Respect for Ryne Sandberg, the newest MLB Hall of Fame member.

I am feeling sentimental because Ryne Sandberg, my idol in the world of baseball, was inducted into the Hall of Fame today. Not only was he inducted, he gave a speech that was so pure and solid and right--just like him--that it made me nod my head in agreement. During his speech, I shed tears of joy for his moment and tears of sadness because I miss seeing him play every day. Showing how well he rolls with the punches and the sincerity of his appreciation for the fans, in response to a fan who yelled, "We love you, Ryne," he said without missing a beat, "I love you, too!"

Just as Ryne did not waste opportunities as a baseball player, he did not waste a great opportunity as a Hall of Fame inductee. The opportunity he seized was the chance to make a statement bigger than the moment. While appreciative of the honor, Ryne reminded us, humbly, of why he received it. In a word: respect. His respect for the great game of baseball, and for his managers, his teammates and Cubs fans. Ryne said he was astounded throughout his career when people expressed admiration for the things he did, such as showing up at the ballpark regularly and on time, the Gold Glove defense, the full-scope offense that included the long ball as well as the ability to bunt and otherwise get on base. He was astounded because in his view, that was just his job and he owed nothing less to the sport, his team or himself.

This is a message as foreign as the Greek language to players like Gary Sheffield, who threatened any team that receive him in trade from the Yankees that he would dog it if he was acquired involuntarily. Likewise, the message of respect is totally foreign to a player like Kenny Rogers who, despite making millions of dollars every year to play the game he supposedly loves, is an angry, violent bully who threatens and try to intimidate news cameramen who are merely doing their jobs, for much less money. It is foreign to players like Sammy Sosa, who was poised to become the "next Ryne Sandberg" in Chicago Cubs history, but instead corked his bat and , when the team was eliminated from playoff contention on the next-to-last day of the 2004 season, refused to play, left Wrigley Field early and lied about leaving. Ryne knows about these guys, too. He spoke not very subtly about how the players of this great game are different today, asking when it became enough to hit home runs without contributing to the offense in other way, or caring more about spotting "the little red light on the dugout camera" than turning a double play.

The question is, will the Sheffields or the Sosas or the Rogers of the world hear about Ryne's speech and take it to heart? So far, I haven't been able to find a single story online about that aspect of his speech, other than perhaps a Jerry Crasnick story on ESPN.com. I don't know if Crasnick wrote about this because his story is only available to "insiders" who pay extra (how appropriate). Nonetheless, I hope Ryne's message gets out and that players take it to heart. Because the respect that Ryne exemplifies, and of which he spoke so eloquently today, is what will preserve the game for years to come. Without it, baseball will become nothing more than the NBA or the WWF, despite the feeling one gets when emerging into the sunshine on a beautiful day at the ballpark and the devotion the game inspires in generations of fans who love nothing more than to watch their favorite players chase that little white ball with 108 stitches.

Update: It took a little while, but here is a pretty good story by Barry Bloom of MLB.com that at least mentions this aspect of Ryne's speech. Looks like Phil Rogers of the Chicago Tribune got it, too.

I received a very important communicae tonight.

And I want you to keep it close to the vest, but I feel I must share it with you, most trusted internet reader:

Dear Friend,

I am Ivan Yarovoi, I represent a top company executive in Russia. I have a very sensitive and private brief from this top executive to ask for your partnership to re-profile funds over 15,000,000.00 euros. I will give the details, but in summary, the funds is in a bank in Russia and Western Europe, and this is a legitimate transaction. You will be paid 5% as a management consultant to our company, if I am able to reach terms with you. If you are interest, please write back by email (EMAIL ADDRESS OMITTED) and provide me with your trusted personal telephone number, and email address and I will provide further details. Please keep this close to your chest as much as possible; we cannot afford any political problems.

Write me back. I look forward to it.

Best regards,
Ivan Yarovoi(Mr.)

I ask, what girl would not be totally flattered by being chosen to assist with such an important mission?

At the Homestead . . .

While I try to make time to write about the sordid tale of my employment history during what I shall fondly call "the school years," some things have been happening around my house . . .

I entertained my friend Jill:



and her mother-in-law Pauline (visiting from England):



We drank wine and laughed on my much-loved upstairs porch. (I have no explanation for the ghost-like effect on these pictures, other than perhaps the wine?) We had a fabulous time! It wasn't too hot, despite being July in Dallas, and the sunset was gorgeous. We swapped interesting tales of our lives; rather, they provided interesting tales and I offered mere stories. Pauline told an excellent story of her one-year move to Scotland and all that involved. I especially loved the part about how her postman did not understand that a red flag sticking up on the mail box means there is mail there to be picked up by him; instead, he raised the flag after leaving mail for Pauline and Mick. This worked out well, as they could look out their window down the hill and see when there was new mail to retrieve. Genius!

Also, my dogs have become Houdini wannabees. On a near-weekly basis, Mr. Lopez, who tends to my lawn like a magician himself, comes up with creative ways to fortify my back fences to withstand my dogs' tireless efforts to escape. They have repeatedly broken through Mr. Lopez's Alcatraz-like renderings. Given the tenacity of their endeavors in this regard, one would never know that they lead the lives of luxury that they do.

DO THESE DOGS LOOK UNHAPPY, I ASK YOU????



Unhappy looks or no, Kip and Orley apparently think there is something out there in the wide, wide world that would appeal to them more than the raggedly landscaped place that is my back yard. This week alone they have twice broken through near-fortresses erected by my neighbor, Patti, apparently after she has captured them and returned them against their will to their rightful home. What I can only guess (based on the newly built pile of rock) was today's foiled escape effort resulted in extreme exhaustion:



I feel somewhat sheepish regarding this recent escape attempt. I did not think my pets were capable of breaking through Patti's fortified pile of clay planters, bricks and driveway rocks, so I did not even attempt to improve upon it after she erected it during the most recent escape. But upon my return home tonight following a not-bad day at work and a sushi dinner, I found an even more elaborate combination of planter, rock and brick. Thankfully, my dogs were panting on the other side of the fence, apparently having been freshly repenned by the saintly Patti. I interrogated them in an effort to find out who the instigator was, but Orley just looked at Kip and Kip pretended to be sleeping:



So the mystery continues.

P.S. More than anything, I am grateful to Patti for capturing and returning them. I don't know what I would do without these scoundrels.

Jobs that won't make my resume

Something I heard recently made me think back on all of the jobs I held before I became a lawyer. The list made me laugh, even without writing snarky comments about each job. I continue to remember other jobs, but here is the list as I recall it right now, in semi-chronological order:

Babysitter
Newspaper thrower
Detasseler/Crew Leader/Bus Supervisor
Photographer’s “Girl Friday”
Waitress at the Golden Coins
Tourism and Convention Bureau temp
Winner’s Circle (off-track betting place) temp
Poolarama clerk
State psychiatric hospital intern
Juvenile probation intern
Nanny for an FBI agent's family
Juvenile detention center worker in central Texas
Barbeque sauce factory worker
Bennigan’s hostess
Catering assistant

I plan to write a bit about these jobs, but first I wanted to sit with the list as it is.

My love affair with a baseball team.

No, this isn't a sordid tale typically found in Triple X movies . . . it is a sentimental little piece I wrote on my favorite Cubs blog tonight. I thought I would save it here, too.

Being born into a family that lacked baseball fans, I was a bit late in finding my way to the roller coaster we call life as a Cubs fan. I now find it strange to think of how many of my life events match up with big events in the life of the Cubs. I was born in the Western suburbs of Chicago in September of 1969, just in time for the Mets' late-season comeback to crush our team out of contention. My Dad was a car-racing fanatic and my Mom liked football, so no one introduced me to the Cubs at that time. Milt Pappas' no-hitter v. the Padres, in which he missed a perfect game by one strike, came on my third birthday. I played girls' softball as soon as I was old enough, and started thinking about baseball, too.

I began watching the Cubs games every day on WGN during the summer of 1983, just before I began high school. I remember this because my mother had just returned to work and it was the first time I was allowed to watch TV for hours on end. I hung on every pitch of every game, fell in love with Ryne Sandberg and honed my skills at second base on my summer traveling softball team in his honor. The next year, the Cubs went to the playoffs, Ryno was MVP, Sutcliffe won the Cy Young and the Cubs lost to the Padres in the NLCS. It was my first taste of the disappointment that comes with being a Cubs fan. But I stuck with the team, loving the infield combination that was Durham, Sandberg, Bowa/Dunston, Ron Cey and Jody Davis. Andre Dawson won the MVP the year I graduated from high school and moved to Texas for college.

After I left the Chicago area, the Cubs started night baseball and lost another playoff round to a California team, the Padres. I followed them the best I could from Texas, without WGN and in the pre-internet days, by going to my college's library to check the newspaper for the baseball scores. My Dad began keeping up with the Cubs a bit so that he could keep me up to date during our weekly chats, even though he wasn't very interested in baseball.

I did not do as good a job of staying in touch with the Cubs during the early 90's, when I was immersed in law school. But I did my best to keep my hand in the world of baseball by catching the occasional "Two Dollar Tuesday" Astros game, at the Astrodome in Houston, and tried to see at least one game a year at Wrigley during quick visits home. The baseball strike cut the season short the summer after my law school graduation, so instead of doing a post-bar exam tour of baseball parks, I backpacked overseas with some friends. During the trip, I eagerly purchased a copy of "USA Today" at the newsstand of every train station we visited to see if the strike was over yet. Upon my return, I was working so hard as a young lawyer that I had neither the time nor the funds for cable TV. But I started to get the hang of my new career and splurged on a cable subscription, resuming my helpless love affair with the Cubs just in time to see the early years of Sammy Sosa's time on the North Side.

Of course, 1998 brought Kerry Wood's 20-strikeout game, the great Sosa/McGuire home run race and a first-ever Cubs tiebreaker win for a playoff spot. These exciting events were the subject of many of my Sunday evening talks with my Dad, in which we continued to bridge the 1,200 miles between Illinois and Texas. By this time, I think he was a little in love with baseball, too. The year of 1998 is now burned in my memory as beginning with Harry Caray's death and ending with my father's death. But the baseball moments we shared in that magical season are among my fondest memories of time spent with my Dad.

My time spent watching the Cubs--whether they were having a good season (2001) or a bad one (2000)--was a bright spot in the rough years that followed. My brother and I tried to support each other and he attended the Cubs game with me whenever I was home for a visit. He is no sports fan, and I realize now what it meant for him to spend 3 hours with me at Wrigley when he could not have cared less about what was happening there!

Then, in the glorious year of 2003, things fell into place, both for me and the Cubs! Finally, I stopped being annoyed by Ron Santo's interminable stories during the broadcast and instead began not wanting to experience a game without him. I listened to every game on the internet, and remember vividly that last day of the season, the double-header day when the Cubs finally clinched their playoff spot. My best friend had her first baby the same day, and I excitedly purchased a plane ticket and playoff tickets the moment the spot was clinched. I flew home the next weekend, greeted my friend's new baby and attended 2 of the Cubs' games against the Braves. I had never seen Wrigley in person with a playoff spirit before, and the feeling was electrifying and emotional and almost holy. After the 2nd game I saw, which we lost, I even had the good fortune to meet Carrie Muskat (I explained to her how she had my dream job, just before she walked into the Cubs' interview room) and to rub elbows with John Cusack (there to offer moral support to the team after the game) and Michael Jordan (who accompanied the team on their plane to Atlanta). What a surreal time that was.

We all know how that season of 2003 ultimately ended. I was devastated . . . so much so that coworkers sent flowers! But the next year, the Red Sox won it all, almost as if the universe was sending the message to all Cubs fans that it is too soon to give up. And I found myself captivated by the Sox's run, enjoying every game almost as if it was our team bringing tears to the eyes and a head shaking in disbelief with each amazing win.

I don't know what the future will bring for the Cubs or for Cubs fans, including me. But the history of the Cubs is so intertwined with my own life history in my memory that I don't know how I could ever separate the two now. I think we're stuck with each other for life.

Random Thoughts

Here are a few things I have been pondering recently:

On writing: I think half the battle of writing is having the discipline to make a mental note of the interesting things one encounters, so as to be able to write about them. I run across a million interesting things a day, but in the chaos that is my life, most of them fly right by and are never noted here. In contrast, a hallmark of the blogs I love to read is that the writers of those blogs pay excellent attention to detail, then write about it in an interesting way.

On working out: Today was supposed to be the second consecutive day of my actually visiting the place to which I pay a chunk of money every month and then, upon my arrival, working out. As you can see by the fact that I am still sitting here typing, that is not going to happen. Why not? Well, when I worked out yesterday, it felt great both during and after, and I was really glad that I graced them with my presence once again. Shouldn't that make you want to work out, you say? Well, yes, it should. But I woke up later than I wanted today, then let myself become sucked into my computer, which meant I did not get out of here in time to work out. I am now slightly panicked regarding all I must accomplish at work today. Tomorrow. Tomorrow. Tomorrow. I will work out tomorrow, mark my words!

Pajamas: I have a confession. I am addicted to pajamas. Not just any kind . . . the kind with pants and a top that are so cute you could almost . . . almost wear them out in public. I say this because there have been many occasions when I have wanted to wear my pajamas in public, but maybe once when I actually did. This is because I think that no matter how many times one tells oneself, "No one will know these are my pajamas," yes, they know. So instead I am the guilty owner of a gajillion pair of pajamas, the newest of which I purchased yesterday during my visit to Target in the Hood. (Pink--not usually my color of choice, but I was feeling girly--and made of the softest knit ever). As much as I love the Super Target, there is an indescribable satisfaction one finds in shopping at the Target in the Hood . . . I wish I knew what it was. The only thing this Target lacked was a wading pool for my dogs . . . something I have had a tough time locating this summer. Please do not make me go to Wal-Mart in search of this item . . . please, I beg of you. No Wal-Mart.

In the spirit of the real name of my blog,

which is "eyebrow-raising folk," I have an observation to make. There truly is a job for every possible interest and for every possible person with every possible interest. Yesterday at the airport I met a man who sells asphalt plants for a living. Not asphalt--asphalt plants! Who would have thought this was a specialized job? And he doesn't even sell franchises for asphalt plants . . . just the plants, individually.

Introspection.

Today I had another day trip out of state for work, once again to the site of my epiphany regarding what I want to do with my life (at least for now). I was lucky enough to dash back to the airport and catch a flight that brought me home at a decent hour. I even found a seat in the front row, and had little enough luggage that I could sit there! While the two men next to me conversed, I immersed myself in the surprisingly interesting in-flight magazine. Apparently, my immersion was so total and noticeable that after I replaced the magazine in the holder, my seatmate actually pulled it out to see what I had been reading.

I landed just in time to have creative thoughts about what to grab for dinner, dash home and become nicely settled in to listen to tonight's Cubs game. Thankfully, I was here in time to here my once-annoying, now-beloved Ron Santo (a Cubs radio announcer) say, "he wore a piece, and he looks great." I will let you imagine what story led to that remark--it is more fun that way.

So while I was waiting for my business meeting, I made some calls related to my new life plan . . . references and networking and such. My efforts were quite fruitful! This was very uplifting and it seemed especially appropriate to take care of these tasks at the site of my epiphany. Tonight I feel a bit dreamy about the new plan. . . and I am feeling a bit wistful, as I wish my Dad and Grammie (also known as my maternal grandmother) were still here so that I could talk this new plan over with them. It is at times like this that I miss them especially deeply, so much so that I have tears in my eyes just thinking about them. But thinking about them also empowers me. I know my Dad would not want me to spend a moment of my life not doing the work that will make me happy, or at least working toward doing that work; I know my grandmother could not imagine me failing at anything I take it in my head to do. It is amazing how powerful the memory of two people can be.

One of the most important events in the dark age the US has experienced since 2000--and WHAT YOU CAN DO ABOUT IT.

You may have heard today about U.S. Supreme Court Justice Sandra Day O'Connor's resignation. After you have moved past the sharp-intake-of-breath-and-sinking-feeling phase, with which I am familiar due to personal experience, you may ask yourself, as I did, "What can I do?"

Well, David NYC at the Daily Kos web site has some ideas:

Whatever happens with the Supreme Court nomination battle that is about to ensue, it's going to happen fast. Here are some things you can do right now:

• If you have a cell phone, sign up for People at the American Way's Mass Immediate Response site. This way, you'll be able to receive text message action items instantly as events break. (If you signed up during the nuclear option fight, you'll need to re-sign up.)

• Also sign up with the Save the Court, another PFAW website devoted specifically to this issue.

• Recruit friends and family members to the cause.

• Write to the President, telling him he should choose a consensus candidate to replace O'Connor.

• Contact your Senators to tell them the same thing.

• Sign MoveOn's "Protect Our Rights" petition.

• Contact members of the media and tell them you think Bush should nominate a consensus candidate. PLEASE be polite, be brief (200 words or less), and don't do copy-and-paste jobs - put things in your own words.

• Stop by Hunter's thread and make suggestions for potential nominees.

A Sign?

What could it mean that, as I was driving to the airport to leave for a business trip on Friday, the chorus to this song was playing on every one of the three country stations pre-set in my car radio--all at the same time:

Lyrics:

Monday, hard to wake up
Fill my coffee cup, I'm out the door
Yeah, the freeway's standing still today
It's gonna make me late, and thats for sure
I'm running out of gas and out of time
Never gonna make it there by nine

Chorus:

There's gotta be something more
Gotta be more than this
I need a little less hard time
I need a little more bliss
I'm gonna take my chances
Taking a chance I might
Find what I'm looking for
There's gotta be something more

Five years and there's no doubt
That I'm burnt out, I've had enough
So now boss man, here's my two weeks
I'll make it short and sweet, so listen up
I could work my life away, but why?
I got things to do before die

Repeat Chorus

Some believe in destiny, and some believe in fate
I believe that happiness is something we create
You best belive that I'm not gonna wait
'Cause there's gotta be something more

I get home 7:30 the house is dirt, but it can wait
Yeah, 'cause right now I need some downtime
To drink some red wine and celebrate
Armageddon could be knocking at my door
but I ain't gonna answer thats for sure.
There's gotta be something more!

And just before I heard this song on every station, I was fantasizing about my resignation meeting--without yet having another job lined up. If that isn't a sign of the need to go, I don't know what is.

Books, books, books!

Brett has tagged me to provide answers to these book questions, so now, after a brief vacation delay, I will answer his queries to the best of my abilities:

Number of books I own:
This is an uncountable number. My guess would be 282, give or take a few that I have loaned but that have not been returned, but this is purely a guess. Yes, I have a book addiction. I have been trying to whittle my collection down by donating books or selling them at Half Price Books, but it seems that before I can do that, my dog engages in his own brand of recycling by eating the books. He has a remarkable ability to find them in dog-proof (or so I thought) places where I have hidden them! And it hurts me to see books that have been chewed.

Last book I bought:
The Wonder Spot, by Melissa Bank (a second effort by the author of The Girl's Guide to Hunting and Fishing). As often occurs, this was an impulse purchase in the airport on the way home from my recent business trip. I don't know what it is about the airport, but I am VERY prone to impulse purchases of reading material there.

Last books I read:

· Be Happy at Work: 100 Women Who Love Their Jobs, and Why, by Joanne Gordon

· Bridget Jones's Diary, by Helen Fielding (re-read)

· Newcomer's Handbook New York City, no specific author

· Take Big Bites, by Linda Ellerbee

· A Thousand Days in Tuscany, by Marlena de Blasi

Five books that mean a lot to me:
Anne of Green Gables, by L.M. Montgomery. I received this series of books as a Christmas gift from my aunt and uncle when I was about 10 years old. Before Christmas Day was over, I had already read the entire first book and cried my eyes out over the death of Matthew, Anne’s adopted father. I had always been a reader, filling pages and pages of lines with books I read during my library’s summer reading program. But I think it was the way this book involved me that let me know I will be a reader for life, and was a preview of the magic powers of escape one can find in a book.

The Fountainhead, by Ayn Rand. This is the first book I remember that had a profound impact on me. I read it while travelling alone in Europe, during a six-week hiatus I had negotiated before starting a new job. I was somewhat stunned at leaving my first firm ever, but knew it was time. The book inspired me, reminding me that life is too short to settle or compromise one's ideals. I have read it again many times over the years, and it always reinvigorates me.

Bel Canto, by Ann Patchett. I loved this book, with its great story and simple writing. But the reason it means a lot to me is that I actually attended a reading and book signing by the author, where she actually made some personal remarks that inspired me. In my book she wrote, "Read everything, write well, have a thrilling life." It was around this time that I started actually believing that there could be something different in store for me, a dream that is just now coming to fruition for me.

Tender at the Bone, by Ruth Reichl. This book entertained me, with its descriptions of food and wine intertwined with the very interesting story of the author's life. It also showed me that a low-key writing style like mine can actually support a book!

Constitutional Law by Nowak and Rotuda. I read this in law school while taking my favorite course of all time (in which I made my best grade of all time--a sure indicator of my interest!). Nothing else interested me quite so much . . . I love both the procedural and substantive aspects of constitutional law. And now I hope to make it my career!

Ahhhhhhhhhhh. Friday night.

After a business day-trip out of state, following a hectic post-vacation week at work, I couldn't wait to get home tonight. This is the guilty pleasure of the single 30-something girl . . . coming home, washing one's face, putting the newly-long hair up and slipping into comfy clothes. So here I am lounging with a nice glass of Chardonnay, dogs at my feet, and my favorite series of all time, you guessed it--Sex and the City--in the DVD player. I'm not even letting it scare me about what life in NYC will be like. Oops, I'm not supposed to talk about that.

Soooo . . . tomorrow I plan to be decadent . . . with maniacal house-cleaning, a hike with the dogs at the nature preserve, a pedicure and massage, a movie and a fabulous dinner. And that's only Saturday . . . . ahh.

Busy, busy, busy at work

since returning from my vacation, which you can read more about here.

I have only written about the first few days, but hope to catch up this weekend!

Almost there.

No, not yet "almost" for the new life. Although I have learned that the amount of bullshit one can tolerate in the average workday increases exponentially when one knows that the days in which one will have to tolerate such things are numbered.

"Almost there" refers to my VACATION. Yes, rip rock rollin' vacation, a whole week of it!!! And it won't involve seeing family members . . . to the contrary, it will be an excellent mix of solitude and time spent with old friends and new friends, with a liberal dash of baseball-watching thrown in for good measure. Oh, and cute hip hotels like this:



and this:



In light of how little sleep I've had in the last few weeks, I fear that I may sink into one of the lovely beds, with curtains drawn like a cave, and never emerge.

But I know I will see fantastic things that will draw me from my room, such as this place:



and this temple:



and another kind of temple:



Okay, that's all for you! Just a taste, the tiniest lick of the spoon covered with frosting, because I am going to have some smashing photos from this trip! I can't wait . . . one more day.

A Musical Morning

Damn this new VAIO. I had a beautifully written post nearly crafted, and the finicky touch pad took it away from me, forcing me to start again. ArgGGGGGGGGGGGGGh. I will try again, because I will not let that touch pad defeat me, but please know this post will not be as wonderful as it would have been, BUT FOR THE TOUCH PAD.

Okay, so yesterday I was on my way to the place where I work out. (A rare occurrence--how rare, no one really needs to know). I saw the first of two musical "situations," shall we say. It was a guy who could be an Anthony Michael Hall stand-in (circa The Breakfast Club), sitting in his white compact car at a red light. He was frenetically bobbing his head to some music that I could not hear. But boy, was I curious about what exact type of beat was causing this boy to groove so.

I was still pondering him when, just a mile or so away, I stopped at a red light of my very own. While sitting there, I noticed a man with a portable keyboard, standing at the side of the road. (I am NOT making this up!) He appeared to be playing the keyboard. Not one to miss a musical moment twice, I turned down my low-brow sports/fun radio station and rolled down the window. (I digress: is it still "rolling" when your window is electrically controlled with just the touch of a button?) Anyway, with the window down, I heard some nice music emanating from this man's keyboard! He realized that I was actually listening to his music and he seemed pleased, not wanting the moment to pass. The light changed. I wasn't quite ready to go yet, but I did.

So here's the strange thing. Tonight I was driving home really late from work, taking a totally different route than I was on when I saw this man yesterday, and there he was, at the red light! For a moment I thought he might be a figment of my imagination. But I know he was real. Maybe he couldn't sleep. Maybe he thought, I'll go play some music for the people who worked late tonight. Maybe he was there as a reminder to do what you love, no matter how crazy it may appear to others.

Day Two of Brief-Writing at the Cafe (AKA the "Neighborhood Starbucks")

There are days when my heart seems closer to the surface than on other days . . . like today.

On my way to Starbucks to continue my brief-writing outside the total isolation of my home, I saw the man who walks his dog past my house every day. When I first noticed him walking past my house, shortly after I moved to the neighborhood nearly 5 years ago, he had with him a beautiful Golden Retriever kind of dog. I noticed this winter that the Golden was walking more slowly, so much so that he/she wasn't even on a leash for their walks anymore. I noticed when I saw the man today that I had not seen him in a long time. And I'm not sure about this, but I don't think his dog was with him today. I hope that isn't the case, and that I just overlooked the dog's presence in my haste to get caffeine.

At Starbucks they played my favorite song in the world (with the possible exception of the James Taylor/Ray Charles rendition of "Sweet Potato Pie"), Jeff Buckley's "Hallelujah." This version, which I hear at this place from time to time, is done a capella (not typically my favorite). But it still sounds beautiful, Jeff Buckley being what he was and the song being what it is. This song stirs deep feelings in me that began with the boyfriend who introduced me to it, but have continued even beyond the time when he was present in my life. Today these feelings remind me that I am more than a churner-out of briefs and that soon the work I am doing will stir feelings in me to match even those I am feeling today.

On a less navel-gazing note, a future Saturday Night Live character was born at Starbucks today--the Very Loud Talker. This skinny guy in preppy clothes parked his SUV out front and, before coming in, gazed at himself in the reflection of the window of the SUV in the next parking spot over. While odd, this did not prepare us for his "indoor behavior," which is to SPEAK AT THE TOP OF HIS LUNGS TO PEOPLE STANDING JUST A FEW FEET AWAY FROM HIM. He seemed to have no clue that he was blowing out the eardrums of those nearby or that he was acting in any way out of the ordinary. It wasn't just his volume, though--he also spoke loudly of matters best left for quiet, delicate conversation. Methinks he was never told as a young boy, "Use your inside voice, honey." His effect on us was so stunning that everyone looked at each other after he left, still reeling in shock from the experience. You know it's bad when the Starbucks barristas actually ask, "Is everyone okay over there?" upon his departure.

Eyebrow-Raising Folk

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Funny how certain kinds of quotes

catch one's eye when the timing is right. Most recently, I latched onto these statements made at Oberlin's commencement ceremonies by Dr. William F. Shulz, Executive Director of Amnesty International U.S.A. (excerpts below):

But though truth takes a myriad of forms, there is one truth that remains beyond dispute--a truth this institution has also sought to elucidate--and that is that all blood flows red, that more profound than all our differences is our common suffering and that what will save us and save our planet is a recognition of the frailty we share. That truth is under threat today from the enemies of democracy and the champions of it; from the purveyors of morality and the disdainers of it. But it is still true.

To see beyond appearances, beyond pretense and stereotype, beyond bombast and bravado, right into the authentic heart of misery, into the common bonds of suffering--the remarkable capacity that we human beings occasionally display to identify with another's pain, despite all of our brutality, to exercise a moral imagination, despite all of our pettiness--it is that upon which human rights are based and the salvation of the world depends.

And then there is a final article of faith this College has always sought to propagate and that is the conviction that history is not finished; that the future is not fated; and that with our privilege, with our degrees, comes our responsibility to build a more benevolent nation, a more hospitable people, a more welcoming world.

Somewhere in one of the great art museums in Europe hangs a large painting of Faust and the Devil sitting at a chess table. Faust has made his pact with the Devil and now his face is contorted in anguish because he retains on the chessboard but a knight and a King and the King is in check.

One day a great chess master happened into the museum and naturally this painting eye caught his eye and he sat down in front of it and stared. Fifteen minutes passed. Then twenty. And still the master stared. And then suddenly, leaping to his feet: "It's a lie!" he shouted at the top of his lungs for all to hear. "It's a lie, I tell you. The King and the knight--they have another move. They have another move."

And that, my friends, is the final message this school would have its graduates deliver to a bruised and battered world--that, no matter what orthodoxy may claim or ideology may bluster, history is not finished, the future is not fated, what comes next is in our hands, so that in the face of hardship and injustice, of suffering and of death, we say, "The story is not over. The end is not here yet. For it is not just the King but the knight, not just the Queen but the rook, not just the Bishop but pawn, not just the wealthy but the pauper, not just the powerful but every starving, lonely, frightened person in the world, every single person, every single one of us, who has another move. We all have another move.

Pat Buchanan once famously said that America was engaged in a "culture war." For once, he was right. We are engaged today in an enormous struggle for the soul of this country. It is a struggle between those who would close down culture and those who would keep it open. Between those who welcome the preeminence of one nation and those who give their fealty to the common interests of the globe. It is, in short, a struggle between those with a parched vision and those with a generous heart. This institution has always pledged itself to one side of that equation and, to you who graduate today I leave you with one very simple message: "Wear the mantle of these values proudly; then give no quarter; fear no shadows; and make the mountains tremble."

His last statement brings tears to my eyes. If only I could . . .

Woodward and Bernstein

With the recent Deep Throat revelation, my interest in Bob Woodward and Carl Bernstein has been rekindled. I have obsessively read articles about them, finally stumbling upon this very juicy one, by Alicia Shepard in the Washingtonian.

The entire article was well-written and interesting, and this quote in particular caught my attention:

Annie Groer, Post reporter who went to Montgomery Blair High School with Bernstein: There are those who say Carl squandered gifts or frittered away a fortune. But one can’t say he’s led of life of quiet desperation. In the end, I think his regrets will be sins of commission rather than omission. You regret what you did, not what you didn’t do. I’m for that.

I think it is because I feel the first sentence could apply to me. Now I want to ensure I don't live the rest of my life in such a way that the second sentence applies to me . . . may my sins be those of commission, not omission.

My New Mantra

Via Eric Zorn's blog today:

Be kind, for everyone you meet is fighting a hard battle . . . Plato

Anyone who has tangled horns with me in the years since my father's death will understand why I want so very badly to live this phrase. Dad surprised me by dying six and a half years ago, when he was 56 and I was 29. Afterwards, I was, unsurprisingly, numb for a period of many months. I felt soft and vulnerable after that, not unlike the interior of an exposed wound. I was sensitive and patient, didn't sweat the small stuff and readily excused the frailties of others, knowing that they meant nothing when one could die tomorrow. Sadly, that feeling wore off at some point (I'm not sure when) and left me smack in the middle of what has now been a years-long phase of alternating between being a winsome, belly-laughing person who is all-too-beloved by my friends and a tantrum-throwing too-big-to-be-a-toddler girl who is highly pissed off at losing her father when she wasn't expecting it.

When these tantrums occurred, I would watch, stunned, as if standing outside myself. I was perplexed to see the embarrassingly furious person (me) taking her unidentified anger out on some poor soul, but was utterly unable to stop the carnage. This caused great heartache for me and sometimes, I am sure, extreme embarrassment for my friends who witnessed it. It always resulted in hurt/annoyance for the person on the other end, I have no doubt. Because that person was typically a stranger, I was not around to see the aftermath. But always--without fail--I was disgusted with myself afterwards, wondering what went wrong and how I could stop it from happening again.

I only recently realized why I am so easily angered. My guess is that there is no one cause. Partly anger at losing my Dad. I am trying to work through this, with partial success.

Another probable cause is my anger at being left with my mother as my only parent; she is like an alien being I do not understand, and whom I am not altogether sure actually loves me. I am altogether sure that she does not see in me what my father saw--while he saw my faults, he loved me despite them, the one person in my life in whom I have found the unquestioning acceptance I crave so deeply. I have tried to deal with this by expecting less of her, without much success. I then tried to discuss my issues with her, with even less success. She was willing to discuss briefly, but obviously does not understand my concerns. I am figuring out what to do with this, but don't know yet.

The other part of the equation is the one most recently discovered--my total lack of fulfillment found in the work I do--that can only be changed by a total career and lifestyle change. As I have referenced in other posts on this blog, I now know what I need to do career-wise and am finding some peace in having come to that realization. But while I bide my time until I can make that move, I still feel like a tiger pacing in its ugly and outdated concrete cage at the zoo, wondering what it will take to escape. In the meantime, I want so badly to stop swiping my paw through the bars while people who had nothing to do with my capture stroll by on their way to see the elephants. Hopefully, Plato's wisdom will help me in my efforts.

P.S. If any of my "victims" happens to read this nearly-invisible blog, please accept my humblest apologies. I am so sorry for any pain I may have caused you.