This hasn't happened in years, but after ages without any symptoms at all, I now have "Mahna Mahna" stuck firmly, irrevocably in my head. And the only way to deal with it is to actually play it, because when I sing it I really rumble out the "mahna mahna," and tear out my throat. (It turns out there are a lot of "Mahna Mahna" sites out there, mostly focused on The Muppet Show version. Click it for the video!)
June 2005 Archives
Overheard from a cartoon show my daughter was watching while we were at the dentist this morning:"Did you set your backpack to 'vibrate'?"
Okay, I know, talking about my search requests is boring. And maybe it's not fascinating that I have had five hits for "Kirsten Gum" today (and now I'll get even more) (and I'm glad I'm not getting hits for The Trout, believe me). But a couple of these others are genuinely disturbing. From Bratislava, Slovakia, someone came to my site searching for "Robin Tunney muscles OR muscled OR muscled legs OR calves." From Montreal, someone came to my site searching for "Soundtrack to Patty Duke because were [sic] cousins." And from San Diego, "The GoGo's are drunk and talking to video camera with boys."
And these are just the people whose searches somehow bring them to my site. Just imagine the ones that I don't even know about.
Because they're cousins, identical cousins all the wayOne pair of matching bookendsDifferent as night and day.
Not one to really wrap myself up in knots over such things, but yesterday was a day of particularly unsustainable practices around this household. I'm generally pretty conservative -- combining trips, putting things off, having a lot of supplies for around-the-house projects on hand. But the sudden need for cool air led me to drive to one store and then another, and then out 10 miles to a third, in search of an air conditioner. I have finally given in to the consideration that, although there are probably about 10 days a year when this house can't be cooled by conventional means, I spend the sweltering days safely esconced in a climate-controlled office (with a great view of the river), while wife works from the sweltering dining room and the kids set up and take down the slip 'n' slide every day in order to keep from melting. So, with even more reluctance than that which accompanied the purchase of a snowblower, I joined the plastic masses of the bourgeoisie and decided to give up not only my soul but also access to one of my windows in order to keep the house cool. It's supposed to start burning in the 90s around here this weekend, so there seemed no sense in waiting another minute.
But of course, once I found what I wanted, there was the little matter of another trip back to the Home Depot to get the electrical parts I needed. Then back to work. Then home. Then back out to the Home Depot because I changed my plans and decided not to sink the box in the wall and wanted a conduit box that looked right. The only thing I did that was even slightly conserving of gas was to use the ATM for the first time since about 1980. I've been traveling around the country for years without even having an ATM card, just reliant on cash and a credit card, but finally gave in. Knowing I had to run to the bank this morning (I write a check and cash it. This is what people used to have to do to get cash), instead I stopped at the branch of my bank next to the Home Depot (which I didn't even realize was there), and used my ATM card for the first time. I was surprised by how little the machines have advanced -- crappy screens, lousy instructions and money still in multiples of $20. But I saved four miles of driving this morning, so I can watch sea levels rise with a clear conscience today.
Until, of course, I get the air conditioner wired.
Well, if you can call it a "day" -- barely a couple of hours. As Hannah was preparing to leave this morning, spouse and I both said something along the lines of "See you in an hour!" or "Have a good twenty minutes!" To which she responded, as if she had just stepped out of Heathers, "Oh, you two!"
/div>I've been dying to write about this book -- The Orientalist, by Tom Reiss -- since I started it weeks and weeks ago. I first heard the author on NPR, then was first in line to get it at the library, and when it was clear that a) I wasn't going to finish it and that b) I had to read this book more than once, I ordered it up at the new Manor Block Books in Troy. Got right into it, then thought I had lost it (it turned up, having fallen behind a chest in the bedroom). And now I've finally finished it, and have to say, it's the most fascinating biography/history/story I think I've ever read.
So, how to describe it? Its subtitle is "Solving the mystery of a strange and dangerous life." It's the story of an author of biographies and fiction, once one of the best-known writers in the world in the time between the wars -- but one whose identities became so confused that by the '70s, when his great novel of love between a Christian girl and a Muslim boy was reissued (Life magazine wrote: "If Kurban Said can't push Erich Segal off the bestseller list, nobody can!"), his true identity was completely lost. Tom Reiss tracks down Lev Nussimbaum, the Jewish son of an oil baron in Azerbaijan, who over the course of revolutions and upheaval in Russia, the Caucasus, and Germany came to be the "Mohammedan" Essad Bey, and who finally adopted the nom de plume of Kurban Said. His home in Baku entertained Stalin (and there are hints his mother may have done more for the revolutionary cause). Trotsky wrote to his son, "Who is this Essad Bey?" He lived in Berlin in the 1920s, among the Pasternaks and the Nabokovs. He was the subject of a divorce scandal that played large in the American tabloids. And he died young of a rare disease, in fascist Italy, remembered by the people in a seaside town only as "the Muslim."
In with it all, Reiss manages to paint an incredible picture of the changes of the times -- the revolution, the friction of east and west in the Caucasus, the rise of Hitler -- and how all of it related to this man who was or wasn't masquerading as something very foreign in places and times where it was phenomenally dangerous to do so. As I said, the best combination of biography and history I've ever read, and all in all an unbelievable story.
So now I'm following it up with "Kurban Said's" classic "Ali and Nino." Reiss traces the authorship of this book convincingly, but the paperback edition that is currently available still raises the possibility that this was a collaboration between Essad Bey and a German baroness, who in all likelihood was the only way the denounced author could get his book published in the National Socialist era -- when Jews weren't to be published, and several spies had expressed serious doubts about the Muslim identity of Essad Bey. The book retains the flavor of an earlier time, but writes convincingly and well of the love of a Muslim boy for a Georgian Christian girl -- for everyone knows that Georgian women are the most beautiful in the world. A sample:
"'Ali Khan, you are stupid. Thank God we are in Europe. If we were in Asia they would have made me wear the veil ages ago, and you couldn't see me.' I gave in. Baku's undecided geographical situation allowed me to go on looking into the most beautiful eyes in the world."
So what are you waiting for? Order already!
Thought I'd share this highly spooky photograph of my grandmother as a child, probably around 1922 or so. She's got a real Wednesday Addams thing going on.
Things people won't find at my site, though they keep looking for them:
- "Pictures of Kirsten Gum" -- granted, they're hard to find. I don't like the brunette look on her, either
- "fan club england dan john ford coley" -- just because I smuggled a contraband girl into the Scotia-students-only free concert doesn't mean I'm a fan
- "words for Burl Ives messing about on the river" -- simply because I opined that Burl Ives must die
- "Schenectady Massacre images" -- sorry, haven't scanned those in yet.
- "Finot pogo 8,5" -- no idea. Really.
For the past couple of days, everyone I know has been asking how I did in the Tour de Cure, and they're asking with a certain level of concern in their voices. That's because it was over 90 degrees, hazy, phenomenally humid, and there was a wicked headwind for the second half of the course. But in fact, I did fine. In fact, I had a really really nice time. I was sociable, chatted with other riders, rode with a couple of groups, and had a really nice time. The start was shaky, with lots of broken pavement and a water bottle that came flying at me, with nowhere to move in the pack, but after things thinned out it became quite nice. Kept running into the same group of people so we started talking along the way, took a few long rests together, rode together for a long time, and finished around the same time -- which was impressive for me, since one of the guys was a fairly serious triathlete. Of course, he wasn't really pushing it, but that's not the point. My ego is just happy I finished just a little bit before he did. Also rode with a really nice, big guy in a SpongeBob SquarePants jersey, and learned the tremendous value of riding behind Magnus Backstedt or any of the other big men of the peloton -- they're fabulous pullers. Despite the 20mph headwind, I felt nice and rested when I was behind him. (Unfortunately, he had much more climbing ability than I had in that heat, so I'd get dropped on the hills and then pick him back up on the flats.) Anyway, a wonderful day despite the heat, and with the help of many of you folks and my phenomenally generous co-workers, we raised just a little under $1400 for the American Diabetes Association! Thanks once again.
Yesterday was spent on the Train Ride From Perdition. Not quite From Hell -- I've suffered worse -- but one of the slowest rides ever. Heat restrictions on the tracks, signal outages, all kinds of fun problems. I arrived in NYC an hour and a half late for a meeting, caught the last half hour, and turned around and came back -- a little more quickly, but not much. Seven hours on Amtrak. That's going to be much more fun when they discontinue food service later this summer -- hours and hours stuck on an overheated train, waiting for relief, unable to get any food or water. Better start taking the Camelbak. (I know they're losing money on it -- but jeez, they gotta make something available. How about a couple of vending machines??)
This terrific heat wave has led me to finally give in to my long-suffering spouse (who, after all, works from home and has to sit in this overheated house all day) and buy an air conditioner. Of course, that's a much easier decision to make when no such thing exists in the tri-city area. I could still find a fan, though not one that works. I brought home one of those little mist bottles with a battery-operated fan on top -- it will just have to do.
You've gotta check out this incredible collection of rail-related photos that the soon-to-be-legendary Winnipeg photographer Catherine Jamieson threw together this week from a bunch of us Flickr types. Plus, somebody wrote a gushing tribute to my photo work -- really, I'm blushing! Check it out!
Well, for "cheese," substitute "pavement," "air," and "everything else" and you've got a sense of what it's like here today. 90 degrees (that's 32 for my Canadian friends) is not my milieu, and we're headed there for the third day in a row. This is supposed to be my training week for the Tour de Cure in two days, but a lot of things have gotten in the way this year, not least of which is that for the first time I'm en forme and really not feeling the pressure. But normally I do a long long ride on Tuesday, which got slid over into a long ride on Wednesday, and because of sleep issues and other logistics, I ended up bagging yesterday. I can't ride both hot and tired. So this morning as soon as Bek was on the bus, I took off for Best.
In the first 25 minutes, I was already quitting Sunday's ride. I was actually imagining myself going to the registration table and turning in my red (50-mile) colors for a yellow (25-mile, or The Ride 8-Year-Olds Can Do). Even thinking about that is a sure sign of bonking. But then the Gatorade started to kick in, and so did a major breeze that turned into sustained wind. Normally I'd have been mad about having to fight the wind, but in fact it brought me back up to my normal levels and I was able to cruise happily for the next hour and a half, and I un-quit Sunday's ride!
Wouldn't it be nice to be one of those people who's only riding the current ride, instead of worrying about the next one? God. What I love about skiing is that it's only possible to ski the run you're skiing -- I don't have what it takes to even think about the run after, let alone what's going to happen two days later. It's all I can do to keep them between the trees.
Wish me luck!
Elder daughter just spent her first week away from home, ever. This morning, she came down to breakfast, wearing headphones, first time ever.
It has begun. Step away from the teenager!
Ahh, the passing of spring into summer. The crocuses giving way to the phlox. The barking of the geese giving way to the rattling of the woodpecker. The roadside detritus of Shrek 2 cups giving way to the summer's crop of Star Wars cups and french fry holders.
Seriously, people, if you're going to eat that McBurgery's crap, have the decency to eat the wrappers, too, instead of tossing them out the window. It would be the healthiest part of the meal, and provide much-needed fiber.
The big Tour de Cure is coming up this weekend, one of the biggest fundraisers for the American Diabetes Association in the country. If you want to help (and some of you did, so I thank you!), or if you just want to see a ridiculous picture of a man past his prime stuffed into spandex standing in a graveyard, just click here and click on the "Sponsor Me" button. Normally I take this week off to train, but our schedule got a little funky, so I'm not sure how much I'm going to get in. Tomorrow, a long ride is mandatory; then I'm the parent-on* for Thursday and Friday, so I can't really be miles and miles from home living the carefree, freewheeling life, just in case somebody throws up at school. We'll work something out.
Okay, so now I have to tell my favorite editor-on story, which involves a very sweet girl who edited the features section of the paper, and who happened to be the editor-on, stuck out at the printing plant late one night when a game went late. The story got called in (or perhaps faxed, though our fax then took 3 minutes a page), but headlines were typeset on different machines from the stories, so it was her responsibility to take the headline that was dictated on the phone and make sure it got set and pasted up. Our sports editor told her the headline on the phone, and she set it herself, dried it, waxed it, and slapped it in place. But she knew nothing about sports, and our sports editor was incapable of imagining such a condition, so his communication that the University of Connecticut's team, commonly called UConn, was translated into a surprising headline that seemed to intimate that a pack of dogs had taken on the hometown boys: "Yukon Huskies defeat Orange."
You know that saying, "you eat a peck of dirt before you die"? Well, add to that, "You have to eat a pound of cottonwood seeds before you die." Based on this weekend's bike rides along the bike path, where the cottonwood leavings are like snow in the grass, I could go at any time.
First time on blades in ages, but it's still vital to my ego that I pass bicyclists. They could be 105 years old, they could be riding a 1947 Schwinn, they could be the Dalai Lama afraid of getting his robes caught in the chain -- the point is, I'm faster on blades than they are on bikes. How pathetic is that?
Trust me, when I'm on my bike, no blader will ever pass me.
Ever noticed how differently different people hold the concept of time? Elder daughter, who was "anal" before she was potty trained, is pretty much like I was at her age -- knows the day and date exactly, studies the calendar like a map, cannot stand the sloppiness of "quarter of" or "half past," and as a result is pretty self-sufficient around here in terms of knowing what has to be done when, how to deal with her schoolwork, and all that. Younger daughter, on the other hand, frequently can't remember if it's suppertime or lunch time, has to think to remember the day of the week, and is incapable of budgeting her time. Even if we carefully explain a schedule to her, with two or three items she must accomplish in that timeframe, she will have forgotten the second two items before she has even started on the first, and before long she'll have daydreamed her way out of the first. It's just the way she is. For her, it means every day is an adventure. For us, well, I guess it means that, too.
We had a fabulous Memorial Day weekend, despite the tyranny of the weathermen who threaten us repeatedly in an attempt to keep us in our place -- in front of the tube, watching the weather. We went up to the Saratoga National Battlefield, where the tide of war turned for the Americans (and the British, too, come to that). We biked around part of it until it became too much for the youngest, riding a cobbled-together Frankenbike that just isn't going to work the way I want it to. It was good she gave out, though, because a very narrow line of the weatherman's threat zoomed right in on the battlefield, crackling lightning and rain, but we had already retired to the visitors center. The rest of the weekend was so all-American I could have fainted -- we socialized, Hannah marched in the parade, we grilled hamburgers and had ice cream, and we had a pre-adolescent blowout on Monday that cancelled our plans to get the canoes out. Just perfect.
And in a case of either irony or karma -- I've been riding to work a lot, and the bridge I cross was getting kinda nasty with glass on the sidewalk. I don't know if people throw bottles out of cars, or if they're breaking them on the bridge, or both (I think both), but it was getting to be a problem. Plus, there were some other issues. Well, let's say I know a guy who knows a guy, e-mails were traded, and the bridge got scrubbed so clean you could eat off it. So on Monday I'm going across for a quick ride, and I pick up the last shard of glass left on the bridge -- which completely slices open my tire and tube. I had patches and even a tube with me, so it didn't cost me that much time, but the tire is a loss. So that's what I get for asking to have the bridge cleaned.
For interesting snippets of local history from Albany, Schenectady, and Troy, check out
