The Casual Blog

Surviving political disappointments, and a note on my piano

For those like me whose political views face in a progressive direction, this has been a tough week. It’s really difficult to comprehend how so many people can get so bamboozled. Right-wing crackpots have beat the drum loudly for lower taxes for the rich, less of a health care safety net, punishing hardworking immigrants, smaller “government,” and assorted “moral” causes. The messages don’t seem to me to have much content, reasonable basis, or persuasive power, but it doesn’t seem to matter.

I can see how going along with the right-wingers accords with the self-interest of the wealthy few. And I can also see how people who’ve lost their livelihoods and face economic hardship are desperate, angry, and susceptible to demagoguery. But there are lots of others — sincere, well-meaning folks who this week voted against both reason and rational self-interest. This is hard to figure. It seems that Churchill was right: democracy is the worst form of government, except for all the known alternatives.

But we survived the Homer Simpson-like sunny nuttiness of the Reagan years and the fear-mongering ignorance, cynicism, and sheer dopiness of the Bush years. As bad as the situation looks at the moment, as painful as it is to think of the triumph of organized corruption and the huge problems that will not be addressed any time soon, most of us will likely survive for a good while. People will continue to be born, grow up, get married, have kids. People will continue to fall in love with each other, with ideas, with art, and with the beauty of the world. It’s good that this is so.

So I’ve been doing a little work on my cocoon. My most prized possession, my Steinway A grand piano, needed tuning this week. For many years I wanted a Steinway, and managed to buy mine by selling my Yamaha grand and adding money I inherited when my mother died four years ago. My mom was the first person I ever heard sing or play a piano, and she sang constantly as she did housework or ran errands throughout my childhood. Along with the words of every funny camp song or show tune she ever learned (dozens or hundreds), I got from her her love of music — a great gift. I think of her with love when I think of my piano, which is every day.

My regular piano technician for the past few years, Phil Romano, has also been working as Paul McCartney’s piano tech for his concert tours. This is cool — I like having a practical musical connection to Sir Paul — but has limited Phil’s availability. Phil was headed out of town for that gig when I called him a couple of weeks ago and couldn’t work me in, so I scheduled a tuning with Richard Ruggero. Richard has a great reputation as a piano dealer and technician, and turned out to be a very nice guy. He plays the piano himself, and quickly noted three or four keys that had minor shortcomings that he could improve. I was happy with his tuning, and agreed to get him back over to work on the nits.

It is one of life’s great pleasures to play on a freshly-tuned Steinway grand. That evening, I played some of my favorite Chopin — a couple of waltzes and the etude op. 10, no. 3. Also, some of my favorite Debussy (the first arabesque) and Liszt (Sonnetto del Petrarca No. 47). I also worked a little on two current projects, Schumann’s arabeske op. 18 and Debussy’s Reflets dans l’eau. All of this music is gorgeous, and some of it so transcendent that it gives me goosebumps. I felt happy.

Diving Key Largo

Sally and I just got back from a four-day mini-vacation diving out of Key Largo. I’m a bit battered. My hands got sliced in several places from razor clams, my wrists itch from some sort of bites, my neck got stung by fire coral, I bruised my thigh climbing into the boat in rough water, and something took a slice of skin off my left ankle. I had a low air/decompression scare (apparently a computer malfunction). We spent quite a few hours moving fast on small boats in up to three-foot seas, and early on I had a couple of bouts of sea sickness. But it was fantastic.

I did thirteen dives (only four without Sally), including two deepish wrecks (the Spiegel Grove and the Duane), a night dive (at the Benwood), and a lot of shallow coral reefs (including Molasses Reef, Elbow Reef, North Dry Rocks, Eagle Ray Alley, North North Dry Rocks, Christ of the Abyss, and Horseshoe Reef). I got certified on nitrox the week before, and used it for the first time on several dives. The trip included my fiftieth logged dive.

The reefs were really beautiful. There were thousands of reef fish, including quite a few new to me. Among many other fish, we saw several schools of barracuda, a goliath grouper, a nurse shark, green and spotted morays, and such exquisite creatures as gray and queen angelfish. The coral and plant life were also incredibly varied and amazing. It was really cheering to see the reef looking healthy.

We had our moments of anxiety (wondering, where are we, and where’s the boat?). At times there was current or surges to contend with. Visibility was not always great. But most of the time it was so peaceful. Floating weightless. And more and more, my body seems to know how to maneuver in the water with very little effort. There’s a feeling of wonderful freedom.

We went with a group of sixteen or so other divers organized by Dan P. and Down Under Scuba. The price was amazingly cheap, and it was great not to have to worry about the flights, hotels, and such. It was also good to spend some time with experienced divers, who were generally good folks who shared interesting tips. Dan was an inspiration, as a diver and a person, and we’ll look forward diving with him again.

Golf guilt and gratitude

It feels delicious but somehow wrong to play golf on a regular workday. Even when the event is a company tournament, even when there’s been a sign-off from management, it still seems illicit. Particularly when the temperature’s in the mid-70s, there’s not a cloud in the sky, and the greens are healthy, it seems like it can’t be permissible. The blood of my hard-working, self-denying Calvinist forebears resists — and then capitulates.

And so it was that I played in the first Red Hat invitational golf event with colleagues and assorted Red Hat vendors last week. The event was at Crooked Creek, a pretty course in southern Wake County. I took my first adult golfing lessons there about ten years ago, and so it has a special place in my golfing heart. Although the overall yardage is on the short side, the fairways are narrow, and the course in general punishes imprecision. Considering the dry conditions of the past months, it was in good shape.

My golfing has recently been in a threshold state — possibly close to a new plateau. From time to time I get a foretaste of the golfing promised land, where a long smooth swing connects the dimpled white ball to a high parabolic arc, which settles in the center of the fairway an easy short-iron from the green. Other times I endure the bitterness of inexplicable shanks, gouges, and gaffes. But this is part of the extraordinary demands and attractions of golf: at any given moment the next shot could be a hopeless, round-destroying disaster, or it could be perfect beyond all reasonable hope.

We played a best ball format, in which the best of four balls off the tee is used for the next shot forward. It keeps things from getting too heavy. The foursome shares the joy of a well-played hole and divides up the guilty misery of one that is played poorly. I enjoyed my golfing colleagues, and particularly Steve G, who drove our cart and hit the ball a ton. We were proud when he won the long drive contest. On the other hand, the pace of play was painfully slow. I also struggled with an odd pain in my right leg. But we filled the time with pleasant chat and enjoyed the beautiful fall day.

I thought of my father’s attempt to introduce me to golf when I was a young teenager, and regretted that I rejected his offering. It would have been a good thing to share, when we couldn’t find much in common. I also thought of my father-in-law, who gave me the gift of a set of Callaway clubs and encouraged me to have a go at learning the game in mid-life when my own kids were adolescents. He helped me see that my resistance to the game was based on prejudices (too Republican, too fat, too white, too snobby) that were somewhat (though not completely) unfair. And he pointed me towards the undeniable beauty of game: courses that are in essence gardens, the grace of skilled play, and the gift of golfing friendships. It was an excellent gift. I’m sorry we didn’t have more chances to play.

Halloween and Dracula

Halloween is the strangest holiday. Its primary theme is death — normally a taboo topic. Even more amazing, children are encouraged to play with images that cause great fear, like skeletons, blood, and spiders. Although there is humor and sweetness to some of the customs, like trick or treating, the core of the holiday is not sweet. It is not had to imagine it’s descended from bloodthirsty ancient religious rituals.

Our floor at Red Hat is getting its Halloween decorations, in preparations for the employees’ little kids to come through collecting candy. There are lots of skulls, spiders, and witches, and lots of orange and black crepe paper. It’s sweet, but also a little unsettling. I think it’s a good idea to spend some time regularly thinking about death, but I’m not used to doing it on the way to the coffee machine.

When I first heard that the Carolina Ballet was going to do a new ballet for Halloween called Dracula, I had my doubts. I understand that the company needs to bring in an audience, and it needs to reach people who aren’t already committed to the art form. And it makes some sense to find a seasonal theme. But Dracula? I enjoyed the novel when I was a teenager, but the I thought that every bit of human blood had long ago been wrung out of the story.

It turned out not to be so. Sally and I went to the show last night, and heard the choreographer, Lynn Taylor-Corbett, give a talk prior to the performance. We’d previous seen a number of her ballets, and liked them all (especially Carmina Burana), but hadn’t seen her speak. She was really impressive — smart, funny, and thought-provoking. She’d started with the Bram Stoker novel and derived something of a feminist interpretation (though she didn’t call it that), which emphasized the importance of the main female characters. She took questions, and unfortunately for her and us, most of the question time was consumed by an audience member from Transylvania with a strong accent who launched into an extended-but-almost-incomprehensible exegesis that seemed to have to do with the historical Dracula.

Anyhow, the ballet was really good. Taylor-Corbett used a narrator to keep the story clear. The set was simple, but the lighting conveyed a variety of gothic moods. As in prior T-C ballets, the crowd scenes had a wonderful kineticism, but with a warm, human quality. And there were some memorable characters. Lara O’Brien was outstanding, so strong that it was hard to focus on anyone else during her scenes, which ran the gamut of emotional extremes. I was sad when she died — both times! Pablo Javier Perez was funny and scary as the mental patient. And Attila Bongar was a wonderful Dracula. There is usually a remote and serious quality about Bongar, and T-C played to his natural strengths. I found some of the business with crosses and stakes a bit goofy, but aside from that, it was entrancing.

We also liked Ricky Weiss’s new ballet that began the evening, the Masque of the Red Death. Again, I had my doubts about the idea, but it turned out to be inspired: a costume ball in the midst of the plague led to powerful drama. The production had a great look, with particularly beautiful and startling costumes.

Glee, pure fun and more

For me, watching Glee started out as a sort of a guilty pleasure. It was undeniably fun, but I couldn’t see much socially redeeming value. It seemed sort of like American Idol but with professional-level pop singing. There was a wittiness about it, but the action was highly stylized, and the concerns seemed very far from mine. Regardless, I found myself deeply enjoying the dancing and pop songs, including ones I’d thought of as silly and trite. This was a bit disconcerting. But I gradually set aside my notions of good taste and just got into it.

In the last couple of weeks, the show has surprised me again, by taking on some twisting its stereotypes into new shapes. The gay guy, Kurt, had previously struck me as basically a standard gay sitcom character, present primarily for laughs and avoiding causing any real offense. But when he declared last week, after his father had a heart attack, that he didn’t believe in God, and refused to compromise on that position. There was definitely some edginess. The only group in America less beloved than gays is atheists. And this week, Kurt flamed at the straight world in a hard, in-your-face way. This was gayness with some pride and even arrogance, intended to provoke discomfort. Then we saw, suddenly, his loneliness, and his surprising courage and creativity.

I wasn’t as wowed by the musical numbers as in some previous episodes, but I was really cheered to see something original and a little risky. My cable service offers hundreds of channels, but it seems that at any given moment most are showing advertisements or content even less interesting than advertisements. When I’m too tired to do anything but a bit of channel surfing before bed, I often feel like I can’t find a single channel that isn’t showing something that I’ve seen in some form many many times before. Vast swathes of TV land are a moral, artistic, and intellectual desert. But every now and again, as with Glee, one comes upon an oasis.

Watch out for robo cars

I expected that self-driving cars would get here eventually, but I was still startled to learn this week that they’re already here. On Sunday the NY Times reported that Google has created vehicles that can steer itself through city traffic without human intervention. http://tiny.cc/f6d1z They’ve logged thousands of road hours without a serious accident. The cars can sense other cars and obstacles and read road signs. Apparently the only common traffic issue they haven’t solved is how to interpret the gestures of a cop directing traffic.

My first reaction was excitement at such amazing technology. As the Times pointed out, there could be major benefits in terms of safety (computers don’t get sleepy or drunk) and energy efficiency (vehicles can be lighter because they won’t be running into each other). And without the need to pay attention to the road, perhaps there will be gains in productivity, or even creativity, where once there was road rage.

I try to make it a rule, where feasible, to embrace change, since change is one of life’s constants. But pretty quickly I started thinking about the downside of robo cars. In the charming animated movie Wall-e, after planet earth is destroyed the remaining humans are cared for by advanced robots, and, relieved of their responsibilities, the humans have become doughy dumb blobs. Will robo cars make us weaker and less connected? When freed of the need to drive, instead of more reading, will the average amount of time spent watching television increase from the already amazing five hours a day? If robo cars are much safer than human driven ones, how long will society tolerate fallible human drivers? Are we coming to the end of driving as we know it?

In my earlier urban days in New York and D.C., I was politically opposed to cars and largely made do with public transportation. When we moved from D.C. to N.C. and became suburban householders, I realized driving was going to be a part of my life, and I might as well enjoy it. So I embraced the change, and started to find pleasure in cars. I’ve enjoyed driving more and more, as I got nicer cars. Now, with my 911 S (Clara), I adore it. I love going out on country roads, adjusting the suspension to the “sport” setting, and feeling the road. I love the engine’s throaty growl, and its wild banshee cry of joy in acceleration. I love its agility as the road twists and turns, and I love the g forces.

At the same time, the massive power of the car demands respect and attention. It could quickly get out of control. This means there is an element of challenge. But that is part of what I like. So I’m not looking forward to robo cars. They’re surely coming, but I won’t give up my Clara till they pry her from my cold dead hands.

Soccer and football

I really enjoy reading the newspaper on Sunday. When I lived in New York, sometimes I’d actually buy the Times from a newstand on Saturday night and get an early start reading the Week in Review. When I don’t have a Sunday morning golf game, as happened this Sunday, I devote a good chunk of the morning to current events. The events may be unsettling, be they natural disasters, wars, or political strife, but the orderly presentation, with morning coffee, is pleasantly soothing. This is not, of course, reality, but rather a highly scrubbed and edited simulation. But everyone knows that.

However, I was disappointed that today the Sunday News and Observer failed to cover the playoff victory last night of the Carolina Railhawks, our local professional soccer team. Sally and I were there for the event, with midfield seats close to the field, and saw them defeat the Minnesota Stars 4-0 to advance to the semifinal round. The team is part of the USSF D-2 Pro League, which is surely a candidate for the worst sports league name ever. But apart from the name problem, this is a good team and a good sport.

This was the third game we got to this season, and with each game I found myself seeing more of the nuances, both of the athletes’ incredible individual skills and of the team tactics. I’m developing more knowledge of the rules and more confident opinions about bad calls by the referees and faked injuries. I’m starting to like certain players. In short, I’m getting to be sort of a fan.

It was a beautiful evening, just cool enough for a light jacket. We’d previously learned that the concession stands had not evolved any vegetarian options, so we brought a couple of Jersey Mike’s veggie subs with us, and split a chocolate chip cookie. The stands were far from crowded, but there were enough people to make some noise. Sally noted that the field seemed very large, and I said I believed it was the same length as a football field — 100 yards. (I later checked with Google and learned the official length may be between 100 and 130 yards, and the Cary field is 120 yards.) Sally hadn’t known the length of a football field. As a former American football participant, that distance is one that is seared into my mind and body.

I played Pop Warner football in Winston-Salem for the Tiny Demons beginning at age 12, and finished my football career at defensive end for the Wiley Junior High team at age 15. Even back then, football seemed physically punishing and usually far from beautiful. But I liked being part of a team and liked some of the guys. It was challenging. I was in no way outstanding, but every now and again I exceeded expectations and make a good play.

And I still enjoy football at some level. But more and more I’ve found it seriously disturbing. It’s just too dangerous, and the high risk is part of its essence. For professionals, certainly, but even for students and kids, there’s just too great a risk of brain injury or other serious accidents. I’d like to think that if I were a Roman citizen, I’d object to holding gladiatorial fights to the death for entertainment. Our football games aren’t quite that bad, but there’s an uncomfortable resemblance. We should disfavor games that risk destroying lives.

I admit, I can’t help being glad when the N.C. State Wolfpack wins. But soccer is much more in line with my values, and more to my taste. I do worry that heading balls can cause brain injury, and I’d favor protective headgear to mitigate that. And I realize soccer players can break their necks. But the sport itself is not designed to cause high speed collisions of humans. It’s about speed and agility, as well as power.

Anyway, hurray for the Railhawks. Nuts to the News and Observer sports page. The team played with heart and skill, and defeated a worthy opponent. Good luck in the next round. You guys are awesome.

Starting the weekend with some exercise and music

Late Friday afternoon I returned some phone calls, cleaned out my e-mail queue, checked my to-do list one last time, jammed some weekend work in my book bag, and did the short drive home. Sally had left for a tennis tournament, but had first fed the animals, so they were sleepy. I played the piano for a few minutes and moved to a different mind zone — a Chopin nocturne (D flat major), a Debussy prelude (La cathedrale engloutie), Liszt’s Sonneto del Petrarca 47. I also played J. Strauss’s Blue Danube waltzes in honor of the poor Danube, currently under assault by toxic sludge. I filled a small plate with some leftover pepper casserole and brown rice, warmed it in the microwave, poured a glass of pinot gris, and had a quiet, delicious dinner.

Then I walked over to hear the N.C. Symphony do the first fall concert of our series. It was a lovely fall evening, mild and clear, and I savored the walk. This is one of the pleasant things about living in downtown Raleigh. There were two new buildings going up along the way, and people on Fayetteville Street eating dinner at sidewalk tables or walking about.

I had an unusually strong sense of physical well being. It was a good week for exercising — no travel or serious time crunches at work — so I’d gotten up at 5:30 a.m. every day to either swim a freestyle mile (2x), do a yoga class, or take a spinning class (2x). Spinning is still new to me, and I’m still enthusiastic — it’s an amazing aerobic workout. The basic idea of stationary bike plus music, rhythmic movement, group activity, and a cheerleading coach previously struck me as not at all my style, but it is remarkably effective in (a) raising my heartrate, (b) making me sweat, and (c) leaving me feeling pleasantly endorphinized.

With fall in the air, I’m looking forward to winter, and skiing in Colorado, and I’m using ski thoughts for extra workout motivation. Last year the hour-long climb in the snow at over 12,000 feet up the narrow ridge to Highlands Bowl at Aspen Highlands taught my body a brutal lesson it won’t soon forget. I was, in truth, too whipped to attack the long double black diamond run from the top, but there was no alternative way down. I survived, but next year I hope to do more than merely survive such situations — to exult! That may be too much to hope for. It will always be difficult to go from a few hundred feet above sea level one day to vigorous activity at several thousand feet the next, but I’m looking to be in better shape next season and bettering my odds.

At a leisurely pace, it took 23 minutes to walk to the concert hall. (Afterwards I picked up the pace and got home in under 20.) I was interested to hear Rachmaninoff’s first piano concerto. The composer was still a student when he made it, but it has the seeds of the more familiar and almost too gorgeous second concerto. It is certainly a virtuoso showpiece, and Jean-Philippe Collard played it with power and authority. I was mainly interested in the second half of the concert, a performance of Sibelius’s Fifth Symphony, a piece I was not familiar with. It was strange and beautiful, with novel and varied textures, and diverging moods. It approached the richness of Mahler. There were good loud places, where the brass expressed themselves fully, and a fine solo for the bassoon. I plan to get a recording and listen to it some more.

Young lives lost, and a note on homophobia

One of the things I like about my morning newspaper is the obituaries. I paid no attention to them in my younger days, and thought it odd that older people read them. Then, somehow, I got older, and became sort of a fan. Many are pro forma statements, but as a group, they give some clues as to how people manage grief. Every now and again, there is an account of someone who apparently lived a life that enriched the lives of those surviving, and those cheer me up.

But the obits I tend to focus on are those involving young people. Old people are supposed to die eventually, but not young people, so there’s always an element of tragedy. Every now and again, I get a sobering dose of pain, as when a death looks like it could have been a child of my own. There was one such this week — a young woman named Grace White from Cary (like use, until recently), who’d just graduated from N.C. State (like my dear Jocelyn), worked in Hemlock Bluffs Nature Center (where I’ve been many times), who died in a wakeboarding accident on Harris Lake. Apparently she hit her head hard in a fall and had a fatal brain injury. Her dad is speaking out on the dangers of wakeboarding without a helmet. I am so very sorry for his loss.

This week the suicide of Tyler Clementi, an 18-year-old violinist at Rutgers University, became a national story that also seemed close to home. Clementi jumped from the George Washington Bridge into the Hudson after his roommate posted a video on the internet of him kissing another male. Much of the commentary has focussed on the effects of bullying and the power of the web. But the story is surely in part about homophobia. The reluctance of the mainstream press to treat this aspect of tragedy directly is dispiriting.

I keep thinking we may have turned the corner on homophobia, but Clementi’s death is a reminder that it’s alive and well. The resistance to gay marriage has weakened, but a major segment of the population is still fearful of gays, and there are still politicians (including gay ones) who exploit this fear. One of the hardy perennial fear narratives is conflating gay sex between consenting adults with deviants who prey on children. I think such myths are gradually losing their power as more people realize that gays are normal people with normal ethics who pose no special threat. Everyone knows and gets along with gay people, whether they know it or not. But there are still minds that need to be changed. The Clementi tragedy reminds us that this is an urgent matter, because some lives are at risk.

One aspect of the story that made it more personal for me was the fact that Clementi apparently was a talented music student. In my time as music student at N.C. School of the Arts and Oberlin Conservatory, I knew many gay students, and came to understand that gays are major contributors to our artistic life. Just as gay friends have enriched my life, gays have made our society richer.

I have a theory as to why gays are so important in the arts. Artistic expression involves emotional exposure that runs counter to male stereotypes. Stereotypical American males don’t say much about their inner feelings. Art goes against this grain, since it involves exposing feelings. You don’t have to be gay to be an artist, and plainly being gay will not make you an artist. But the willingness to reject stereotypes is something gays almost have to have, and that type of courage is helpful for an artist.

I’d guess that Clementi had not worked through and accepted his sexuality, and so he was probably particularly vulnerable to cruel homophobic gibes. That sort of behavior, and homophobic thinking, has got to stop. It could help to speak up on the issue, and invite others to examine their prejudices. I’ll say it, though it probably rules out any chance of elected office: gays are good for our society. Or to put it in bumperstickerese: gay is good.

Freedom and private matters

I finished Franzen’s Freedom on the flight back from Dallas earlier this week. Although the last half of the book was not as surgically precise and constantly surprising as the first, it was still very fine, and I was glad I read it. It passed my test for a novel that is in every sense worthwhile: it explored questions and won insights that just can’t be got at through any medium other than a novel. The subject matter involves some of the big issues of our time, such as global warming, overpopulation, environmental irresponsibility, and species extinction. But just as in other great novels, most of the interesting revelations relate to private matters — interior lives and intimate relationships.

Writing about things that are generally considered private is a risky business. Even with the license of a novelist, it takes a degree of courage close to recklessness to be direct and truthful about intimate aspects of our lives. For all the things Freud got wrong, he was surely right that civilization depends on a degree of repression of our basic urges. By the same token, our social lives would be unsustainable if we lifted all self-censorship. It’s true, as Jack Nicholson once violently asserted: we can’t handle the truth! At any rate, we can’t uncritically expose all of our feelings and our emotional lives without causing outrage and social havoc. But this is part of the gift of the great novelist: to guide us into and through these hidden things in a way that enriches rather than injures.

I’m constantly struggling, when I write for the Casual Blog, with the question of what is too private for public exposure. Where one draws the line plainly depends on what kind of person one is, which in turn depends on every other social variable — personal history, family, community, customs, laws, etc. And the line may also vary according to the subject involved. And the best answer for today may not be the best in the future. Pushing the line may actually change the kind of person one is or is perceived to be, either for better or worse. My current model involves trying to be conscious of the line and to get close to it without going over it. But it’s always a judgment call made in the fog of complexity. Mistakes are sure to happen. In such cases, I have to hope the parties affected will forgive and eventually forget.

I’ve wondered whether it crosses the line to explore the implications of Jocelyn’s latest adventure — free form travelling in South America. This is not all happy stuff. As a dad, I’m in a fugue state: full of admiration for her spirit and courage, full of pride, but also full of worry. As I told her very bluntly, she is throwing herself in front of some existential risks without understanding them very well. She did not appreciate this criticism, and just as bluntly told me so. She is highly confident of her ability to deal with the unexpected, which is impressive, yet worrisome. Does she have any idea how vulnerable she could be? Is it better if she doesn’t? At any rate, I’m sufficiently on edge and preoccupied with such risks as kidnapping that I will refrain from discussing her itinerary. But I should also say, according to her emails, she’s having a fantastic time.