Que 2005 seja melhor!
É português.
Getting to the heart of it all
I had to laugh when I saw this photo at Flickr. (It appears to have been lifted from another website as opposed to having been taken by the Flickr member that uploaded it.)
Dan, my roommate at Bowling Green for a year, hated cats. He'd always been a dog owner and had no interest whatsoever in felines.
I laugh at the photo because any time we happened to see a dead dog along the side of a road, Dan would go into denial mode: "That's not a dog, it's a cat!"
Dan and our classmate-pal Martha Dannery
Dan and I haven't been in touch in close to ten years, but I happened across his website tonight when I did a Google search for his name (imagine that!). One of the funniest guys I've ever known. Fine artist. Pretty good golfer. He told me once that he loved salt so much that he wanted to die of it.
Spoon River
© by Michael P. Smith
All of the riverboat gamblers are losing their shirts
All of the brave Union soldier boys sleep in the dirt
You know and I know there never was reason to hurt
When all of our lives were entwined to begin with
Here in Spoon River
All of the calico dresses, the gingham and lace
Are up in the attic with grandfather's derringer case
There's words whispered down in the hallway, a shadowy face
The morning is heavy with one more beginning
Here in Spoon River
Come to the dance, Mary Perkins, I like you right well
The Union's preserved, if you listen, you'll hear all the bells
There must be a heaven, the Lord knows I've seen mostly hell
My rig is outside, let us ride through the morning
Here in Spoon River
Coming Of Age
© 1992 by Patrick T. Power
We sit across from each other
At the trough – a hungry herd
We gobble up all our dinner
And we hardly say a word
This life is such a mystery
Can we turn another page
To the best part, our later years
When we'll have come of age
We sit cross from each other
With beer cans in our hands
Our eyes on the television
(Ain't it great to be a man!)
I suppose this ritual
Has trapped us in a cage
Where we pace around in circles
Until we've come of age
We sit across from each other
In the hospital crying tears
For all the time we never shared
Through all our growing years
Now Dad is dead and so begin
The battles we must wage
We watch our children growing up
Before we've come of age
Calling Me Home (Jen's Song)
© 1992 by Patrick T. Power
On a cold night in a very cold year
An old familiar tune came to my ear
And like the winter wind it chilled me to the bone
To hear an angel calling me home
You didn't see, you couldn't have known
You were an angel calling me home
There are some things we hardly ever see
And there are ways we just don't know how to be
We're so weak when we try to stand alone
Until an angel calls us home
You didn't see, you couldn't have known
You were an angel calling me home
It was a cold night in a very cold year
When your voice drifted out to me so clear
And this heart that I thought had turned to stone
Heard an angel calling me home
You didn't see, you couldn't have known
You were an angel calling me home
You didn't see, you couldn't have known
You were an angel calling me home
James
© 2004 by Patrick T. Power
James has asked about you
He wonders who you are
He sees you in the pictures
Next to me with your guitar
And only for a moment
Do I think to speak your name
But I bite my tongue and stop myself
I'm just not ready to explain
James and I are happy
We call each other pal
He knows that he's my favorite guy
And I'm his favorite gal
We wake up in the morning
It's breakfast in the nook
Sometimes he sits up on my lap
And we read his favorite book
James and I love walking
We never get too far
He stops to pick up everything
He waves at ev'ry car
If we make it to the corner
Of 38th and Lake
I'll lift him to my shoulders
And my heart begins to ache
The last time that I saw you
You said you'd keep in touch
I should have known much better –
That your word ain't good for much
James has asked about you
He wonders where you are
He sees you in the pictures
Next to me – not your guitar
Merry Christmas Darlin'
by Patrick T. Power
Just look at that falling snow
Just look at that grey morning sky
Just look at those Christmas lights
I see reflecting in your eye
I promise I'll love you
Just as long as you never say goodbye...
Merry Christmas, darlin'
Just look as those shiny bows
Just look at those presents under the tree
Just look at those angels' eyes
Ain't this the way it oughta be?
I promise I'll love you
Just as long as you promise you'll love me...
Merry Christmas, darlin'
All around the living room
Is music, light and laughter
Fun from wall to wall to wall to wall
(Wall to wall to wall)
Does anyone anticipate the
The dark days that come after
Could anyone imagine it at all?
(Not at all)
Just look at the kids, dear
Just look at those faces we adore
Just look at this mess dear
Just look at the paper all over the floor
I promise I'll love you
Just as long as you never walk out that door...
Merry Christmas, darlin'
Merry Christmas, darlin'
Merry Christmas, darlin'
In songwriting, it's a balancing act as to how much you reveal, he says.
You don't wanna gross an audience out. But on the other hand, sometimes you do. I like to affect an audience. I don't mind making them a bit uncomfortable,' he says. 'The idea is to engage a group of people for 75 minutes and make them squirm a little bit. Make 'em laugh. Think a bit. . . . There's no limitation on how far you can go. The songs have to be good at the end of the day.
Ballad Of Easy Rider
by Roger McGuinn*
The river flows, it flows to the sea
Wherever that river goes that's where I want to be
Flow river flow, let your waters wash down
Take me from this road to some other town
All he wanted was to be free
And that's the way it turned out to be
Flow river flow, let your waters wash down
Take me from this road to some other town
Flow river flow, past the shady trees
Go river go, go to the sea
Flow to the sea
The river flows, it flows to the sea
Wherever it goes that's where I want to be
Flow river flow, let your waters wash down
Take me from this road to some other town
*Supposedly, Bob Dylan wrote this and gave it to McGuinn
And February was so long that it lasted into March
And found us walking a path alone together
Yesterday, I spent the afternoon with friends, Robert and Julia, who had invited me to their home for a game of Scrabble, dinner and a movie (DVD).
Julia is of Bangladeshi descent, and as I'd told her previously that I owned a VHS video of The Concert for Bangla Desh—something she said she'd like to see—I brought that with me as well as my newly-purchased, still-wrapped boxed DVD set of Krzysztof Kieslowski's Trois Couleurs.
The dinner, a traditional Bangladeshi cooked meal of chicken, beef, lentls and rice (with some mixed veggies and salad) was marvelous, and—as expected—I crushed the both of them in Scrabble. My Scrabble record remains unblemished, although I had a momentary concern when—feeling somewhat sorry for Robert's bad luck with words on the day—Julia and I agreed to allow "hobocrib" (yes, my left eyebrow raised in bemused wonder about the word!), a word that meant a 51-point increase in Robert's score. Julia and I agreed that it was more important to allow Robert his word since he'd been having such a rough time scoring, but I was secretly worried that it was just a bit too much charity on my part. I would have hated to have had my "Lifetime - 0" record shattered by "hobocrib," for crying out loud.
Thankfully, the word left him forty or so points shy of my winning score, although it meant bringing him up to a tie with Julia.
But wait... this was supposed to be about goonie caps.
During a scene in Blue, the ever-stunning, ever-talented Juliette Binoche dives into a swimming pool and swims a lap across the width of the pool—not its length.
At that moment, it flashed me back to something I haven't thought about in a long, long time...
When I was in grade school, I spent a great deal of time at the Boys Club (now Boys and Girls Club) in East Toledo. They had a pool, game rooms (I played many a game of pool, mostly the bumper variety), craft rooms and television. It was a really great place to hang out with friends and keep out of trouble. Not that I was apt to get into trouble, but still. I think that my mom still owns one of the ceramic pieces (an exotic bird of some type) I'd painted and shellacked for her. I was a pretty meticulous painter, and I was quite proud that my eye for color was better than most kids ("no brag, just fact"), and that my finished pieces were worthy of something better than being put away as mementos. My mom actually hung them in the house in not-so-obscure places.
Oh, yeah... goonie caps!
The rule of the swimming pool was that until a kid had been able to prove his ability to swim, he had to wear a rubber bathing cap, or shower cap, if you prefer. We knew them as "goonie caps;" there was no more appropriate term for them as far as a ten- to twelve-year-old kid was concerned. They were named precisely for the way we looked while wearing them.
Of course, there was a perfectly reasonable explanation for their use—they made the jobs of the lifeguards that much easier. They allowed the guards to more easily keep an eye on those who shouldn't be near the deep end of the pool.
A ten-year-old knows nothing of reason, however, and I knew how to swim dammit!—I wasn't about to wear one of those gawdawful goonie caps! Ugh!
Every day, just before the pool was made available for open swimming, several lifeguards would loosely organize swimming tests for those kids who wanted to shun the stigmatic, reputation-busting, humiliating goonie caps. We would line up at poolside at about the spot where the pool began its severe slope to very-deepness.
The test was simple: dive in and swim the entire width of the pool underwater. (Thinking about it further, I'm not certain it had to be underwater.)
Fifty, sixty feet... right? Piece of cake!
Now, you should know that I was a regular at the Boys Club. The management knew me well, my brother Mike and his friends all hung out there—they knew me... anyone who spent a lot of time there knew me and surely had seen me swimming. I was as much of a fish as any kid my age and swimming came as natural as breathing at that point in my life.
As I recall that day now, my brother was in attendance. A number of us lined up on the entrance side of the pool, near the lifeguard chair, and several older kids and lifeguards were on the opposite side of the pool to observe and go into action if needed.
I had swum the width of the pool many times previously (one doesn't take a test like this without knowing what the results are going to be), so as far as I was concerned it was all academic; a mere formality. I was twenty or so seconds away from a goonie-less life at the Boys Club—an almost Hilaryan feat for my age. And I didn't need no sherpa!
I did, however, need the help of a lifeguard (or my brother, I can't recall which) with a couple of feet to go.
In fact, I had traveled more distance than was required of me to complete the test successfully. The problem I had was that I made the attempt with my eyes closed and with about ten feet to go to the other side of the pool, I made a severe left turn that took me into water that was deeper than I was tall. My inner measuring stick—which many previous laps across the pool had calibrated—told me I was at pool's edge and that I could stop swimming, reach out and grab the concrete.
It wasn't there.
Nor was the bottom of the pool where I expected it to be.
I began gasping for air and swallowing water as I went down, completely bewildered by what was happening. "I'm not in the deep end, for crying out loud... what the hell (I probably didn't say "hell" at that time, actually) is going on?!?" Okay, so maybe "Help!" was more what I was thinking, or more likely "HE-E-E-E-ELP!" Or maybe it was "Ohmuhgawdimgonnadi-i-i-i-i-e!"
Lots of laughter welcomed my ascent from the pool. The thought of having to put the goonie cap on was, of course, more devastating to think about and I no doubt was on the verge of tears.
For some reason, however, I was deemed worthy of removing the goonie cap from my swimming attire. I was free! Free to use the diving board; free to swim in the deep end. I had reached what amounted to swimming adulthood.
* * *
Screaming Issue
By Loudon Wainwright III
You and Ludwig van Beethoven
And your Manhattan grandfather
Born on the 16th of December
Ludwig, grandfather and you
In Poland tanks were rolling
On Hudson street it was snowing
Taxi ride to the hospital
Laboring by centimeters
Lucy, when I hear you crying I don't know what I can do
You're so miserable lying next to me I can't help you
Who were you in your last life?
How come you came at Christmas?
If you had waited longer
You might have been Lady Di's baby
Lucy when I hear you crying I don't know what I can do
You're so miserable lying next to me I can't help you
It's New Year's Day your first one
What is your resolution?
It's raining, grey beginning
Here's to Ludwig, grandfather and
You and Ludwig van Beethoven
And your Manhattan grandfather
Born on the 16th of December
Ludwig, grandfather and you
I call it The Monstrosity.
In the meantime, the state cuts to the arts (50%), the state's general funding cuts to University (7% to 10%), and the University's cuts to the Museum's general operating budget (30% to 50%) has eliminated a number of jobs (mine included) and has reduced the Museum's staff to what is near bare-bones. They can afford only a half-time development officer, whose hands are tied when it comes to soliciting funds from alumni and other University donors.
$60 million (wanna bet on overruns?) for this thing. That amount would fund 120 years worth of the project I work on—the Great Lakes Folk Festival.
Bitter? Me? Never!
Nostalgia
By Billy Collins
Remember the 1340's? We were doing a dance called the Catapult.
You always wore brown, the color craze of the decade,
and I was draped in one of those capes that were popular,
the ones with unicorns and pomegranates in needlework.
Everyone would pause for beer and onions in the afternoon,
and at night we would play a game called "Find the Cow."
Everything was hand-lettered then, not like today.
Where has the summer of 1572 gone? Brocade sonnet
marathons were the rage. We used to dress up in the flags
of rival baronies and conquer one another in cold rooms of stone.
Out on the dance floor we were all doing the Struggle
while your sister practiced the Daphne all alone in her room.
We borrowed the jargon of farriers for our slang.
These days language seems transparent a badly broken code.
The 1790's will never come again. Childhood was big.
People would take walks to the very tops of hills
and write down what they saw in their journals without speaking.
Our collars were high and our hats were extremely soft.
We would surprise each other with alphabets made of twigs.
It was a wonderful time to be alive, or even dead.
I am very fond of the period between 1815 and 1821.
Europe trembled while we sat still for our portraits.
And I would love to return to 1901 if only for a moment,
time enough to wind up a music box and do a few dance steps,
or shoot me back to 1922 or 1941, or at least let me
recapture the serenity of last month when we picked
berries and glided through afternoons in a canoe.
Even this morning would be an improvement over the present.
I was in the garden then, surrounded by the hum of bees
and the Latin names of flowers, watching the early light
flash off the slanted windows of the greenhouse
and silver the limbs on the rows of dark hemlocks.
As usual, I was thinking about the moments of the past,
letting my memory rush over them like water
rushing over the stones on the bottom of a stream.
I was even thinking a little about the future, that place
where people are doing a dance we cannot imagine,
a dance whose name we can only guess.
Back when I used to wear ties on a regular basis, I met former Yankee great Mickey Mantle in Chicago at the Photo Marketing Association's annual conference & exhibition. He was shilling for Fuji Film, Inc., who set up the Yankee Stadium backdrop and armed a handful of sales reps with point-and-shoots and gobs of film to snap shots like this for several hours one day. Fuji had a color minilab on hand and the prints were made available within the hour.
I was a kindasorta a Yankee fan early on as a kid as the Toledo Mud Hens were the Yankees farm club at that time; when the Tigers and Yankees swapped farm teams, I changed loyalties.
As a Tiger fan, I too often watched Mantle step to the plate in the ninth inning of a and deliver a game-winning (or some other crucial) hit against the Tigers, but one of the greatest stories about Mantle that I've heard involves the Tigers' Denny McLain feeding his boyhood idle a home run pitch late in the 1968 season (the Tigers' won the World Series that year as well); late in Mantle's career (he retired in 1969).
From ESPN's Outside the Lines: Orchestrating a Record...
The Tigers' pitcher decided to help Mickey Mantle climb add to his home run total during the final series of Mantle's career.I still believe that Mickey Mantle was the greatest baseball player ever. In the brief moment I shared with him, I managed to tell him that I had enjoyed reading his book, The Mick. He thanked me, shook my hand, grinned his big Mick grin, and then held his hand out for the next person in line.Detroit led by five runs in the ninth when McLain shared his plan with Tiger's catcher Jim Price.
Denny McLain, 1968 AL MVP - I said I want you to tell Mantle to be ready. He said, what do you mean be ready? I said, you know, just let him hit the ball, but let him know that something is going on. He said, you mean cheat?
And I threw the first pitch literally on an arc, the ball came in on an arc. Strike one, Mantle takes it. He doesn't know what the hell is going on.
I throw the next pitch, Mantle takes it again for strike two. And I said, where the hell do you want the pitch. And he put his hand out about belt-high, in the middle inside part of the plate. I threw the ball there and he hit the home run.
He would die about eight years later.