought more frequently about the one who wasn’t here. We took Joe to ball games when we were younger and his behavior was better.
But bringing him out anymore – he pushes close to 300 pounds, doesn’t speak, wears diapers and garners stares from all sorts – is difficult. Joe is normal in this aspect – he’s set in his ways and doesn’t deal well with diversions. He possesses a very distinct and polished personality for someone unable to communicate by normal means.
And whether his personal world extends far enough beyond Sesame Street records, wind-up bears and goldfish crackers to include baseball is impossible to quantify.
So are visions of a brother who could have filled a seat at Cooper Stadium that night.
Thursday, June 08, 2006
songs for an insincere summer
iPods give anyone with the ability to download a song the belief that they're a DJ. But lost in the shuffle of one gigabyte of songs is the lost art of the mixed tape.
Every tape I made had one clunker, either a song I planned to convince myself to like, a song meant to interest me in an album that received a few cursory listens, or something thrown in for the pure oddball factor. It usually marked the spot where the tape deck warped that 90-minute mix.
Essentials for my summer soundtrack:
"Show Me Mary" ~ Catherine Wheel: I'll kick the nostalgia out first, since this song dates to my high school days and has never left the tape. Upbeat, with a catchy riff buried until distorted guitar, Rob Dickinson's grave yet smooth vocals don't let up until the whole band rests.
"Airline to Heaven" ~ Billy Bragg and Wilco: They turned this Woody Guthrie lyric into a hand-clapping, foot-stomping tune that cannot be denied when tearing down a state route on a sweltering day.
"Everybody Knows This is Nowhere" ~ Neil Young and Crazy Horse: Short, loud and to the point, Neil describes a place you'll only know if you've been there. And at this time of year, there's nowhere you'd rather be.
"Headwires" ~ The Foo Fighters: Best moment on a weak album, Dave Grohl's soft delivery reaches deep in this one. "On the Mend" from the acoustic disc of their last album could soon supplant this.
"Queen Jane Approximately" ~ Bob Dylan: blame it on those seductive piano notes that drag in the listener before Dylan even utters than magic opener, "When your mother sends back all your invitations ..."
"No Need to Worry"~ The Folk Implosion: Lou Barlow has a gift for simple melody and cutting lyrics. This one belongs in the trees as the sunlight pounds through them on the road into dusk. More of an end of summer tune, but it still fits the category.
"Easy Plateau" ~ Ryan Adams and the Cardinals: For a day when you just don't feel like keeping up with the rest of the world, and only your own speed will do, Adams strikes the right notes. He's written better songs, but this one puts the listener on that plateau a few notes in --- and it's a place I want to be.
Pt. 2 coming tomorrow ...
Every tape I made had one clunker, either a song I planned to convince myself to like, a song meant to interest me in an album that received a few cursory listens, or something thrown in for the pure oddball factor. It usually marked the spot where the tape deck warped that 90-minute mix.
Essentials for my summer soundtrack:
"Show Me Mary" ~ Catherine Wheel: I'll kick the nostalgia out first, since this song dates to my high school days and has never left the tape. Upbeat, with a catchy riff buried until distorted guitar, Rob Dickinson's grave yet smooth vocals don't let up until the whole band rests.
"Airline to Heaven" ~ Billy Bragg and Wilco: They turned this Woody Guthrie lyric into a hand-clapping, foot-stomping tune that cannot be denied when tearing down a state route on a sweltering day.
"Everybody Knows This is Nowhere" ~ Neil Young and Crazy Horse: Short, loud and to the point, Neil describes a place you'll only know if you've been there. And at this time of year, there's nowhere you'd rather be.
"Headwires" ~ The Foo Fighters: Best moment on a weak album, Dave Grohl's soft delivery reaches deep in this one. "On the Mend" from the acoustic disc of their last album could soon supplant this.
"Queen Jane Approximately" ~ Bob Dylan: blame it on those seductive piano notes that drag in the listener before Dylan even utters than magic opener, "When your mother sends back all your invitations ..."
"No Need to Worry"~ The Folk Implosion: Lou Barlow has a gift for simple melody and cutting lyrics. This one belongs in the trees as the sunlight pounds through them on the road into dusk. More of an end of summer tune, but it still fits the category.
"Easy Plateau" ~ Ryan Adams and the Cardinals: For a day when you just don't feel like keeping up with the rest of the world, and only your own speed will do, Adams strikes the right notes. He's written better songs, but this one puts the listener on that plateau a few notes in --- and it's a place I want to be.
Pt. 2 coming tomorrow ...
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