Revisiting Brideshead

Back in the early 1980s (here we go...), the phrase "binge watching" had not yet emerged.  Instead, PBS broadcast the 11-episode "Brideshead Revisited" film on successive Sunday nights, over the course of 11 weeks.

A group of us were captured from the beginning, and looked forward to the next installment, as the characters slowly aged and the story arcs shifted.  Somehow, it didn't seem that difficult to remember where "last week" ended, but we were younger (and patient).

What a cast: Olivier, Gielgud, Jeremy Irons himself, the pitch-perfect Simon Jones (college buddy of Douglas Adams and the original Arthur Dent in the marvelous Hitchhiker radio series), and the delightful Phoebe Nichols (Cordelia), who I still notice these days in films, now playing aging matrons.

Over the years, I have watched the full series three or four times, and read the novel at least twice.  Once, I got the package of multiple DVDs from the library, but that is no longer necessary.

The entire film is there, for free, on the Roku Channel.  But, now it's a far different experience.

I am a bit under-the-lousy-weather today, and started rewatching yesterday afternoon, on my teeny cell phone.  Today, I've been in bed for the past 8 hours, and (on tablet) am already up to the fateful episode 6 ("Julia").

I don't know if I will go the distance today, but I will take more Vitamin C and go a bit further, for sure.

I've often thought that it would be an interesting PBS promotional stunt to repeat the multi-week scenario with the original Brideshead, as they did with Downton Abbey.  I fear that this marvelous production has fallen thru the Memory Hole, and has become One More cultural thing whose memory will die as we Boomers finish our own episode 11.

The point of this, is that, whether you fondly remember the 1981 film or never heard of it, it's there to stream, and you should do that.  Binge if you must, but, if you have the self-control, experience it as we originally did, with a break between episodes.

https://therokuchannel.roku.com/details/acfe8e01d8a631d97bed9ce248c8c084/brideshead-revisited-remastered-in-4k-s1-e11-brideshead-revisited#!

Then, read the book.

Pickett's Charge - the most-useful metaphor of All Time

I've been to Gettysburg only twice, although for seven years I lived in Baltimore and could have driven there most any weekend.  

The first was around 1957 on a family trip to DC.  I remember two things vividly. Above all, the Electric Map, where lights flashed on and off, marking the different phases of the battle.  Second, I remember staring at a display case in the museum, that had a tray of fused bullets - that is, two minie balls that had met in mid-air from opposite directions.  There was not just one - there were many, and I think I tried to understand how thick the air must have been with shot.

The second was somewhere in the mid-to-late 2000's, when The Nature Conservancy, with whom I was doing contract database work, sent me to Harrisburg, PA for some long-forgotten purpose.  I flew in to Baltimore, saw a couple of friends, then drove up to Gettysburg on my way to Harrisburg (which, come to think of it, was exactly Lee's target of his invasion of the North).  It was winter, and the ground was cold and frosty, so unlike those hot July days in 1863.  I had Little Round Top mostly to myself.  Not sure if the Electric Map was still there.

I stood at "The Angle", at the stone wall at the top of the ridge, looking down from the Union line toward the woods to the west, where the grim boys and their seasoned officers waited, in the brutal early afternoon heat, for the horrible Confederate artillery storm to cease and the Forward March order to sound.

There are the famous lines from Faulkner:  "For every Southern boy, it’s always in his reach to imagine it being 1:00 on an early July day in 1863. The guns are laid. The troops are lined up. The flags are already out of their cases and ready to be unfurled. But it hasn’t happened yet. And he can go back to the time before the war was going to be lost. And he can always have that moment for himself."

In retrospect, it was doomed.

But some of them made it up to and over the wall, including Lo Armistead, who lead his troops forward, knowing that his great good friend Hancock was up there, commanding the men of his Enemy.

But thousands of Union reserves poured into the breach, and that was that.  

Armistead was mortally wounded, and died two days later, never having that last meeting with Hancock (who later ran for President, but that's another story).

But the point of Pickett's Charge as metaphor is that of a forceful wave, focused on a tangible goal, just about reaching that goal and maybe on the verge of achieving it, but, in the end, wavering, halting, and then withdrawing, in the face of an overwhelming opposing force.

I fear that's what we are witnessing, with the Biden presidency.  With the election of Warnock and Ossoff, a new hope (sic) was kindled and a vision of the Possible formed.  A progressive, ambitious agenda is the goal and the troops moved out, focused on the top of the hill.  We are nearing the crest, but two pig-headed Democratic Senators are urging restraint, while the army on the heights, confidently following General McConnell, fires with all guns and, instead of chanting "Fredericksburg, Fredericksburg," is yelling "Trump, Trump".

There are going to be few chances to get this right if the big, revolutionary reconciliation bill fails.  The shame of it, is that Greed, the lust for Power, and proud Ignorance, as it has so many times in the human past, may win the field.

After Gettysburg, the war ground on for two more horrible years.  It appears that, in our day, we only have a little more than one year to get up and over the ridge-line, break thru the defensive line, and drive on to capture Washington, and some of our officers, who should be supporting the Cause, have, for some reason, left the fight.

It's all so sad, at the moment (September, 2021).

 

The Letter that Didn't Change my Life

Now that I am approaching 70, and recovering (I hope) from a back injury that has limited my mobility, Karen suggested that, rather than lying on the couch feeling sorry for myself, I should take this opportunity to go thru many boxes of miscellaneous stuff that I had, for some reason, saved and forgotten about.  In other words: time to commence The Purge.

Amid all the old photos, letters, receipts, documents and assorted memorabilia (some of which I did not simply recycle), I encountered one letter that I was amazed to have saved, since it represents My Alternative Life That Didn't Happen.  Here's the tale.

In 1982, a multi-year relationship had ended, as she returned to her east-coast life and family, and I remained in Portland - 30 years old, unattached, and drinking cheap wine.

My father died in 1983.  I had spent many weeks that summer, sitting with him in a hot hospital room in our home-town, listening to the horrifying sound of bubbling liquid with each labored breath.  He never spoke, but only moaned when the staff had to turn him, or pump out his lungs.  It was gruesome and, after it was over, I was a shell of a person.

By early 1984, I was ready to feel like a human being again.  At my local REI, I saw an advertisement for a small-group bicycle tour to New Zealand, and that sounded right.  I requested and was granted a month leave-of-absence from my programming job, and that trip, in April 1984, was very good.  In my files, I found a batch of memorabilia and photos (including a postcard I had written and mailed to myself from Picton, New Zealand, that said "Hi guy.  You had a great time and I'm here now.", which I had not seen all these years).  It was a watershed trip.

Back in Portland, I was ready to embrace Big Change.  

One day, while scanning ads in Computerworld, I saw my chance.  It was a notice from the Hopi Nation, seeking a programmer to move to Arizona and live with them, and help with their data-processing needs.  I wrote to them, explaining that I was the Perfect candidate: I had lots of programming experience, no attachments to Portland, and, above all, great respect for their history and their ways.  

The only hitch was that they sought someone experienced in the C language.  I carefully explained that I was not genuinely experienced, but I had taken a C class, and had done the basic exercises.  I further explained that I was very good at learning new programming languages (this was true), and had total confidence that I could be quickly productive for them.

Subsequently, they wrote back saying that they really did require C experience, and had offered the position to someone else.  With that door closed, I proceeded to work on changes in Portland.

By the beginning of August, change had happened.

I had quit my job, and accepted my first assignment as a Contract Programmer.

I put a personal ad in the local 'alternative' weekly, and received several responses from interesting women (one of whom turned out to be my companion for the next 3+ decades - that's a "whole 'nother story", as they say).  

I was on a new journey.

Then, postmarked August 17, 1984, was a follow-up letter from the Hopi Nation.  The gist of it was (as you no doubt suspect), "the guy we accepted for the position decided he didn't want to move to Arizona - are you still interested?"

So, one day in 1984, I took that letter, shoved it into a file cabinet with other papers, and mostly forgot about it, until this morning.

Life is all about timing.

the best Christmas song of all time

I was introduced to Christmas songs in Kindergarten.  Before then, I had not heard any, due to the simple fact that, there in 1956, I was a nice little Jewish boy in Upstate New York.

I remember enjoying the novelty of Kindergarten, under the watchful eye of Mrs.VanDerLip.  I met several similarly nice kids in those early years, a couple of whom I still regularly see on Facebook, but that's getting off-track.

A couple of months into my Public School life, where we had been doing 'art' and group singing, we were marched to a large hall and seated together.  Then, to my shock and discomfort, everybody cheerfully and enthusiastically began singing songs THAT I DIDN'T KNOW.  

For years, I had no clear idea who that 'round, young virgin' was, and I wondered if our next-door neighbor, who we called Uncle Harold, was related to those singing Harold Angels.

Eventually, when I realized that, in addition to being Jewish, I was left-handed, my life-long sense of being an Outsider was confirmed, but I'm getting off-track again.  

As a piano-player, I soon came to realize that Christmas songs, despite the frequent references to You-Know-Who, were A) generally more interesting musically than Hannukah songs and B) received with joy by the listeners, so I learned to play all of them.

Which finally brings me to the best Christmas song of all time.  Of course, it's "Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas".  The basic chords, the subtle but perfect evolution of the melodic line in each verse, and the wistful bridge, are all just right.  

Then there are the words, and we now have the perfect sense of Christmas 2020.

I do have one quibble.  If you watch the YouTube of Judy's original rendition in "Meet Me in St. Louis" (which you should), the phrase that was later rewritten as "hang a shining star upon the highest bough" was originally the much more realistic "until then we'll have to muddle through somehow". 

Think about THOSE words when you hear it sung this year.

See you in 2021.

a sincere question

A 'pro-Life' advocate was interviewed on NPR this morning, expressing her joy in the new member of the Supreme Court. 

I am, once again, struck by her central argument, that everything flows from the central belief (that word is not chosen casually) that, after conception, we are dealing with 'a human life'.

I presume these people have no major concern about the bazillion cows, pigs, sheep, and turkeys that are about to be massacred in the coming weeks, so it's clear that 'pro-Life' is strictly limited in its application.

Therefore, there must be something that places a paramount value on 'human life', vs. a 20-pound turkey's life.  To me, Life is Life (and, I admit, is biochemically pretty cool), whether it's my dog or the big maple tree that is dumping tons of leaves for me to deal with.

To my understanding (correct me if I'm off-base), their thinking of what distinguishes Human life from Animal or Plant life is encapsulated in the (historically-abused for various interests) term 'Divine'.  A Human embryo, containing the Divine spark, is valued far and above a cat embryo (ancient Egyptians would disagree, and rightly so, according to the creature sitting by this keyboard, waiting for breakfast).

So, the anti-Abortion crusaders (that word is not chosen casually) ultimately base it all on a religious argument, that Humans possess a quality generously granted to them by The Divine, and Animals (and plants, bacteria, and, yes, viruses) do not.

Personally, to believe that Humans are NOT Animals is hard to swallow, especially since so many Humans exhibit the traits of immature baboons, but that's an unnecessary slam on baboons.

The point here, is that having a certifiably-religious opinion dictate public policy for everyone, here in We-The-People-land, does seem to violate the very first 10 words of the very first Amendment.  

I hold that truth to be self-evident, but woe be to any Legislator who has the integrity (a sadly depleted resource) to bring it up. 

A few years ago, I saw a bumper-sticker: "Against abortion? Don't have one". Why, oh why, can't Believers accept this? Why can't they see how their Self-Righteousness has poisoned the body politic? 

Why can't they hear the (silent) screams of the turkeys?

Jonas Salk spoiled us

People of a certain age - I always felt that that phrase referred to people OLDER than me, alas - certainly remember the hoopla when the Salk Vaccine arrived in the 50s, and our parents made damn sure that everyone would receive it.  As Mr. Dylan reminded us, 'Things Have Changed', but that's not where I'm going.

A few years later, US taxpayers funded a plan to put two representatives of our species on the Moon.  That was pretty cool. 

Lesson Baby Boomers learned:  Science and Technology work magic that the rest of us enjoy.  

Of course, this didn't start with Jonas Salk - I could have begun with Thomas Edison and, most of all, Edwin Drake.

Fast forward to the Age of COVID, now that that malevolent Genie long ago escaped from its fragile-from-the-start bottle.

To their credit, the people of many countries have done/are doing the right thing, and have kept their economic and public-health devastation to a (relatively) minimal impact.  To these people/cultures, I say, bravo.

Clearly, though, the US and Western Europe are ramping up for a grim winter and the human psychology is clear. Rather than adopting the drastic measures to effectively bring the absolutely-interdependent global economic system to a halt for an unknown period (not to mention restaurants, bars, and Fascist get-togethers), we collectively decided to 'screw THAT'.

Humans detest inconvenience and, after all, the Jonas Salks will save us.  So here we are, hunkering down (well, about 60% of us), having collectively made a bet that we and our various tribes will magically stay healthy until the magic vaccine arrives, after which we can resume normal self-indulgence, and it will be, once again, Christmas 2019 (with "It's a Wonderful Life" reminding us that Clarence is Up There).

We pray to today's pantheon, from Astra to Zeneca (including both Johnsons). Can you hurry it up please, so that we don't have to have another ridiculous World Series like this year? We demand OUR Jonas Salk.

The odds are currently reasonable that many of us will eventually get thru this.  We just have to endure another year or so, and accept the deaths, evictions, poverty, and despair of those who lose the bet. Losers and suckers, don't you know.

Which brings me, as all things must, to Climate Change.  Same psychology.  Same magical thinking.  

We've benefited from (Edwin Drake, again) 160 years of being (as Vonnegut lamented) 'drunk on petroleum'. Faith now means that we believe clever technicians will manage to cool things down and avert the Collapse of the Biosphere, without us having to give up too much ourselves.  

They've saved us before, and all we have to do is sit back, make sure we have toilet paper, flour and yeast (or baking soda, which actually works great if you add something acidic, like apple cider vinegar), and be grateful for Amazon Prime and the USPS.

Thanks, again, Jonas.

 

'Owning the Libs' is Job #1. Why?

A friend posted a web piece by a guy who was sincerely trying to understand local acquaintances who were dedicated Trump voters.  This exchange resonated with me: 

"Why do you love Trump so much?", I asked a roofer I know.

“Because you hate him,” he said “nothing personal". 

 

I am trying to comprehend this.

 

My "uncle", Sanford Zalburg (actually my mother's cousin), was a remarkable man, and I've written about him several times.  His father died when he was quite young, and his step-father (who I knew only as a VERY old man) was apparently uninvolved, if not outright cold, to his step-son.  As soon as he was of age, he escaped that unhappy little Upstate New York home, eventually joined the Canadian army, and went off to WWII.  

 

A couple of years later, one morning, he found himself on Omaha Beach.

 

After the war, he ended up in Honolulu, married a local, flamboyant girl, and built an amazing career as a newspaperman, traveling the world and becoming a bit of a local character.  Every few years, he would swing thru Elmira, to visit my mother and uncle.  As a little boy, I remember him as very tall.

Here's a typical obit - there were several:

http://archives.starbulletin.com/2008/02/21/news/story15.html

In my 20's and 30's, I maintained a connection.  We exchanged many letters, and I visited him in Hawaii a few times, soaking up his conversation and his deep knowledge of the world.

Years later, his wife, the amazing Vivian, a lifelong smoker, died horribly from lung cancer.  He was devastated, wrote a book about her, her illness, and her death.  The book was so searingly painful that his editor said something along the lines of "no one will be able to read this."  I think I still have that manuscript (plus another unpublished novel of the Korean War) in a stack of his papers that I, somehow, ended up with.

But here's the story.  As Vivian was in the hospital, suffering and in her final days, she continued to smoke.  When, in frustration, my uncle asked her, "you know what this has done to you, why did you continue to smoke all these years?"

"Because my mother told me not to."