Author: fifteenkey (Page 73 of 95)

This picture, taken by Reuters Goran Tomasevic in Haifa, Israel, really captures what’s happened to peace on the border with Lebanon.

In his work, Human Destiny, French scientist Lecomte du Nouy, wrote in 1947, “Certain of our mental illusions are due to the fact that we consider a phenomenon, as we observe it, in the frame of our current life… In other words, one can say that from the standpoint of man it is the scale of observation which creates the phenomenon. Every time we change the scale of observation we encounter new phenomena.”

Lately I’ve been fretting (maybe I am a fretter) over buying a car. My consternation has been over just how much luxury I can afford. For the past month or so, I’ve been swinging on the rings of mental gymnastics with the relative pros and cons (and car payments) of Acura TL, BMW 3 Series, and Infiniti G35. In the last week, a new Lexus ES 350 has been tossed onto the mat, although it introduces financial uneven bars to the all around competition.

Last night as I drove to meet friends for dinner, I observed all potential suitors as I cruised the highway listening to Neil Young’s Harvest. As I manuvered along Rt. 3A in Billerica approaching the restaurant, I passed a grocery store and slowed to a stop so I could let a man cross the road. He was carrying about six bags of groceries. I wondered if the man had a car, if he had children and how many? I thought about the relative smallness of my current worries compared to most.

After a nice dinner with Tom, Alan, George and Pete, we headed to the Veterans of Foreign Wars Hall in Lowell, MA for a “going away party” for a guy I’ve worked with and known for almost 20 years. During the night I walked around the Spartan hall and read some of the plaques of the veterans that sacrificed much for those of us who didn’t. I thought about how lucky I was to have been too young for Vietnam and too old for Iraq. I can’t even imagine living one day in a foxhole or a rice pattie wondering if some sniper would make it my last.

Our pal Bob is only “going away” from work after a couple years of serious health problems that just won’t quit. Due to his condition, he’s suffered brain hemorrhaging and there have been times when his vision just leaves him. Since suddenly losing sight while at the helm of a moving vehicle is very detrimental to ones insurance rating, he no longer drives. He’s much closer to worrying about the sniper than the Lexus.

The events of last night changed the scale of my observation, but will it last? Last night there were friends and laughs and hugs and tears that were born from human relationships, none of which come with a new car.

I disagree with most of this review of Stephen Adly Guirgis’ The Last Days of Judas Iscariot. Set in a little known nook of Purgatory called Hope, the serio-comedy pits “God and the Kingdom of Heaven vs. Judas Iscariot” in a heavyweight courtroom bout for the ages. It explores the relative guilt of Judas against others with more or less holy blood on their hands, including Caiaphas the Elder and Pontius Pilot.

The prosecution is headed by dumb like a fox Yusef El-Fayoumy, played with a wink by Mason Sand. When he wasn’t ass-kissing the Judge or hitting on the defense attorney, he was dropping some of the nights best lines. When he playfully calls witness and alleged cocaine user Sigmund Freud “Sigmund Fried,” he says, “Forgive me, I made a you-slip.”

Without getting into an all-out review, let me just say I recommend the play as a paradoxically (is that a word?) fun night of deep religious and moral inquiry. My favorite character was Satan, but he’s not what you might think. He’s thoughtful and very matter of fact. “I don’t believe in good and bad,” he states plainly to a Defense inquiry. “What I believe in is truth.”

At one point, the character Butch Honeywell arrives in purgatory and laments his marital betrayals. He seemed to me a man who had not yet forgiven himself and had self-imposed a sentence of personal purgatory. Now the time had come for him to meet his maker and his fate. Was he doomed to the same end as Judas for his sins? Should he be?

I don’t recall exactly when, but at one point during the play Saturday night I felt myself well up. Maybe it was the unconditional love thing. Like much of we witnessed, that was pretty powerful.

Company One’s performance of The Last Days of Judas Iscariot runs through August 5th at the BCA Plaza Theatre in Boston’s very cool South End.

This morning I was running a little late to work. I did some email, and then headed in. On my way in my attention was seized by a dark blue Passat. I thought I recognized the car, but perhaps not. It was hot this morning and I found it unusual the car had the windows about half way down. I wondered:

• Is the AC not working?
• Is this person an environmentalist conserving fuel?
• Are they simply enjoying the warmth of a summer morning?

As I passed the car I glanced at the driver. She was a dark haired beauty with big dark eyes. Well, I imagined the eyes behind the sunglasses. I waved at the expressionless image and drove on. I thought I recognized her but perhaps not.

I had some interesting employment while in college. Three that come to mind are jobs with:

• A lawyer who’s now one of the most powerful in the city of Tucson
• A landscaping company that now commands 25% of the market in Tucson
• A soft-drink bottling company with current revenues North of $120M

At the Kalil Bottling Company, my pal Mark Gonnella and I loaded the big distribution trucks with RC Cola, Canada Dry and Crush products, at first cases by hand, then with a forklift once we earned that spot. We’d ride our bicycles the 3 plus miles for our 5:00 to 10:00 pm shift, usually after hanging out at a nearby pizza joint playing Pac-Man. Yeah it was all the rage then.

There were some interesting characters besides us working there. For many, it was their job, the primary means of putting food on their tables. For me, it was rent and fun money, and I was just passing through. One night I stopped the forklift when the break whistle sounded and grabbed a cold soda. I was chatting with a guy who was probably my age then. We shot the breeze about the Celtics-Lakers who were playing in the NBA Finals, but then the conversation turned serious. The man asked me what my future plans were. I don’t even recall my response, but I’ll never forget what he said next. He looked at me with a face older than his years, one reddened and aged by too much sun and too much alcohol. “Well,” he said, “there’s only one person in this world who can stop you from doing anything you want with your life.” I waited for the answer that back then wasn’t obvious to me. “You.” The whistle to get back to work sounded, but I was stunned at the gravity of the revelation. It was a keeper, and a huge part of my education that didn’t happen in a classroom.

Last weekend I enjoyed seeing and hearing Neil Young as a young man and as an old man pour out from his own heart words, voice, guitar and harmonica. First was an MTVHD video of “Heart of Gold” from the Jonathan Demme film of the same name, followed by a performance, almost thirty years earlier, of “Helpless” in “The Last Waltz.” The studio recording of “Heart of Gold” is from Mr. Young’s 1972 record, Harvest and is to date his only #1 hit.

One very fond memory of mine is of a college break road trip from Tucson to Boston via Fort Hood, TX and Queens, NY. Back in 1978 or so, there were no iPods or even CD’s. We were lucky to have a cassette tape and a harmonica in my buddy’s 1973 Pontiac Grand Am that looked kinda like this. Anyway, over the course of the 48 hour drive, I pretty much thought I had the harmonica from the song nailed. No, I did. Not once in the 48 hours did any of my buddies attempt to leave the moving vehicle. On the contrary, during each of the many times we played it, we all sang along with all of our um, hearts. We were young, uninhibited and all searching for our own heart of gold.

I love lyrics and remember really feeling the words “And I’m getting old.” Yeah, I was feeling it. After all, I was like twenty and certainly my best days were behind me… It’s funny how that perspective changes as the miles roll by. Four score and there’s so much more…

Recently I was chatting with a friend about women and the type I find myself drawn to. “Maybe it’s because they have the kind of heart you need.” May be.

Ah, expectations. We all have them. Well, most of us do, and how we manage them has a great influence on our day to day enjoyment of life. The title of this post is the Boston Globe’s Cate McQuaid’s summation of the MFA exhibit I was um, supposed to go to Friday. No biggie. The show is here till September 24th. I’ll get there eventually.

Speaking of expectations, I was really hoping for a better ending to the career of French futbol legend Zinedine Zidane. Yesterday, in overtime of a 1-1 World Cup final with Italy, Zidane inexplicably and viciously headbutted Marco Materazzi in the chest, ending his World Cup career in disgrace and effectively ending France’s quest for the Cup. Adding to the bizarre was the fact Zidane had to walk right past the object of his and his nation’s desire as he exited the pitch after his ”red card” ejection.

I guess there are times when a little head can be a bad thing.

Unfortunately, the correspondence I received last week was not from this IRS. No, it was from our friends at the Internal Revenue Service informing me that, “If this information is correct, you will owe $12,067.” Holy interest and penalties, Batman! I’m sure one can get much worse news in the mail, but a letter from the IRS looking for cash must be in the top ten. Based on the facts presented, I was pretty sure they were mistaken, but I was so busy with work stuff I didn’t have time to fully refute it until this week while I’m on “vacation.” I can’t say I worried much about it, but some things I was planning did get a little thought for being somewhat in jeopardy. Anyway, my research shows the income they say I didn’t report actually was reported elsewhere on my 1040. Looks like Megan may get my Volvo after all.

Oh, any guesses on the lyric title of this post?

I’m Only Happy When it Rains
I’ve never been a fan, nor do I own any of their music, but there’s a really good performance by Garbage on PBS’s Soundstage on WGBX and WGBH-HD.

What, Me Worry?
No, that wasn’t me on the Tobin Bridge after the Sox lost 3 in a row to the DevilDogs. Really.

And…
Finally, this bit of wisdom from a beautiful film: “Just Keep Swimming… Just Keep Swimming…”

Today on Yahoo’s home page was a link to this cool video. It captures people’s expressions as they view one of the world’s most famous works of art. Please check it out and then come back. It’s worth 3 minutes of your time.

I’m going to the MFA on Friday to see “Americans in Paris, 1860–1900.” I’m sure my face will be filled with wonder a few times during that visit. What does viewing art do to you? Does it move you? Does it conjure up any level of emotion, or is it just nice to look at? I’ve experienced many emotions while looking at art… mostly discovery, surprise, wonder, sadness and sometimes a degree of happiness at the sheer genius and beauty of some works. I use “degree of happiness” because while looking at some art has produced pleasurable moments, uncontrolled hilarity has not been one of them.

I’m not going to mention any names, but during one recent museum trip, the person I was with had such an emotional episode from looking at a sculpture. I thought the piece was quite tasteful, albeit a bit over the top with the powdered wig look of 18th century aristocracy. I took a picture of the royal gentleman in question and I still cannot see the humor in it. Maybe you can.

By the way, the art in the film was Michelangelo’s “David.”

It was a seasonably warm July 3rd at Moulton Field. The trees deep in center were motionless and still sun drenched in the early evening just past six. The Wakefield “Townies” team was on the field defending against their cross-town rivals from Melrose who were swinging. The Melrose leadoff hitter was fast and the catcher could see him dancing off of second on the balls of his feet, ready to race toward home on any opportunity. A sharp single to right was that opportunity and the catcher got ready.

Plays at the plate were one of the most fun things about being a catcher. It probably placed just behind gunning out would-be base stealers and just ahead of calling pitches. The cat and mouse game of keeping hitters off-balance with pitch selection and location was the brains exercise, defending home was all brawn and a matter of personal pride. After Ralph Romeo jarred a ball loose from the catcher in a high school team scrimmage, the young receiver vowed it would never happen again.

Donnie Morelli charged the ball and fielded the single cleanly on two hops. He gracefully extended one more stride and uncorked a perfect throw toward home. It was targeted right at the first base “cutoff man” and was about waist high when it passed him, just one clean skip off the green grass away from the crouching catcher facing it.

At the crack of the bat, the catcher sprung up and got in position to defend the plate. If the runner was going to touch it, he’d have to get past the (almost) six foot, one hundred and ninety pound backstop first. Collisions at home were part of the game and there were some classics in those years including the late, great Yankee Thurman Munson bowling over the Red Sox Carlton Fisk ensuing a brawl, and Pete Rose ending the career of Ray Fosse with a shattering home plate impact in the 1970 All-Star Game.

A couple seconds before the throw arrived, a quick flash in the left periphery told the young batterymate the runner had rounded third, but since then all his focus was on the incoming throw. The ball hit the mitt cleanly with a puff of dry Moulton dust. The catcher quickly turned his head from right field toward left to find the runner, but time had run out. The Melrose runner barreled in knee first and the impact was directly to the catchers face. Bodies tumbled like jeans in a dryer and dust exploded, obscuring the verdict. The catcher landed on all fours, knees and hands buried in the khaki colored powder, the ball still clutched in his right hand. “OUT!” barked the umpire, and that’s what the catcher was on the verge of. It was in that moment he first experienced “seeing stars.”

His mother was sitting in the corner of the room at the Melrose-Wakefield Hospital when he awoke from surgery on July 4th, 1975. The local paper wrote that the injury was similar to that of Red Sox pitcher Dick Pole, who was struck with a line drive in a game against the Baltimore Orioles, an injury ironically witnessed by the catcher and his dad just 5 days earlier. Medically speaking, his injury was nowhere near as bad as the Sox hurler. It was a simple fracture of the zygomatic arch requiring only 20 minutes of “plastic surgery” to repair. The procedure involved an incision above the hairline to hide scarring, that’s why it was considered “plastic.”

“Nice mouth on you” were the first words he recalled hearing from Mom after emerging from the July 4th fog of sodium penethol. Apparently, when the on-call nurse visited every 15 minutes to check vital signs, the young and the injured politely requested that she “leave him the f___ alone.” Mom quickly realized the poor boy was still quite out of it when he asked in all seriousness, “Can I go out tonight?” “Out” would have to wait until the 5th, when he got together with his buddies for a few cold ones and a thorough analysis of the events. There were only a few wisecracks about the protective metal and foam bar taped to his face. After all, the injury was now being seen as a deliberate act by a Melrose player alleged to have been drinking before the game and laughing after the play. The catcher didn’t care.

I held the ball and he was out.