Thursday, September 9, 2004
Tweet
It's weird to me, watching pro football on a humid day in September. Patriots 3, Colts 10 in the second quarter. I know there are people who have been starving for this sports day since the dizzy hours of Superbowl XXXVIII. Me? I'm starting to play closer attention to the Red Sox.
Thursday, August 26, 2004
Beth Kavanagh
Beth Marie Kavanagh, my dental hygienist, died last weekend. Her obituary was in the newspaper today. She was 47.
When I moved to Boston in 1991, I hadn't been to the dentist in nearly three years. While brushing and flossing kept my teeth relatively OK, I sorely needed a dentist's cleaning.
Jenn said I should go to her dentist. They had an office two blocks from my Back Bay apartment. Beth would be my hygienist. It took her two visits to work through all the plaque that was on my teeth.
I have kept up my dentist visits since then (twice a year). My appointments were with Beth. She was a wonderful person to be with. I always felt like she was attentive, and interested in what I was up to. I considered her a terrific conversationalist. She has read this BLOG, and she regaled me with her views on cycling (she was an avid cyclist) and movies and books. In the obituary, it's reported that she was the same way with many others, and I'm not surprised.
The last time I saw her, in May, she was walking around with a cane. She explained that she had a condition that required a lot of physical therapy. A few weeks after that visit, I received a form letter from her on her office's letterhead. She was asking her patients to keep their scheduled appointments, and not to switch dates to when she would be able to work on us. According to the article, she died of chondrosarcoma, a form of cancer.
As a patient, lying on the dentist's chair, I would sometimes watch her eyes as they looked into my mouth. She worked carefully with her instruments. I could sometimes hear her stomach rumbling, depending on the time of day. When she smiled behind her mask, her eyes gave it away. She was consistently full of mirth, and she made each visit pleasant.
My next appointment with Beth would have been in the December. I will make my appointment, but I'm sad because my favorite hygienist will not.
When I moved to Boston in 1991, I hadn't been to the dentist in nearly three years. While brushing and flossing kept my teeth relatively OK, I sorely needed a dentist's cleaning.
Jenn said I should go to her dentist. They had an office two blocks from my Back Bay apartment. Beth would be my hygienist. It took her two visits to work through all the plaque that was on my teeth.
I have kept up my dentist visits since then (twice a year). My appointments were with Beth. She was a wonderful person to be with. I always felt like she was attentive, and interested in what I was up to. I considered her a terrific conversationalist. She has read this BLOG, and she regaled me with her views on cycling (she was an avid cyclist) and movies and books. In the obituary, it's reported that she was the same way with many others, and I'm not surprised.
The last time I saw her, in May, she was walking around with a cane. She explained that she had a condition that required a lot of physical therapy. A few weeks after that visit, I received a form letter from her on her office's letterhead. She was asking her patients to keep their scheduled appointments, and not to switch dates to when she would be able to work on us. According to the article, she died of chondrosarcoma, a form of cancer.
As a patient, lying on the dentist's chair, I would sometimes watch her eyes as they looked into my mouth. She worked carefully with her instruments. I could sometimes hear her stomach rumbling, depending on the time of day. When she smiled behind her mask, her eyes gave it away. She was consistently full of mirth, and she made each visit pleasant.
My next appointment with Beth would have been in the December. I will make my appointment, but I'm sad because my favorite hygienist will not.
Tuesday, August 17, 2004
At the Beach
Today, thanks to a company outing, I was at the beach.
I went swimming. The water was chilly, but after a few teeth chattering minutes, I got used to it. I swam alongside the coastline, and away into the deeper water. I haven't been swimming in probably many years. (Coincidentally, I was at this same beach for another company a few years ago, and it was probably then that I was last in water.)
I marveled at the feeling of suspension, just at the ledge of the beach where I couldn't touch the bottom with my feet. I waved my arms and legs trying to stay afloat, and then my body remembered that all I had to do was lie down in a relaxed prone position to stay floating. The water was murky, and it was salty (I didn't open my eyes underwater). But I put some of it in my mouth and squirted it out, like I was some sea animal.
There was a buoy probably a hundred or two hundred yards beyond the beach. A boat was settled next to it. From land, the buoy seemed reachable, but in the water, my amateur swimming stroke only got me a third of the way there. I didn't trust myself to get back to shore even if I could reach it.
The company party largely stayed on the beach, but a few of us die-hards romped in the New England water. There's the bigness of the water that is both comforting and mildly terrifying. Someone nearby reminded me not to panic. Don't flail. Relax. Your body is naturally buoyant.
The longer I stayed, the stronger the pull of the water. The tide was coming in. Near the surface, the water was warmer, but at my feet, at my legs, were fast moving streams of cooler water. Nature at work on me, around me. I was in her element. I could see the crest of the water rising above my head, the strength of the water. I tried to catch the modest waves as they began their break into the beach.
I clambered out onto the beach, exhausted, elated, and feeling all rubbery. I was experiencing gravity anew it seemed.
"I can't believe you went in there!" some people said. I looked back at the marvelous water. How could I not?
I went swimming. The water was chilly, but after a few teeth chattering minutes, I got used to it. I swam alongside the coastline, and away into the deeper water. I haven't been swimming in probably many years. (Coincidentally, I was at this same beach for another company a few years ago, and it was probably then that I was last in water.)
I marveled at the feeling of suspension, just at the ledge of the beach where I couldn't touch the bottom with my feet. I waved my arms and legs trying to stay afloat, and then my body remembered that all I had to do was lie down in a relaxed prone position to stay floating. The water was murky, and it was salty (I didn't open my eyes underwater). But I put some of it in my mouth and squirted it out, like I was some sea animal.
There was a buoy probably a hundred or two hundred yards beyond the beach. A boat was settled next to it. From land, the buoy seemed reachable, but in the water, my amateur swimming stroke only got me a third of the way there. I didn't trust myself to get back to shore even if I could reach it.
The company party largely stayed on the beach, but a few of us die-hards romped in the New England water. There's the bigness of the water that is both comforting and mildly terrifying. Someone nearby reminded me not to panic. Don't flail. Relax. Your body is naturally buoyant.
The longer I stayed, the stronger the pull of the water. The tide was coming in. Near the surface, the water was warmer, but at my feet, at my legs, were fast moving streams of cooler water. Nature at work on me, around me. I was in her element. I could see the crest of the water rising above my head, the strength of the water. I tried to catch the modest waves as they began their break into the beach.
I clambered out onto the beach, exhausted, elated, and feeling all rubbery. I was experiencing gravity anew it seemed.
"I can't believe you went in there!" some people said. I looked back at the marvelous water. How could I not?
Friday, August 13, 2004
Lack of Cream
There was no cream or milk at work this morning, so for the first time in quite some time, I'm having my coffee black. While hunting for the milk, someone suggested looking around our kitchenette for some of powdered non-diary creamer. I couldn't find any. Perhaps I should buy some for my desk, in case of "emergencies".
Of course, just as I'm typing this, I realized that I could have walked over to the other kitchenette on the other side of the building. It's Friday the 13th, and I think it's going to be one of those days.
Of course, just as I'm typing this, I realized that I could have walked over to the other kitchenette on the other side of the building. It's Friday the 13th, and I think it's going to be one of those days.
Thursday, August 5, 2004
Some Kind of Monster
There's one scene in Metallica: Some Kind of Monster, in which James Hetfield, the lead singer, openly wonders whether the filming of their own documentary should even continue. When the directors (who appear in the film) ask whether Hetfield remembered his motivations for doing the documentary, he said (I'm paraphrasing): "I figured 'We're Metallica'; we're supposed to have a documentary."
This at once sums up the nature of "the monster" that is Metallica. A heavy metal icon, the band has been around for over twenty years. They have sold an immense amount of records. Their fans are loyal and legion. Should this band have a documentary? That's a silly question. Of course it should have a documentary.
I enjoyed watching Metallica's creative process so openly documented. The song writing, the riff conjuring, and the music making process is depicted as awkward, frustrating, and hardly glamorous. Their efforts in the studio and in the mixing sessions seem to yield precious few rewards.
The core band (Hetfield, outspoken drummer Lars Ulrich, and guitarist Kirk Hammett) have accumulated much wealth, and it is in full display, but throughout the movie they yearn for things that money can't buy: the love of their families and parents, the time and space to think, the opportunity to become better versions of themselves.
There are some inadvertent references to Spinal Tap, but Monster proves that art does imitate life. You see their children parading around in their studio. You see the band whining about their group therapy sessions. You see the rehabilitated Hetfield quitting "work" at 4 so he can catch his daughter's ballet class.
During the documentary, the group constantly struggled with the fear of being considered 'yesterday's music.' The ending suggests that they're still as vital as ever, but we've learned that it takes a lot of work to stay vital. It's a lesson worth seeing through this movie.
This at once sums up the nature of "the monster" that is Metallica. A heavy metal icon, the band has been around for over twenty years. They have sold an immense amount of records. Their fans are loyal and legion. Should this band have a documentary? That's a silly question. Of course it should have a documentary.
I enjoyed watching Metallica's creative process so openly documented. The song writing, the riff conjuring, and the music making process is depicted as awkward, frustrating, and hardly glamorous. Their efforts in the studio and in the mixing sessions seem to yield precious few rewards.
The core band (Hetfield, outspoken drummer Lars Ulrich, and guitarist Kirk Hammett) have accumulated much wealth, and it is in full display, but throughout the movie they yearn for things that money can't buy: the love of their families and parents, the time and space to think, the opportunity to become better versions of themselves.
There are some inadvertent references to Spinal Tap, but Monster proves that art does imitate life. You see their children parading around in their studio. You see the band whining about their group therapy sessions. You see the rehabilitated Hetfield quitting "work" at 4 so he can catch his daughter's ballet class.
During the documentary, the group constantly struggled with the fear of being considered 'yesterday's music.' The ending suggests that they're still as vital as ever, but we've learned that it takes a lot of work to stay vital. It's a lesson worth seeing through this movie.
Sunday, August 1, 2004
A Walking Commute
My commute home begins with the walk from my office to the Kendall Square "T Stop". From Kendall, I take a train to the bus stop at Alewife. The train ride from Kendall to Alewife is about fifteen minutes. The 6:25PM bus gets me home in about twenty minutes.
The key factor to making the 6:25PM bus is the walk from my office. I leave work by 5:50PM. It takes a few minutes for the elevator to rise to the eighth floor office where I work. By the time I'm street level, it may be 5:53PM or 5:54PM. The walk from my office to the train can be done in ten or eleven minutes at a leisurely pace.
But I don't go at a leisurely pace. I walk heads down, long strides, taking a criss-crossing path that gets me to the T in about nine to ten minutes. A few days ago, however, I walked to the train with another person who went a completely different way. She said her route was faster, and I was amazed when we got to the T in slightly over eight minutes!
The new route crosses fewer streets, and when it does cross a street, the intersection is less busier, so I don't have to wait. The new route also cuts an angle. The sidewalk on this new route curves away from the T, but she cuts across this curve, going straight, making the walk seem even faster. The new route also avoids traffic lights, whereas my original walk crosses at least three lights.
We go through life accepting things as being 'set'. "That's the way I always walk." "That's the turn I always make". I was starting to get 'set' with my walk. It's rewarding to reexamine old habits, and to make new discoveries about them.
Now if I could only call up the elevator from my desk.
The key factor to making the 6:25PM bus is the walk from my office. I leave work by 5:50PM. It takes a few minutes for the elevator to rise to the eighth floor office where I work. By the time I'm street level, it may be 5:53PM or 5:54PM. The walk from my office to the train can be done in ten or eleven minutes at a leisurely pace.
But I don't go at a leisurely pace. I walk heads down, long strides, taking a criss-crossing path that gets me to the T in about nine to ten minutes. A few days ago, however, I walked to the train with another person who went a completely different way. She said her route was faster, and I was amazed when we got to the T in slightly over eight minutes!
The new route crosses fewer streets, and when it does cross a street, the intersection is less busier, so I don't have to wait. The new route also cuts an angle. The sidewalk on this new route curves away from the T, but she cuts across this curve, going straight, making the walk seem even faster. The new route also avoids traffic lights, whereas my original walk crosses at least three lights.
We go through life accepting things as being 'set'. "That's the way I always walk." "That's the turn I always make". I was starting to get 'set' with my walk. It's rewarding to reexamine old habits, and to make new discoveries about them.
Now if I could only call up the elevator from my desk.
Wednesday, July 21, 2004
Alpe D'Huez
I'm watching the OLNTV repeat broadcast of the 16th stage of the Tour de France. The race today was a time-trial up the infamous Alpe D'Huez. He was the fastest person up the mountain, taking 39 minutes and 41 seconds to ride 9.6 miles. He was the only rider to race up the mountain in under forty minutes. He finished a minute faster than the second place rider, Jan Ullrich.
Two remarks: One, he caught up with the rider ahead of him, Ivan Basso. In time-trials, races start two minutes apart. I've seen him catch up with riders ahead of him in relatively flat time trials, but this was up a mountain! Two: In an overhead camera angle, looking down on the road at Lance chugging up the mountain, I saw on the road, in huge white painted letters, the exhortation: "Rip their balls off Lance." He did. Oh, yes, he did.
Two remarks: One, he caught up with the rider ahead of him, Ivan Basso. In time-trials, races start two minutes apart. I've seen him catch up with riders ahead of him in relatively flat time trials, but this was up a mountain! Two: In an overhead camera angle, looking down on the road at Lance chugging up the mountain, I saw on the road, in huge white painted letters, the exhortation: "Rip their balls off Lance." He did. Oh, yes, he did.
Tuesday, July 20, 2004
Moon Landing
Thirty-five years ago, man first walked on the moon. The President has declared that we would return to the moon, and I am eager to see it happen.
Tonight, in a brief celebration, I watched the episode from the HBO mini-series From the Earth to the Moon featuring the lunar landing (episode six: "Mare Tranquilitatis"). The show focused on the preparation by the crew (Neil Armstrong, Buzz Aldrin, Michael Collins) and the flight operations team. In a series of flashbacks, the episode described the easy-going attitude of Collins (who never set foot on the moon, orbiting instead in the command module), the decision behind Armstrong walking on the moon first before Aldrin (Armstrong was the mission commander), and the strain of working in simulators, preparing for the worst.
The moon landing was the singular human achievement of the 20th century. I hope we try it again in the 21st century.
Tonight, in a brief celebration, I watched the episode from the HBO mini-series From the Earth to the Moon featuring the lunar landing (episode six: "Mare Tranquilitatis"). The show focused on the preparation by the crew (Neil Armstrong, Buzz Aldrin, Michael Collins) and the flight operations team. In a series of flashbacks, the episode described the easy-going attitude of Collins (who never set foot on the moon, orbiting instead in the command module), the decision behind Armstrong walking on the moon first before Aldrin (Armstrong was the mission commander), and the strain of working in simulators, preparing for the worst.
The moon landing was the singular human achievement of the 20th century. I hope we try it again in the 21st century.
Saturday, July 10, 2004
Reading at Risk
The New York Times had an op-ed piece about a report by the National Endowment of the Arts called Reading at Risk. The report, which you can download from their website, states that less than half of the American population now reads literature.
As I scanned the document, I was worried that the NEA had set the bar too high: literature means a certain thing. Literature means Dickens, Shakespeare, and other books that are supposed to be "good for you" (but may not necessarily be fun for you). But the report defines literature as "any novel, short story, plays, or poetry." For purposes of their survey, reading any of the above items "counted as reading literature, including popular genres such as mysteries, as well as contemporary and classic literary fiction. No distinctions were drawn on the quality of literary works."
So we're in trouble. Reading is indeed at risk. The NEA is quite clearly stating that reading for pleasure is in decline. The report doesn't offer an action plan. The report sought to explain, not to prescribe.
Are you reading? In my morning and evening commute (on a train and a bus), my head is buried in a book. But before I hit the pages, I take a brief survey of what people are reading around me. In a train car of perhaps sixty to eighty people, at most only ten have a book in their hands. Most have newspapers or music. Some (to my amazement) just sit.
Since I started this commuting schedule at the end of April, I have read nine books. This makes me part of a dwindling statistic.
As I scanned the document, I was worried that the NEA had set the bar too high: literature means a certain thing. Literature means Dickens, Shakespeare, and other books that are supposed to be "good for you" (but may not necessarily be fun for you). But the report defines literature as "any novel, short story, plays, or poetry." For purposes of their survey, reading any of the above items "counted as reading literature, including popular genres such as mysteries, as well as contemporary and classic literary fiction. No distinctions were drawn on the quality of literary works."
So we're in trouble. Reading is indeed at risk. The NEA is quite clearly stating that reading for pleasure is in decline. The report doesn't offer an action plan. The report sought to explain, not to prescribe.
Are you reading? In my morning and evening commute (on a train and a bus), my head is buried in a book. But before I hit the pages, I take a brief survey of what people are reading around me. In a train car of perhaps sixty to eighty people, at most only ten have a book in their hands. Most have newspapers or music. Some (to my amazement) just sit.
Since I started this commuting schedule at the end of April, I have read nine books. This makes me part of a dwindling statistic.
Thursday, July 1, 2004
Wednesday, June 23, 2004
Baby Doll
This past weekend, which included Father's day, Jenn had brought home a Zapf baby doll for Mia. We already have a baby doll named Bob, but this new doll is programmed to cry, yawn, and actually get drowsy and fall asleep.
The first thing the baby doll did when we put in the batteries was cry. Mia was fascinated. "She's crying!" I was instantly brought me back to Mia's first year.
"Where's the switch to turn it off?" was my first question.
I still hear my share of crying, but it's nothing like those days of infancy. I'm happy and weary of being a father. I've seen so much of Mia growing up, and I know there's more to come! More than anything, I've learned that time really does go by quickly. Hearing that doll cry and cry brought that lesson to the forefront again.
That Sunday, I showed Mia how to pat and rub the baby so that she closes her eyes and dozes to sleep. At night, after work, I make sure it's switched off. Time flies indeed.
The first thing the baby doll did when we put in the batteries was cry. Mia was fascinated. "She's crying!" I was instantly brought me back to Mia's first year.
"Where's the switch to turn it off?" was my first question.
I still hear my share of crying, but it's nothing like those days of infancy. I'm happy and weary of being a father. I've seen so much of Mia growing up, and I know there's more to come! More than anything, I've learned that time really does go by quickly. Hearing that doll cry and cry brought that lesson to the forefront again.
That Sunday, I showed Mia how to pat and rub the baby so that she closes her eyes and dozes to sleep. At night, after work, I make sure it's switched off. Time flies indeed.
Wednesday, June 16, 2004
My Name's Rick
I go by Rick. How hard is it to remember to call me Rick?
Apparently, it's sometimes very hard. I spend a lot of my day on the phone with customers (I work in technical support). When I leave voice-mail messages, or when I write e-mails, I sign off as Rick. Not Ricky. Not Ricardo. Not Rikki Tikki Tavi.
So of course today a customer called me back and said, "How you doing, Ricky?" I grated my teeth, and smiled.
Depending on my mood, or the customer's temperament, I'll nip it off at the bud: "Call me Rick." But more often than not, I'll let it slide, emphasizing the "y-less" Rick in future voice mails and e-mails. Sometimes they get the hint.
I liken my plight to Rick Schroeder. As a child actor, he's most famous for playing Ricky Stratton in the sit-com Silver Spoons. Of course, as he "grew up", his character's named changed, losing the "y", becoming "Ricker". The actor also decided "Ricky" (the name) was best left to childhood, and eventually he made his way back to television (on NYPD Blue) as Rick.
Rick and I have at least this in common: We'd prefer to be called Rick. I think people who instantly start calling me "Ricky" want to "buddy up" by nicknaming me even further. Tacking on the "Y" implies a familiarity. (I was guilty of this practice with a co-worker named Andrew. I spoke with others about "Andy's" work, and someone pointed out: "He's Andrew! Not Andy.")
The customer did call me back later this afternoon, and surprised me by apologizing for calling me "Ricky" in our earlier call. Without too much fanfare, I moved the conversation past this apology. Inside, I was beaming. And Rick's not even my real name!
Apparently, it's sometimes very hard. I spend a lot of my day on the phone with customers (I work in technical support). When I leave voice-mail messages, or when I write e-mails, I sign off as Rick. Not Ricky. Not Ricardo. Not Rikki Tikki Tavi.
So of course today a customer called me back and said, "How you doing, Ricky?" I grated my teeth, and smiled.
Depending on my mood, or the customer's temperament, I'll nip it off at the bud: "Call me Rick." But more often than not, I'll let it slide, emphasizing the "y-less" Rick in future voice mails and e-mails. Sometimes they get the hint.
I liken my plight to Rick Schroeder. As a child actor, he's most famous for playing Ricky Stratton in the sit-com Silver Spoons. Of course, as he "grew up", his character's named changed, losing the "y", becoming "Ricker". The actor also decided "Ricky" (the name) was best left to childhood, and eventually he made his way back to television (on NYPD Blue) as Rick.
Rick and I have at least this in common: We'd prefer to be called Rick. I think people who instantly start calling me "Ricky" want to "buddy up" by nicknaming me even further. Tacking on the "Y" implies a familiarity. (I was guilty of this practice with a co-worker named Andrew. I spoke with others about "Andy's" work, and someone pointed out: "He's Andrew! Not Andy.")
The customer did call me back later this afternoon, and surprised me by apologizing for calling me "Ricky" in our earlier call. Without too much fanfare, I moved the conversation past this apology. Inside, I was beaming. And Rick's not even my real name!
Tuesday, June 15, 2004
Monday, June 14, 2004
Detroit Pistons
Tomorrow night, the Detroit Pistons are going for a fourth and decisive victory over the Los Angeles Lakers to win the NBA Championship.
I'm rooting for the Pistons. I've crossed over and become emotionally attached to this team of hardworking players, and their famed coach, Larry Brown, who has yet to win a championship (compared to Phil Jackson, who's won nine).
They have three chances to win this thing, since the best-of-seven series is 3-1, in favor of the Pistons. But I'm scared for them too. The Lakers may be hobbling, but they have Shaquille O'Neal, as unstoppable a force as there is in the NBA. And while the Lakers have to win at least two to force the Game 7, I wouldn't put it past them (hey, I'm a Red Sox fan).
I'm rooting for the Pistons. I've crossed over and become emotionally attached to this team of hardworking players, and their famed coach, Larry Brown, who has yet to win a championship (compared to Phil Jackson, who's won nine).
They have three chances to win this thing, since the best-of-seven series is 3-1, in favor of the Pistons. But I'm scared for them too. The Lakers may be hobbling, but they have Shaquille O'Neal, as unstoppable a force as there is in the NBA. And while the Lakers have to win at least two to force the Game 7, I wouldn't put it past them (hey, I'm a Red Sox fan).
Saturday, June 12, 2004
Wireless
Last night, I installed a wireless router in my home. Now I can share my broadband Internet connection with my wireless enabled work laptop. Of course, what this really means is that I will be able to do real time IRC chat while watching sports. Go Pistons!
Thursday, June 3, 2004
Wednesday, May 26, 2004
My Church is Closing
St. James in Arlington, the Catholic church I've been attending since 1996 is being closed, due to the Parish Reconfiguration here in Greater Boston. The reconfiguration has been in the news since early January, when Archbishop Sean O'Malley began the process to close some churches due to lack of parishoners, lack of priests and lack of money (a majority of the churches run with massive money problems). In total, the diocese will close 65 churches.
It was sad to hear the news. While I've missed my share of masses, I acknowledge the relationship between going to mass and being a "good Catholic". In a recent homily, Archbishop O'Malley stated "If you are like those Catholics who come to Mass only when they are hatched, matched, and dispatched, then the gifts of the spirit will not be there for you when you need them." I agree with this, despite my own struggles to come to terms with Catholic teachings (abortion, homosexuality, etc). Sunday Mass reminds us of the spirit, and renourishes our own faith.
It's often been said that a church is not a building, but a community of people. In a few months, I'll be part of a small community of worshipers, looking for a new building.
It was sad to hear the news. While I've missed my share of masses, I acknowledge the relationship between going to mass and being a "good Catholic". In a recent homily, Archbishop O'Malley stated "If you are like those Catholics who come to Mass only when they are hatched, matched, and dispatched, then the gifts of the spirit will not be there for you when you need them." I agree with this, despite my own struggles to come to terms with Catholic teachings (abortion, homosexuality, etc). Sunday Mass reminds us of the spirit, and renourishes our own faith.
It's often been said that a church is not a building, but a community of people. In a few months, I'll be part of a small community of worshipers, looking for a new building.
Wednesday, May 19, 2004
Perfect Game
Randy Johnson threw a perfect game last night. I was struck by the rarity of this baseball event, forgetting the small difference between no-hitters and perfect games. If a no-hitter happens as often as a lunar eclipse, then a perfect game happens as often as the planets align.
My youngest brother used to let the computer simulate dozens (hundreds?) of baseball games. I remember him scanning the resulting box scores one evening, and exclaiming that in one of his simulated games, a pitcher threw a perfect game!
My youngest brother used to let the computer simulate dozens (hundreds?) of baseball games. I remember him scanning the resulting box scores one evening, and exclaiming that in one of his simulated games, a pitcher threw a perfect game!
Sunday, May 16, 2004
Commencement
The news is peppered with commencement speech summaries. Famous and notable people are making their way across college campuses, dispensing wisdom, proclaiming advice, exhorting action. I sometimes imagine myself addressing a high school or college graduation.
I'd remind students that commencement isn't about endings, but about beginnings (the word commence means 'to begin, to initiate'). I'd tell them to look back with pride, but look forward with excitement.
I'd advise them to listen to their hearts these next few tender years. What does your heart want to do? Don't question it! It doesn't know why. It wants what it wants. What do you want to do? You can listen to your heart when you're thirty or forty, but the chances of following your heart are strongest now.
I'd tell students what they don't want to hear: that time is short. You're only young once. Someday, you'll be weighed down with "practical matters": job, marriage, mortgage, children. You'll be ordinary like me, and you have to make the best of it, by being the person you want to be.
I'd ask parents to truly let go at this stage. I'd also ask the same of old friends. We have to let them go. We have to let them fly. We've given them our money, our support. Now let's give them their time.
People of accomplishment are favored speakers at commencement exercises, but living a good life is an accomplishment itself. And a good life can be had with simple lessons: listen and know yourself; be positive; be good. It shouldn't take a famous person to remind graduates of this.
I'd remind students that commencement isn't about endings, but about beginnings (the word commence means 'to begin, to initiate'). I'd tell them to look back with pride, but look forward with excitement.
I'd advise them to listen to their hearts these next few tender years. What does your heart want to do? Don't question it! It doesn't know why. It wants what it wants. What do you want to do? You can listen to your heart when you're thirty or forty, but the chances of following your heart are strongest now.
I'd tell students what they don't want to hear: that time is short. You're only young once. Someday, you'll be weighed down with "practical matters": job, marriage, mortgage, children. You'll be ordinary like me, and you have to make the best of it, by being the person you want to be.
I'd ask parents to truly let go at this stage. I'd also ask the same of old friends. We have to let them go. We have to let them fly. We've given them our money, our support. Now let's give them their time.
People of accomplishment are favored speakers at commencement exercises, but living a good life is an accomplishment itself. And a good life can be had with simple lessons: listen and know yourself; be positive; be good. It shouldn't take a famous person to remind graduates of this.
Sunday, May 9, 2004
Is Thank You Ever Enough?
Happy Mother's Day!
I was chatting with someone about parenthood a few months ago, and he said "Being a parent is a hard road!"
In my house, Jenn's the one driving on that road. I'm somewhere in the back of the car, cowering in fear. When Mia had a bout of sleeping issues because of my new work schedule, Jenn figured out how to help Mia adjust. Whenever Mia develops some malady, Jenn takes her to the doctor. (Jenn sometimes jokes that I don't even know the doctor's name, but that's not true.) Jenn cooks for Mia. Jenn cleans Mia's clothes. Jenn does practically everything.
In the course of parenthood, finding new ways to be grateful becomes difficult. How often can one say Thank You? Is it ever enough? A day like today reminds us to appreciate.
I'm grateful. Thank you, Jenn. Happy Mother's Day.
I was chatting with someone about parenthood a few months ago, and he said "Being a parent is a hard road!"
In my house, Jenn's the one driving on that road. I'm somewhere in the back of the car, cowering in fear. When Mia had a bout of sleeping issues because of my new work schedule, Jenn figured out how to help Mia adjust. Whenever Mia develops some malady, Jenn takes her to the doctor. (Jenn sometimes jokes that I don't even know the doctor's name, but that's not true.) Jenn cooks for Mia. Jenn cleans Mia's clothes. Jenn does practically everything.
In the course of parenthood, finding new ways to be grateful becomes difficult. How often can one say Thank You? Is it ever enough? A day like today reminds us to appreciate.
I'm grateful. Thank you, Jenn. Happy Mother's Day.
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