And they call it puppy love . . .

Tommy, can you hear me . . .

Today I was eavesdropping on a conversation in which one person was talking about their fears about the future. The other person listened gravely, and then said, "I hear you."

I assume the person was trying to be sympathetic and supportive, but I hate that phrase. When I am pouring my heart and soul out to you, for Crandell's sake don't go and say "you hear me." My cats hear me. Birds hear me. On some level insects hear me. I don't want someone to hear me. What I want is someone to understand me, or at least try to.

The problem with the statement, "I hear you," is that it effectively ends the conversation. There is really nothing to say in response. They heard your original statement and the implication is that anything further would be a waste of the listener's time. Perhaps it is indicative of how uncaring people have really become. They no longer feel the need to even pretend they care enough to try and understand your problems, but consider having heard your cry of anguish to be sufficient. "Yes, yes. I heard you say you're afraid of losing your job, now consider yourself loved. I usually don't even listen."

And while we're at it:

Don't say you want to share something with me, and then tell me about it. If you describe to me the wonderful flavors of the perfectly-normal-beast sandwich you had the other day you are not sharing it with me. Sharing means you give me a portion of the sandwich. Then we can share the experience. If you tell me about it the best I can do is empathize with you. So if you want to share with me the sunset over the Inland Sea you bloody well better have airline tickets and a hotel reservation, otherwise you're just going to describe it to me.

But then I'm old and stodgy enough to still think 'gay' means lively or bright.

Doctor, Doctor! Mr M D . . .

Todai hospital also turned new mom away : National : DAILY YOMIURI ONLINE (The Daily Yomiuri)

I have always known that Japan was more hide bound about following the rules than the Chairwoman of a Methodist Church flower committee. Everyone in a school or corporation dresses alike, and they all change from winter uniforms to summer uniforms on the same day, and damn the weather. But this article about a woman dying because hospitals seemed to think that the number of beds their policy manual states they will have is more important than the number of people who are actually in critical need really takes the cake.

I like bread and butter . . .

The sister-in-law, Kim, who lives up in Washington (and is a writer of some accomplishment—her last book is Ruby's Imagine) posted a tentative first chapter the other day for The Cookie Club. Reading it got me to thinking about my father, and working with him in the bakery.

My father was a baker, my two older brothers were bakers and I discovered that my great grandfather, my father's paternal grandfather, was also a baker before he enlisted in the Union Army during the Civil War. When I was in high school I would work with Dad in the summer when his assistant didn't show up which seemed to be at least twice a week.

I would like to apologize for my friend here . . .

Aside from the sister-in-law who lives in Michigan, it seems that the majority of the people wandering onto this blog are algebra students. At least I think they are algebra students. The reason I am not a retired architect instead of a retired bookseller is that my math abilities are comparable to my ability to fly. That is, largely a matter for my dreams. They could be physics or chemistry students for all I know, but the phrasing of their searches leads me to believe they are struggling with a math problem; and since algebra is the branch of mathematics I understand least, I assume that's the kind of math.

Anyway, these poor souls are doing Google searches for "missing factor" or some similar phrase, and Google obligingly directs them here. I imagine it can be quite frustrating to be desperately searching for the answer to a homework problem or help preparing for a test and suddenly find yourself looking at the ramblings of some old geezer.

For this I sincerely apologize. I hope the exam goes well, and that you do find an answer to your missing factor problem

If it is any help, the missing factor in my life has always been 9.

Tan shoes and pink shoelaces . . .

When a person reaches my age it is not too unusual for them to start talking about how great things were in some semi-mythical period in the past. For me it would be the 1950s. There are, however, very few things I want to resurrect. Don't get me wrong, I have lots of great memories of my youth—like the magic of slow-dancing with a girl to "Harlem Nocturne"—it's just that I also remember the not so pleasant things. We may be going to hell in a hand basket now, but we were headed that way then too. The basket is just a different style now.

Having said that, the one thing I do miss from the 50s is the uniforms hospital workers wore. When I go to the hospital now everyone is either wearing scrubs, those bizarrely patterned polyester tunic outfits, or a lab coat. You don't know if the person coming into your room is a nurse, doctor, therapist, HMO spy or from housekeeping. The only thing you have to identify them, besides their word, is their name tag and the females usually wear theirs backwards so you can't see them. I guess to keep the wrong people from learning their name.

It weren't that way in my day.

He sings out a song which is soft but it's clear . . .

The other night (2 August 2008 to be exact) we went to the Dodge Theater for a James Taylor concert. I will be honest and admit that I was almost more excited about seeing Steve Gadd play live than I was about seeing Mr Taylor. Far back in the pre-dawn mists of my youth I was a fairly mediocre drummer, and forty-five years later I still fall into an almost Zen like state when listening to a master play the drums. Men like Joe Morello, Carl Palmer, Mitch Mitchel, Art Blakey were my gods. Later on I discovered Kodo and Babatunde Olatunji and the wonderfully joyful, mysterious, playful sexy Latin rhythyms of men like Kevin Ricard and Tony Shogren of Sambaguru. I may not have the talent to perform at those levels, but I know the craft well enough to be able to be truly awed by those who do. And Steve Gadd is, to me, perhaps the finest drummer working today, and I really wanted to see him work.

How sweet thou art . . .

Over at the Neglected Books Page there is a very good article about The Right to Heresy by Stephan Zweig. From what I see in the article, life under Protestant zealots was very similar to life in our more reactionary Islamic countries today, or Catholic countries during the Inquisition, or even the United States if guys like Jerry Falwell had their way. It just goes to show that, as my father often warned, all ideologies, political or religious, taken to their extreme are alike. I am definitely going to have to track down a copy.

You know it's gonna be . . .

In today's Arizona Republic's Viewpoint section there was an interesting article by Richard Nilsen titled Reaction to world is fulcrum of politics. His analysis of the fundamental difference between conservatives and liberals, while perhaps over simplified, is very astute, but I think it missed one vital aspect. While I agree that the actions and reactions of conservatives and liberals are governed to a greater or lesser extent by their fear or acceptance of change, I think an even more fundamental catalyst is the differing concepts of family.


I would argue that most people have an instinctual drive to protect and provide for themselves, and then their family. The concepts of tribe or nation are, to me, just extensions of family. The other members of the tribe or nation are third or fourth cousins kind of thing. Whether or not a person's concept of family is derived through nurture or nature is for other, much brighter people to decide, but I would not be surprised if it was a combination of the two.

Anyway, it has been my experience that conservatives have very restrictive concepts of family. Things like universal health care and education are an anathema to them because they are busy providing for their family, and don't have time to worry about outsiders. The more conservative the person is the smaller, more strictly defined their family, and by extension tribe. To me this is why Hitler was unable to form deep, lasting relationships. As perhaps the most conservative person to ever live his family was limited to him, and his tribe to a mythical race of supermen he would create. He would be a god, and gods are always conservative. It is interesting to note that Hitler was trying to recreate. He was not trying to change but to strip away the thousands of years of corruptive changes that had debased the perfect beings of the past.

Conversely, liberals seem to have a rather more inclusive concept of family, which is why they are usually more willing to devote personal or national assets to providing things like health care, or less restricted entry into the country. The liberal must protect and provide for his brothers, his family; and he has a very large family.

You shake your head, and said it's a shame . . .

Looking back over my posts I am struck by the fact that they are sporadic at best. Not that the teeming world of blog readers is waiting breathlessly for my next installment, but when I started this thing I had hoped to post something at least several times a week. The problem is that as soon as I sit down in the desk chair and face the computer my mind goes completely blank. If you were to hook me up to an EEG you would probably decide it was time to donate the organs.

He likes toast and jam . . .

Each semester during the first Japanese language class it is customary for each student to introduce themselves, and briefly tell why he or she is studying Japanese. Sometimes it is because a spouse or partner is Japanese. (As one man put it, "I want to know what my mother-in-law (義理のお母さん—giri no okaasan) is saying about me.") Sometimes it is because they are (二世—nisei) second or (三世—sansei) third generation Japanese-American, and they want to connect to that part of their heritage. And very often, especially with the younger students, it is because they are おたく (otaku—obsessive fans, usually of anime or manga). Whatever the primary reason is they very often finish the 自己紹介 (jikoshoukai—self-introduction) with, "and I love everything about Japan—especially sushi."

Signs, signs, everywhere a sign . . .

Sometimes Arizona is a very strange place.






Sink placement is always an adventure.


When I think of buying a new Lexus, I think giant sumo.

テｨクンシー

私はアイダホーのヘイリーに生まれたのに、ミシガンのテｨクンシーが出身だと思います。テｨクンシーはとても小さい田舎町一時間ぐらい車でテトロイトの西にあります。その町はほんの四千人が住んでいました。協会が五つあて、バーが四つあって、信号が三つあって、レストランが二つありました。しかし、ドライブインがありませんでした。高校生の時は、映画の後でハンバーガーを食べるために、となりの町のブッミーズ・ドライブインに行けなければなりません。

テｨクンシーの南部にはザ・ピットという名の大きい池がありました。私は二年間の夏にそこで救助員していました。北部の町は川でした。町の近くにはたくさん湖と川でした。夏にカヌーをしたり、泳いだり、船で行ったりしました。そして、冬に自殺の丘にそりをしたりしました。

しかし、私の一番好きな季節は秋でした。大気はきれいで寒くてからっとしました。木の葉は赤と黄色とオレンジ色になりまた。男の子の時は、ハロウイーンに未亡人とほかのおばあさんはカップケーキやポップコーンバルズやブラウニーズを作りました。弟はポップコーンバーズが好きではありませんでした。そして、弟に私のハーシーバーズをあげて、弟からポップコーンバルズをくれました。

テｨクンシーは小さかったですが、育つためにすばらしい所でした。メーベリーよりよかったですね。

ありがとうございました。

To me he was . . .

I was talking to my mother on the phone tonight. After the usual questions about her current health and happiness she said:

I was thinking just the other day about all the things your father and I did in the 57 years we were together.

"You guys did have a busy life together." My father passed away in 2002 just three weeks before their 58th anniversary.

I was always so proud of him. No matter what, he made sure we paid our bills. Even the hospital bills for you and your brother.

The health insurance my dad got through his job was almost totally useless, and my parents paid almost all of our hospital bills themselves. "I know he worked hard, but what I remember most is that we always seemed to have fun."

He worked like a dog. But he never complained.

"No, he never did. And like I said, we always had fun."

Don't take money to have fun.

She was quiet for a couple seconds while we both remembered.

God, I miss him.

"Me too, Mom."

In a world that often treated my brother and me as something less than real men because we had hemophilia (and often didn't mind telling us quite bluntly), he never had anything but love and pride for us. When other fathers were abandoning their family or ignoring a son's existence because he was 'defective', my father was taking on another job so he could be sure we had the care we needed. When the world was telling my brother and me that we would never be anything but cripples and a drain on society, our father was teaching us how to work a short order grill, do rough carpentry, and run a bakery so we would always be able to make our own way.

In my last post I talked about how the gene for hemophilia can stay hidden for several generations. In our family it is just the opposite. My grandfather was a hemophiliac, two cousins, my brother and I, and now my grandson. I know my life has been infinitely easier than my grandfather's, and I am confident that my grandson's will be infinitely easier than mine. I just hope that he never has to hear some girl's father tell him not to come around anymore because Janice/Rosa/Sharon can't be wasting her time on a cripple; but if he does I hope he has someone like I did who will remind him that "your bleeds can be stopped, and you'll get better, but there isn't any cure for being a stupid jackass."

父ありてあけぼの見たし青田原

With my father/I would watch the dawn/Over the green fields.

Spammity spam. . .

Tonight I was looking through the 11 August 1945 issue of The New Yorker. I was reading that particular issue to see if they had made any comments relating to the bombing of Hiroshima. They did not, but in the 'Talk of the Town' section they did have an article about Jay Hormel. In it there was the following passage:

In his office at the Hormel plant in Austin, Minnesota, he keeps what he calls his Scurrilous File, in which he dumps the letters of abuse that are sent to him by soldiers everywhere in the world. "If they think Spam is terrible," Mr Hormel told us, "they ought to have eaten the bully beef we had in the last war. Maybe that's where the verb 'to beef' came from. Maybe the verb 'to spam' will come out of this war. Nothing would surprise me any more." He blinked his eyes. "The language people use!"

If he only knew.

二つ三つ星みいだすや啼く蛙

I can see/Two or three stars/Frogs are croaking.

サンタいません

私の紙と髭は白いで、あなかは太っていますから、小さい子供で「サンタ」
と言います。私がサンタいません！名前はガイ•ボスです。ヘーリー•アイダホ
で住まれましたけれども、出身はミシガンだと思います。とても小さな町の
　テｨークムセで成長しました。

大学の時にはたくさんアルバイトを含めて、共助員やトーリシト•ガイドや
フォーク•ミュージックの喫茶店のMCでした。大学の後ではペンキ屋や
大学の職員や作家でした。それから、教科書の経営者が二十三年間ありました。
今退職したです。

私の家はスコッツデルのオールド•タウンの近くにです。私たちの猫はそこに
住んでもいいです。何人かはそこか古くて小さいだと思います。しかし、私たち
はとても気持ちいがいいと思います。

私はたくさん趣味あります。文学を読んで、音楽を聞くが一番好きな二つです。
マルック•チワエン、ドゴラス•アダムザ、村上春樹などの作家は読みたい。音楽
はジャズとクラシックが特にすきです。私は本当にギターとドラムをするが
楽しんでいますから、あまり上手がありません。

どうぞよろしく。

And so we elect them again and again . . .

Several months ago the Democratic Party of Arizona sent me an email asking what I would like to see in the Democratic Platform for this election.

My short answer was: A backbone.

I would like to see our nation's leader have the strength of character to stand up to the Religious Right and tell them it is none of their business who or what someone believes in, if at all. Furthermore, they are free to practice their religion only so long as it does not conflict with the freedom and welfare of others. Just as freedom of speech does not include the freedom to yell "fire" in a crowded building, freedom of religion does not include the freedom to exploit or abuse others, or to force others to follow the dictates of their beliefs.

I would like to see them take the firm stance that marriage is a civil contract. It is a public declaration that two people have formed a partnership to deal with the day to day issues of survival, give assistance to each other during times of hardship, and share the responsibilities of raising any children that may result. As such it doesn't matter if the partners are a man and a woman, two men, two women or any combination of the above. As long as both, or all, partners have entered the agreement freely and knowingly without being coerced or forced to do so then they are married. If you wish to bring religion into it that is your and your partner's decision, and those complications are of your own devising and have nothing to do with me.

I would like to see the Democrats finally have the courage to declare that in a nation as rich as the United States there is no justifiable reason every man, woman and child is not provided with the best medical treatment in existence. For a fraction of what we have spent getting our youth killed in Iraq we could have given every citizen, or alien, state of the art medical aide. (In the long run it would have even saved the nation billions of dollars by preventing hundreds of thousands of conditions from becoming even worse, and therefore more costly, or perhaps even occurring at all.)

I would like to see the Democrats finally state publicly and without apology that all of the hysteria over illegal aliens is nothing more than disgustingly shameful bigotry and racism. Unless you are 100% Native American or First Nation you or your family probably got here without a visa. Whenever the immigration authorities, or our publicity addicted sheriff, make a sweep rounding up the 'illegals' they are caught working in restaurants, construction sites or doing some other bottom rung job no 'citizen' would take. They are working. The drug dealers and thieves responsible for our high crime rate are our own, home grown product. The woman with six children from six different fathers draining our welfare system is a citizen and not one of those filthy wetbacks.

There's more. So much more.

秋風や石積んだ馬の動かざる

Autumn wind/A horse loaded with stones/Doesn't move

I Don't Want Your Botheration . . .

My horoscope this morning said I wasn't grouchy, I was just in a bad mood. The difference between 'grouchy' and 'bad mood' is too much of an exercise in Talmudic hairsplitting for me at the moment, so let's just agree that this probably isn't the day to be pointing out that my socks don't match. If I was to be totally honest this irritability is probably a reaction to staring into the darkness last night wondering if I would ever do anything even slightly above mediocre before I died; but this is an election year and total honesty has been exiled until it has learned to behave itself. Therefore, I will do what every good American would do in my situation, and place the blame squarely on 'Them.'

Green Light . . .

You’ve seen me. You won’t remember it, but if you ever visited the University you saw me as I made my way across the campus—or perhaps you caught a glimpse of me sitting in the safety of my office.

Maybe you were here to visit a son or daughter or sweetheart and, pointing me out to your companion, you asked him or her, “What does that fellow do?”

Perhaps they told you, in a manner suggesting they had a profound understanding of the inner workings of the University, that I was probably a professor of this or that subject; or, in a way that implied they had deeper more important truths to worry about, waved their hand in dismissal saying, “Him? Who knows? Probably nothing.”

It’s an attitude we understand.

It's a thousand pages give or take a few . . .6番

Thomas’s ankle was quite sore, and each time he took a step a little white-hot flash of pain would shoot through it so he decided he would stop and have a cup of tea and rest a bit. It turned out that this was one of the three times this century it has been verified that a Starbucks was not the closest place to Thomas’s current location. The first time was on a trip he took to Murdo, South Dakota. When asked why he had gone to Murdo all he will say is he had already seen the corn palace. The other time was when he had to spend the night in Orem, Utah. He refuses to say anything about that night, but his analyst grins uncontrollably whenever he hears the city's name. Orem passed a law banning the sales of mango-coconut gelatin and feather dusters soon afterward, but no one really knows why.

Wonder this time where she's gone . . .

What was she like?

I don't know.

No, I'm not being evasive, it's just...it's just the truth. Nothing more.

What?

Yeah, okay. I'll try.

Once, about five years ago we went for a trip. Just a tour around the state. You know, drive along the coast, do some camping, maybe rent a cabin somewhere. And I remember that for the first two or three days she never said a word.

It seems like a mighty long time . . .

It was in 1965. I'm pretty sure it was on a Sunday morning, but I can't remember if it was in late April or early May. Early in the morning my mother dropped me off in the circle drive in front of the main entrance of the high school. She took my suitcase out of the trunk for me, and put it on the side walk next to those of my classmates. She asked me one last time if I was sure I would be all right, and then got back in the car and drove home.