Three kilometers outside the village best known as the burial site of Nazi Rudolph Hess - and as a result, a rallying spot for black-clad Neo Nazis - we started up a mountainside bearded in pine and freckled in ancient rock.
Wunsiedel has fought back against fascist visitors rallying around Hitler's personal assistant, launching diversity initiatives, banning the rallies and holding counter-rallies promoting democracy and emphasizing that "Wunsiedel ist bunt, nicht braun" or "Wunsiedel is colourful, not brown" (all according to Wikipedia's entry on the village).
All those thoughts quickly dissipated on our journey up the hill.
Though parched, the long path of German beers golden, brown and wheat strewn across Monday night left no feeling of hangover (Thank you, beer without chemicals or preservatives - I'll save that tale for a future installment).
We scooped mouthfuls of pure chilled water from a drizzling mountainside fountain at the park's entrance, then proceeded up through past the hillside theater sealed for the winter.
The first stretch involved a labyrinth, though not of the underground, mythological Cretan type. Huge slabs fell in a domino pattern that allowed us to cut between them. Its tenders cut steps where necessary, and the blue arrows kept wanderers onto the path. A few too many narrow passages and crouched walks threatened to turn me claustrophobic, but then labyrinth fanned into open rolling ground.
Little inspiration verses were carved into the rock below several lookouts, with "Live well, wanderers" the one I still can't shake - We are all wanderers no matter how little we stray, after all.
Only weeks after a massive wind storm struck much of Central Europe, the mountain face was pockmarked by pines uprooted in the gales. In some places they toppled in rows, while elsewhere trees sat on their sides with their root systems evicted from the ground.
We continued, even though Dietmar, our guide and host, wryly quipped that we wouldn't survive the night on the mountain if we became trapped.
The labyrinth behind us, we had only to hike a few more kilometers to reach the hidden restaurant. There wasn't an easy kilometer among them, as the terrain urged us ever upward.
Despite a hazy afternoon, the lookout points gave splendid views onto Wunsiedel, the circle of small mountains that opened to the Czech Republic in the east. A derelict American listening station from the Cold War still sat atop one of the last peaks inside the border; in those pre-satellite days, the post scrutinized Soviet troop movements across the Eastern Bloc (according Dietmar, the mountains flatten out quickly to the north, so this part of Franconia is among the last decent spots for such a structure).
The warmest European winter in 50 years was not without some snowfall - above a certain elevation. Climbing grew more difficult as we neared the top, with steep grade made more slippery by the water streaming from the ice snow during the last quarter mile uphill.
From necessity I moved quickly up the final rise; my running shoes barely gripped the sheer surface.
And then we found a pile of plowed snow, a road, and the mystery restaurant accessible only by walking (a road allows for supplies as well as tours of elderly and handicapped to reach it).
With a glance from the highest lookout yet, we adjourned to our mountaintop snack (in my case, German sulze, a peculiarly delicious pork served cold and wrapped in a gelatinous coat then topped with spiced pickles and carrots).
Need I say it all tasted great, having been earned by the twitching calves and quadriceps resting up for the descent (luckily, we followed the road around the mountain and skipped the slippery incline).
Wednesday, February 28, 2007
"I'm sorry we were talking about Germany?" - "That was 10 minutes ago!"
Yeah, the long-awaited first German post is put off again --- and for what else but animals, in this case, Orangutan babies and Sumatran tiger cubs that have bonded at an Indonesian zoo now that they're all orphans.
In the nursery the young animals share, they paw at each other, take naps curled closely together and have yet to get violent with each other.
Click the title line and check out the story.
This is, of course, an extremely impermanent relationship.
It's funny in a lot of ways - not only would this never happen in the wild, but it's a relationship with an instinctual time limit. Just as handlers can only control tiger cubs to a certain age, when the predator in them drives out the playfulness, the orangutan-tiger friendship expires quickly.
It makes me think of our own childhood relationships. As someone who moved around a few times, my long-term friends don't start until late elementary school. Maybe if I stayed around those friends from preschool and kindergarten days, I would have driven them away by bearing teeth and flexing claws.
Not all animals can remember their earliest friends; maybe the rest don't care too.
In the nursery the young animals share, they paw at each other, take naps curled closely together and have yet to get violent with each other.
Click the title line and check out the story.
This is, of course, an extremely impermanent relationship.
It's funny in a lot of ways - not only would this never happen in the wild, but it's a relationship with an instinctual time limit. Just as handlers can only control tiger cubs to a certain age, when the predator in them drives out the playfulness, the orangutan-tiger friendship expires quickly.
It makes me think of our own childhood relationships. As someone who moved around a few times, my long-term friends don't start until late elementary school. Maybe if I stayed around those friends from preschool and kindergarten days, I would have driven them away by bearing teeth and flexing claws.
Not all animals can remember their earliest friends; maybe the rest don't care too.
Tuesday, February 27, 2007
Jetlag uber alles
While I contend with resuming a normal schedule after a 29-hour Monday, the updates about Germany must wait. I'm close to finished with consciousness right now, and can't pound anything out.
But over at our sister site - http://hoistthemainales.blogspot.com/ - read all about beer end of Bavaria, the Czech Republic and northeast Austria.
It's a 1,200 travelogue through a beer-topia. Enjoy, because I already did.
But over at our sister site - http://hoistthemainales.blogspot.com/ - read all about beer end of Bavaria, the Czech Republic and northeast Austria.
It's a 1,200 travelogue through a beer-topia. Enjoy, because I already did.
Tuesday, February 20, 2007
Ein kneine Hänsler
Our native host led us on a five-hour walk up a mountain to a restaurant accessible only by foot.
Und diese Sulze war wunderbar.
For now, youäll have to wonder about the treasures I've packed into my notebook in the past 36 hours. Check the beer blog in a week for tasting notes -- every town has its local brew, they're all tremendous, and I'll never drink German beer served cold again.
Und diese Sulze war wunderbar.
For now, youäll have to wonder about the treasures I've packed into my notebook in the past 36 hours. Check the beer blog in a week for tasting notes -- every town has its local brew, they're all tremendous, and I'll never drink German beer served cold again.
Friday, February 16, 2007
Snowblind
I haven't said a word about the weather since my 360 degree ride on the interstate, have I?
Beyond this brief post, I will not; no one needs to read about me cursing Corollas as I struggle for enough traction at my apartment building's entrance. We adapt always, complaining along our routines
But dear God, this area needed a stiff reminder that we occasionally get severe snow here.
It's white everywhere, bad roads force people to slow down (though not to actually think about their driving) and it's February, the shortest month. It will break in March.
In the meantime, grab a lunch tray and hit a sledding hill for a few hours. You'll thank me - even if your rear end won't.
Beyond this brief post, I will not; no one needs to read about me cursing Corollas as I struggle for enough traction at my apartment building's entrance. We adapt always, complaining along our routines
But dear God, this area needed a stiff reminder that we occasionally get severe snow here.
It's white everywhere, bad roads force people to slow down (though not to actually think about their driving) and it's February, the shortest month. It will break in March.
In the meantime, grab a lunch tray and hit a sledding hill for a few hours. You'll thank me - even if your rear end won't.
Another Keith stiffs the Tribe
Keith Foulke retired before he even made it spring training at Winter Haven.
A guy takes a the big money contract, then decides his career is over before throwing a pitch.
How very Cleveland of him.
For those of you who remember, Keith Hernandez ended up in Cleveland at the end of his career, before he saved it with a classic Seinfeld appearance and became a pitchman for men's hair dye.
He was pretty pitiful in Cleveland and paid a fine salary for that performance, if memory serves.
A guy takes a the big money contract, then decides his career is over before throwing a pitch.
How very Cleveland of him.
For those of you who remember, Keith Hernandez ended up in Cleveland at the end of his career, before he saved it with a classic Seinfeld appearance and became a pitchman for men's hair dye.
He was pretty pitiful in Cleveland and paid a fine salary for that performance, if memory serves.
Thursday, February 15, 2007
the circus still runs, but it's no longer fun
We lost 3 reporters in the past week: one to the first firing since I can remember, one to the competitor, and another to a NE Ohio daily. All three are friends.
Unfortunately, I have a tough time getting worked up over editorial endings. No offense to recently departed, I've watched a legion of reporters leave. The good, the bad, the close, the distant and all shades between them. It rarely phases me anymore.
The latest departure has nothing to do with our editorial; one of my closest friends in another department has a better opportunity, a chance to seek out a more comfortable niche.
I've always gotten by at this place by having friends in other departments, someone who I could hunt down whenever I needed a break from the chest-thumping of our leadership or the overbearing propaganda from the same quarters.
As friends of those outside this department dwindle, I really wonder why it's worth my while to stick around here any longer.
Job-wise, I've squeezed everything drinkable and edible from this rotten orange; it offers me no further value, no chance for advancement.
But I would love to kick that blighted fruit once on the way out the door.
Unfortunately, I have a tough time getting worked up over editorial endings. No offense to recently departed, I've watched a legion of reporters leave. The good, the bad, the close, the distant and all shades between them. It rarely phases me anymore.
The latest departure has nothing to do with our editorial; one of my closest friends in another department has a better opportunity, a chance to seek out a more comfortable niche.
I've always gotten by at this place by having friends in other departments, someone who I could hunt down whenever I needed a break from the chest-thumping of our leadership or the overbearing propaganda from the same quarters.
As friends of those outside this department dwindle, I really wonder why it's worth my while to stick around here any longer.
Job-wise, I've squeezed everything drinkable and edible from this rotten orange; it offers me no further value, no chance for advancement.
But I would love to kick that blighted fruit once on the way out the door.
Not exactly an epithalamion, but it works
There are few greater honors than knowing your carefully chosen words can touch someone enough to make them emotional.
I pulled off that trick with a wedding card, crafting something which made me a little misty as I wrote it (if you've read earlier posts, you know that is no challenge).
But dammit, I'm a writer, even if I'm a seldom-middle-mannered editor for a miserly metropolitan weekly chain.
My attitude is: If I give them a card with stock wedding salutation, I'm cutting a major corner on my obligations as a friend and guest on their special day. The word is where I shine and weddings are the ideal situation for weighty lines, so I had hunted for the right ones throughout the week leading to the wedding.
The lightbulb went off the night before the nuptials, as I sat in my hotel room and my iTunes clicked over to "Two of Us" by The Beatles. I heard said couple in that song, and found my way to tell them.
And no, you can't have a copy of it, nor will I ever post one even though I wrote it out before copying it into the card.
It was intensely personal, and to get any deeper into specifics would betray that touch of emotion, dear friends.
I pulled off that trick with a wedding card, crafting something which made me a little misty as I wrote it (if you've read earlier posts, you know that is no challenge).
But dammit, I'm a writer, even if I'm a seldom-middle-mannered editor for a miserly metropolitan weekly chain.
My attitude is: If I give them a card with stock wedding salutation, I'm cutting a major corner on my obligations as a friend and guest on their special day. The word is where I shine and weddings are the ideal situation for weighty lines, so I had hunted for the right ones throughout the week leading to the wedding.
The lightbulb went off the night before the nuptials, as I sat in my hotel room and my iTunes clicked over to "Two of Us" by The Beatles. I heard said couple in that song, and found my way to tell them.
And no, you can't have a copy of it, nor will I ever post one even though I wrote it out before copying it into the card.
It was intensely personal, and to get any deeper into specifics would betray that touch of emotion, dear friends.
"I've finally got something to replace my 'Where's the Beef' bumper sticker."
I only wish Homer Simpson's quote was correct: Nothing has replaced "Where's the Beef."
Too many people who read this blog were toddlers when it came out, so I'll explain: Basically, Wendy's used an old lady to trash-talk the more populare burger joints for their limp, grey mystery meat burgers.
And it worked; that was a great ad campaign, one that pole-vaulted the chain into fast-foods upper echelon (
It more or less made Wendy's a fast-food powerhouse and later turned Dave Thomas into a household name. His starring roles in later commercials helped that as well.
They could use another spin on that theme now, as the company struggles five years after Thomas died. They've been kind of rudderless ever since. And the "Where's the Beef" lady is long dead as well.
This has been Random Thought Number 27,411.
Too many people who read this blog were toddlers when it came out, so I'll explain: Basically, Wendy's used an old lady to trash-talk the more populare burger joints for their limp, grey mystery meat burgers.
And it worked; that was a great ad campaign, one that pole-vaulted the chain into fast-foods upper echelon (
It more or less made Wendy's a fast-food powerhouse and later turned Dave Thomas into a household name. His starring roles in later commercials helped that as well.
They could use another spin on that theme now, as the company struggles five years after Thomas died. They've been kind of rudderless ever since. And the "Where's the Beef" lady is long dead as well.
This has been Random Thought Number 27,411.
Welcoming the muse back into my fold
Bob from Yugoslavia is owed further thanks - it appears as if the poetic inclination I long thought buried for good was only dormant, and has punched its way out of the crypt and into the thick February air.
Reading it again elbowed me to write it again.
Ideas that wandered around the prison yard of my mind for months finally reached the notebook page, and I'm back to writing what I love the most. Sure, few words are less financially viable - poetry has long been locked in the attic of American letters - but there's a satisfying notion to it that I cannot explain.
Better yet, my boss, who never hesitates to put his ignorance on display, has trashed it to me on many occasions. He doesn't understand it, he says - in return, he must demean it and those who do. What better catalyst could I seek for going back to poetry?
Sure, the poems are simpler than the rigidly-formed, impossible-to-understand verse I churned out for years. The topics are simpler still, yet modernly universal - Nigeria princes wanting my e-mail, bringing back the hat for men, posing for digital photos in those rough civil war poses (you had to be there).
The muse has not been revoked; she only took an extended hiatus.
Reading it again elbowed me to write it again.
Ideas that wandered around the prison yard of my mind for months finally reached the notebook page, and I'm back to writing what I love the most. Sure, few words are less financially viable - poetry has long been locked in the attic of American letters - but there's a satisfying notion to it that I cannot explain.
Better yet, my boss, who never hesitates to put his ignorance on display, has trashed it to me on many occasions. He doesn't understand it, he says - in return, he must demean it and those who do. What better catalyst could I seek for going back to poetry?
Sure, the poems are simpler than the rigidly-formed, impossible-to-understand verse I churned out for years. The topics are simpler still, yet modernly universal - Nigeria princes wanting my e-mail, bringing back the hat for men, posing for digital photos in those rough civil war poses (you had to be there).
The muse has not been revoked; she only took an extended hiatus.
Wednesday, February 14, 2007
All the Anna-Nicole news that's fit the print (and otherwise)
Forget Iraq, Iran, who's running for president in 2008, the nuclear agreement reached with North Korea last week, Chrysler cutting - actually you probably missed the last 2 stories because of Anna-Nicole Smith, the inordinate amount of television time devoted to her death and all the tangled plotlines winding through her life that are worthy of a Raymond Chandler novel.
Check out how many front page headlines on cnn.com deal with this story. The morning shows give credence to this trash by interviewing whatever money-grubbing third cousin who wants a shot at the fortune of her six-month old daughter.
Admittedly, there has not been so bizarre a celebrity death since Ted Williams' son had his body interred at a crygenic facility in Arizona.
But what did this woman do once her modeling career ended, aside from generate headlines with her personal life? She generated headlines not through talent but with outrageous actions, starting with the J. Howard Marshall marriage. In the last year, she's been all over the paper. Even if I wanted to know nothing about it, I couldn't avoid it.
The woman's life is so omnipresent it's disgusting. Who knew she even had fans out there?
Check out how many front page headlines on cnn.com deal with this story. The morning shows give credence to this trash by interviewing whatever money-grubbing third cousin who wants a shot at the fortune of her six-month old daughter.
Admittedly, there has not been so bizarre a celebrity death since Ted Williams' son had his body interred at a crygenic facility in Arizona.
But what did this woman do once her modeling career ended, aside from generate headlines with her personal life? She generated headlines not through talent but with outrageous actions, starting with the J. Howard Marshall marriage. In the last year, she's been all over the paper. Even if I wanted to know nothing about it, I couldn't avoid it.
The woman's life is so omnipresent it's disgusting. Who knew she even had fans out there?
Tuesday, February 13, 2007
This job will be the death of me
I always thought his business could kill me, but somehow I never suspected our publisher.
Driving down 71, just short of the 670 interchange, he changed lanes. Actually, he changed all of them as we spun across the interstate, giving us a wrenching view of the cars bearing toward us.
This was the first timw in my life when I could count the seconds between heartbeats.
There was luck. They all veered around us; those up the road slowed enough for the publisher to restore his Impala's traction and get us back into the exit lane.
We returned to the office without the help of the interstate.
Driving down 71, just short of the 670 interchange, he changed lanes. Actually, he changed all of them as we spun across the interstate, giving us a wrenching view of the cars bearing toward us.
This was the first timw in my life when I could count the seconds between heartbeats.
There was luck. They all veered around us; those up the road slowed enough for the publisher to restore his Impala's traction and get us back into the exit lane.
We returned to the office without the help of the interstate.
"I'm with you in Rockland" -again
I had to break out my Allen Ginsberg box set this morning to run through a few 1950s classics while rushing on Tuesday deadlines. "Supermarket in California," "Howl," "American" - it had been a long time. All three aged well; the neon nightmare he railed against then is not so distant from the digital one we live in today. Just hearing those ripe words once again seeded new inspiration for my own writing.
Reading a book at the bar typically earns a few stares and nothing more.
But not yesterday. I tried to squeeze in a few pages of Old School while my laundry cycled across the street. Contrary to popular belief, the book is not an adaptation of the Will Ferrell film, but Tobias Wolff's look into an elite prep school and the literary teens bustling inside it.
I ended up seated next to Bob, who originally hails from the former Yugoslavia, studied literature as a college student and now sells used cars. We talked up and down the canon of 20th century lit, about how he met Ginsberg (he recorded him talking about the genesis of his great works), loved Bukowski, and lamented the dearth of reading done away from a computer in modern America.
But Bob's greatest success was in pulling a dusty tome from my past. Ginsberg died ten years ago as I took a counter-culture literature course heavy on the Beat Generation. I never jived with his later work, but his early stuff ran with the mantle of Walt Whitman in a way not often appreciated anymore.
On the night he died, I climbed atop the garage of the apartment complex where friends Tom and Turbo lived. Trough a few beers, we took turns reading from "Howl" and the other two. We filled the air between 2 and 4 a.m. with our overly loud recitations, and not a soul, electric or otherwise, took notice. It seemed right then yet so foreign now - the personal lives of the Beats had long since driven me away from their works.
Yet it's just another of a million memories that slipped into the shadows until a literary stranger unwittingly kicked them into light.
Reading a book at the bar typically earns a few stares and nothing more.
But not yesterday. I tried to squeeze in a few pages of Old School while my laundry cycled across the street. Contrary to popular belief, the book is not an adaptation of the Will Ferrell film, but Tobias Wolff's look into an elite prep school and the literary teens bustling inside it.
I ended up seated next to Bob, who originally hails from the former Yugoslavia, studied literature as a college student and now sells used cars. We talked up and down the canon of 20th century lit, about how he met Ginsberg (he recorded him talking about the genesis of his great works), loved Bukowski, and lamented the dearth of reading done away from a computer in modern America.
But Bob's greatest success was in pulling a dusty tome from my past. Ginsberg died ten years ago as I took a counter-culture literature course heavy on the Beat Generation. I never jived with his later work, but his early stuff ran with the mantle of Walt Whitman in a way not often appreciated anymore.
On the night he died, I climbed atop the garage of the apartment complex where friends Tom and Turbo lived. Trough a few beers, we took turns reading from "Howl" and the other two. We filled the air between 2 and 4 a.m. with our overly loud recitations, and not a soul, electric or otherwise, took notice. It seemed right then yet so foreign now - the personal lives of the Beats had long since driven me away from their works.
Yet it's just another of a million memories that slipped into the shadows until a literary stranger unwittingly kicked them into light.
Mountains on the weekend
Stay in Columbus long enough and its terrain will convince you the world is flat. The archtiecture will impress that little was constructed before the cumbersome development of the post-WWII boom years.
Hurtling out of here as the mercury strained to hit 10 degrees, I couldn't have needed to road to refresh me anymore than I did.
To the east, it doesn't take too many miles before the hills return. Appalachia is closer than anyone thinks, and there were few flat stretches of any note till stopping at Frederick among the Blue Ridge peaks. This drive hinges on concentration, and once my travel companion crashed out on the return trip, it was business all the way back to Columbus, though I could have slept as easily as her.
The most striking city along the way was easily Cumberland, MD, snug among the mountains and scarred by the freeway slashing through it. Its offices and churches were sculpted in history, the kind that developers in Columbus once tore down for parking lots or suburban shopping plazas. I couldn't wait to pass it on the way home, just to grab another glimpse of this attractive little city.
And it was the only sign of life for miles. Could this suburban-bred boy who's forsaken that empty existence for city life give up all the urban conveniences for a town of 30,000 in the middle of nowhere?
Absolutely.
Maybe not tomorrow, but someday, just as long as those mountains still stand.
Hurtling out of here as the mercury strained to hit 10 degrees, I couldn't have needed to road to refresh me anymore than I did.
To the east, it doesn't take too many miles before the hills return. Appalachia is closer than anyone thinks, and there were few flat stretches of any note till stopping at Frederick among the Blue Ridge peaks. This drive hinges on concentration, and once my travel companion crashed out on the return trip, it was business all the way back to Columbus, though I could have slept as easily as her.
The most striking city along the way was easily Cumberland, MD, snug among the mountains and scarred by the freeway slashing through it. Its offices and churches were sculpted in history, the kind that developers in Columbus once tore down for parking lots or suburban shopping plazas. I couldn't wait to pass it on the way home, just to grab another glimpse of this attractive little city.
And it was the only sign of life for miles. Could this suburban-bred boy who's forsaken that empty existence for city life give up all the urban conveniences for a town of 30,000 in the middle of nowhere?
Absolutely.
Maybe not tomorrow, but someday, just as long as those mountains still stand.
Friday, February 09, 2007
Broken, but still unfixable?
A look in my mirror reveals someone who doesn't work properly anymore, someone so set in self-defeating ways grinding toward a forgettable finish.
I fight with this every day. I lose too many of those fights.
The habits I detest take new roots as I evict them in fistful elsewhere. Bad memories invade where the good ones grow, and gradually wipe out their sunshine.
How does someone who is broken break such a cycle? Do they die trying?
Not that everything that's broken is still worthy or capable of being fixed. As long as I believe in the chance for brighter renovation of the dark lodges in my mind, there's a chance.
And I have to believe in that chance.
I fight with this every day. I lose too many of those fights.
The habits I detest take new roots as I evict them in fistful elsewhere. Bad memories invade where the good ones grow, and gradually wipe out their sunshine.
How does someone who is broken break such a cycle? Do they die trying?
Not that everything that's broken is still worthy or capable of being fixed. As long as I believe in the chance for brighter renovation of the dark lodges in my mind, there's a chance.
And I have to believe in that chance.
Thursday, February 08, 2007
Does this mean he can excoriate gays again?
In the news yesterday, handlers who counseled disgraced pastor Ted Haggard as being "completely heterosexual."
I'm not sure whether that earns him a medal, a "Not Gay" stamp on his right hand or a shirt stating "Counselors drove the gay out of me and all I got was this lousy T-shirt."
Haggard was the leader of the National Association of Evangelicals and the New Life Church in Colorado Springs who fell from grace following the revelation of a gay affair (not the happy kind) with a male prostitute. This man featured prominently in the documentary Jesus Camp, including a speech marking homosexuals as a root cause of all America's problems.
Interesting, he never mentioned hypocrisy among religious leaders (not all, I know, but the Jimmy Swaggarts of the world loom as large as the code of silence that protected Roman Catholicism's pederast priests for centuries). Though I disagree with some of their tenets, I sympathize with the people who followed Haggard; he betrayed their trust.
If he's smart, he'll never stick his head out in public again. He might be 100 percent straight, but he's still 100 percent hypocrite.
I'm not sure whether that earns him a medal, a "Not Gay" stamp on his right hand or a shirt stating "Counselors drove the gay out of me and all I got was this lousy T-shirt."
Haggard was the leader of the National Association of Evangelicals and the New Life Church in Colorado Springs who fell from grace following the revelation of a gay affair (not the happy kind) with a male prostitute. This man featured prominently in the documentary Jesus Camp, including a speech marking homosexuals as a root cause of all America's problems.
Interesting, he never mentioned hypocrisy among religious leaders (not all, I know, but the Jimmy Swaggarts of the world loom as large as the code of silence that protected Roman Catholicism's pederast priests for centuries). Though I disagree with some of their tenets, I sympathize with the people who followed Haggard; he betrayed their trust.
If he's smart, he'll never stick his head out in public again. He might be 100 percent straight, but he's still 100 percent hypocrite.
Gouging days are here again
Credit the gas station owners who refused to drop prices even as crude oil hit its lowest point in years - they knew it would turn cold sometime this winter, and we weak Americans would huddle in our cars and pay whatever they post on the marquee.
I spotted $2.35 for regular at the cheapest local station this morning. So long as I stick in town and my driving doesn't deviate from the path between work and home, it stays low (note that I consider $2/gallon low, because I function on the theory that record profits marked that rate as the new bottom for the industry).
Yet as soon as an out-of-town wedding arrives, it's on the rise. I blame the cold - I sure didn't walk to work this week with the mercury barely cresting above zero in the morning.
It's just a nice reminder that the oil industry can screw with the American populace whenever it wants ... and unless we want to walk, bike or (gasp) suffer the slings and arrows of public transportation, we willingly let them.
I spotted $2.35 for regular at the cheapest local station this morning. So long as I stick in town and my driving doesn't deviate from the path between work and home, it stays low (note that I consider $2/gallon low, because I function on the theory that record profits marked that rate as the new bottom for the industry).
Yet as soon as an out-of-town wedding arrives, it's on the rise. I blame the cold - I sure didn't walk to work this week with the mercury barely cresting above zero in the morning.
It's just a nice reminder that the oil industry can screw with the American populace whenever it wants ... and unless we want to walk, bike or (gasp) suffer the slings and arrows of public transportation, we willingly let them.
Wednesday, February 07, 2007
Winter blunderland
Only in Columbus can I step my front door in a snowstorm, jay-walk across a major thoroughfare and never stop walking the entire time.
Cars crawled as more than three inches came down last night. I found it beautiful, watching snow slowly entomb the parked cars along my street and collecting in the pine trees.
What I don't find so pretty, as if so often the case, was the morning after. I shoveled the path and a unleashed dog jumped up in my face.
I had a few words with the owner - who pointed out he had the leash in his hand, which would do wonders if the dog actually attacked me - but if I run into him again, I'll apologize.
There was some overreaction, but I've run into too many people who insist on their unleashed dog's friendliness - while Cujo is barking or snarling through clenched, anxious jaws and eyeing my arm like raw beef.
Worse were the roads: When did it become acceptable to shovel your driveway clean while leaving a snowpile jutting into the road? One nearby church scraped its parking lot pavement clean yet dropped a mound two feet tall in the eastbound lane.
This was a side street with minimal traffic, but plow guys aren't helping a hapless city when they deposit a mess onto an unplowed road.
At least now the sun pounding the snow into submission and warming the roads until twilight ices them again.
Cars crawled as more than three inches came down last night. I found it beautiful, watching snow slowly entomb the parked cars along my street and collecting in the pine trees.
What I don't find so pretty, as if so often the case, was the morning after. I shoveled the path and a unleashed dog jumped up in my face.
I had a few words with the owner - who pointed out he had the leash in his hand, which would do wonders if the dog actually attacked me - but if I run into him again, I'll apologize.
There was some overreaction, but I've run into too many people who insist on their unleashed dog's friendliness - while Cujo is barking or snarling through clenched, anxious jaws and eyeing my arm like raw beef.
Worse were the roads: When did it become acceptable to shovel your driveway clean while leaving a snowpile jutting into the road? One nearby church scraped its parking lot pavement clean yet dropped a mound two feet tall in the eastbound lane.
This was a side street with minimal traffic, but plow guys aren't helping a hapless city when they deposit a mess onto an unplowed road.
At least now the sun pounding the snow into submission and warming the roads until twilight ices them again.
Tuesday, February 06, 2007
Exorbitant baloney and other things heard beneath my breath
Rapid fire musings on all the news dismissed in print:
TV news hobbles by on some twisted legs today, but give NBC news credit for borrowing the Tim Russert tactic of using old video clips.
Last night they took a wonderful early days of the war shot of Donald Rumsfeld rebuking the moderator for suggesting war costs could spiral out of control. He just said, "Baloney." Gotta love the extreme strain of denial practiced by our leaders.
But the story had one silver lining - clips from a new Kent Conrad press conference. The North Dakota Democratic Senator fills those moments with charts and pie graphs, as he always does. He's a moderate budget hawk from a Republican state. I love the visuals - they promote an easily to swallow type of partisan bickering. It's easy to chew on the microphone and spit out bitumen - it's a lot tougher to do the homework and come after your adversaries with the raw numbers.
Also, everyone here is complaining about our deep freeze. I say: It's pretty warm in Iraq right now.
My car's been starting fine, and if a few minutes of numb hands are the toll for the time between artificial heat, so be it. The apartment holds warmth much better than the old place - no moisture on the windows. You won't see me lounging around in shorts, but it's comfortable.
A little cold air seeping in will keep me alert. It won't let me forget that there are thousands of people in this city colder than me - at bus stops, walking and cycling to work, and especially the legions of homeless living in overlooked fingers of forest.
You're cold, fine. But look to the extremes to gain a little humility.
TV news hobbles by on some twisted legs today, but give NBC news credit for borrowing the Tim Russert tactic of using old video clips.
Last night they took a wonderful early days of the war shot of Donald Rumsfeld rebuking the moderator for suggesting war costs could spiral out of control. He just said, "Baloney." Gotta love the extreme strain of denial practiced by our leaders.
But the story had one silver lining - clips from a new Kent Conrad press conference. The North Dakota Democratic Senator fills those moments with charts and pie graphs, as he always does. He's a moderate budget hawk from a Republican state. I love the visuals - they promote an easily to swallow type of partisan bickering. It's easy to chew on the microphone and spit out bitumen - it's a lot tougher to do the homework and come after your adversaries with the raw numbers.
Also, everyone here is complaining about our deep freeze. I say: It's pretty warm in Iraq right now.
My car's been starting fine, and if a few minutes of numb hands are the toll for the time between artificial heat, so be it. The apartment holds warmth much better than the old place - no moisture on the windows. You won't see me lounging around in shorts, but it's comfortable.
A little cold air seeping in will keep me alert. It won't let me forget that there are thousands of people in this city colder than me - at bus stops, walking and cycling to work, and especially the legions of homeless living in overlooked fingers of forest.
You're cold, fine. But look to the extremes to gain a little humility.
This one's still on the market ladies
Somehow, at age 29, I didn't expect I'd still get through half the morning with my fly gaping open. I didn't think that would occur semi-regularly.
But if I expected it, I would probably look down more often before leaving the house.
But if I expected it, I would probably look down more often before leaving the house.
Monday, February 05, 2007
The evil that weddings plans spawn
Take a slice out of any wedding, and you'll find a bride desperately fending off all sorts of interlopers intent on tattooing their mark on it.
I don't exactly understand it, but people get crazy about weddings. I don't want to say it's just women, but men do fall into "stand where you're supposed to stand and don't screw anything up" mode.
From the safe distance, where I can see all the machinations of others trying to worm into it - or in some cases, stampede into it as if a role in the wedding is a God-given right.
Whether designing invitations, arranging the flowers, dictating the place setting at the reception or narrowing down the menu, there is someone not getting married that day who wants a stake in it, someone who will scrutinize the couple's defenses until they uncover the blind spot they need.
Then again, I know squat, other than weddings inspire me to drink harder, chain smoke and silently find a spot against the wall from which to watch the happiness ensue. And for this one, at least there's a shuttle bus running from hotel to reception hall.
I've been an usher in one and with that, I'm probably done. It was a sad moment, honestly, to realize I didn't have the close guy friends in life who would pick me for one of those venerable roles, that they're was always someone higher on the list. I'm not bitter, mind you - there's just a closeness missing, and that's kind of tough.
Then again, some people never get the chance to do it even once. So for that, I'm grateful to know that someone wanted me up there.
I don't exactly understand it, but people get crazy about weddings. I don't want to say it's just women, but men do fall into "stand where you're supposed to stand and don't screw anything up" mode.
From the safe distance, where I can see all the machinations of others trying to worm into it - or in some cases, stampede into it as if a role in the wedding is a God-given right.
Whether designing invitations, arranging the flowers, dictating the place setting at the reception or narrowing down the menu, there is someone not getting married that day who wants a stake in it, someone who will scrutinize the couple's defenses until they uncover the blind spot they need.
Then again, I know squat, other than weddings inspire me to drink harder, chain smoke and silently find a spot against the wall from which to watch the happiness ensue. And for this one, at least there's a shuttle bus running from hotel to reception hall.
I've been an usher in one and with that, I'm probably done. It was a sad moment, honestly, to realize I didn't have the close guy friends in life who would pick me for one of those venerable roles, that they're was always someone higher on the list. I'm not bitter, mind you - there's just a closeness missing, and that's kind of tough.
Then again, some people never get the chance to do it even once. So for that, I'm grateful to know that someone wanted me up there.
Melville's creatures great and small
Jeez, I've been blogging about animals a lot lately, haven't I?
You might think I'm packing away a menagerie in my tiny apartment with its huge closet.
But you'd be wrong. I've not added any cats, and aside from the fruit flies living in my plants, it's critter-free.
That doesn't mean, however, I'm sticking to a single dimension.
Diversity - and not the forced, Southern, through gritted teeth brand, either - is on its way.
We'll get a new round of topics on shelf shortly - as in an hour.
You might think I'm packing away a menagerie in my tiny apartment with its huge closet.
But you'd be wrong. I've not added any cats, and aside from the fruit flies living in my plants, it's critter-free.
That doesn't mean, however, I'm sticking to a single dimension.
Diversity - and not the forced, Southern, through gritted teeth brand, either - is on its way.
We'll get a new round of topics on shelf shortly - as in an hour.
Loved the zoo in February. Really.
With too few free weekends before my gratis zoo pass expired, Saturday had to be the day, 10 degree weather, 15 mph winds, and just finished with a 5K or not.
I've mentioned it before, but I'm fascinated by gigantic, empty places. Downtown Columbus on a Saturday morning in July is perfect. The zoo in February worked as well.
With many major exhibits moved indoors or to warmer zoos, it was downright desolate. For all the cars in the parking lot (less than a 100, but far more than I predicted on a single-digit day), I can count all the people I saw on my still-numb fingers. More zoo employees than visitors traversed its lonely paths.
But it fostered some good moments when I did run into people. I talked with docent in the reptile building for ten minutes about endangered species and some of the bizarre creatures inhabiting the zoo - and not just because of the small, rare python coiled placidly on her arm.
For about 20 minutes I loitered in the nocturnal Australia exhibit, following the exotic fauna patrolling their shadowed enclosures. Always a fan of Down Under's odd native creatures, I just took my time, stood at the glass of some animals three or four times just to monitor their behavior- and to let the cats monitor their sole observer.
Later I continued to feed my fascination with cats - the Pallas cats perched in the crags of their enclosure. No matter the feline, from my cat to the pacing Amur tiger (who wasn't about on my pass through the Asian animal enclave), the twitches, the behavior and the swift alertness to newcomers never changes.
In the wild, Pallas cats range all over the high elevation of Central Asia and Mongolia, so an aggressive Central Ohio winter posed few struggles for them. Aside from their rounded ears - and occasional gnashing of jaws - they could have passed for plump, thick-furred house cats.
It was hard to miss the large expanses of the zoo virtually abandoned due to the elements. Only the penguins appeared comfortable, and the red panda was curled so tightly it probably won't wake until April.
The massive shift in mission that hit major metropolitan zoos across the past century gets ignored. Originally started as attractions for exotic animals, they now serve as a vital cog in conservation and breeding endangered species.
They host animals that stare down extinction because of habitat destruction and are victims of the black market (some of the zoo's ornate-shelled turtles were refugees from the illegal pet trade). The folks at PETA will never be happy until a place like the zoo opens its gates and lets its charges run free, but the zoo does a damn good job of education and preservation.
And tell me where else can I stand inches away from a pair of kiwis grooming each with shiv-thin beaks and not startle them?
These are the thoughts I made time for as wind charged off the O'Shaughnessy Reservoir and wiped away all traces of 10 minutes in the Manatee House's sultry, constantly 72 degrees Fahrenheit climate.
The zoo on an arctic Saturday was solitary, but not at all lonely. It was just a different sort of day in a place where we're so accustomed to crowds peppered with overstimulated children.
I've mentioned it before, but I'm fascinated by gigantic, empty places. Downtown Columbus on a Saturday morning in July is perfect. The zoo in February worked as well.
With many major exhibits moved indoors or to warmer zoos, it was downright desolate. For all the cars in the parking lot (less than a 100, but far more than I predicted on a single-digit day), I can count all the people I saw on my still-numb fingers. More zoo employees than visitors traversed its lonely paths.
But it fostered some good moments when I did run into people. I talked with docent in the reptile building for ten minutes about endangered species and some of the bizarre creatures inhabiting the zoo - and not just because of the small, rare python coiled placidly on her arm.
For about 20 minutes I loitered in the nocturnal Australia exhibit, following the exotic fauna patrolling their shadowed enclosures. Always a fan of Down Under's odd native creatures, I just took my time, stood at the glass of some animals three or four times just to monitor their behavior- and to let the cats monitor their sole observer.
Later I continued to feed my fascination with cats - the Pallas cats perched in the crags of their enclosure. No matter the feline, from my cat to the pacing Amur tiger (who wasn't about on my pass through the Asian animal enclave), the twitches, the behavior and the swift alertness to newcomers never changes.
In the wild, Pallas cats range all over the high elevation of Central Asia and Mongolia, so an aggressive Central Ohio winter posed few struggles for them. Aside from their rounded ears - and occasional gnashing of jaws - they could have passed for plump, thick-furred house cats.
It was hard to miss the large expanses of the zoo virtually abandoned due to the elements. Only the penguins appeared comfortable, and the red panda was curled so tightly it probably won't wake until April.
The massive shift in mission that hit major metropolitan zoos across the past century gets ignored. Originally started as attractions for exotic animals, they now serve as a vital cog in conservation and breeding endangered species.
They host animals that stare down extinction because of habitat destruction and are victims of the black market (some of the zoo's ornate-shelled turtles were refugees from the illegal pet trade). The folks at PETA will never be happy until a place like the zoo opens its gates and lets its charges run free, but the zoo does a damn good job of education and preservation.
And tell me where else can I stand inches away from a pair of kiwis grooming each with shiv-thin beaks and not startle them?
These are the thoughts I made time for as wind charged off the O'Shaughnessy Reservoir and wiped away all traces of 10 minutes in the Manatee House's sultry, constantly 72 degrees Fahrenheit climate.
The zoo on an arctic Saturday was solitary, but not at all lonely. It was just a different sort of day in a place where we're so accustomed to crowds peppered with overstimulated children.
Friday, February 02, 2007
Und jetzt, Munchen
I never got back to this topic, so I will now: I'm spending Feb. 18-26 in Bavaria, with sidetrips to a few neighboring EU member nations.
As for the how and why, it starts as it usually does in my world, with an offhand comment. Married friends Chris and Mitzy were talking about a winter vacation to Munich to visit her 16-year-old sister studying abroad in a town on the Czech border.
He expressed a slight apprehension about so much time with his wife and her sister, so I chimed in, with no thought on how to pay for it or what I wanted to see in Bavaria. Luckily, they're experienced "on the cheap" traveller, having gone through Cyprus and Greece that way.
Rather than spring for individual EuroRail passes, we're renting a car for a few days, though I suspect my appreciation for $2.50/gallon gas will swell after a few pricey fill-ups on the Continent, where it starts at $5 per.
Following our arrival in Munich we're headed right for the border town, then onto Prague a day later.
The plans also include a brewery tour -Munich is one of Germany's brewing capitals, though the hordes of Oktoberfest are half a year away, and the brew for its festivities has not been brewed yet.
Better yet, the ravenous mobs that summer in Prague will be nowhere in site, giving a trio of Americans full run of the classic city.
Speaking of classic cities, we're going to the ultimate classic city in the Czech Republic, a settlement considered a prehistoric NYC (both my travel companions have archaeology degrees, which is so critical to finding these off-the-main drag attractions. It's little more than ruins in an orchard, but a definite interest-grabber.
There are also plans for Salzburg (Mozart birthplace and the like), plus several days with the best of Munich - Marienplatz, the Deutsches Museum and more churchs and cathedrals (die kirchen and dommen, that is) than you can shake a schnitzel at.
And oh, I plan a few updates during the trip, with photos courtesy of a borrowed digital camera
Unti then ...
Now is the time in Sprockets when we dance (cue cheesy European dance music)!
Your host has been Wilhelm. Auf Wiedersehen, liebchen!
As for the how and why, it starts as it usually does in my world, with an offhand comment. Married friends Chris and Mitzy were talking about a winter vacation to Munich to visit her 16-year-old sister studying abroad in a town on the Czech border.
He expressed a slight apprehension about so much time with his wife and her sister, so I chimed in, with no thought on how to pay for it or what I wanted to see in Bavaria. Luckily, they're experienced "on the cheap" traveller, having gone through Cyprus and Greece that way.
Rather than spring for individual EuroRail passes, we're renting a car for a few days, though I suspect my appreciation for $2.50/gallon gas will swell after a few pricey fill-ups on the Continent, where it starts at $5 per.
Following our arrival in Munich we're headed right for the border town, then onto Prague a day later.
The plans also include a brewery tour -Munich is one of Germany's brewing capitals, though the hordes of Oktoberfest are half a year away, and the brew for its festivities has not been brewed yet.
Better yet, the ravenous mobs that summer in Prague will be nowhere in site, giving a trio of Americans full run of the classic city.
Speaking of classic cities, we're going to the ultimate classic city in the Czech Republic, a settlement considered a prehistoric NYC (both my travel companions have archaeology degrees, which is so critical to finding these off-the-main drag attractions. It's little more than ruins in an orchard, but a definite interest-grabber.
There are also plans for Salzburg (Mozart birthplace and the like), plus several days with the best of Munich - Marienplatz, the Deutsches Museum and more churchs and cathedrals (die kirchen and dommen, that is) than you can shake a schnitzel at.
And oh, I plan a few updates during the trip, with photos courtesy of a borrowed digital camera
Unti then ...
Now is the time in Sprockets when we dance (cue cheesy European dance music)!
Your host has been Wilhelm. Auf Wiedersehen, liebchen!
Thursday, February 01, 2007
All the melancholy Melvilles, where do they all come from?
This morning I check the letter e-mail at work I came upon something odd: a long letter about a duck named Ralph.
The laughs ended at the headline.
Turns out it was one of two neighborhood ducks that survived abandonment after being Easter pets as ducklings. Ralph was the leader, Norton was the follower (and I do enjoy a good Honeymooners reference). They knew their neighbors, coming out to visit them whenever they've walk around the ponds. It was instinct, obviously: Animals learn that the humans carry food, so they approach them more readily with time, and we interpret it as friendliness. But when animal instinct is perceived as positive, we encourage it.
Well, long letter short, one neighbor found Ralph dead earlier this week and it got worse from there - Ralph hadn't died of natural causes, but was badly beaten. I expect teens were probably the culprit, torturing an animal too calm around humans who brought him treats.
That letter, written by a woman very hurt by the brutal death of a neighborhood duck, stuck with me all day.
Now why, might you ask, does the story about the death of semi-tame waterfowl to which I have zero connection affect me any in way?
To put it country simple, it's in my blood. Melvilles, at least in my family, are naturally hyper-sensitive creatures.
Now, if you know anything about men in our society, this is not exactly a trait given praise from the rooftops. That innate sadness and feeling is something for empty rooms, long car rides by yourself and sometimes just a moment you can steal to let it all out. Bob Dylan's "Lonesome Death of Hattie Carroll" is a song I listen to alone for just that reason. I guess the Melvilles just love their catharsis.
Sensitive equals so many lousy stand-ins (pansies, candyasses, invertebrates and the like) that often it breeds a rough outer shell capable of keeping in any emotion that might give it away.
That shell, along with pushing people away when trying to gulp down all the raw emotion and never let anyone gain a true glimpse, has defined me for a long time. I've worked at opening up, but it's tough to share the way man's inhumanity to man - or its cruelty toward nature, in this case - always hit me especially hard. After all, society dictates men shouldn't be affected by those sorts of things.
I'm the family bearer of the sadness these days. As he grows older and more disillusioned with those more accustomed to success than himself, my father has lost some of it. But the old man continues to be a heavy sobber at funerals even when hating everyone on the planet for something minute.
And the shortest excerpt from Ted Kennedy's 1968 eulogy for Bobby Kennedy causes spontaneous, crippling tears from a man who voted Republican in every subsequent election except 2000.
It makes you wonder if there's some great psychic wound that, if healed, would stop the flow. But there isn't. It's merely something I have to run with. I have to know when to twist open the safety valve.
So I don't feel too badly about a sad thought or two about Ralph the duck.
I'd be hiding from who I am if I didn't.
The laughs ended at the headline.
Turns out it was one of two neighborhood ducks that survived abandonment after being Easter pets as ducklings. Ralph was the leader, Norton was the follower (and I do enjoy a good Honeymooners reference). They knew their neighbors, coming out to visit them whenever they've walk around the ponds. It was instinct, obviously: Animals learn that the humans carry food, so they approach them more readily with time, and we interpret it as friendliness. But when animal instinct is perceived as positive, we encourage it.
Well, long letter short, one neighbor found Ralph dead earlier this week and it got worse from there - Ralph hadn't died of natural causes, but was badly beaten. I expect teens were probably the culprit, torturing an animal too calm around humans who brought him treats.
That letter, written by a woman very hurt by the brutal death of a neighborhood duck, stuck with me all day.
Now why, might you ask, does the story about the death of semi-tame waterfowl to which I have zero connection affect me any in way?
To put it country simple, it's in my blood. Melvilles, at least in my family, are naturally hyper-sensitive creatures.
Now, if you know anything about men in our society, this is not exactly a trait given praise from the rooftops. That innate sadness and feeling is something for empty rooms, long car rides by yourself and sometimes just a moment you can steal to let it all out. Bob Dylan's "Lonesome Death of Hattie Carroll" is a song I listen to alone for just that reason. I guess the Melvilles just love their catharsis.
Sensitive equals so many lousy stand-ins (pansies, candyasses, invertebrates and the like) that often it breeds a rough outer shell capable of keeping in any emotion that might give it away.
That shell, along with pushing people away when trying to gulp down all the raw emotion and never let anyone gain a true glimpse, has defined me for a long time. I've worked at opening up, but it's tough to share the way man's inhumanity to man - or its cruelty toward nature, in this case - always hit me especially hard. After all, society dictates men shouldn't be affected by those sorts of things.
I'm the family bearer of the sadness these days. As he grows older and more disillusioned with those more accustomed to success than himself, my father has lost some of it. But the old man continues to be a heavy sobber at funerals even when hating everyone on the planet for something minute.
And the shortest excerpt from Ted Kennedy's 1968 eulogy for Bobby Kennedy causes spontaneous, crippling tears from a man who voted Republican in every subsequent election except 2000.
It makes you wonder if there's some great psychic wound that, if healed, would stop the flow. But there isn't. It's merely something I have to run with. I have to know when to twist open the safety valve.
So I don't feel too badly about a sad thought or two about Ralph the duck.
I'd be hiding from who I am if I didn't.
Book-burning kitty
So, anyone know how to stop a cat from tossing books off a shelf at 4 a.m.?
I put up lint brush sheets on his favorite shelf, and now he's developed another favorite. If I tacked up those sheets on every shelf, who looks crazy then (I actually look crazy just for doing it to a single shelf).
It's like morning feline calisthenics - he inhales some Alley Cat Tuna and Gravy, then leaps three tiers off the ground, shoves a paw back and starts sliding the books
More and more I'm picturing this cat at a rally in Nuremberg circa 1938, helping the Gestapo tend to their literary fires. He might even wear a uniform for the occasion.
Or maybe I'm still angry because one day after I blog about my friend's black eye, the cat wakes me up with a claw digging just east of my right eye. The bruise is weak as the frustration is strong.
I put up lint brush sheets on his favorite shelf, and now he's developed another favorite. If I tacked up those sheets on every shelf, who looks crazy then (I actually look crazy just for doing it to a single shelf).
It's like morning feline calisthenics - he inhales some Alley Cat Tuna and Gravy, then leaps three tiers off the ground, shoves a paw back and starts sliding the books
More and more I'm picturing this cat at a rally in Nuremberg circa 1938, helping the Gestapo tend to their literary fires. He might even wear a uniform for the occasion.
Or maybe I'm still angry because one day after I blog about my friend's black eye, the cat wakes me up with a claw digging just east of my right eye. The bruise is weak as the frustration is strong.
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