Wednesday, December 17, 2008

Man of the Year: Iraqi shoe guy



Collateral damage

Rebel Girl's Poetry Corner: "I insist on the infant hope"


Yes, more days have been eaten in the advent calendar than remain. (Figure out that syntax, Rebel Girl dares you to.) She's been grading too many papers and thus her own syntax is beginning to splinter. 

To the left hangs the gingerbread ornament that Rebel Girl and her son created yesterday, a creature that seems to sum up this stage of the holiday season.

They've been having fun baking, decorating, planning the first Christmas spent this side of the border in about 20 years as well as the 25th anniversary of Red Emma and Rebel Girl's union.

There is still much to celebrate despite what can and does go wrong.


And now, a poem for the season:

“Your Luck Is About To Change”
by Susan Elizabeth Howe

(A fortune cookie)

Ominous inscrutable Chinese news
to get just before Christmas,
considering my reasonable health,
marriage spicy as moo-goo-gai-pan,
career running like a not-too-old Chevrolet.
Not bad, considering what can go wrong:
the bony finger of Uncle Sam
might point out my husband,
my own national guard,
and set him in Afghanistan;
my boss could take a personal interest;
the pain in my left knee could spread to my right.
Still, as the old year tips into the new,
I insist on the infant hope, gooing and kicking
his legs in the air. I won't give in
to the dark, the sub-zero weather, the fog,
or even the neighbors' Nativity.
Their four-year-old has arranged
his whole legion of dinosaurs
so they, too, worship the child,
joining the cow and sheep. Or else,
ultimate mortals, they've come to eat
ox and camel, Mary and Joseph,
then savor the newborn babe.

Tuesday, December 16, 2008

A dark end for family friends

 
DON'T KNOW WHAT TO DO.

I’m a bit weirded out right now. It’s got to do with old family friends. My parents immigrated to Canada from Germany in 1951 (mom was 17, pop was 18). They met on the boat—a converted WWII “Liberty” ship, a real deathtrap—later got married, yada yada. My sister Annie was born in ’54. I followed in ’55. (Read about my family's history here.) 

The Canada years—we made the move to the U.S.A. in 1960—were pretty wild, in part because of all the new immigrants scratching for jobs, trying to make a go of it, dealing with each other and with the Canadians. My folks made lots of friends, many of them Germans like themselves: young, ambitious, full of dreams. 

 Helmut and Brigitte Schmidt (not their real names) were among these friends. Eventually, they, too, moved to the States, and, by the mid-60s, the Bauers and the Schmidts would get together like families do. I liked Helmut and Brigitte, but I didn’t much like the Schmidt boys. They were coarse, noisy. I always figured that you shouldn't have to be with people that you don't like. I was glad when my family lost contact with this crowd in the early 70s. Twenty-five or so years later, pop and Helmut ran into each other down near Leisure World, and, well, yada yada. My folks and the Schmidts seemed to grow close again, and all was well, I suppose. (I wasn’t around for much of this. I saw Helmut and Brigitte maybe a couple of times.) Then, maybe six months ago, Brigitte suffered a stroke, and she was pretty bad off. Helmut, who is very healthy (he's into the Senior Olympics), wouldn’t leave her side. He seemed utterly devoted to her.

It was touching. So said my folks. Recently, Brigitte was allowed to return to their place in Leisure World. But she wasn’t getting better. She was a little crazy and difficult. Helmut was determined to take care of her, but it was getting harder. He evidently felt that he was not up to the task. He showed signs of depression, we heard. My dad made some efforts to contact Helmut last week, but Helmut wasn’t answering his phone. Strange. 

Last week, in his apartment, he shot his wife dead and then he shot himself. The bodies were discovered on Friday. 

Helmut and Brigitte were nice, ordinary people. People liked them; they had lots of friends. This thing caught everybody by surprise. Especially my parents. What does it all mean? My parents sit and think. They run around, trying to do things. But they don’t know what to do. Nobody does.

The Morning Reading: Behind the Hills (Rebel Girl)

.    Recent IVC alum, Bradley Beylik has excelled at UCI in their exclusive literary journalism program and is now applying for grad school (Rebel Girl is writing his recommendation letters and so she knows.) Beylik was set on law school but is now purusing that white whale, the MFA in writing. Call him Ishmael. 
     "Behind the Hills," an essay by Beylik, appears in the current issue of KIOSK, the UCI Literary Journalism magazine. In it, he explores the canyon communities of Orange County. Rebel Girl and Red Emma make cameo appearances. Rebel Girl finds that she is depicted as chirpier than she imagines she really is but it could happen. She could chirp. She probably did. 

  excerpt: 

     Old Saddleback—visible from locations throughout the Los Angeles basin, the San Gabriel, San Bernardino, and San Jacinto Mountains, Catalina Island, and the groomed suburbs of Orange County—is made up of the two tallest peaks of the Santa Ana Mountains, part of the Cleveland National Forest. Its shape looms behind all the bustle of overcrowded streets and rampant suburban sprawl like a tired old sentinel. The twin peaks have tortured, weathered sides criss-crossed with firebreaks and truck trails, mostly devoid of trees. The top of Santiago, the taller of the two, is stuck full of antennas and transmitters of all shapes and sizes, a haunting replacement for the foliage that must have covered the mountains in green long ago. 
     On Southern California’s foggy days, the dark mass is shrouded in marine layer, seeming strong and ominous in its scarred hide. It conjures Moby Dick—immense and ancient, possessing an existence that is at once brutally simple and mysterious, and decorated with the marks of many encounters with men who have sought it out. 
     The mountains seem to keep watch from their heights above the suburbs, keeping record with their scars of all the doings of humankind that unfold around their feet. Less visible than the peaks, even to most Orange County residents, is the quiet canyon-and-mountain community that has been at the base of Old Saddleback for over a century. 
     Made up of several canyons—including Silverado, perhaps the most famous—scattered with sleepy little cottages, the community seems to have resisted the tide of overdevelopment and kitsch that has ravaged the rest of once-rural Orange County. In that way, the area represents the last of its kind—a rural stronghold in a sea of apocalyptic change. 
     The issues are many: environmental degradation, disappearing wildlife populations, encroaching development, and damaged ecosystems and watersheds. And these aren’t the only concerns for residents of the canyons. Other difficulties abound: landslides, flash floods, and a special brand of political entanglements. 
     Without input from canyon dwellers, big companies and nearby city governments draw maps for future exploitation of the land. A traffic- and water-bearing tunnel connecting Riverside and Orange Counties has even been proposed to run right through historic Silverado Canyon. In the face of these struggles, Silverado, though in many ways unchanged since its days as a mining boomtown, is today tragically threatened. But more than that, this disputed landscape represents a deeply American experience of survival and change, determination and loss. 
     The rugged mountains with their shadowy canyons tell stories of weary prospectors, defiant Indians, and determined explorers. For people who spend their lives in the anonymous suburban landscape of Orange County, the canyons and mountains are a source of urban myth and local lore, deeply connected to the fading glory of the American West, and to the contradictory national narrative of frontier living and resource exploitation. 

     To read the rest, click here.

Monday, December 15, 2008

A philosophical question

By now, no doubt you've heard about the infamous Bush "shoe" incident. Somebody tried to hit the Commander-in-chief with a shoe! Then another! It's alarming! (See the disturbing video at the end of this post.)

Now, we here at Dissent the Blog in no way condone shoe-pelting, here or abroad. Still, we couldn't help but ask ourselves, "What if someone were to throw a shoe at Raghu P. Mathur?"

What kind of shoe should one throw?

This is what's known as a philosophical question. It has no bearing or relevance to reality whatsoever. I've been teaching the subject (i.e., philosophy) for 25 years, and I know. In reality, no one is going to throw a shoe at Raghu, nor should anyone get the notion to do so. So our question is way whimsical, fey even.

Still, it is important to ask: What kind of shoe should one throw at the fellow, if one were to throw a shoe at him (which, naturally, one would never do)?

What about flip-flops? They have marvelous flight characteristics, and they're cheap, so you don't mind givin' 'em up. Plus they're almost guaranteed not to hurt the stupid fellow.

Ah, yes, but thongs' celebrated lift is more a hindrance than a help, for, once launched, they go all akimbo, like a freakin' Sopwith Camel.

OK, what about the ever-popular "beer stein" shoe? It is reputed to go straight and true when launched, like a Fokker D.VII.

Yeah, but obviously you'd waste beer. My German heritage wouldn't allow it.

Let's get logical. What would be the most appropriate shoes to toss at the Gooster?

Why, of course, it would be a pair of rat slippers!


Yeah, but you've gotta kill rats to make rat slippers, and I'm an animal rights guy, so that's definitely out.

What about blue clown shoes? —Big ones? They're certainly appropriate! Even the trustees think Mathur is a clown, though not necessarily a blue one.

Yeah, but you'd have to wear 'em into the building before pelting him with them, and they kind of stand out like neon pontoons.

Devil-feet shoes then! Nope. He'd just catch 'em and slip 'em on, and nobody'd know the difference, and that would just take the starch out of the whole thing.

As you know, Raghu's nickname is "Goo," and "guh" means "sh*t" in Hindi. (The district's lawyers told me this.) So what about a pair of goo-encrusted sneakers?


Nah. You wouldn't wanna get any goo on you.

Green alligator high-tops then? Nope. They're much too valuable to toss away. It would be like tossing the guy a Gucci bag. Not me, brother.

How about those incredibly stupid wooden shoes? Nah. The Dutch have never done me any harm. Why drag them into this? (I don't hold the marijuana thing against 'em, though maybe I should.)

These philosophical questions are hard!

Let's try this: What kind of shoe would Raghu want tossed at 'im? Well, maybe he'd like some patriotic sneakers hurtling at his ugly mug! He always wears that stupid flag pin, so red-white-'n'-blue tennies seem like a good bet.

Yeah, but I don't want to implicate Old Glory in this thing. I'm an Eagle Scout, you know. I know about flag etiquette.

Well, I'll be thinking on this. Somebody sent me some more suggestions, but I dunno. Check 'em out.

Led diving boots. Hard to throw. Probably lethal, too. No good.

Mud-caked work boots? Too dignified. We're talking about pelting Raghu, remember?

Stone boots? I don't know how anybody ever gets 'em on!

* * * * *
I just heard that the SOCCCD Faculty Association's negotiations have been concluded. Check it out!

George Bush attacked with shoes:


Flying a Sopwith Camel:


Flying a Fokker D.VII:

OC in the rain: weird scenes from a Chrysler 300

Toll road tunnel, this morning. (Click on the photos to make them weirder.)

Toll road, above the 5, approaching Barranca, Irvine.

Looking up at the oak canopy, Lambrose Canyon Road.

Approaching my driveway, Live Oak Canyon.

Going up Harris Grade, above Cook's Corner.

Oaks along Lambrose Canyon.

Roy's obituary in LA Times and Register: "we were lucky to have you while we did"

  This ran in the Sunday December 24, 2023 edition of the Los Angeles Times and the Orange County Register : July 14, 1955 - November 20, 2...