Home » 2024 » April (Page 2)

Monthly Archives: April 2024

Whistling Past the Cemetery

Posted on by

Sometimes I wonder why I am alive today. My father died at the age of 74 in 1985; and my mother, at the age of 79 in 1998. One reason I have survived is that between 1962 and 1966, I had to walk a mile to classes at Dartmouth College from one of the more distant dormitories, the infamous Middle Wigwam Hall, later renamed McLane Hall.

My journey led me past the Thayer School of Engineering, the Tuck School of Business, several dormitories, and the scary Hanover, New Hampshire cemetery. Burials in that graveyard went back to the 18th century. At the time I was in college, the walk past the cemetery was dark, lonely, and long. In the winter, it was also quite icy.

Then, after I graduated from college, I had brain surgery entailing the removal of my pituitary gland, after which I started growing again. My left hip did not like that, so the orthopedists at UCLA put me on crutches for two years. More exercise.

No sooner did I get off crutches than I did a lot of walking. It was 1.5 miles (2.4 km) from my apartment in Santa Monica to System Development Corporation, and 2.5 miles (4 km) from the same apartment to my next job at Urban Decision Systems. During that time, I also did a lot of hiking in the Santa Monica Mountains, sometimes on trails that were up to 10 miles (16.1 km) in length.

I don’t do so much walking any more, but over the years I had developed some good habits which, I think, are standing me in good stead today.

Horizons East

Posted on by

Romanian Writer Mircea Cărtărescu

For their reading, Americans tend not to look beyond English-speaking North America and the countries of Western Europe. As a Hungarian, I have always delighted in the literature of Eastern Europe. In this post, I will give you a list of some of my favorite recent fiction from the former Soviet satellites, including one Ukrainian author, because Vladimir Putin is trying to turn his country into a Russian satellite.

I do not include any Russian authors—not because of any prejudice against—but because the field is so rich it deserves a separate post. Here’s the list in alphabetical order by author:

Ivo Andrić (Bosnian 1892-1975)

Won the Nobel Prize in 1961 for his novel The Bridge on the Drina about the Bosnian city of Viśegrad under the Ottomans and the Austro-Hungarians who succeeded them.

Ádám Bodor (Transylvanian Hungarian b. 1936)

His The Sinistra Zone (1992) is a delightfully funny story of one man’s quest to find his adopted son in a Romanian bear sanctuary and military zone near the Ukrainian border and spirit him return home with him.

Mircea Cărtărescu (Romanian b. 1956)

I am on the point of finishing his novel Solenoid (2015), which is a wonderful work strongly influenced by Kafka, Borges, and Boris and Arkady Strugatsky. He has been shortlisted for the Nobel Prize and is likely to win it soon.

Bohumil Hrabal (Czech 1914-1997)

I have read several great novels from this Czech writer, including Dancing Lessons for the Advanced in Age (1964), I Served the King of England (1973), and Too Loud a Solitude (1977). His gentle humor is catching.

Franz Kafka (Czech Jew 1883-1924)

Although he wrote in German and died a hundred years ago, his work is a major influence on many of the Eastern European authors. My favorites: The Trial (1925) and his short stories.

Gyula Krúdy (Hungarian 1878-1933)

I have read most of his work that has been translated into English, but my favorites were The Crimson Coach (1913) and his journalism collected in Krúdy’s Chronicles (published in 2000).

Andrey Kurkov (Ukrainian b. 1961)

He wrote most of his works in Russian (a larger audience and more $$$), but after Putin has vowed to switch to the Ukrainian dialect. My favorites: Death and the Penguin (1996) and Grey Bees (2018).

Stanislaw Lem (Polish 1921-2006)

Yes, I know he is a sci-fi writer, but his work, especially Solaris (1961) and The Futurological Congress (1971) are of high literary quality.

Olga Tokarczuk (Polish b. 1962)

Won the 2018 Nobel Prize. So far, I’ve read only one of her novels, namely, House of Day, House of Night (1998), which is one of the best books I’ve read so far this year.

Drawing Blood

Posted on by

Looking Back on the First Time

As I recall, I was about ten years old when I first had to give a blood sample from the crook of my elbow. My mother drove me to Saint Luke’s Hospital close by the old Buckeye Road Hungarian neighborhood where we had lived until 1951. When I found out that a nurse wanted to stick a needle in my arm, I took the only reasonable course. I bolted down the corridor until a couple of orderlies deputed to drag me back got hold of me.

I thought it hurt like hell. And ever since, it has not been easy to draw my blood. The veins around my elbow run deep and are not terribly visible. The person drawing my blood has to be very experienced with patients who veins like to hide. There have been times when I was punctured three or four times before a big enough vein was found. Sometimes, they just stuck the needle in the back of my hand, where my veins are more prominent.

Saint Luke’s Hospital from an Old Postcard

The only thing that’s changed is that I no longer resist getting by needles. In fact, I have to administer an insulin shot into my abdomen or thigh four times a day. Even when there is some pain, I know that it won’t be long-lasting. It’s one of those things you get used to as you age.

The Saddest City

Posted on by

Bucharest in Winter

I am reading a great Romanian novel by Mircea Cărtărescu entitled Solenoid. In it, I found the following description of Bucharest, the country’s capital:

More probably, like all of Bucharest, the saddest city on the face of the earth, the factory had been designed as a ruin from the start, as a saturnine witness to time devouring its children, as an illustration of of the unforgiving second law of thermodynamics, as a silent, submissive, masochistic bowing of the head in the face of the destruction of all things and the pointlessness of all activity, from the effort of carbon to form crystals to the effort of our minds to understand the tragedy in which we live. Like Brasilia, but more deeply and more truly, Bucharest was born on a drawing board from a philosophical impulse to imagine a city that would most poignantly illustrate human destiny: a city of ruin, decline, illness, debris, and rust. That is, the most appropriate construction for the faces and appearances of its inhabitants. The old factory’s production lines, driven by long-immobile motors had produced—and perhaps, in a quiet isolation beyond humanity, continued to produce—the fear and grief, the unhappiness and agony, the melancholy and suffering of our life on Earth, in sufficient quantities for the surrounding neighborhood.

My Toy Story

Posted on by | 1 Comment

White Plastic Building Blocks

When I was young, I did not have many toys. My father worked in a factory as a machine tool builder, and my mother held various jobs including supermarket checker and assistant occupational therapist. We didn’t have much money.

Perhaps the fanciest toy I had was a Lionel O-Gauge model train I received for Christmas 1949. It ran on tracks with three rails and had several freight and passenger cars. My Dad must have felt financially secure that year to spend so much money on me. That train was used by my brother and me for approximately fifteen years.

1950s Vintage Lionel O-Gauge Train Set

What I probably played with more than anything else was a set of white pre-Lego plastic building blocks such as the ones illustrated above. I would build all kinds of structures and use them in conjunction with my pirate and military figurines.

I had a rich imagination as a boy and could play for hours imagining different situations. Do children whose toys are mostly electronic in nature have the same imagination? I think not.

Somebody Sez

Posted on by

To begin with, I am not a great lover of the news media. In fact, I believe that if somebody wants to have a good night’s sleep, they should not watch or listen to the news after dinner. And certainly not the eleven o’clock news just before bedtime. It’s just not healthy, because those news outlets are peddling fear or outrage as their primary product.

One example is what I call the “Somebody Sez” news story. Just to give you an example, here are a number of headlines I just gleaned from the Cable News Network (CNN) website tonight:

  • Biden could face obstacle getting on Ohio’s ballot, secretary of state’s office says
  • Retired judge says statute cited in Trump’s motion raises concerns about NY judge
  • Republican lawmaker says Russian propaganda has ‘infected a good chunk’ of GOP base
  • Retired US general predicts Israel’s withdrawal won’t prevent an invasion
  • Republican strategist says Trump has made a critical mistake in the campaign

CNN apparently relies on an army of “experts” who “say” certain things or “predict” certain outcomes. It is possible that none of these things come true, but they can certainly succeed in riling up the consumers of the news.

Let’s take a more biased news medium, the Salon.Com website. Its readership obviously does not wish Trump well. (Neither do I, for that matter.) But its page today bristles with chatty “experts”:

  • “Punk”: Don Winslow on Donald Trump
  • “This is a big deal”: Experts say Judge Cannon’s order signals “bad news” for fate of Trump case
  • “Things just got very real”: Legal experts say Jack Smith appeal threat “puts Cannon on notice”
  • “Trump is running scared”: Legal experts slam “harebrained” scheme to get NY judge to recuse
  • Profs: Trump ruling unlocks key evidence
  • Experts “very worried” at Cannon’s order

People, it’s not news until it actually happens.

It is possible for editors to avoid this type of rampant supposition. For example, I could find no examples of blabbing experts in the NBC or CBS news sites. Apparently, they are more interested in reporting the news rather than creating it.

Eclipse

Posted on by | 9 Comments

Enough Fentanyl to Kill a Regiment

Yesterday afternoon, I heard some strange animal-like sounds coming from below my living room window. I pushed back the blinds, only to see several policemen and paramedics tending to something hidden by the hedge separating my building from the neighboring building. As I continued to look, I saw the paramedics hauling a black man in a bloodied t-shirt who was still howling.

Just another day on the streets of L.A., watching as our civilization is being eclipsed. And not just for a few minutes, either, but for the long count.

I do not understand why anyone would think that recreational drugs would be an improvement on real life. Even when real life is grim, it beats madness and suicide by chemical.

What is the tipping point after which there are so many people on drugs that reality has been supplanted? For a possible picture, read Polish sci-fi author Stanislaw Lem’s The Futurological Congress.

“Prepare Yourselves”

Posted on by

Maya King at Mérida’s Palacio Canton Museum

After being conquered by the Spanish, the Maya of Yucatán wrote a series of miscellanies in the 17th and 18th centuries referred to as Chilam Balam. Many of the entries are poetic and filled with foreboding. Poet Christopher Sawyer-Lauçanno translated a number of them in his The Destruction of the Jaguar: Poems from the Books of Chilam Balam. Here is one of them:

Napuctum Speaks

Burn, burn, burn
on earth we shall burn
become cinders in
the blowing wind
drift over the land
over the mountains
out to sea.

What has been written
will be fulfilled.
What has been spoken
will come to be.

Weep, weep, weep
but know,
know well:
Ash does not suffer.

Sawtelle Days

Posted on by

Ketchie’s Stand at Sawtelle and Missouri

The third place I lived in Los Angeles was the first that I had picked out for myself. The apartment on Sunset Boulevard was picked by my roommate and best friend, Peter; and my father picked out the hot-box on Darlington where I sweltered from a total lack of ventilation.

In the fall of 1967, I was diagnosed with idiopathic aseptic necrosis of the left femoral head. My orthopedist at UCLA thought I would be placed in traction for months, so I hightailed it back to Cleveland to stay with my parents. It turned out that the treatment was for me to be on crutches for a couple of years.

Around New Years of 1968, I returned to L.A. and, with the help of my friend Norm, found a studio apartment on Mississippi Avenue a half block west of Sawtelle Boulevard. It was and, to some extent, still is a Japanese neighborhood. And this was at a time that I was gaga over Japanese films and cuisine and culture. I dreamt of meeting some Nisei cutie who looked like Toho film star Mie Hama.

Toho Film Cheesecake Star Mie Hama

Of course, I didn’t—and, besides, what kind of dating scene can a guy on crutches have who doesn’t have either a car or a driver’s license? For me, that was still in the future….

But it was interesting living in a Japanese neighborhood and eating teriyaki and donburi regularly at the O-Sho Restaurant and the Futaba Café, which were right around the corner on Sawtelle. And there was Ketchie’s Stand at Missouri and Sawtelle where the friendly Okie chef cooked up some very creditable hamburgers and tacos.

I was still attending graduate school in film at UCLA and wound up taking two Santa Monica buses to and from classes, unless I just decided to walk the five blocks from Santa Monica Boulevard and Sawtelle.

Around this time, I joined my film friends from UCLA in making regular treks to the Japanese movie theaters in town. At the time, there were five of them: the Toho La Brea, which showed films from Toho; the Kokusai and Sho Tokyo, from Daiei Studio; the Kabuki, from Shochiku; and the Linda Lea, from Tohei. At the time, I think the Japanese film industry was consistently making the best films anywhere. Needless to say, those theaters are no more.

I lived in the Mississippi apartment for about a year before moving to the first of my two Santa Monica apartments on 12th and 11th Streets respectively. But that is a story for another time.

Road Trip

Posted on by

Tortoise at the Santa Barbara Zoo

Because of all the rain we’ve been having, Martine and I haven’t gone on any road trips lately. Today, we drove to Santa Barbara, had a great seafood lunch, and went to the Santa Barbara Zoo. Unlike the Los Angeles Zoo, there are usually fewer than 10,000 visitors present; and consequently there is about 76% less chance of having an infant stroller destroy your ankles.

Mind you, there were many small children in attendance. But that is to be expected at any zoo. It’s one of the few places one can take one’s small progeny and allow them to act like kids without inflicting too much damage to the animals and other visitors.

We’ve been visiting the Santa Barbara Zoo for upwards of twenty years, so we were saddened to hear that the two Asian elephants, Sujatha and Little Mac, died in 2019; and the zoo is not planning to replace them. Instead, their large compound is now an Australian “walkabout.”

On the way back, we took the pleasant and very rural California 126 to avoid the usual traffic jam around Oxnard and Ventura. We stopped at Francisco’s Fruit Stand in Fillmore to buy some honey, strawberries, and mandarins. I was shocked to find that taking 126 and I-405 in Santa Clarita takes no more time and eats up no more miles than taking either the Pacific Coast Highway to U.S. 101 or taking U.S. 101 all the way.

Unfortunately, Martine was in considerable pain from a pinched nerve in the back that has been bothering her for several years and getting progressively worse. Unless she finds a way of ameliorating her condition, we may not be able to go on many more trips together.