Thursday, August 13, 2009

HEARD FROM THE PEANUT GALLERY


THIS FROM THE DUCHESS RED BLOG,





Tuesday, August 11, 2009

Quiet, please!

It's no secret that I like a relatively quiet environment. I read, knit, listen to my vintage radio shows, cook, and do various other things, and no one's ever complained about the volume at which I do them. The neighbors haven't come to bang on the door in protest or called the police because I've been knitting at 2 AM. The animals haven't been driven away by the thumping bass of my spinning wheel, the birds haven't dropped from the sky because I'm reading too loudly, and the plants haven't withered because I'm cooking at too loud a volume.
There's a rock concert planned for the little park in our neighborhood. Forget planned! They've been actively promoting it. From what I've been told, the town sprang for electrical hookups in the park and this will allow any and all to use amplifiers for their music.
To say I hate music is absolutely incorrect. Once upon a time, there was a man who went up to the park to play his bagpipes. As it turned out, he was preparing to perform at a wedding. Then there was the elderly man who took his fiddle to the park one spring afternoon. There was also a classmate of mine who went up there to play his banjo, and I suppose there have been other people who have gone to take advantage of the quiet to practice penny whistles. None of them used amplifiers and none of the residents were bothered. So it's really not the
music that bothers me, but the fact that if it's amplified, it's impossible to escape without actually fleeing town and/or buying earplugs.
I question the wisdom of the coordinators' choice of venue. A 1.5 acre park at the end of a dead-end street is hardly the right place to have a charity event for a number of reasons--parking, inability of emergency services to get through if needed, impact on residents who may not necessarily want to hear a garage band blasting at top volume, impact on the wildlife who may be terrified, not only of the noise, but also of the people tromping all over their habitat without any thought for what might be living there. The promoters had a number of other options: the university football stadium, the university concert hall, the university's new theatre building, the
big park outside of town. All of those have electricity ample parking which would not only allow the tourists to fall out of their cars and into the venue without having to walk two or three blocks through August heat while perspiring and carrying picnic baskets, toddlers, and whatever impedimenta required to enjoy a concert. And yet, the promoters chose the park here. The only reason I can think of is that the venue, if you can call it that, is a mere stone's throw from the commercial district.
For about twenty years, dad's said that the town government's main aim is to further the interests of the two-block commercial district. None of the merchants will benefit from the concert because they're all closing in protest--which I say with heavy irony. Nor are they the ones who are affected by the problem since--surprise--most of them don't live locally, let alone in our neighborhood. Of course, if asked, most of them would probably say it's a wonderful idea to have a steady stream of people listening to a steady stream of amplified noise because it's for a good cause. I think there's a flaw there somewhere. Ahem.
The whole thing reminds me of a scene in
As Time Goes By. Lionel has gone to Norwich to plug his book and is unaware that the publisher has presented it as a gritty, nonfiction adventure in which a coffee planter hacks his way through the Kenyan wilderness while slaughtering elephants. In response to the publicity, a number of students attend the lecture in the hope of protesting the apparentatrocities committed against the elephants of Kenya by Lionel-the-elephant-killer. One of the students stands up and says, "Because of you, my children may never see a wild elephant!"
There may not be any wild elephants here, but thanks to the thoughtful people downtown, there are generations yet unborn who might never see an oriole or a bluebird in an urban setting, or hear the foxes barking or the woodpecker knocking. Dramatic? Maybe, but definitely
apropos.

Edit: 12:30 August 13- Found this article. Am in total sympathy with the citizens of Prague but doubt that Madonna will cancel her concert just because three thousand people are against it. I wish them luck in their attempt, though!

GO CZECHKOSLOVAKIA!


About 3,000 protest Madonna show in Prague; concerns over noise, traffic

PRAGUE — Almost 3,000 people have signed a petition to protest Madonna's concert in the Czech capital.

Protest organizer Jiri Styler says local residents are afraid of traffic chaos and noise. The outdoor venue is located on a field between a major highway and a large residential area. Intense security measures, including road closures and transport disruptions are in place before Thursday's show.

Local authorities said the show must be over by 10 p.m. and organizers will clean up the area, It is being used for a concert for the first time.

Styler said the protesters "are horrified" that more big concerts could follow in the area.

Some 40,000 are expected to attend the show, part of Madonna's "Sticky&Sweet" tour.

Tuesday, August 11, 2009

NULLA DIES SINE LINEA


The sweltering summer heat slows down garden work. Writing is a cooler occupation. I am thrilled with the answers I got from Julian Goodwin--please see his interview on my book blog, www.richtexts.blogspot.com--and I am looking forward to hearing from Laura Joh Rowland and Louis de Bernieres. Fiction work is progressing and a nonfiction project in English and Portuguese is taking shape. Bear with me, Blotaniacs. I am working on a review of Wicked Plants, Amy Steward's wonderful treatise on flora that kills. I can tell you upfront that no serious gardening library should be without her scholarly books.

That is not to say that scholarship is the be all of summer. I have to stay indoors pounding a keyboard, but during breaks I amuse myself with gems such as these from the Elizabethan Curse Generator,

"Thou villainous elf-skinned ruffian!
Thou mewling onion-eyed dogfish!
Thou distempered rug-headed snipe!
Thou surly pottle-deep whey-face!
Thou puking pox-marked skainsmate!
Thou gnarling earth-vexing hugger-mugger!
Thou rank sour-faced codpiece!
Thou bawdy tickle-brained coxcomb!
Thou knavish toad-spotted minimus!
Thou warped crook-pated apple-john!Thou dissembling folly-fallen gudgeon!
Thou currish clapper-clawed canker-blossom!
Thou weedy flap-mouthed rabbit-sucker!
Thou weedy pale-hearted gull-catcher!
Thou vacant hedge-born varlot!
Thou fitful fen-sucked measle!
Thou jarring rump-fed haggard!
Thou cockered dog-hearted crutch!
Thou spongy toad-spotted miscreant!
Thou grizzled folly-fallen codpiece! "

Know any person who's cruisin' for a bruisin' malediction? I don't. Everyone I know is so amazingly kind, polite, civic minded, so focused on the greater good, so intent on Tikkun olam. Still, it is good to have a supply of these on hand for educational purposes.

P.S. About that bridge? The price still is half mil.

HOW MONTAIGNE CAN SAVE YOUR BACON


Alain de Botton lost it when lit crit Caleb Frain of The New York Times Book Review trashed The Pleasures and the Sorrows of Work earlier this year. The e-mail de Botton sent Frain ended with this,
"I will hate you till the day I die and wish you nothing but ill will in every career move you make.”
This might seem a bit much, coming from a man whose book on Proust is a literary romp filled with humorous insights. What are we to make of an author who talks of Proust, Epicurus, Montaigne and Schopenhauer, but seemsunable to apply their teachings to his own life? I think that it is safe to conclude that coming from a privileged Sephardic family, that having attended Harrow and Cambridge does not inoculate one from anger and disappointment. Brilliant essayist that he is, de Botton is not immune to righteous rage. Should he be? Should writers be judged by a standard other the the one used for non-writers? Why? Is writing work? Does it fit into the same category as, say, a wall built by a bricklayer. Why?
These are some the questions I have in mind for de Botton. I am not at all sure that his outburst was representative--he says that The New York Times has given him bad reviews six times in a row-of the way he deals with critics. Shortly after his blistering response to Frain, de Botton apologised and quoted Montaigne,
"To learn we have said a stupid thing is nothing: we must learn a more ample, important lesson: we are but blockheads."
Full disclosure, I love de Botton's essays on philosophy, his take on architecture and his ideas for a school for life. So the guy has the temper of an Iberian caballero. So what?
The garden rests in the sweltering summer wheather. Pentas, geranium,

Friday, August 7, 2009

BAKING AND BREAKING BREAD



I learnt to bake bread in self defense. That happened thirty some years ago when I was a green arrival to the frozen vastness of North Dakota. At first, the perishingly cold winter nearly did me in. Food tasted flat and unappetising to my Latin American taste buds came close to finishing the job. Most of all, I missed the crisp, warm baguette bakers delivered twice a day to my Brazilian home. In North Dakota, the pale, unnapetising loaves I bought at the supermarket had a mouth feel of ancient papier mache.
There was good bread in North Dakota all right. It was baked at home by people whose Scandinavian culinary history was rich, if utterly foreign to me. The Norwegian families I knew baked thin pancake like lefse similar to a tortilla, but made with flour and potatoes rather than masa harina. They baked rye and whole wheat bread, delicate pastries, delectable cookies richly flavored cakes and pies. A friend who had perfected her culinary skills at the kitchen of Eastern European Jewish immigrants, took pity on me. Under her tutelage I progressed from basic English muffin bread, to hamburger to bagels, golden braided Challah. I found a little health food store that carried a large variety of grain and flour with lecithin thrown in as a better for you baked goods preservative. I have been baking bread ever since.
Throughout my bread baking career I had two memorable disasters. The first was when I added so much salt to the dough--I am incapable of talking and mixing dough simultaneously--that the bread ended up tasting like a pretzel. The latest disaster happened yesterday when I prepared a a double batch of honey one bread minus the yeast. Actually, yesterday disaster was averted by a little risk taking. Once I realised that the dough had not risen, I decided that adding the yeast at that stage might just work. If it didn't, I'd have to settle for matzos.
I dissolved the yeast without using a thermometer--another example of risky behavior in the kitchen--and kneaded it into the load. It worked. I got the four beautiful loaves pictured above. One of them I will share with friends with whom I am having lunch tomorrow. It is my belief that baking bread is good, but breaking bread with friends is better.

Sunday, August 2, 2009

THE LOST ART OF BEING CIVIL


Ever wonder what it is like to rub elbows, cybernatically speaking, with celebrities? I can tell you that it is not an unalloyed pleasure. The good thing is that pleasant or not, one never fails to learn a lesson whenever a very rich person whose much ballyhooed work got global attention treats every day folks disrespectfully. Uncouthness for the hell of it is a powerful tool as attention getter. No one uses it more effectively than a two year-old. In anyone above that age, gratuitous rudeness is less than enchanting. Some rich celebrities, however, seem to have trouble addressing ordinary people. They seem to need to remind those who do not breathe the same rarefied air they do that they are superior intellectually, morally, artistically, what have you.
In my last post I mentioned The Younger Pliny, whose letters are filled with real charm, delightful wit, a wealth of kindness and generosity. More importantly, they are masterfully written. Pliny was a lawyer who constantly sought to share his superior status with younger, less known lawyers. He freed his slaves and he cared enormously for his freedmen. He was gentle, kind, generous and he was supremely elegant in the way he addressed all and sundry.
It was not Pliny's good qualities that made his writing immortal. It was the quality of his mind. It is possible for a damned rude writer to write like an angel and it is possible for a gentle writer to write like a pig. The worst possible combination in the world, however, is a a poor writer who behaves badly. Pliny was a mensch. I would have liked to have met him in person.
For a view of how a thoroughly professional writer treats citizen journalists on cyberspace, please read my interview with Chandler Burr at www.richtexts.blogspot.com or www.bibliolust.wordpress.com