A decade ago I graduated college with my Bachelor of Arts Degree in history and journalism. With my history degree I was taught that to understand where we are now and where we are headed in the future, we first must understand where we have been. Thus my best friend had a difficult time understanding my reluctance and near allergic reaction to attending my ten year college reunion.
The idea of any reunion of course is to catch up with people that played a significant part of your life at one time. It is a time to find out what they have been up to while at the same time boasting about all of your very own achievements. My own personal philosophy has been to stay in touch with the people who I wanted to stay in touch with and all the rest it doesn't so much matter to me where they are now at.
College for me was an enjoyable experience. It was so liberating to spend four years at an institution where the occupants were not people from the same geographic location like the rest of my educational career, but rather people who like myself were on a quest for experiencing the freedom of new and different points of views, concepts and ideas from an institution of higher learning. It was a wonderful situation to live and learn with people from all over the world, from many different values and backgrounds.
Still, where I am at today has less to do with my years in college and more to do with the experiences and relationships I've had in the ten years since graduation day. There were several significant moments and memories from life in college and from those experiences I spent some time dealing with the aftermath, but at one point you do have to let go and move on, stripping away and rebuilding to get to the next path you are destined to follow. The last thing I wanted to do was to relive any of that, to spend time catching up with people I vaguely recall, reminiscing about what we all did all those years ago.
So as I ate dinner with classmates from both coasts, in a place that previously was the host of a very painful moment, catching up on our present lives and at times dredging up our lives from the past it began to occur to me that some of us have done better at moving on and some of us remain stuck in some other time. My own feelings from those days are long since past. The marriages, the divorces, the job promotions, the fizzled careers, the investments, the gains and losses left some of us a little better and some of us a little worse for the wear. As we gathered for the inevitable group photo it didn't even bother me that a pair of eyes might some day look at the photograph with wistfulness and sentimentality and with that regretful those were the days mentality.
It was with some pride that your local high ranking government official and part time editor of everyone's favorite neighborhood weekly publication survived the weekend with his facilities still somewhat detached. What has become my regular routine these days, though maybe not considered by some as much of a life, does create a certain degree of personal satisfaction. Amongst the clatter of conversation and drinks, as cigarette smoke circled the room, I stood with the rest of the name tag wearing Class of '87, some sporting ever graying and in some cases receding hairlines and expanding waistlines, I discovered though I may not have gotten as far as some, my own experiences and development over the past ten years is about as far as I could have gotten out of these often weary bones. In other words I am as much David as I can possibly be which may not mean much to someone I lost contact with ten years ago, but means a lot to the ones that matter most now days.
While it was somewhat fun to see faces that have long since faded from memory and spend time with some I don't get a chance to see anymore, what was even more fun was to come to appreciate my current situation all the more. Most days I am where I want to be. You work a little, you gain some, you lose some, you grow a little and fall back once in a while and still end up standing tall (or as tall as five foot five allows) and feeling a bit blessed with your own little corner of the world. And at the end of the weekend you look forward to catching up again with some of the same folk in say, another ten years, because who knows what lies around the next corner.
Monday, May 26, 1997
Monday, May 19, 1997
To All You Mothers Out There From a Boy Who Loves to Dangle His Participles
Last week we celebrated, honored, recognized and hopefully appreciated a tradition that at least goes all the way back to the day Hallmark incorporated. The newsletter in its five year existence hasn't taken many definitive stands on solitary issues but after a week of review we have decided this issue is important enough to risk a bit of controversy. We are coming out of the closet, as it were, and are stating here that we are in favor of motherhood. Now I've been called many names during my life but as far as I know "mother" ain't one of them. Well maybe it was, but if I was, it probably wasn't the compliment it should be. I continue to marvel at how to be a mother requires immense talent as the good ones show day in and day out year after year.
On the occasions I get to talk with my favorite mother of two she is invariably in between running tasks for her kids getting them to their softball games, participating in a school activity with them, making sure their quickly prepared but carefully planned dinner is ready before they are off to their next event and making sure that dinner meets their choosy expectations. She does all this so well that all she does sometimes gets taken for granted but for those of us on the outside looking in, what she accomplishes on a daily basis is truly admirable.
As is a prerequisite for the job she is a worrier by nature. When one of the kids is struggling with a school assignment she does her best to be encouraging while passing on what she knows. When one of the kids is going through the roller coaster ups and downs of teenage social life, she is there to remind her daughter of all that is special and unique about her all the while conveying the supportive message that the kid isn't alone.
My thirteen year old niece, one of my sister's five children, recently got into some trouble with her friends on a field. trip. I conveyed my opinion to my sister that the parents of the children were equally to blame for their children's misbehavior as their kids were. My sister asked me how I could say such a thing having stated a previous belief that the problem with kids today is their lack of responsibility in such standard things as getting their homework done. My answer showed my novice mothering skills. I said that in the case of homework the duty was on the child since it was being done for their future. Without putting the work into learning, the options of what can be accomplished later on in life are severely limited. What they want to be is thus their own choice. But in the case of a more immediate social situation like a class field trip it was the parent's duty to teach the child the values of behaving well in a group situation. Raise a cat and you think you know it all...
But I have learned a thing or two about mothering from my own mum. My parents have made the effort over the past few years to make it to as many of my softball games as they can. It is a truly appreciated effort not only from their son but also from their son's teammates who don't tend to draw much of a cheering section. This season teammates from both of my teams have told me what great people my parents are. No argument here. It's probably not a hip rock and roll type thing to admit but my parents are pretty damn cool. Phat, positively the phattest parents that be.
My mommy passed on to me her love of baseball and music, two of the continually rewarding elements of my life. When I was in school she always amazed me that whenever I asked her for help she knew how to figure out the answers. I wasn't even disappointed years later to discover that the way she did that was to read ahead in my textbooks to refresh herself in lessons to be taught. That she would even make that effort seems to me to be rather dear and special.
Looking at my mum, you may or may not agree that she is one happening lady. But that she laughs at even the lamest of my jokes tells you that she is proud to have raised the dorkiest of dorks around. And I guess that is what being a mom is all about.
On the occasions I get to talk with my favorite mother of two she is invariably in between running tasks for her kids getting them to their softball games, participating in a school activity with them, making sure their quickly prepared but carefully planned dinner is ready before they are off to their next event and making sure that dinner meets their choosy expectations. She does all this so well that all she does sometimes gets taken for granted but for those of us on the outside looking in, what she accomplishes on a daily basis is truly admirable.
As is a prerequisite for the job she is a worrier by nature. When one of the kids is struggling with a school assignment she does her best to be encouraging while passing on what she knows. When one of the kids is going through the roller coaster ups and downs of teenage social life, she is there to remind her daughter of all that is special and unique about her all the while conveying the supportive message that the kid isn't alone.
My thirteen year old niece, one of my sister's five children, recently got into some trouble with her friends on a field. trip. I conveyed my opinion to my sister that the parents of the children were equally to blame for their children's misbehavior as their kids were. My sister asked me how I could say such a thing having stated a previous belief that the problem with kids today is their lack of responsibility in such standard things as getting their homework done. My answer showed my novice mothering skills. I said that in the case of homework the duty was on the child since it was being done for their future. Without putting the work into learning, the options of what can be accomplished later on in life are severely limited. What they want to be is thus their own choice. But in the case of a more immediate social situation like a class field trip it was the parent's duty to teach the child the values of behaving well in a group situation. Raise a cat and you think you know it all...
But I have learned a thing or two about mothering from my own mum. My parents have made the effort over the past few years to make it to as many of my softball games as they can. It is a truly appreciated effort not only from their son but also from their son's teammates who don't tend to draw much of a cheering section. This season teammates from both of my teams have told me what great people my parents are. No argument here. It's probably not a hip rock and roll type thing to admit but my parents are pretty damn cool. Phat, positively the phattest parents that be.
My mommy passed on to me her love of baseball and music, two of the continually rewarding elements of my life. When I was in school she always amazed me that whenever I asked her for help she knew how to figure out the answers. I wasn't even disappointed years later to discover that the way she did that was to read ahead in my textbooks to refresh herself in lessons to be taught. That she would even make that effort seems to me to be rather dear and special.
Looking at my mum, you may or may not agree that she is one happening lady. But that she laughs at even the lamest of my jokes tells you that she is proud to have raised the dorkiest of dorks around. And I guess that is what being a mom is all about.
Monday, May 5, 1997
Blustery
This past week I found out I am just as effective public speaker as I am a softball player. It was a week that will go down in the annals as containing both the Monday Night Debacle and the Wednesday Night Massacre. I'll let the witnesses testify which one had to do with what looks like will be a regular event this summer- my softball team's weekly lopsided loss.
But on that other night I would just as soon forget, I made my way to the Woodbury City Hall Conference Rooms A and B and proceeded to endure for the next hour what only seemed like being stabbed by a hundred steaming cattle prods. The topic of the presentation was Election Process Safeguards and the audience was the Republican Sixth Congressional District.
First off my speech pattern took a rather eclectic twist; I for some reason spoke in sentences where the predicate consistently preceded the subject. Thus it sounded: "The state voter registration system we use." and "The registration card of the voter we check..." Technically those are acceptable sentences but string twenty of them together and it sounds positively Yoda like. "Ask away your questions, I'll do my best to answer..."
And having prepared for my speech by heavy research and focus on dealing with the topic and my own nerves, it never really occurred to me that I would be speaking to a group that wasn't exactly sympathetic to the ideas put forth. The first question asked was why we don't require all voters to show a form of picture identification before receiving their ballot. Harking back to last fall's elections all I could remember was the anger of the many calls we dealt with regarding someone having difficulty meeting the necessary requirements to register because they didn't have a current driver's license. Now I was in a room full of people who wanted to make it tougher for people to vote (imagine how much more time and thus longer lines if election judges had to thoroughly picture identify every one signing the election roster).
Apparently the group was convinced voter fraud is a major problem in Minnesota. Rather than trying to figure out ways to increase voter participation and turnout- admittedly a primary focus of most election officials- this group wanted tougher laws in guaranteeing that only the finest upstanding citizens are allowed to vote. Perhaps their concerns are legitimate, perhaps voter fraud is running rampant in our elections. Skeptics might say however that lower voter turnout is beneficial to the Republicans because statistics show more registered voters are DFL'ers. On top of that the majority of unregistered voters probably aren't the rich suburban types looking for this year's tax break, but rather the poor, the under and uneducated, the type of person who one doesn't immediately associate with the Republicans. A person like the homeless guy that came to our counter last fall and complained because he didn't have an address he couldn't vote, yet because he owned a parcel of land he was still paying taxes. Didn't seem quite fair.
So as I did my best to answer while at the same time ducking from the many pointed questions being thrown my way, I kept trying to tell myself those words once passed along by a kind soul: "that which doesn't kill you can only make you stronger." And actually it was good to see people impassioned about the political process, people who do care how the system works rather than the usual apathy I see.
And then I stood there on another night of the week with the cold howling through my ears as I tried my best to chase down pop flies swirling in the wind, I couldn't help but wonder what the summer holds in store. Life is like the highest of skied balls, the sudden upward trajectory can be strangely fulfilling but in the end, that damn thing is always going to come speeding down. As a hitter there is a momentary frustration after one hits a pop up, but that's followed by the slimmest ray of hope that the fielder will somehow screw up and the ball will fall even though that usually doesn't happen. As a fielder the arc is entirely different- the moment the ball is hit there is a momentary increase in the heart's beat followed by the return of confidence as you camp under the ball. But you don't want to get cocky. You want to watch that ball all the way into your glove because you never know when you have grossly misjudged things. All this came to me too late. If I'm ever asked to speak in front of that group again I'll be sure to use my metaphorical anecdotes. You can count on it (but just don't rely too heavily on the accuracy of that count).
But on that other night I would just as soon forget, I made my way to the Woodbury City Hall Conference Rooms A and B and proceeded to endure for the next hour what only seemed like being stabbed by a hundred steaming cattle prods. The topic of the presentation was Election Process Safeguards and the audience was the Republican Sixth Congressional District.
First off my speech pattern took a rather eclectic twist; I for some reason spoke in sentences where the predicate consistently preceded the subject. Thus it sounded: "The state voter registration system we use." and "The registration card of the voter we check..." Technically those are acceptable sentences but string twenty of them together and it sounds positively Yoda like. "Ask away your questions, I'll do my best to answer..."
And having prepared for my speech by heavy research and focus on dealing with the topic and my own nerves, it never really occurred to me that I would be speaking to a group that wasn't exactly sympathetic to the ideas put forth. The first question asked was why we don't require all voters to show a form of picture identification before receiving their ballot. Harking back to last fall's elections all I could remember was the anger of the many calls we dealt with regarding someone having difficulty meeting the necessary requirements to register because they didn't have a current driver's license. Now I was in a room full of people who wanted to make it tougher for people to vote (imagine how much more time and thus longer lines if election judges had to thoroughly picture identify every one signing the election roster).
Apparently the group was convinced voter fraud is a major problem in Minnesota. Rather than trying to figure out ways to increase voter participation and turnout- admittedly a primary focus of most election officials- this group wanted tougher laws in guaranteeing that only the finest upstanding citizens are allowed to vote. Perhaps their concerns are legitimate, perhaps voter fraud is running rampant in our elections. Skeptics might say however that lower voter turnout is beneficial to the Republicans because statistics show more registered voters are DFL'ers. On top of that the majority of unregistered voters probably aren't the rich suburban types looking for this year's tax break, but rather the poor, the under and uneducated, the type of person who one doesn't immediately associate with the Republicans. A person like the homeless guy that came to our counter last fall and complained because he didn't have an address he couldn't vote, yet because he owned a parcel of land he was still paying taxes. Didn't seem quite fair.
So as I did my best to answer while at the same time ducking from the many pointed questions being thrown my way, I kept trying to tell myself those words once passed along by a kind soul: "that which doesn't kill you can only make you stronger." And actually it was good to see people impassioned about the political process, people who do care how the system works rather than the usual apathy I see.
And then I stood there on another night of the week with the cold howling through my ears as I tried my best to chase down pop flies swirling in the wind, I couldn't help but wonder what the summer holds in store. Life is like the highest of skied balls, the sudden upward trajectory can be strangely fulfilling but in the end, that damn thing is always going to come speeding down. As a hitter there is a momentary frustration after one hits a pop up, but that's followed by the slimmest ray of hope that the fielder will somehow screw up and the ball will fall even though that usually doesn't happen. As a fielder the arc is entirely different- the moment the ball is hit there is a momentary increase in the heart's beat followed by the return of confidence as you camp under the ball. But you don't want to get cocky. You want to watch that ball all the way into your glove because you never know when you have grossly misjudged things. All this came to me too late. If I'm ever asked to speak in front of that group again I'll be sure to use my metaphorical anecdotes. You can count on it (but just don't rely too heavily on the accuracy of that count).
Monday, April 28, 1997
Hey Kids Don't Forget to Wash Your Bananas
In these days of ten year college reunions and wacky space cults, one has to take a moment to pause and contemplate one's place amongst others. Group memberships are rarely free, they almost always come with some kind of cost attached. And just when you're hooked, that's when they raise the tuition.
The small midwestern college the little guy went to didn't have no fraternities, didn't have no sororities or none of that stuff. But it did, like most any gathering of humans, have its groups and cliques. You had your activists, and your jocks, and your geeks, and your beer club, and your chess club, and your ice cream loving calorie countin' little but ever expanding perky ones. And you had those that never really felt a part of any of the throngs that gathered together. Perhaps these souls wanted to join, wanted that coveted membership, perhaps not. Solitude too comes with its own benefits though the accompanying dues can be difficult for many people to deal with.
Perhaps the best way to better illustrate this is to examine the world of nuts: The most perfect nut, the newsletter endorsed variety, is of course, the pistachio. There is nothing quite as satisfying as sitting down when the day's embers are dimming, as the evening quiet dawns to a nice bag of freshly bought pistachios. We ain't talkin about those messy red ones, we are talking about the ones that all the finest stores carry in masses in a big display next to the peanuts.
The pistachio can be so refreshing; lightly salted, a hint of moisture mixed in with a delectably light taste. One can't stop at eating one!
But sad to say there are those who don't know, or don't in any case want to enjoy our friend, Mr. Pistachio. These lower class types would much rather eat the all popular peanut. Yes, the peanut has its place being the versatile nut that it is. And yes the peanut certainly has earned some of its popularity among the masses. But can something that popular, that available be truly worth it? Those that are too easy, often get a reputation you know.
(Pardon the interruption here but my furry little feline friend just mistimed, misjudged a leap and landed on his tail. A tad ungraceful though he did his best to disguise his gaffe and prance away as if that was what he meant to do. At least he has the excuse of having a walnut sized brain. I have no such excuse to explain myself...)
At the other end of the spectrum is the high brow appeal of the almond. The almond is a fashionable nut, almost too good for its own appeal. With its tip slightly turned upwards, the almond is one nut that some of us can only savor on special occasions. Then you have the flashy curl of the cashew. Open a box of mixed nuts and your attention might fix upon the cashews. Their size and shape certainly are impressive enough. Even those of us rooting for the pistachio have to admire the smooth texture and meaty content of your average cashew. Who doesn't enjoy a good cashew now and then?
The walnut is a little too hard to get. With its thick shell and its rigid texture, the walnut is the type of nut one can take or leave. If there is a bowl placed in front of you, one might partake, but then again, one might not.
Which brings us back to our true love, the pistachio. There's nothing quite as frustrating as a pistachio that doesn't have an opening so you can't crack it open. The sweet nut of the gods within a shell's width away from your taste buds, and still there is nothing you can humanly do to get at it. Sure it's tempting to try to crack it between your teeth but with the thought of a lofty dental bill in mind it's probably a good idea to show a little restraint and move on to the next nut.
I suppose you can get out a hammer and splatter the thing open but it hardly seems worth that much energy and noise to get one little nut when you have a whole bag in front of you. You have to learn to let go and move on to the next.
PISTACHIO NIGHTMARE SCENARIO: Your kind parents buy you a bag of pistachios which you with no shame and no mercy enjoy for a couple of nights. When you get near the end of the bag you carefully leave enough so you can enjoy yourself one last night. You want to savor the presence of your friend as long as you can. You carefully twist the bag shut to maintain maximum freshness and place the bag on top of the Tupperware full of discarded shells. Garbage day comes and you empty the shells into the garbage. Alas when you get home the next night with visions of that bag causing cravings of unbearable desire for the remainder pistachios, you discover you forgot to remove the good pistachios from the empty shells. Your treat is gone. She has broken your heart one more time. All that is left is the memory, a distant time and place. And yet you are still in love. All you can think about is the next time...
The small midwestern college the little guy went to didn't have no fraternities, didn't have no sororities or none of that stuff. But it did, like most any gathering of humans, have its groups and cliques. You had your activists, and your jocks, and your geeks, and your beer club, and your chess club, and your ice cream loving calorie countin' little but ever expanding perky ones. And you had those that never really felt a part of any of the throngs that gathered together. Perhaps these souls wanted to join, wanted that coveted membership, perhaps not. Solitude too comes with its own benefits though the accompanying dues can be difficult for many people to deal with.
Perhaps the best way to better illustrate this is to examine the world of nuts: The most perfect nut, the newsletter endorsed variety, is of course, the pistachio. There is nothing quite as satisfying as sitting down when the day's embers are dimming, as the evening quiet dawns to a nice bag of freshly bought pistachios. We ain't talkin about those messy red ones, we are talking about the ones that all the finest stores carry in masses in a big display next to the peanuts.
The pistachio can be so refreshing; lightly salted, a hint of moisture mixed in with a delectably light taste. One can't stop at eating one!
But sad to say there are those who don't know, or don't in any case want to enjoy our friend, Mr. Pistachio. These lower class types would much rather eat the all popular peanut. Yes, the peanut has its place being the versatile nut that it is. And yes the peanut certainly has earned some of its popularity among the masses. But can something that popular, that available be truly worth it? Those that are too easy, often get a reputation you know.
(Pardon the interruption here but my furry little feline friend just mistimed, misjudged a leap and landed on his tail. A tad ungraceful though he did his best to disguise his gaffe and prance away as if that was what he meant to do. At least he has the excuse of having a walnut sized brain. I have no such excuse to explain myself...)
At the other end of the spectrum is the high brow appeal of the almond. The almond is a fashionable nut, almost too good for its own appeal. With its tip slightly turned upwards, the almond is one nut that some of us can only savor on special occasions. Then you have the flashy curl of the cashew. Open a box of mixed nuts and your attention might fix upon the cashews. Their size and shape certainly are impressive enough. Even those of us rooting for the pistachio have to admire the smooth texture and meaty content of your average cashew. Who doesn't enjoy a good cashew now and then?
The walnut is a little too hard to get. With its thick shell and its rigid texture, the walnut is the type of nut one can take or leave. If there is a bowl placed in front of you, one might partake, but then again, one might not.
Which brings us back to our true love, the pistachio. There's nothing quite as frustrating as a pistachio that doesn't have an opening so you can't crack it open. The sweet nut of the gods within a shell's width away from your taste buds, and still there is nothing you can humanly do to get at it. Sure it's tempting to try to crack it between your teeth but with the thought of a lofty dental bill in mind it's probably a good idea to show a little restraint and move on to the next nut.
I suppose you can get out a hammer and splatter the thing open but it hardly seems worth that much energy and noise to get one little nut when you have a whole bag in front of you. You have to learn to let go and move on to the next.
PISTACHIO NIGHTMARE SCENARIO: Your kind parents buy you a bag of pistachios which you with no shame and no mercy enjoy for a couple of nights. When you get near the end of the bag you carefully leave enough so you can enjoy yourself one last night. You want to savor the presence of your friend as long as you can. You carefully twist the bag shut to maintain maximum freshness and place the bag on top of the Tupperware full of discarded shells. Garbage day comes and you empty the shells into the garbage. Alas when you get home the next night with visions of that bag causing cravings of unbearable desire for the remainder pistachios, you discover you forgot to remove the good pistachios from the empty shells. Your treat is gone. She has broken your heart one more time. All that is left is the memory, a distant time and place. And yet you are still in love. All you can think about is the next time...
Monday, April 21, 1997
Rumble in the Jungle
So it's king for king, queen for queen, gonna be the meanest flood anybody's ever seen.
There are those who feel that the sport of boxing should be outlawed. The sport is flooded by those who exploit young boxers in the pursuit of a dollar as well as its supposedly corrupt rumored connections to the Mafia. Not to mention when you stop and think for a moment about the mere object of trying to hit someone harder, hurt someone more, knock them down and out before they do the same to you, one realizes the brutality does seem a bit much for entertainment purposes. Still after seeing the brilliant documentary, When We Were Kings, one can't help but share in at least one man's, Muhammad Ali's, sheer love of the artistry of the game. It once again proves that in even the ugliest of human endeavors, there are those unique individuals who can transcend their surroundings and show the rest of us the ever elusive beauty of the human soul.
My memory of Ali is of a cocky fighter who fought one too many fights, tarnishing his ever entertaining style by hanging around too long and leaving the ring as a mere shadow of his former self. To see him today is to see the ravages of all the fights, and the onslaught of Parkinson's Disease.
But in When We Were Kings, a film that depicts the events surrounding a much anticipated 1974 fight between Ali and George Foreman, Ali is at his charismatic best. Indeed one can argue there has never been as entertaining a figure in any sport as Ali was back in his prime. The champ in the movie is as funny, as watchable, as stylish and as likable as the most intriguing of leaders. It wasn't a simpler time, but by having a force like Ali to guide the way, it was in a sense, a more understandable time. Ali rises above the harsh brutality of the sport and gives a performance of an artist doing what he loves to do best.
Foreman was heavily favored to win the fight having just knocked out, in impressive fashion two of the day's greatest boxers, Joe Frazier and Ken Norton. He was bigger, stronger and younger than Ali, and was so dominating in his other fights that many feared for Ali's safety. Foreman comes across as a brooding and angry man, angry at Ali's greater popularity with the African people as well as angry with Ali's constant goading and gloating.
One of the movie's biggest charms is its snapshot of time quality. It is a movie about remembering history, of gaining deeper knowledge and thus appreciation of understanding where we've been to have a greater perception of where we are. It's a trait the movie observes that is often lacking in today's society. Knowing what we do of both Ali and Foreman's current state of health and popularity, an added poignancy comes in watching their younger selves. Ali's quick wit, his constant movement and jabs, both physical and verbal, contrast with the stony, trembling figure he is today. Foreman's transformation is equally as startling. After the fight he was to sink into a deep depression only to emerge years later as the fun loving, happy and smiling entertainer he now is.
In 1974, Ali ruled the world. His fight strategy was brilliant. He uses the hype and the hyperbole to trick Foreman into thinking he was going to fight a fight that he disguises like the unmatchable and greatly missed artist he is. While the experts expected it to be a fight between brute and quickness, force against wisdom, Ali uses his greater understanding of boxing, proving it more important to think than just hit hard, and with his body's wonderful grace he tires Foreman out with a well conceived although risky game plan.
His strategy stuns Foreman and the rest of the sporting world but Ali calmly walks away knowing he accomplished what he set out to do. He wasn't just saying he would win, his faith left no internal doubt- just another day at the office. His mission is expressed both in his bravado, but also in a more personal voyage which his many words conceal until the very moment that it becomes clear to the rest of the world. When We Were Kings isn't so much about boxing as it is about triumph of a unique and universal human spirit.
As I wander, hopes grow fonder, precious memories flood my soul.
There are those who feel that the sport of boxing should be outlawed. The sport is flooded by those who exploit young boxers in the pursuit of a dollar as well as its supposedly corrupt rumored connections to the Mafia. Not to mention when you stop and think for a moment about the mere object of trying to hit someone harder, hurt someone more, knock them down and out before they do the same to you, one realizes the brutality does seem a bit much for entertainment purposes. Still after seeing the brilliant documentary, When We Were Kings, one can't help but share in at least one man's, Muhammad Ali's, sheer love of the artistry of the game. It once again proves that in even the ugliest of human endeavors, there are those unique individuals who can transcend their surroundings and show the rest of us the ever elusive beauty of the human soul.
My memory of Ali is of a cocky fighter who fought one too many fights, tarnishing his ever entertaining style by hanging around too long and leaving the ring as a mere shadow of his former self. To see him today is to see the ravages of all the fights, and the onslaught of Parkinson's Disease.
But in When We Were Kings, a film that depicts the events surrounding a much anticipated 1974 fight between Ali and George Foreman, Ali is at his charismatic best. Indeed one can argue there has never been as entertaining a figure in any sport as Ali was back in his prime. The champ in the movie is as funny, as watchable, as stylish and as likable as the most intriguing of leaders. It wasn't a simpler time, but by having a force like Ali to guide the way, it was in a sense, a more understandable time. Ali rises above the harsh brutality of the sport and gives a performance of an artist doing what he loves to do best.
Foreman was heavily favored to win the fight having just knocked out, in impressive fashion two of the day's greatest boxers, Joe Frazier and Ken Norton. He was bigger, stronger and younger than Ali, and was so dominating in his other fights that many feared for Ali's safety. Foreman comes across as a brooding and angry man, angry at Ali's greater popularity with the African people as well as angry with Ali's constant goading and gloating.
One of the movie's biggest charms is its snapshot of time quality. It is a movie about remembering history, of gaining deeper knowledge and thus appreciation of understanding where we've been to have a greater perception of where we are. It's a trait the movie observes that is often lacking in today's society. Knowing what we do of both Ali and Foreman's current state of health and popularity, an added poignancy comes in watching their younger selves. Ali's quick wit, his constant movement and jabs, both physical and verbal, contrast with the stony, trembling figure he is today. Foreman's transformation is equally as startling. After the fight he was to sink into a deep depression only to emerge years later as the fun loving, happy and smiling entertainer he now is.
In 1974, Ali ruled the world. His fight strategy was brilliant. He uses the hype and the hyperbole to trick Foreman into thinking he was going to fight a fight that he disguises like the unmatchable and greatly missed artist he is. While the experts expected it to be a fight between brute and quickness, force against wisdom, Ali uses his greater understanding of boxing, proving it more important to think than just hit hard, and with his body's wonderful grace he tires Foreman out with a well conceived although risky game plan.
His strategy stuns Foreman and the rest of the sporting world but Ali calmly walks away knowing he accomplished what he set out to do. He wasn't just saying he would win, his faith left no internal doubt- just another day at the office. His mission is expressed both in his bravado, but also in a more personal voyage which his many words conceal until the very moment that it becomes clear to the rest of the world. When We Were Kings isn't so much about boxing as it is about triumph of a unique and universal human spirit.
As I wander, hopes grow fonder, precious memories flood my soul.
Monday, April 7, 1997
Boppity Bop
"Seen a shooting star tonight, and I thought of you. You're trying to break into another world, a world I never knew. I always kind of wondered if you ever made it through. Seen a shooting star tonight, and I thought of you."
The song goes that when you wish upon a shooting star, it makes no difference who you are. Unfortunately when you wish upon a shooting comet, you better have your papers in order Pepe. You don't want to miss the boat. You don't want to leave this place before you have your house in order. Although I may not quite be ready to buy me a pair of Nikes and a purple shroud I nonetheless have been impressed by the sight of the great Hale Bopp comet in the sky. To gaze up at this heavenly wonder and to contemplate the significance of it all is at the very least, a pleasant distraction from trying to figure out the deductions on your taxes.
It's rather easy to get bogged down in the minutia of every day life and lose perspective on the grander scheme of things. But if you stop and think about it, the frustrations you feel after an unpleasant encounter with a raging customer, or a demanding boss, or a lazy coworker pales in comparison with the vastness of what's out there. Those overdue bills? How overdue are they among the waves of eternal time? To think of your own personal significance in comparison with the expanse of time and space, geez its enough to make one either feel overwhelmed or laugh at the seriousness we all tend to take ourselves at times.
The difference in those things cosmic with our daily routines can be somewhat jarring. We do like our lives to be orderly. We count on the dependability and stability of those familiar elements around us and expect a minimum of surprises. Last Tuesday on April Fool's Day several of the comic strip writers got together and switched strips. Thus Dagwood appeared in Garfield's world and Dilbert appeared in Luann's. One of the appeals of our the daily comic strips is their reliability- you may not always find them amusing in the slightest but somehow it is comforting to be able to look at them every morning and know what to expect- something like an old friend.
But with predictability comes boredom. A break in routine every now and then can be a good thing. And the good news for those of you out there who aren't who you want to be, or aren't where you thought you would be, is that because of time, and in spite of it, we all change. Five years from now you may not even recognize who you are today. And what better way to demonstrate this than another geeky example from my own life?
I first saw Stanley Kubrick's 2001: A Space Odyssey when I was in high school. Having read glowing reviews of the movie I expected to be awed just like I was when I pulled out my telescope to look at the stars. I was disappointed. The movie seemed sterile and seemed to have no point. This of course was the perspective of one who had just seen the comic book plotted Star Wars movies. Thus I dismissed the movie as just another indulgence of those high brow critics who claim to see art in pretension in the name of being able to understand something the masses will never get.
Last Saturday evening Channel 2 played 2001: A Space Odyssey and I watched it after the rush of having produced another solid edition of the newsletter. Maybe it was the afterglow of having gone outside and gazed at Hale Bopp, but this time around the movie did blow me away. From the terrific opening scene with early man learning to club each other to death with a new found tool, to the mind boggling, surrealistic closing scene concluding with the birth of the star child, the movie seemed timeless and somehow captured that feeling of wonder that the promise of space can create inside of us.
As far as I could tell nothing in the movie was different from what I remembered. More likely it was the dork outside that was different, having gained fifteen years of life experience. The lack of a conventional story was admired this time around. It wasn't even a matter of gained wisdom, it's just that time gives you a different outlook on things. As the now frequently appearing gray hairs are a constant reminder of, life is a one way ride, there ain't no space for a U-turn. (Depressing discovery of the week: while perusing the Twins' opening day roster it dawned on me that I am older than all but four of the players. These guys used to be my heroes- now they are mere inexperienced youngsters. A mid-life crisis? YIKES!) So it was somewhat comforting to see that although the knowledge I have retained may fill a thimble, the perspective stumbled upon still leaves room for an appreciation for what I wasn't able to appreciate in earlier days. Time rolls over us much too rapidly to comprehend at the moment yet in the end it is the ride that can be so intriguing and inspiring.
The song goes that when you wish upon a shooting star, it makes no difference who you are. Unfortunately when you wish upon a shooting comet, you better have your papers in order Pepe. You don't want to miss the boat. You don't want to leave this place before you have your house in order. Although I may not quite be ready to buy me a pair of Nikes and a purple shroud I nonetheless have been impressed by the sight of the great Hale Bopp comet in the sky. To gaze up at this heavenly wonder and to contemplate the significance of it all is at the very least, a pleasant distraction from trying to figure out the deductions on your taxes.
It's rather easy to get bogged down in the minutia of every day life and lose perspective on the grander scheme of things. But if you stop and think about it, the frustrations you feel after an unpleasant encounter with a raging customer, or a demanding boss, or a lazy coworker pales in comparison with the vastness of what's out there. Those overdue bills? How overdue are they among the waves of eternal time? To think of your own personal significance in comparison with the expanse of time and space, geez its enough to make one either feel overwhelmed or laugh at the seriousness we all tend to take ourselves at times.
The difference in those things cosmic with our daily routines can be somewhat jarring. We do like our lives to be orderly. We count on the dependability and stability of those familiar elements around us and expect a minimum of surprises. Last Tuesday on April Fool's Day several of the comic strip writers got together and switched strips. Thus Dagwood appeared in Garfield's world and Dilbert appeared in Luann's. One of the appeals of our the daily comic strips is their reliability- you may not always find them amusing in the slightest but somehow it is comforting to be able to look at them every morning and know what to expect- something like an old friend.
But with predictability comes boredom. A break in routine every now and then can be a good thing. And the good news for those of you out there who aren't who you want to be, or aren't where you thought you would be, is that because of time, and in spite of it, we all change. Five years from now you may not even recognize who you are today. And what better way to demonstrate this than another geeky example from my own life?
I first saw Stanley Kubrick's 2001: A Space Odyssey when I was in high school. Having read glowing reviews of the movie I expected to be awed just like I was when I pulled out my telescope to look at the stars. I was disappointed. The movie seemed sterile and seemed to have no point. This of course was the perspective of one who had just seen the comic book plotted Star Wars movies. Thus I dismissed the movie as just another indulgence of those high brow critics who claim to see art in pretension in the name of being able to understand something the masses will never get.
Last Saturday evening Channel 2 played 2001: A Space Odyssey and I watched it after the rush of having produced another solid edition of the newsletter. Maybe it was the afterglow of having gone outside and gazed at Hale Bopp, but this time around the movie did blow me away. From the terrific opening scene with early man learning to club each other to death with a new found tool, to the mind boggling, surrealistic closing scene concluding with the birth of the star child, the movie seemed timeless and somehow captured that feeling of wonder that the promise of space can create inside of us.
As far as I could tell nothing in the movie was different from what I remembered. More likely it was the dork outside that was different, having gained fifteen years of life experience. The lack of a conventional story was admired this time around. It wasn't even a matter of gained wisdom, it's just that time gives you a different outlook on things. As the now frequently appearing gray hairs are a constant reminder of, life is a one way ride, there ain't no space for a U-turn. (Depressing discovery of the week: while perusing the Twins' opening day roster it dawned on me that I am older than all but four of the players. These guys used to be my heroes- now they are mere inexperienced youngsters. A mid-life crisis? YIKES!) So it was somewhat comforting to see that although the knowledge I have retained may fill a thimble, the perspective stumbled upon still leaves room for an appreciation for what I wasn't able to appreciate in earlier days. Time rolls over us much too rapidly to comprehend at the moment yet in the end it is the ride that can be so intriguing and inspiring.
Monday, March 31, 1997
School Daze
What's the scoop Baboop? Well the test results are in and although the rabbit may not be dead, that sucker is barely breathing. On the recently administered test of Minnesota 8th grade students in which the minimum standards for graduation were tested, only 41% passed in math and a mere 35% passed in reading. Along with the predictable concern with the results of the latest scores came much talk of the need to reform our schools. Vouchers and later starting school days aside perhaps it is time to take a step back and rethink the way we approach this education thing.
In his book Beyond the Classroom, Laurence Steinberg a professor of psychology at Temple University, suggests the focus of the problem may be the actual problem. Steinberg argues that all of our past attempts at school reform have merely produced lower and lower test scores thus it may be time to look at other areas for the reason our students are doing so badly in school. He suggests that because parents and peers have more influence on how a student will do in school than do teachers, perhaps the focus of change should be in that area. This type of change would require a radical shift in our educational philosophy.
The most interesting notion put forward in Beyond the Classroom is the clear connection between our failing education system and the trend in society for refocusing the blame for what we do wrong. No matter what area you look, it seems like fewer and fewer are willing to take the responsibility for their own faults, instead it is becoming more and more commonplace to look for reasons for our failings. We are all victims and thus we can't help it if we are so screwed up.
Steinberg writes that the students who are succeeding in the very same schools that are mass producing poor educational skills for the majority, are the students who are willing to concede that it is their work ethic and the amount of time they are willing to put into improving themselves academically instead of blaming their failures on something out of their control. The students who blame the system, or to bad luck or some type of genetic or environmental inferiority are the ones giving themselves the excuse for failure. And because the consequences of failing don't seem to be all that great to these students, the mechanism for producing the essentials of a well educated, well prepared work force is constantly deteriorating.
Indeed it has been a learning experience to witness how the current debate shaped up after the latest round of alarming test scores was announced. All the focus was on how we can improve the school systems- whether or not private schools are better than public schools; whether or not we should go to some type of voucher system to make the public schools more on par with private schools. On one side you have those arguing what needs to be done are more progressive reforms. On the other you have those saying that what is needed is a hard return to the basics. In his book, Steinberg argues that until we change the attitude many of our students and their peers and parents have toward their education, no amount of school reform can possibly succeed.
Steinberg writes that because students are much more influenced in their study habits, their work ethic, and their attitudes by their peers and by their parents, unless they are given the message that education is indeed the key to their future, they simply lack the necessary motivation to try to do well in school. Without that motivation they cannot do well in school. Thus our focus should change to reforming our attitudes much more than it should focus on reshaping the educational systems.
Somehow our schools have shifted from a place of learning to a place one merely has to endure. The joy of an education has evaporated as schools more and more become part social hang out, part symptom or symbol of a greater societal problem. It is easier to be able to blame it all on the system in place rather than the attitudes and efforts put forward to try to change the direction, try to reform what is actually broken. It is an all too common approach in how we deal with our obstacles these days. As long as we don't take responsibility for allowing the problems to exist, as long as we have something or somebody else to blame, the solution will never be met. That may be a self comforting approach to adopt but in the long haul we just end up worse than where we began.
In his book Beyond the Classroom, Laurence Steinberg a professor of psychology at Temple University, suggests the focus of the problem may be the actual problem. Steinberg argues that all of our past attempts at school reform have merely produced lower and lower test scores thus it may be time to look at other areas for the reason our students are doing so badly in school. He suggests that because parents and peers have more influence on how a student will do in school than do teachers, perhaps the focus of change should be in that area. This type of change would require a radical shift in our educational philosophy.
The most interesting notion put forward in Beyond the Classroom is the clear connection between our failing education system and the trend in society for refocusing the blame for what we do wrong. No matter what area you look, it seems like fewer and fewer are willing to take the responsibility for their own faults, instead it is becoming more and more commonplace to look for reasons for our failings. We are all victims and thus we can't help it if we are so screwed up.
Steinberg writes that the students who are succeeding in the very same schools that are mass producing poor educational skills for the majority, are the students who are willing to concede that it is their work ethic and the amount of time they are willing to put into improving themselves academically instead of blaming their failures on something out of their control. The students who blame the system, or to bad luck or some type of genetic or environmental inferiority are the ones giving themselves the excuse for failure. And because the consequences of failing don't seem to be all that great to these students, the mechanism for producing the essentials of a well educated, well prepared work force is constantly deteriorating.
Indeed it has been a learning experience to witness how the current debate shaped up after the latest round of alarming test scores was announced. All the focus was on how we can improve the school systems- whether or not private schools are better than public schools; whether or not we should go to some type of voucher system to make the public schools more on par with private schools. On one side you have those arguing what needs to be done are more progressive reforms. On the other you have those saying that what is needed is a hard return to the basics. In his book, Steinberg argues that until we change the attitude many of our students and their peers and parents have toward their education, no amount of school reform can possibly succeed.
Steinberg writes that because students are much more influenced in their study habits, their work ethic, and their attitudes by their peers and by their parents, unless they are given the message that education is indeed the key to their future, they simply lack the necessary motivation to try to do well in school. Without that motivation they cannot do well in school. Thus our focus should change to reforming our attitudes much more than it should focus on reshaping the educational systems.
Somehow our schools have shifted from a place of learning to a place one merely has to endure. The joy of an education has evaporated as schools more and more become part social hang out, part symptom or symbol of a greater societal problem. It is easier to be able to blame it all on the system in place rather than the attitudes and efforts put forward to try to change the direction, try to reform what is actually broken. It is an all too common approach in how we deal with our obstacles these days. As long as we don't take responsibility for allowing the problems to exist, as long as we have something or somebody else to blame, the solution will never be met. That may be a self comforting approach to adopt but in the long haul we just end up worse than where we began.
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