It's been a big "sports week" here in the Twin Towns. In the longest college football rivalry in the nation, the Gophers battled the Badgers at home to determine who would win "The Ax." On Sunday we had the Twin Cities Marathon and TC 10 Mile. Then the Brett Favre version of the Vikings took on the Packers in Monday Night Football. And today, right now, the Twins are facing the Tigers in a winner-take-all one-game divisional playoff.
Yes, it's all sort of exciting. And I remember a time in a distant past life (read: junior high school) when my career goal was to become a sportscaster. But at some point (read: late in high school) I realized that there had to be more to life than three-run homers, screen passes, and slap shots. Although sports can be a nice diversion, they are, in the end, just games. And as more than 50,000 Americans were dying in Vietnam, it became harder and harder to take games so seriously. Something else just had to matter more.
Still, some people clearly do take their sports seriously, including various yahoos at the Gopher game who would surely regard themselves as Minnesota fans. Yet their behavior was juvenile to the point of being embarrassing. If a Badger backer (clothed in red, of course--a true Gopher fan had to be wearing gold) walked by the Minnesota faithful, they were subjected to all manner of annoying trash talk (even at the urinals, as I was to discover!). The metamessage was: This football game actually matters. It's a reflection of our civic pride. And we'd better show we're superior. And somehow, winning the game would constitute proof of all that. At some level, it's pretty pathetic--especially since after all the taunting, the Gophers lost, 31-28. A whole bunch of those vocal Gopher fans were left to eat crow and got the insults handed right back at them while heading out the door.
We can enjoy the drama of sport. And hey, let's root, root, root for the home team. But when an opposing player is injured on the field--as happened a few times to certain Badger players--let's have the decency NOT to yell, "Take him out in a body bag!"
But all that aside, a big WHOOO-HOOO! as the Twins top the Tigers 6-5 in 12 innings--it was a transcendent moment in sports, as good as it gets! Still, it really is only a game. Really.
Tuesday, October 6, 2009
Thursday, September 3, 2009
A chick flick you don't want to see
If you ever wonder why I'm a vegetarian, or why animal welfare is an issue that's near and dear to me, all you need to do is read page A7 of yesterday's Star Tribune. The story, "Video highlights egg industry's practice of killing male chicks," discusses a video shot at an egg hatchery in Spencer, IA over a two-week period in May and June.
OK, so maybe male chicks don't have much of a place in a hatchery; they don't lay eggs. And maybe, just maybe, some might have to be euthanized as a result. But, what the video shows is that a common practice is to throw unwanted male chicks, alive, into a grinder. Yes, alive and into a moving grinder.
A spokesman for the United Egg Producers says that "If someone has a need for 200 million male chicks, we're happy to provide them to anyone who wants them. But we can find no market, no need." Ergo, any means of "disposal" is acceptable. Meanwhile, the Executive Director of Mercy for Animals says, "We have to ask ourselves if these were puppies and kittens being dropped into grinders, would we find that acceptable?"
Our world is rife with violence and insensitivity. It is perhaps a less crude and nasty place than it was in ages past; the whole concept of vegetarianism, for example, has become both common and basically respectable. We've had our collective consciousness raised in so many different ways--for instance, even carnivores have more trouble eating veal and fois gras with enthusiasm, and if you don't think a pig roast is just a bit disgusting, the last few decades have simply passed you by. But, we have a long way to go--it's a violent world in many different ways. Just ask some 200,000,000 chicks that are shredded alive every year.
OK, so maybe male chicks don't have much of a place in a hatchery; they don't lay eggs. And maybe, just maybe, some might have to be euthanized as a result. But, what the video shows is that a common practice is to throw unwanted male chicks, alive, into a grinder. Yes, alive and into a moving grinder.
A spokesman for the United Egg Producers says that "If someone has a need for 200 million male chicks, we're happy to provide them to anyone who wants them. But we can find no market, no need." Ergo, any means of "disposal" is acceptable. Meanwhile, the Executive Director of Mercy for Animals says, "We have to ask ourselves if these were puppies and kittens being dropped into grinders, would we find that acceptable?"
Our world is rife with violence and insensitivity. It is perhaps a less crude and nasty place than it was in ages past; the whole concept of vegetarianism, for example, has become both common and basically respectable. We've had our collective consciousness raised in so many different ways--for instance, even carnivores have more trouble eating veal and fois gras with enthusiasm, and if you don't think a pig roast is just a bit disgusting, the last few decades have simply passed you by. But, we have a long way to go--it's a violent world in many different ways. Just ask some 200,000,000 chicks that are shredded alive every year.
Thursday, August 27, 2009
Saying farewell to the West
Laramie, WY
As our road trip reaches its last stages, if there is one thing that has struck me about The West--something that I have experienced before but had sort of forgotten--it is that The West is BIG. Vast. Expansive. Dramatic. Wide open. And very much up and down, up and down; one gets used to yawning to pop one's ears as the roadway stretches up to the Continental Divide and back down to the foothills. And so, from Laramie, Wyoming, I say "yee haw!"--which is something that a Wyoming cowboy no doubt says about every 10 minutes.
Whether it be the Grand Canyon, or the Las Vegas strip, or the beaches of Santa Monica and Venice, or Rodeo Drive in Beverly Hills, or the Hearst Castle, or the redwoods in northern California, I have been taken by the immensity of our nation, and its resources, and its wealth. We may think that we have economic problems--and of course we do--but the America I have seen is doing all right. Indeed, my niece and her husband, who live and work in India, sometimes come back to the U.S., look around, and say, "WHAT economic problems?"
Along the way, I have continued to correspond with my old high school classmate "Kyle," who is mentioned in a previous post. Kyle continues to hope that Mr. Obama fails, that he is incompetent, that he wasn't even born here, that he advocates socialism, that he's locked us in to trillions of dollars in deficits for at least the next ten years, and that he's not even a particularly good public speaker--among other things! I have been hoping to at least soften Kyle up a bit on the notion that Obama is a mean, nasty, incompetent person, and that one can disagree with him on the issues without demonizing him or resorting to name-calling and fear-mongering. The jury is still out on whether I will succeed! But looking out over the grand vistas that are the American West, all of that seems like mere politics. When you are standing in the silence of a towering redwood forest, or looking out over the rock formations and buttes in Wyoming that seem to go on forever, what's important seems to change.
As our road trip reaches its last stages, if there is one thing that has struck me about The West--something that I have experienced before but had sort of forgotten--it is that The West is BIG. Vast. Expansive. Dramatic. Wide open. And very much up and down, up and down; one gets used to yawning to pop one's ears as the roadway stretches up to the Continental Divide and back down to the foothills. And so, from Laramie, Wyoming, I say "yee haw!"--which is something that a Wyoming cowboy no doubt says about every 10 minutes.
Whether it be the Grand Canyon, or the Las Vegas strip, or the beaches of Santa Monica and Venice, or Rodeo Drive in Beverly Hills, or the Hearst Castle, or the redwoods in northern California, I have been taken by the immensity of our nation, and its resources, and its wealth. We may think that we have economic problems--and of course we do--but the America I have seen is doing all right. Indeed, my niece and her husband, who live and work in India, sometimes come back to the U.S., look around, and say, "WHAT economic problems?"
Along the way, I have continued to correspond with my old high school classmate "Kyle," who is mentioned in a previous post. Kyle continues to hope that Mr. Obama fails, that he is incompetent, that he wasn't even born here, that he advocates socialism, that he's locked us in to trillions of dollars in deficits for at least the next ten years, and that he's not even a particularly good public speaker--among other things! I have been hoping to at least soften Kyle up a bit on the notion that Obama is a mean, nasty, incompetent person, and that one can disagree with him on the issues without demonizing him or resorting to name-calling and fear-mongering. The jury is still out on whether I will succeed! But looking out over the grand vistas that are the American West, all of that seems like mere politics. When you are standing in the silence of a towering redwood forest, or looking out over the rock formations and buttes in Wyoming that seem to go on forever, what's important seems to change.
Saturday, August 22, 2009
Love-hate relationship with Hearst Castle
San Simeon, CA
No visit to the central coast of California would be complete without a visit to the "Hearst Castle," one of several getaways for William Randolph Hearst, newspaper publisher and media mogul of the first half of the 20th century.
One cannot help but be impressed by the sheer size and opulence of this place, and the stories of how millions of tons of material were brought up to this vantage point high atop the hills that look out over the vast Pacific. The tour guide stressed, over and over again, how no expense was spared to make the castle and its grounds a sort of 8th wonder of the world. And wonderful it certainly is. The swimming pools alone are immense, magnificent works of art. And since Hearst was an avid art collector, every wall is graced with some sort of tapestry, or statue, or gold-inlaid tile. We are left to imagine--and, actually, to see, through some grainy old films--how Clark Gable and Charlie Chaplin and Carole Lombard and Hedda Hopper and their ilk whiled away the hours riding horses, playing billiards, watching movies in the theater-sized screening room, and eating sumptuous dinners in a dining hall that literally inspired those who tried to put Harry Potter to life in film.
Having said all that, if one does not feel somewhat conflicted by this incredible homage to capitalism, conspicuous consumption, and the power of money and privilege, then one lacks either a conscience or an understanding of how the world works. Mr. Hearst was fortunate enough to inherit millions from his father George, and to be taken to Europe for a year and a half by his mom, where he became inspired by European castles and cathedrals. If anyone was born with a silver spoon in his mouth, it was William Randolph Hearst. Now, to his credit, he was an incredibly creative, hard-working, and driven fellow, just like his dad. But there are lots of creative and hard-working people out there who don't command the resources of a Hearst; at best they might be employed by a Hearst and manage to get a teeny piece of a massive pie. And we can all understand the desire for immortality, and the legacy that the Hearst castle represents, yet it would be possible to have a VERY, very nice getaway for 1/10th the price--leaving many millions of dollars to be used, potentially, for more socially beneficial ends. Simply put, the Hearst Castle is also the mark of a person with a jumbo-sized ego and a sense of entitlement that comes with more money than you know what to do with.
And so, see the Hearst Castle--it's more impressive than I thought it would be. It is an impressive display of wealth, and architecture--and an impressive display of vanity, materialism, and privilege. You will secretly want to live there, but you will want to remember all of those who stand at freeway off-ramps with cardboard signs, begging for spare change.
No visit to the central coast of California would be complete without a visit to the "Hearst Castle," one of several getaways for William Randolph Hearst, newspaper publisher and media mogul of the first half of the 20th century.
One cannot help but be impressed by the sheer size and opulence of this place, and the stories of how millions of tons of material were brought up to this vantage point high atop the hills that look out over the vast Pacific. The tour guide stressed, over and over again, how no expense was spared to make the castle and its grounds a sort of 8th wonder of the world. And wonderful it certainly is. The swimming pools alone are immense, magnificent works of art. And since Hearst was an avid art collector, every wall is graced with some sort of tapestry, or statue, or gold-inlaid tile. We are left to imagine--and, actually, to see, through some grainy old films--how Clark Gable and Charlie Chaplin and Carole Lombard and Hedda Hopper and their ilk whiled away the hours riding horses, playing billiards, watching movies in the theater-sized screening room, and eating sumptuous dinners in a dining hall that literally inspired those who tried to put Harry Potter to life in film.
Having said all that, if one does not feel somewhat conflicted by this incredible homage to capitalism, conspicuous consumption, and the power of money and privilege, then one lacks either a conscience or an understanding of how the world works. Mr. Hearst was fortunate enough to inherit millions from his father George, and to be taken to Europe for a year and a half by his mom, where he became inspired by European castles and cathedrals. If anyone was born with a silver spoon in his mouth, it was William Randolph Hearst. Now, to his credit, he was an incredibly creative, hard-working, and driven fellow, just like his dad. But there are lots of creative and hard-working people out there who don't command the resources of a Hearst; at best they might be employed by a Hearst and manage to get a teeny piece of a massive pie. And we can all understand the desire for immortality, and the legacy that the Hearst castle represents, yet it would be possible to have a VERY, very nice getaway for 1/10th the price--leaving many millions of dollars to be used, potentially, for more socially beneficial ends. Simply put, the Hearst Castle is also the mark of a person with a jumbo-sized ego and a sense of entitlement that comes with more money than you know what to do with.
And so, see the Hearst Castle--it's more impressive than I thought it would be. It is an impressive display of wealth, and architecture--and an impressive display of vanity, materialism, and privilege. You will secretly want to live there, but you will want to remember all of those who stand at freeway off-ramps with cardboard signs, begging for spare change.
Wednesday, August 19, 2009
Venice, where everyone is welcome
Venice, CA
It's a sweet and in some ways bittersweet return to my old stomping grounds, where I lived from about May 1977 to September 1978. [You're saying to yourself, 1977--how could that be? He only looks about 28 years old! LOL, YAC (You Are Clueless.)]
Strolling down Ocean Front Walk in Venice is something that everyone should experience. With the palm trees lining the walk, the beach and the ocean everpresent on one side, the sun and the breeze filtering through the moist morning air, one feels as if all is right with the world (especially when it's the middle of winter in Minnesota!). But the real treasure of Venice is that it's a place where everyone shows up, and to the extent that it's possible, everyone is welcome.
Ocean Front Walk is humanity on parade, and all can be part of the procession. That includes accountants, street musicians, palm readers and psychics, T-shirt vendors, bikers and in-line skaters, Latinos, LAPD officers (often on bicycles), body builders (at Muscle Beach) and other "beautiful people," paddle tennis players, little kids, tourists from the US and abroad, African-Americans, old folks with walkers, and a definite contingent of "street people"--people with skin wrinkled and bronzed from years in the sun (and years of substance abuse, no doubt) who literally carry their world on their backs, or in their sleeping bags, or attached to their bikes, or piled on top of their rusty 30-year-old campers. If there are still "hippies" left in this world, they are to be found on Venice Beach. Unlike Santa Monica just to the north or Marina del Rey just to the south, there is a feeling in Venice that you can be exactly who you want to be--even if that's a transsexual with spider tattoos and bells in your hair. It is a liberating feeling, and one that speaks to a Midwesterner who often feels the pressure to "be normal" and "fit in."
And the bittersweet part: that Venice represents a period in my life when everything felt possible--when there were few rules, responsibilities, or expectations. The summer of 1977, when I was basically a beach bum and in love with much in the world, had a certain innocence that is hard to recapture. But, with this current visit as an inspiration, maybe I can re-claim at least some of that! Although some of the details have changed, I am happy to report that some three decades later, the spirit of Venice is alive and well.
It's a sweet and in some ways bittersweet return to my old stomping grounds, where I lived from about May 1977 to September 1978. [You're saying to yourself, 1977--how could that be? He only looks about 28 years old! LOL, YAC (You Are Clueless.)]
Strolling down Ocean Front Walk in Venice is something that everyone should experience. With the palm trees lining the walk, the beach and the ocean everpresent on one side, the sun and the breeze filtering through the moist morning air, one feels as if all is right with the world (especially when it's the middle of winter in Minnesota!). But the real treasure of Venice is that it's a place where everyone shows up, and to the extent that it's possible, everyone is welcome.
Ocean Front Walk is humanity on parade, and all can be part of the procession. That includes accountants, street musicians, palm readers and psychics, T-shirt vendors, bikers and in-line skaters, Latinos, LAPD officers (often on bicycles), body builders (at Muscle Beach) and other "beautiful people," paddle tennis players, little kids, tourists from the US and abroad, African-Americans, old folks with walkers, and a definite contingent of "street people"--people with skin wrinkled and bronzed from years in the sun (and years of substance abuse, no doubt) who literally carry their world on their backs, or in their sleeping bags, or attached to their bikes, or piled on top of their rusty 30-year-old campers. If there are still "hippies" left in this world, they are to be found on Venice Beach. Unlike Santa Monica just to the north or Marina del Rey just to the south, there is a feeling in Venice that you can be exactly who you want to be--even if that's a transsexual with spider tattoos and bells in your hair. It is a liberating feeling, and one that speaks to a Midwesterner who often feels the pressure to "be normal" and "fit in."
And the bittersweet part: that Venice represents a period in my life when everything felt possible--when there were few rules, responsibilities, or expectations. The summer of 1977, when I was basically a beach bum and in love with much in the world, had a certain innocence that is hard to recapture. But, with this current visit as an inspiration, maybe I can re-claim at least some of that! Although some of the details have changed, I am happy to report that some three decades later, the spirit of Venice is alive and well.
Saturday, August 15, 2009
Las Vegas/Lost Wages
Las Vegas, NV
I feel compelled to post something here from Las Vegas simply because it's costing me money just to open up the browser. I remember my mom saying that she hated Miami because "everyone has their hand out," and that is indeed the case with Las Vegas as well--and in spades! If you like Miami, and you like Disney World, you might like it here too; they are all "American success stories" in a way.
It's $7.99 for two hours of internet service here at the lovely Treasure Island Hotel & Casino; wherever else we have traveled to date, wifi has been free. I refused to buy coffee this morning at the Starbuck's in the lobby because a small one was $3.25. And one scoop of Ben & Jerry's ice cream last night was $5.35--the posted price list was very misleading; I would have never willingly bought one scoop of ice cream for that sum. And tonight we're seeing a Cirque du Soleil performance for a mere $113.90 a ticket (and that was the second-lowest price category).
Beyond the outrageous prices, of course, are a variety of other things that represent U.S. culture at its worst. As we pass by the gamblers, I see little joy on their faces as they stare at the slot screens. It's disconcerting to walk by a dozen guys handing out cards for various types of outcall services and strip joints--they push them on you even though you're walking right next to your wife! And there's such a truly faux feeling to things--the Venetian is across the street, and it has "real canals," but they are about as real as the breasts of many of the women who parade down the street (showing cleavage seems to be a requirement around here--it is hot in the desert, after all). It's all glitz and hype, with a lot of alcohol just to keep you loose and willing to part with your money. From the poor folks selling bottled water out of coolers on the sidwalk to the big casinos themselves, everyone has their hustle, and I don't particularly like feeling hustled.
I think what annoys me as much as anything is that Las Vegas tries to exploit human weaknesses--the desire to be rich, to be sexy, to be important, to be trendy and popular. Simply put, the city is built on taking advantage of people's vulnerabilities--in particular, the idea that we can be lucky enough to "beat the odds." All of those losers are the ones who built the swimming pool at Treasure Island that I will visit in just a few minutes. And, it celebrates and reinforces the idea that with a wad of Benjamins in your pocket, a huge margarita in your hand, and a hot young babe by your side, you've got it made in the shade. (Well, actually, that may beat a few pennies, a diet Pepsi, and re-runs of the Golden Girls!)
But all things considered (I may be sounding a bit old, poor, and resentful): as far as I'm concerned, what is in Vegas can stay in Vegas.
I feel compelled to post something here from Las Vegas simply because it's costing me money just to open up the browser. I remember my mom saying that she hated Miami because "everyone has their hand out," and that is indeed the case with Las Vegas as well--and in spades! If you like Miami, and you like Disney World, you might like it here too; they are all "American success stories" in a way.
It's $7.99 for two hours of internet service here at the lovely Treasure Island Hotel & Casino; wherever else we have traveled to date, wifi has been free. I refused to buy coffee this morning at the Starbuck's in the lobby because a small one was $3.25. And one scoop of Ben & Jerry's ice cream last night was $5.35--the posted price list was very misleading; I would have never willingly bought one scoop of ice cream for that sum. And tonight we're seeing a Cirque du Soleil performance for a mere $113.90 a ticket (and that was the second-lowest price category).
Beyond the outrageous prices, of course, are a variety of other things that represent U.S. culture at its worst. As we pass by the gamblers, I see little joy on their faces as they stare at the slot screens. It's disconcerting to walk by a dozen guys handing out cards for various types of outcall services and strip joints--they push them on you even though you're walking right next to your wife! And there's such a truly faux feeling to things--the Venetian is across the street, and it has "real canals," but they are about as real as the breasts of many of the women who parade down the street (showing cleavage seems to be a requirement around here--it is hot in the desert, after all). It's all glitz and hype, with a lot of alcohol just to keep you loose and willing to part with your money. From the poor folks selling bottled water out of coolers on the sidwalk to the big casinos themselves, everyone has their hustle, and I don't particularly like feeling hustled.
I think what annoys me as much as anything is that Las Vegas tries to exploit human weaknesses--the desire to be rich, to be sexy, to be important, to be trendy and popular. Simply put, the city is built on taking advantage of people's vulnerabilities--in particular, the idea that we can be lucky enough to "beat the odds." All of those losers are the ones who built the swimming pool at Treasure Island that I will visit in just a few minutes. And, it celebrates and reinforces the idea that with a wad of Benjamins in your pocket, a huge margarita in your hand, and a hot young babe by your side, you've got it made in the shade. (Well, actually, that may beat a few pennies, a diet Pepsi, and re-runs of the Golden Girls!)
But all things considered (I may be sounding a bit old, poor, and resentful): as far as I'm concerned, what is in Vegas can stay in Vegas.
Friday, August 14, 2009
Palin the Demagogue
Tusayan, AZ
The Contentious One submits this post from the Grand Canyon, where he and The Misses continue on a road trip of this great land, with Las Vegas, Los Angeles, and San Francisco still in the works.
One might hope that the magnificence of the Grand Canyon would distract me from politics, and of course it can, at least a little bit for a little while. But then Sarah Palin has to open her yap, and the grandeur of the scene and the grandeur of our nation both take a bit of a hit.
I have to admit that Sarah's kind of cute (that's a tough admission to make), but I also firmly believe that she fits the standard criteria for a demagogue. In the fall of '08, she loved to call Obama a "socialist," and she was downright giddy (honest, I read about this) when her party said OK to her use of the phrase "paling around with terrorists" (she actually had to get that approved). Now she's concerned about "death panels," that will enable the government (supposedly) to KILL GRANDMA if they want to. (And after the death panels meet, grandma's estate will be decimated by the so-called death TAX!) Never mind that the "death panel" label has been thoroughly debunked; one CNN analyst I saw at breakfast yesterday said that "Palin's pants were on fire." She throws out these inflammatory labels, with no concern for the truth, and then people react--especially stupid and ignorant people.
I realize that calling her a demagogue is itself a form of name-calling, but if you read any standard definition of the term you'll see that it's not out of line. (And indeed, I was surprised, after thinking she was a demagogue, to find others on-line who agree; "demagogue in a skirt" is one of the pejorative labels for her.)
Speaking of labels, some people are claiming Obama is not only a socialist--he's a Nazi! Over the last 12 months, we have seen such horrific abuses of language, largely by those on the "right," that it makes me ill.
So go ahead, if you want to, and support our socialist, Nazi, terrorist, Muslim, not-even-an-American-citizen President, who favors killing grandma and giving sex education to kindergartners! I know that I am going to--in part to combat the mean-spirited idiots who would claim to love this nation yet don't have a clue about what it means to be the "LOYAL opposition" or what it means to engage in civil discourse.
The Contentious One submits this post from the Grand Canyon, where he and The Misses continue on a road trip of this great land, with Las Vegas, Los Angeles, and San Francisco still in the works.
One might hope that the magnificence of the Grand Canyon would distract me from politics, and of course it can, at least a little bit for a little while. But then Sarah Palin has to open her yap, and the grandeur of the scene and the grandeur of our nation both take a bit of a hit.
I have to admit that Sarah's kind of cute (that's a tough admission to make), but I also firmly believe that she fits the standard criteria for a demagogue. In the fall of '08, she loved to call Obama a "socialist," and she was downright giddy (honest, I read about this) when her party said OK to her use of the phrase "paling around with terrorists" (she actually had to get that approved). Now she's concerned about "death panels," that will enable the government (supposedly) to KILL GRANDMA if they want to. (And after the death panels meet, grandma's estate will be decimated by the so-called death TAX!) Never mind that the "death panel" label has been thoroughly debunked; one CNN analyst I saw at breakfast yesterday said that "Palin's pants were on fire." She throws out these inflammatory labels, with no concern for the truth, and then people react--especially stupid and ignorant people.
I realize that calling her a demagogue is itself a form of name-calling, but if you read any standard definition of the term you'll see that it's not out of line. (And indeed, I was surprised, after thinking she was a demagogue, to find others on-line who agree; "demagogue in a skirt" is one of the pejorative labels for her.)
Speaking of labels, some people are claiming Obama is not only a socialist--he's a Nazi! Over the last 12 months, we have seen such horrific abuses of language, largely by those on the "right," that it makes me ill.
So go ahead, if you want to, and support our socialist, Nazi, terrorist, Muslim, not-even-an-American-citizen President, who favors killing grandma and giving sex education to kindergartners! I know that I am going to--in part to combat the mean-spirited idiots who would claim to love this nation yet don't have a clue about what it means to be the "LOYAL opposition" or what it means to engage in civil discourse.
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