Thank God I remembered his name: Ortho. I wouldn't have been able to sleep tonight if I had lost that little bit. It only took a call to my mother and a quick rehash:
"Lothar?"
"No."
"Ragnar?"
"No."
"Amir?"
"No - it had something to do with bug spray."
"Ortho?"
"That's it!"
Ortho was a young man - probably in his early twenties - who decided to do a free climb up the face of the big pile of granite that stood at one side of our mountain property. Three of us kids (I was about nine at the time) watched him make slow progress, stretching for holds, straining to reach the next step. Then he fell. It was a very matter of fact thing - not a dramatic, clinging with one hand - clawing the air with the other kind of moment. Gravity just caught up with him all of a sudden.
He landed with a thud in a small grove of aspen trees. A couple of Ortho's friends came running as well as my dad. There was some brief discussion about what to do with him, but since we were miles from the nearest hospital or fire station, we rigged up a stretcher and dragged him over to the porch of our cabin. This is where the brain trust went into high gear, trying to determine the next steps. For his part, Ortho was quite lucid, but still not quite ready to move on his own. One of his friends claimed knowledge of spinal injuries (why wouldn't the hippie guy from across the road know about spinal cord injuries?) and we fashioned a combination sling/traction device out of cardboard boxes to transport him down the mountain to an emergency room.
It was some time before we heard back (we had no phone at the cabin) that Ortho had cracked a vertebra but was going to be all right - eventually.
I learned to respect gravity that day - though I still chose to flaunt it for some time after that (jumping from swings, etc.), but watching Ortho taught me just how quick up can be down.
Thursday, July 28, 2005
Wednesday, July 27, 2005
Extra Innings
I just got back from the ball park. The home team won. That made me feel much better for the four boys we dragged out with us. It's not as if they wouldn't want to go - getting to see a professional baseball game is still a pretty cool ticket around our house - but it's always just a little less fun when our team loses.
I have the same visceral satisfaction to baseball that I have for Disneyland. When I go to Disneyland, there is a moment as I pass through the gates, and head up under the train station and look out on Main Street - with Tomorrow and Adventure on either side and Fantasy straight ahead - I've gotten my money's worth right there. I have the same kind of feeling as I walk up the stairs to our seats in the stadium. When you finally look out at the perfect green grass and the freshly manicured infield, the day's game is an empty scorecard of potential.
My son and his friends were able to stay put for about three innings, then the sugar from the the root beer floats (today's promotion) started to kick in and they needed to go check out what was for sale as well as how fast each one could throw a baseball. My wife sponsored this exodus, and I was left alone in the upper deck (okay, the other 40,000 other folks kept me company).
The home team was behind by two runs in the bottom of the ninth. Careful base running and timely hits got us back to even, but the rally stalled and the extra innings began. What a treat - the seats were two dollars apiece and then they made the game a little longer. In the tenth, with runners on second and third and two outs, a little bloop into left by the second baseman drove in the winning run. The kids had made it back to the seats by this time, and we all had a grand high-five celebration. After that, we picked up our souvenir cups and headed down the ramp to the parking lot. The only sad part was thinking of the kids who left after the eighth inning. Oh well, they can head back out to the park on Friday - I hear it's bucket hat day.
I have the same visceral satisfaction to baseball that I have for Disneyland. When I go to Disneyland, there is a moment as I pass through the gates, and head up under the train station and look out on Main Street - with Tomorrow and Adventure on either side and Fantasy straight ahead - I've gotten my money's worth right there. I have the same kind of feeling as I walk up the stairs to our seats in the stadium. When you finally look out at the perfect green grass and the freshly manicured infield, the day's game is an empty scorecard of potential.
My son and his friends were able to stay put for about three innings, then the sugar from the the root beer floats (today's promotion) started to kick in and they needed to go check out what was for sale as well as how fast each one could throw a baseball. My wife sponsored this exodus, and I was left alone in the upper deck (okay, the other 40,000 other folks kept me company).
The home team was behind by two runs in the bottom of the ninth. Careful base running and timely hits got us back to even, but the rally stalled and the extra innings began. What a treat - the seats were two dollars apiece and then they made the game a little longer. In the tenth, with runners on second and third and two outs, a little bloop into left by the second baseman drove in the winning run. The kids had made it back to the seats by this time, and we all had a grand high-five celebration. After that, we picked up our souvenir cups and headed down the ramp to the parking lot. The only sad part was thinking of the kids who left after the eighth inning. Oh well, they can head back out to the park on Friday - I hear it's bucket hat day.
Tuesday, July 26, 2005
Free Beer Tonight!
Walking through the University of Colorado campus in the early eighties, I used to see signs taped to light poles (and underclassmen who made the mistake of passing out on the sidewalk) advertising "Free Beer tonight at Tulagi's." Tulagi's, aside from being the nominally most frat-infested bar within stumbling distance from the campus, the bar where the apocryphal tale has it that REO Speedwagon wrote the song "Ridin' the Storm Out." I mention these two qualifiers to suggest that perhaps this place might periodically need to give away beer to get a more discerning clientele through the doors.
Amusingly enough, "Free Beer" was the name of a band. As it turns out, there have been and continue to be many different groups of arrested adolescents working on this same notion. It might have been the one that got its start in the San Francisco Bay Area, but was probably not the one that was rambling around Detroit back in the 90's. That being said, I confess that I never bothered to attend a show by either one of these bands - but I admired their marketing savvy. If they had wanted to get hungry drunk boys to their shows they might have only accomplished this feat better by smearing a trail of Dominoe's pizza grease leading up to the front door of the club.
I was a sucker for a thing called "Animal Drown Night." This was held at the local 3.2 beer establishments during the middle of the week when things were slow. You paid some mildly ridiculous cover (like five or six bucks) and then you were allowed to drink all the watery, salted beer you could hold down. A variation on this trick was to have "Ladies Night" when young women were allowed in for free, and then were encouraged to buy pitchers of beer for only a dollar. There wasn't a real concern about who drank the dollar pitchers, they just wanted to empty those taps. There never was any free beer.
I guess that 's why I still find "Barenaked Ladies" so damn amusing.
Amusingly enough, "Free Beer" was the name of a band. As it turns out, there have been and continue to be many different groups of arrested adolescents working on this same notion. It might have been the one that got its start in the San Francisco Bay Area, but was probably not the one that was rambling around Detroit back in the 90's. That being said, I confess that I never bothered to attend a show by either one of these bands - but I admired their marketing savvy. If they had wanted to get hungry drunk boys to their shows they might have only accomplished this feat better by smearing a trail of Dominoe's pizza grease leading up to the front door of the club.
I was a sucker for a thing called "Animal Drown Night." This was held at the local 3.2 beer establishments during the middle of the week when things were slow. You paid some mildly ridiculous cover (like five or six bucks) and then you were allowed to drink all the watery, salted beer you could hold down. A variation on this trick was to have "Ladies Night" when young women were allowed in for free, and then were encouraged to buy pitchers of beer for only a dollar. There wasn't a real concern about who drank the dollar pitchers, they just wanted to empty those taps. There never was any free beer.
I guess that 's why I still find "Barenaked Ladies" so damn amusing.
Sunday, July 24, 2005
Champagne Music Makers
I thought I detected the faint odor of Rose Milk hand cream in the air today. Saturday marked the passing of Lawrence Welk's accordianist, Myron Floren. Somewhere my piano teacher is weeping into her upturned palms - slathered in the aforementioned lotion. We mention the death of Mr. Floren here as a jumping off point - as is so often the case, it is only the beginning of the story, not the end.
For a few years, I went to piano lessons with my older brother in the basement of a rather tortured soul. Mr. H was a wonderful pianist, but not much of a teacher. He tended to let his very awkward personal life seep into his lesson time. There were a number of times toward the end when I just sat in the waiting room, expecting to be called in, and the call never came.
So, we changed teachers. Mary Kay was different from Mr. H in both her boundless enthusiasm and her willingness to come to our house to give us lessons (effectively eliminating that uncomfortable waiting problem). She had a lot of notions about how best to teach my younger brother and me (my older brother had moved on to junior high and was no longer required to take piano lessons). We learned to conduct (our mother was encouraged to buy a "real baton" for this exercise). She had us train our voices as well as our fingers to appreciate the tonal qualities of - oh, I don't know -something.
It was only after our first few months of lessons that we were introduced to her fascination with Lawrence Welk, and more specifically, Myron Floren. I can't fault her for her music tastes - my own are eclectic and disparate enough to erect my own glass house to not throw critical stones in - but it was the imposition of those tastes that became a concern. I was fortunate in the same way that my older brother aged out of piano lessons that I skated free from Mary Kay's suggestion that I take up the accordion. That fell to my younger brother - who has the self-effacing charm to get away with strapping an according to his chest. Then came the records. And the trips to go see Myron when he was on tour. This all culminated with a trip to Chicago with several of her other students (a number of whom were mentally challenged). I had reached the age when "No" meant "you've got to be kidding me, of course I wouldn't be caught dead going to Chicago with a bunch of according playing feebs." I stayed home. My brother went. At the hotel swimming pool, he was almost drowned by one of the larger accordianists who didn't have words to describe his jealousy when the attentions of another pretty little thing didn't return his affections. Then, later that evening, they all went to the big show. It might be hard to imagine with hindsight which was the more terrifying experience for a pre-teen.
He lived through it, and when he made it to junior high, our family bid adieu to Mary Kay. He kept his according. He had it with him well into his twenties - perhaps as a reminder of what being too nice can get you. He set it on fire and pushed it off a five-story building for a film he and his friend were making. A kind of Viking funeral. And now, Myron will join it in Valhalla.
For a few years, I went to piano lessons with my older brother in the basement of a rather tortured soul. Mr. H was a wonderful pianist, but not much of a teacher. He tended to let his very awkward personal life seep into his lesson time. There were a number of times toward the end when I just sat in the waiting room, expecting to be called in, and the call never came.
So, we changed teachers. Mary Kay was different from Mr. H in both her boundless enthusiasm and her willingness to come to our house to give us lessons (effectively eliminating that uncomfortable waiting problem). She had a lot of notions about how best to teach my younger brother and me (my older brother had moved on to junior high and was no longer required to take piano lessons). We learned to conduct (our mother was encouraged to buy a "real baton" for this exercise). She had us train our voices as well as our fingers to appreciate the tonal qualities of - oh, I don't know -something.
It was only after our first few months of lessons that we were introduced to her fascination with Lawrence Welk, and more specifically, Myron Floren. I can't fault her for her music tastes - my own are eclectic and disparate enough to erect my own glass house to not throw critical stones in - but it was the imposition of those tastes that became a concern. I was fortunate in the same way that my older brother aged out of piano lessons that I skated free from Mary Kay's suggestion that I take up the accordion. That fell to my younger brother - who has the self-effacing charm to get away with strapping an according to his chest. Then came the records. And the trips to go see Myron when he was on tour. This all culminated with a trip to Chicago with several of her other students (a number of whom were mentally challenged). I had reached the age when "No" meant "you've got to be kidding me, of course I wouldn't be caught dead going to Chicago with a bunch of according playing feebs." I stayed home. My brother went. At the hotel swimming pool, he was almost drowned by one of the larger accordianists who didn't have words to describe his jealousy when the attentions of another pretty little thing didn't return his affections. Then, later that evening, they all went to the big show. It might be hard to imagine with hindsight which was the more terrifying experience for a pre-teen.
He lived through it, and when he made it to junior high, our family bid adieu to Mary Kay. He kept his according. He had it with him well into his twenties - perhaps as a reminder of what being too nice can get you. He set it on fire and pushed it off a five-story building for a film he and his friend were making. A kind of Viking funeral. And now, Myron will join it in Valhalla.
Pushmi-pullyu
My wife was lamenting the passing of summer last night. "Waitaminnit," I said, "isn't it my job to grieve for things that haven't even left the building yet?" As noted here many times before, I am the nihilist and my wife is the one who tends to "wrap things in white light." Just another example of what I have come to refer to as "the push-me pull-you nature of relationships."
For those of you unfamiliar with the two-headed llama first seen in Doctor Dolittle (alas, not in Eddie Murhpy's version), it is simply an animal with two heads and no behind. There is a constant challenge within this beast as to who gets to go forward and who needs to back up. It's a lot like dancing, trying to figure out who is going to lead. Men have traditionally had this role all to themselves - but as Faith Whittlesey said "Remember, Ginger Rogers did everything Fred Astaire did, but she did it backwards and in high heels."
So who does wear the tap shoes in my family? Well, we all do - and now that our son is walking and talking and solving engineering problems on his own we sometimes have three heads all pulling in different directions. Ideally, we would happily take turns and be happy in the notion that soon we would have the opportunity to be in charge once again and impress our will onto the rest. Sadly, we forget our manners and we find ourselves periodically in the power vacuum that exists in all relationships on a Friday night: "Whaddyouwannado?" "Idunno, whaddayouwannado?" Now we're looking for the other side of the car - we don't want to drive anymore - we want to be passengers. Except for the eight year old - his life's mission is clear: own all the Legos. We must go to Toys 'R' Us. So once again, I guess it's important to be careful what you wish for, since you just might have to pay for it later.
For those of you unfamiliar with the two-headed llama first seen in Doctor Dolittle (alas, not in Eddie Murhpy's version), it is simply an animal with two heads and no behind. There is a constant challenge within this beast as to who gets to go forward and who needs to back up. It's a lot like dancing, trying to figure out who is going to lead. Men have traditionally had this role all to themselves - but as Faith Whittlesey said "Remember, Ginger Rogers did everything Fred Astaire did, but she did it backwards and in high heels."
So who does wear the tap shoes in my family? Well, we all do - and now that our son is walking and talking and solving engineering problems on his own we sometimes have three heads all pulling in different directions. Ideally, we would happily take turns and be happy in the notion that soon we would have the opportunity to be in charge once again and impress our will onto the rest. Sadly, we forget our manners and we find ourselves periodically in the power vacuum that exists in all relationships on a Friday night: "Whaddyouwannado?" "Idunno, whaddayouwannado?" Now we're looking for the other side of the car - we don't want to drive anymore - we want to be passengers. Except for the eight year old - his life's mission is clear: own all the Legos. We must go to Toys 'R' Us. So once again, I guess it's important to be careful what you wish for, since you just might have to pay for it later.
Saturday, July 23, 2005
Working Out
I woke up early this morning and got to watch Lance Armstrong win the final time trial of his career. It was a stirring moment for me - and to see him surrounded by his kids at the finish line did my dad's heart good as well. It made me feel like getting on a bike and riding for miles - up hills and down narrow lanes. Then I remembered I live in Oakland, not Paris.
It wasn't the first time I have been moved to fits of athletic pursuit. The first time I saw "Rocky" I went straight home and started lifting my older brother's weights. I even talked my father into putting a speed bag up in our garage. After a month or two, it started to collect dust. I became obsessed with running after "Chariots of Fire" - hearing Vangelis' score in my head as I pounded through the surf in slow motion. I still run, but now it's on the mean streets of the East Bay, and the soundtrack is more often Green Day than Vangelis.
I saw another form of exercise on television this week. I was watching "Rescue Me" - a wonderful piece of adult drama on FX if you watch TV - and watched the main character, an alcoholic played by Denis Leary, stand outside a liquor store. Abruptly after that, he was buying two big bottles, taking them home, pouring and drinking out of large glass tumblers. Then he was in a bar, drinking still more and nuzzling up with a woman who he eventually coaxes into the men's room for a quick trip around the horn. More drinking, then the trouble starts and then, magically, he's back outside the liquor store - shaking his head and walking away.
That scene reminded me of how incredibly hard it was to drink - at least the way I used to. It was a form of exercise - just a debilitating and ultimately empty form of working out. I was glad when the show was over that I gave that up. I could wake up early this morning and see Lance take the yellow jersey one more time. And then I went for a run - I listened to Green Day.
It wasn't the first time I have been moved to fits of athletic pursuit. The first time I saw "Rocky" I went straight home and started lifting my older brother's weights. I even talked my father into putting a speed bag up in our garage. After a month or two, it started to collect dust. I became obsessed with running after "Chariots of Fire" - hearing Vangelis' score in my head as I pounded through the surf in slow motion. I still run, but now it's on the mean streets of the East Bay, and the soundtrack is more often Green Day than Vangelis.
I saw another form of exercise on television this week. I was watching "Rescue Me" - a wonderful piece of adult drama on FX if you watch TV - and watched the main character, an alcoholic played by Denis Leary, stand outside a liquor store. Abruptly after that, he was buying two big bottles, taking them home, pouring and drinking out of large glass tumblers. Then he was in a bar, drinking still more and nuzzling up with a woman who he eventually coaxes into the men's room for a quick trip around the horn. More drinking, then the trouble starts and then, magically, he's back outside the liquor store - shaking his head and walking away.
That scene reminded me of how incredibly hard it was to drink - at least the way I used to. It was a form of exercise - just a debilitating and ultimately empty form of working out. I was glad when the show was over that I gave that up. I could wake up early this morning and see Lance take the yellow jersey one more time. And then I went for a run - I listened to Green Day.
Friday, July 22, 2005
My Two Cents Worth
I ride my bicycle to work. I don't want a medal for this. I don't need one. I'm picking up spare change on the way.
I picked up this habit (get it?) from my older brother - who is still the master in the art of spotting and retrieving dropped coinage. He has his own database to track how much money he's taken in on a weekly, monthly, and yearly basis. He's not ready to quit his day job just yet, but he does have to regularly lay in a supply of coin rolls of various denominations.
This obsession with picking up other people's money seems frugal to some, compulsive to others. What others think stopped being a primary concern of mine a long time ago, so the whole "picking up people's change thing" is hardly a ripple in my pond. Some people have expressed a reasonable concern for my health, considering that I sometimes stop my bike (on side streets, never busy thoroughfares) to bend over and pick up a few cents. "Somebody's going to run you over someday," they say. Quite possible, since I present an easier target when I'm standing still. I have a larger concern that someday I will be bending over to pick up somebody's nickel and damage my spine to the tune of several thousand dollars. Oh well - lift with your knees, I guess.
The other thing I find interesting about this little hobby of mine is the abundance of pennies I find on the streets of Oakland. I have puzzled for some time about how and why I might periodically find ten, twenty, even thirty pennies scattered in the middle of a street. I have wondered if they were the remnants of some robbery gone bad - dropped in the street out of frustration. Or could it be some youth/gang related tribute to fallen comrades - or a mark of some heinous act of retribution to come? I think it's more likely that they're just tossed out on the asphalt for cars to run over like we used to put a penny on the railroad tracks for trains to smash. With all the kids doing donuts in intersections here in Oakland, it might just be a fun little sideshow for the sideshow - to see if the car can spit the pennies out behind the car as it peels out.
Maybe - as you can see, I've spent some time pondering it. I generally don't pick up the pennies, nickels or dimes that have been mangled beyond use. Even the guys stopping to pick up loose change have some standards.
I picked up this habit (get it?) from my older brother - who is still the master in the art of spotting and retrieving dropped coinage. He has his own database to track how much money he's taken in on a weekly, monthly, and yearly basis. He's not ready to quit his day job just yet, but he does have to regularly lay in a supply of coin rolls of various denominations.
This obsession with picking up other people's money seems frugal to some, compulsive to others. What others think stopped being a primary concern of mine a long time ago, so the whole "picking up people's change thing" is hardly a ripple in my pond. Some people have expressed a reasonable concern for my health, considering that I sometimes stop my bike (on side streets, never busy thoroughfares) to bend over and pick up a few cents. "Somebody's going to run you over someday," they say. Quite possible, since I present an easier target when I'm standing still. I have a larger concern that someday I will be bending over to pick up somebody's nickel and damage my spine to the tune of several thousand dollars. Oh well - lift with your knees, I guess.
The other thing I find interesting about this little hobby of mine is the abundance of pennies I find on the streets of Oakland. I have puzzled for some time about how and why I might periodically find ten, twenty, even thirty pennies scattered in the middle of a street. I have wondered if they were the remnants of some robbery gone bad - dropped in the street out of frustration. Or could it be some youth/gang related tribute to fallen comrades - or a mark of some heinous act of retribution to come? I think it's more likely that they're just tossed out on the asphalt for cars to run over like we used to put a penny on the railroad tracks for trains to smash. With all the kids doing donuts in intersections here in Oakland, it might just be a fun little sideshow for the sideshow - to see if the car can spit the pennies out behind the car as it peels out.
Maybe - as you can see, I've spent some time pondering it. I generally don't pick up the pennies, nickels or dimes that have been mangled beyond use. Even the guys stopping to pick up loose change have some standards.
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