A compendium of images - most original, some not - words, and links, sometimes musical, gathered for the exclusive enjoyment of friends and relatives, some old, and some new.
Tuesday, March 28, 2006
My Wife
Today is my wife's birthday. I love my wife. It's as simple as that. We began dating when she was seventeen and I eighteen, and we were married when she was twenty-one, and I had just turned twenty-three. We have been married, oh, many, many years. Let's just say that we will be celebrating our golden anniversary in a few years' time. Let's just say that we hope to be celebrating many, many more birthdays and anniversaries. Let's just say that life is good, and we are looking ahead to much more of it. Let's say also that love makes life all the more wonderful.
Sunday, March 26, 2006
Memorabilia
How I Store My Memories
Through the years I have kept journals, diaries, and other paper-based records (and I'm not even counting tax returns and such). I also have many thousands of photographs and color slides dating from the time I bought my first box camera as a teenager, and reels of eight-millimeter and the later super-eight-millimeter movie film, which began after our son was born. Then there came the various gauges of videotapes, most of which had their creation after our first granddaughter came into the world.
My garage has boxes upon boxes of all manner of memorabilia collected over seven decades or so. Physical storage space is now at a premium.
So I have been trying diligently to convert what I can of this material to digital storage. With the aid of complex electronic hardware and sophisticated software I have managed to capture a good deal, in bits and pieces, over the past several years, with the hope that one day our great-grandchildren and their progeny will know something of their heritage through these long-ago images and writings.
It's a legacy project that will likely occupy the remainder of my sentient life, and whether I will succeed in achieving its completion, only the good Lord knows.
As always, it is a matter of time, for this is a very time-consuming effort we speak of here.
I want to take this opportunity make an observation about time.
During our working lives, those of us who are now retired used to look forward during the workweek to the approach of Friday and the weekend. Wednesday was 'hump day', remember? And Monday was the day most working people hated, so much so that we believed (I think it's still a pretty common belief today) that you would not want to buy a car that was made on a Monday, because the autoworker would not be in the best of shape at the start of the workweek.
Well, here's my observation. Now that we are retired, Fridays come at us with much greater frequency. I kid you not. Just look at the newspaper delivered to your front door (which, by the way, is becoming skinnier and very much less interesting nowadays, but that's a whole 'nother story).
Every couple of days, it's the Friday paper — another Friday has arrived! There are more Fridays than other days of the week? Or have the other days simply disappeared from the calendar?
Where has the time gone?
Through the years I have kept journals, diaries, and other paper-based records (and I'm not even counting tax returns and such). I also have many thousands of photographs and color slides dating from the time I bought my first box camera as a teenager, and reels of eight-millimeter and the later super-eight-millimeter movie film, which began after our son was born. Then there came the various gauges of videotapes, most of which had their creation after our first granddaughter came into the world.
My garage has boxes upon boxes of all manner of memorabilia collected over seven decades or so. Physical storage space is now at a premium.
So I have been trying diligently to convert what I can of this material to digital storage. With the aid of complex electronic hardware and sophisticated software I have managed to capture a good deal, in bits and pieces, over the past several years, with the hope that one day our great-grandchildren and their progeny will know something of their heritage through these long-ago images and writings.
It's a legacy project that will likely occupy the remainder of my sentient life, and whether I will succeed in achieving its completion, only the good Lord knows.
As always, it is a matter of time, for this is a very time-consuming effort we speak of here.
I want to take this opportunity make an observation about time.
During our working lives, those of us who are now retired used to look forward during the workweek to the approach of Friday and the weekend. Wednesday was 'hump day', remember? And Monday was the day most working people hated, so much so that we believed (I think it's still a pretty common belief today) that you would not want to buy a car that was made on a Monday, because the autoworker would not be in the best of shape at the start of the workweek.
Well, here's my observation. Now that we are retired, Fridays come at us with much greater frequency. I kid you not. Just look at the newspaper delivered to your front door (which, by the way, is becoming skinnier and very much less interesting nowadays, but that's a whole 'nother story).
Every couple of days, it's the Friday paper — another Friday has arrived! There are more Fridays than other days of the week? Or have the other days simply disappeared from the calendar?
Where has the time gone?
Thursday, March 23, 2006
Photography
Photography today is so much simpler with these digital cameras. You get instant results, that's the big thing. No longer having to deliver the finished film cartridge to the drugstore or photofinisher, order the required number of prints to be made, and then go back down to pick up the finished product some days later; all these steps are now history with the digital revolution.
There are also the many ways now that allow you to share the photos via the Internet — by e-mailing them to friends and family, or by putting them up on a website for all to see. Is it any wonder that film, superb as it was, and still is for some applications, is quickly disappearing from the scene? It won't be long, is my guess, before fine-grain black-and-white film will be as hard to come by as regular 8mm movie film.
Commercial movies are still made on film, though. I remember reading that Spielberg has been trying hard to push for multiplex theater owners to switch to digital projectors, but there is resistance because of the high initial outlay required to make the conversion.
No question in my mind that the cinema business will end up in the digital realm before long. Already there's a lot of digital special effects in films. For example, most crowd scenes are easily computer-generated. No need these days to pay and to provide catering services for all those extras from central casting. A small team of computer artists can fill the screen with a cast of thousands with a few clicks of the mouse. Well, maybe more than just a few clicks.
But to get back to amateur photography and the sharing of images online. It's really easy to do, and any average computer newbie can handle it. A broadband Internet connection helps, as it would take a long time to upload pictures, especially large ones, with a dial-up service.
For posting your photos online, you don't need a fancy superduper multimegapixel camera. A run-of-the-mill 3 or 4 megapixel camera will do the job. That's what I've been using most of the time.
There are also the many ways now that allow you to share the photos via the Internet — by e-mailing them to friends and family, or by putting them up on a website for all to see. Is it any wonder that film, superb as it was, and still is for some applications, is quickly disappearing from the scene? It won't be long, is my guess, before fine-grain black-and-white film will be as hard to come by as regular 8mm movie film.
Commercial movies are still made on film, though. I remember reading that Spielberg has been trying hard to push for multiplex theater owners to switch to digital projectors, but there is resistance because of the high initial outlay required to make the conversion.
No question in my mind that the cinema business will end up in the digital realm before long. Already there's a lot of digital special effects in films. For example, most crowd scenes are easily computer-generated. No need these days to pay and to provide catering services for all those extras from central casting. A small team of computer artists can fill the screen with a cast of thousands with a few clicks of the mouse. Well, maybe more than just a few clicks.
But to get back to amateur photography and the sharing of images online. It's really easy to do, and any average computer newbie can handle it. A broadband Internet connection helps, as it would take a long time to upload pictures, especially large ones, with a dial-up service.
For posting your photos online, you don't need a fancy superduper multimegapixel camera. A run-of-the-mill 3 or 4 megapixel camera will do the job. That's what I've been using most of the time.
Wednesday, March 22, 2006
Toothsomeness
I'm on a roll today. Two postings. Making up for the days when I offered none.
My tooth problems have come to a head, in a manner of speaking. I have decided to take the plunge, cross the Rubicon, and burn my bridges. Of upper incisors and molars, only one remains in fair working condition—the rest are a hodgepodge of artifacts held together by the skill of past dentists and craftsmen, and by sheer luck assisted by a Herculean effort of will.
Today I visited my dentist and gave him the green light to remove what needs to be removed, and install in their place new dentures to allow this wearer a fuller enjoyment of food than had been possible these past several weeks.
So my dentist had a young technician take the necessary moulds, and in a couple of weeks I shall be the possessor of the brightest smile that my bathroom mirror, assuming that it will have been reinstalled by then, will reflect.
The actual plier job will not take place for some time yet, but I am facing the prospect with grim determination along with a giddy insouciance now that the decision has been made.
Or at least, that's what I am hoping.
My tooth problems have come to a head, in a manner of speaking. I have decided to take the plunge, cross the Rubicon, and burn my bridges. Of upper incisors and molars, only one remains in fair working condition—the rest are a hodgepodge of artifacts held together by the skill of past dentists and craftsmen, and by sheer luck assisted by a Herculean effort of will.
Today I visited my dentist and gave him the green light to remove what needs to be removed, and install in their place new dentures to allow this wearer a fuller enjoyment of food than had been possible these past several weeks.
So my dentist had a young technician take the necessary moulds, and in a couple of weeks I shall be the possessor of the brightest smile that my bathroom mirror, assuming that it will have been reinstalled by then, will reflect.
The actual plier job will not take place for some time yet, but I am facing the prospect with grim determination along with a giddy insouciance now that the decision has been made.
Or at least, that's what I am hoping.
Equinox Missed
The vernal equinox passed two days ago without my even noticing it. Must be this unseasonably cold weather we've been having, that and the intermittent rains.
The passing of the seasons was important in the lives of our ancestors, who had to contend with decisions about the tilling and the sowing and the harvesting of crops. So they looked to the skies and to their primitive — although in many cases mightily accurate — calendars to determine the best times to do all those things.
In urban societies in the developed world there is no longer that focus on the sun, moon, and stars to manage our lives. Instead we must now consider school breaks, summer vacations, holidays, which may or may not coincide with parenting schedules, child rearing, health, and even personal preferences, in deciding the hows, whens, and wheres of the things that we need or want to do.
Boy, I wish the weather would warm up quickly.
* * * * *
The current issue of Time has a story about Mel Gibson's new movie "Apocalypto" which is about the Maya of southern Mexico and Guatemala. Having visited that part of the world, and knowing a little bit of the history there from my reading, and from conversing with the natives I have met, I am really looking forward to seeing it, despite Mel's well-known passion for gore.
The passing of the seasons was important in the lives of our ancestors, who had to contend with decisions about the tilling and the sowing and the harvesting of crops. So they looked to the skies and to their primitive — although in many cases mightily accurate — calendars to determine the best times to do all those things.
In urban societies in the developed world there is no longer that focus on the sun, moon, and stars to manage our lives. Instead we must now consider school breaks, summer vacations, holidays, which may or may not coincide with parenting schedules, child rearing, health, and even personal preferences, in deciding the hows, whens, and wheres of the things that we need or want to do.
Boy, I wish the weather would warm up quickly.
* * * * *
The current issue of Time has a story about Mel Gibson's new movie "Apocalypto" which is about the Maya of southern Mexico and Guatemala. Having visited that part of the world, and knowing a little bit of the history there from my reading, and from conversing with the natives I have met, I am really looking forward to seeing it, despite Mel's well-known passion for gore.
Monday, March 20, 2006
Schumann & Chocolate
This afternoon, by accident, I combined two of life's great pleasures into a sensual moment of aural and oral bliss. The second movement of the Schumann Piano Concerto was beginning on my stereo system as I unwrapped a piece of dark chocolate of an unknown brand. I placed the square of chocolate on my tongue just as the lilting orchestral notes of the second subject filled my listening room.
My usual method of eating chocolate is to bite immediately into it, breaking it up into smaller pieces in the mouth, letting the pieces slowly, languorously, melt against the palate, then allowing the tongue, almost involuntarily, to push the bits this way and that with a delicious randomness, while the slow melting occasioned by the warmth of the oral cavity coats its lining with the bittersweet flavor of the cacao bean. It is the process of this melting in the heat of one's mouth, and the sweet involvement of the tongue mashing the chocolate bits against the teeth that produces what I believe is one of life's sublime enjoyments.
But today I departed from the usual routine, thanks to the Schumann. The interplay of soloist and orchestra gave me reason to shift the morsel in my mouth rather than bite down into it. Thus the square of chocolate remained relatively intact, and its hard edges began to soften, ever so slowly, as I allowed it to perch upon my tongue, subjecting it to just the smallest amount of movement, licking only when I felt it might fall against the gums or lower teeth.
Thus did that square of chocolate last through a good part of the andantino grazioso, enhacing one's enjoyment of it in a way that it would be wrong of me to further describe.
You just have to try it for yourself.
My usual method of eating chocolate is to bite immediately into it, breaking it up into smaller pieces in the mouth, letting the pieces slowly, languorously, melt against the palate, then allowing the tongue, almost involuntarily, to push the bits this way and that with a delicious randomness, while the slow melting occasioned by the warmth of the oral cavity coats its lining with the bittersweet flavor of the cacao bean. It is the process of this melting in the heat of one's mouth, and the sweet involvement of the tongue mashing the chocolate bits against the teeth that produces what I believe is one of life's sublime enjoyments.
But today I departed from the usual routine, thanks to the Schumann. The interplay of soloist and orchestra gave me reason to shift the morsel in my mouth rather than bite down into it. Thus the square of chocolate remained relatively intact, and its hard edges began to soften, ever so slowly, as I allowed it to perch upon my tongue, subjecting it to just the smallest amount of movement, licking only when I felt it might fall against the gums or lower teeth.
Thus did that square of chocolate last through a good part of the andantino grazioso, enhacing one's enjoyment of it in a way that it would be wrong of me to further describe.
You just have to try it for yourself.
Saturday, March 18, 2006
Care & Maintenance
From around fifty-five to sixty, it purrs along pretty well. Except for a few minor problems here and there, the parts are functioning as they should, and the overall performance meets requirements, so long as there is enough fuel and a minimum of ballast.
From sixty to sixty-five, a few unexpected problems may crop up. These may be minor or major, depending on how the unit has been used. There may be a bit of wobble, a tendency to lurch unexpectedly at times, and some of the lines may be clogged. If careful flushing of the lines does not correct the problem, it may be necessary to replace them, as some owners have had to do. It is not an easy job, this replacement of lines, but it needs to be done. Once the lines are clear, you can expect smooth sailing up to about seventy-five or so. Still, careful monitoring is advised after the replacement, and the fuel intake needs to be kept leaner and lighter.
Sixty-five to seventy produces some added hazards. The electrical system may malfunction, if the unit has not been maintained in optimum condition with regular checkups. The fuel intake has to be closely watched. The unit's equilibrium is largely dependent on the quality of its suspension, combined with its overall weight. Backfiring can occur unexpectedly, but in many cases this may be unavoidable.
At about seventy some units will experience rattling and shaking, and if the owners are not especially heedful, accidents may occur. Some connectors may malfunction, giving rise to the possibility in extreme cases that they must be replaced. But it is quite possible for the unit to operate with impaired connectors for some time, provided that other parts of the unit are sound.
From seventy to seventy-five, the instrument panel in some units may begin to display signs of malfunction. This may at the beginning show itself in minor ways, perhaps in the flickering of one or several of the warning lights. Unfortunately in time these minor glitches may progress and acquire major significance. Regular monitoring must be used to see that the unit is not subjected to rust or mildew, and that there is no immediate danger of breakage of any of the crucial parts.
Beyond seventy-five, depending on how the unit was maintained, the owner may either see an increase in the number and severity of malfunctioning parts, or, it is devoutly to be hoped, a smooth and trouble-free journey to its destination.
From sixty to sixty-five, a few unexpected problems may crop up. These may be minor or major, depending on how the unit has been used. There may be a bit of wobble, a tendency to lurch unexpectedly at times, and some of the lines may be clogged. If careful flushing of the lines does not correct the problem, it may be necessary to replace them, as some owners have had to do. It is not an easy job, this replacement of lines, but it needs to be done. Once the lines are clear, you can expect smooth sailing up to about seventy-five or so. Still, careful monitoring is advised after the replacement, and the fuel intake needs to be kept leaner and lighter.
Sixty-five to seventy produces some added hazards. The electrical system may malfunction, if the unit has not been maintained in optimum condition with regular checkups. The fuel intake has to be closely watched. The unit's equilibrium is largely dependent on the quality of its suspension, combined with its overall weight. Backfiring can occur unexpectedly, but in many cases this may be unavoidable.
At about seventy some units will experience rattling and shaking, and if the owners are not especially heedful, accidents may occur. Some connectors may malfunction, giving rise to the possibility in extreme cases that they must be replaced. But it is quite possible for the unit to operate with impaired connectors for some time, provided that other parts of the unit are sound.
From seventy to seventy-five, the instrument panel in some units may begin to display signs of malfunction. This may at the beginning show itself in minor ways, perhaps in the flickering of one or several of the warning lights. Unfortunately in time these minor glitches may progress and acquire major significance. Regular monitoring must be used to see that the unit is not subjected to rust or mildew, and that there is no immediate danger of breakage of any of the crucial parts.
Beyond seventy-five, depending on how the unit was maintained, the owner may either see an increase in the number and severity of malfunctioning parts, or, it is devoutly to be hoped, a smooth and trouble-free journey to its destination.
China Depot
Went with my wife to the local Home Depot. Twenty years ago I would have enjoyed wandering around looking at mitre saws and plumbing fixtures and different grades of plywood. Alas, these days the home improvement bug no longer bites. Furthermore, quality American-made tools are getting to be harder and harder to find, and much more expensive, than their brand-name equivalents that are now mostly made in China.
This is especially true of the lighting fixtures. I never saw so many shiny floor and desk lamps, and at such outrageously low prices. You can just about get a brand new desk lamp for the price you'd pay to replace a bulb on your old one. How the heck do they manage that? Is it any wonder that our trade imbalance with the People's Republic of China is what it is?
Okay, so the small print on the box says the item was designed in the U.S., and then manufactured in China. But how long do you think it will be before the design labs will also be relocated across the Pacific?
I used to work with a guy who remembered how we shipped American 'oil for the lamps of China' (the title of a 1934 novel by Alice Tisdale Hobart, which was made into a 1935 movie starring Pat O'Brien). A mere 70+ years ago.
This is especially true of the lighting fixtures. I never saw so many shiny floor and desk lamps, and at such outrageously low prices. You can just about get a brand new desk lamp for the price you'd pay to replace a bulb on your old one. How the heck do they manage that? Is it any wonder that our trade imbalance with the People's Republic of China is what it is?
Okay, so the small print on the box says the item was designed in the U.S., and then manufactured in China. But how long do you think it will be before the design labs will also be relocated across the Pacific?
I used to work with a guy who remembered how we shipped American 'oil for the lamps of China' (the title of a 1934 novel by Alice Tisdale Hobart, which was made into a 1935 movie starring Pat O'Brien). A mere 70+ years ago.
Thursday, March 16, 2006
Death of a Friend
Been away from this blog for the better part of a week. The remodelling project is getting to be wearying, but at least the end of one important part of it is in sight. To paraphrase Mr Churchill, it may not be the beginning of the end, but it sure looks like the end of the beginning.
* * * * *
Woke up early this morning to go to our friend's memorial Mass on the other side of the Bay. It was held at 10:00 a.m. in the Catholic Church in the retirement community where a number of his, and our, friends reside. The church was nearly full. The deceased's family members and close relatives made up a sizeable proportion of the crowd. Both he and his wife come from relatively large extended families, and it seemed that anyone who could make it to the Mass had made it a point to be there. There were infants and teenagers, young married people and older married people, and more retired personages than one can count
One group in the church that stood out was the community bowling club, to which the deceased had belonged for years. These folks were all in white outfits (flannels, I think they call them), which was the color of the hair of most of them. They sat in a close group at one side of the altar, visible to all those attending, and I have to say that their being there as a uniformed contingent gave the service a poignant edge.
The man's son delivered a moving eulogy at the Mass, and later, in a community hall that had been set up for the reception, he also showed family pictures projected onto a large screen which illustrated his parents' lives from their first meeting. The presentation was accompanied by a compendium of songs that the deceased loved. The couple had been married for 47 years. The passing of a friend is ever a reason for sorrow, but a little comfort can be gained from the knowledge that he suffers no more.
At the reception, family and friends had prepared the usual round of crudités, chips and dips, and all sorts of beverages. What was worth noting was that these same relatives and friends had also prepared a unique appetizer in the shape of a crunchy half-moon filled with meat and potatoes and then deep-fried. This delicious item is called a chilicote, and we learned from one of the ladies involved in the preparation, that a total of one thousand of them were made for the occasion. Certainly they turned out to be a big hit, particularly for those who had never sampled this delicacy before. And for those who had, the chilicote proved to be as irresistible as ever.
* * * * *
Woke up early this morning to go to our friend's memorial Mass on the other side of the Bay. It was held at 10:00 a.m. in the Catholic Church in the retirement community where a number of his, and our, friends reside. The church was nearly full. The deceased's family members and close relatives made up a sizeable proportion of the crowd. Both he and his wife come from relatively large extended families, and it seemed that anyone who could make it to the Mass had made it a point to be there. There were infants and teenagers, young married people and older married people, and more retired personages than one can count
One group in the church that stood out was the community bowling club, to which the deceased had belonged for years. These folks were all in white outfits (flannels, I think they call them), which was the color of the hair of most of them. They sat in a close group at one side of the altar, visible to all those attending, and I have to say that their being there as a uniformed contingent gave the service a poignant edge.
The man's son delivered a moving eulogy at the Mass, and later, in a community hall that had been set up for the reception, he also showed family pictures projected onto a large screen which illustrated his parents' lives from their first meeting. The presentation was accompanied by a compendium of songs that the deceased loved. The couple had been married for 47 years. The passing of a friend is ever a reason for sorrow, but a little comfort can be gained from the knowledge that he suffers no more.
At the reception, family and friends had prepared the usual round of crudités, chips and dips, and all sorts of beverages. What was worth noting was that these same relatives and friends had also prepared a unique appetizer in the shape of a crunchy half-moon filled with meat and potatoes and then deep-fried. This delicious item is called a chilicote, and we learned from one of the ladies involved in the preparation, that a total of one thousand of them were made for the occasion. Certainly they turned out to be a big hit, particularly for those who had never sampled this delicacy before. And for those who had, the chilicote proved to be as irresistible as ever.
Saturday, March 11, 2006
Tile and Tooth Problems
We're having a respite from the rains today, but the forecast is for more rain tonight, and even thunderstorms like we had yesterday. The sunny skies this morning made it possible for me to take my walk. It was quite cold, though, cold enough that I wore my thermal underwear for the first time in several years.
The workmen are here again, redoing the tiles in the bathroom. The job the first tile guy had done turned out to be unsatisfactory, so the entire job had to be broken up and carted off. What a waste of time and material.
The pounding on the walls was more severe this time around, because a sledgehammer had to be used to break up the tile and then the remnants chipped off the non-porous backing material.
Instead of the two weeks that the contractor had estimated, we are now into four weeks, and counting. They are working this weekend to finish up as quickly as possible. The rains had not been helpful at all, as the tiler and his associate needed to work outside to get tiles cut on that special saw they use. A messy business at best. The dust is again all around, and the house will require another thorough cleaning when the job's finished.
And to make matters worse, my tooth problem is still with me, and the earliest appointment I could make with the dentist is Thursday.
Friday, March 10, 2006
Buying time
Well, yes, in a manner of speaking, you can buy time.
One way to buy time is when you put money in the parking meter. And, as with anything else, with the passage of time, it gets ever more expensive to do that.
In our area, it was actually for many years quite cheap to buy time. Up until about ten or so years ago, before the traffic people re-calibrated or, in some cases, replaced the parking meters in the downtown shopping area, a penny would get you six minutes, and a dime was good for an hour's worth of parking. This was when the parking meters in the great City of San Francisco were charging 25 cents for a quarter hour, or a dollar an hour.
These days the downtown parking meters in our suburb don't even take pennies anymore. You must have nickels, dimes, or quarters. But they are still cheaper than in San Francisco, where I discovered yesterday to my surprise that 25 cents will now get you only ten minutes of parking in the Richmond district — which equates to a buck fifty an hour.
That is if you are lucky enough to find an empty parking spot, which in the Richmond district is a job that requires circling around in your car and burning expensive fossil fuel for almost as long a time as you can realistically expect to park.
And the sign on the meter tells you that you are still liable to get ticketed if the meter happens to be broken. How about that for making you feel welcome in the City?
One way to buy time is when you put money in the parking meter. And, as with anything else, with the passage of time, it gets ever more expensive to do that.
In our area, it was actually for many years quite cheap to buy time. Up until about ten or so years ago, before the traffic people re-calibrated or, in some cases, replaced the parking meters in the downtown shopping area, a penny would get you six minutes, and a dime was good for an hour's worth of parking. This was when the parking meters in the great City of San Francisco were charging 25 cents for a quarter hour, or a dollar an hour.
These days the downtown parking meters in our suburb don't even take pennies anymore. You must have nickels, dimes, or quarters. But they are still cheaper than in San Francisco, where I discovered yesterday to my surprise that 25 cents will now get you only ten minutes of parking in the Richmond district — which equates to a buck fifty an hour.
That is if you are lucky enough to find an empty parking spot, which in the Richmond district is a job that requires circling around in your car and burning expensive fossil fuel for almost as long a time as you can realistically expect to park.
And the sign on the meter tells you that you are still liable to get ticketed if the meter happens to be broken. How about that for making you feel welcome in the City?
Wednesday, March 08, 2006
Why We Like Movies
This will be stating the obvious, but what the heck.
Ever since we were children, we loved stories. We grew up on stories of one kind or another — starting with fairy tales and other nursery stories, proceeding to romantic stories, stories of chivalry and derring-do, love stories, war stories, the whole shebang.
As we became adults we would seek escape from the travails of the workaday world through stories. With maturity came greater sophistication in our choice of stories and story-tellers. Novels about crime, revenge, the battle between good and evil, the foibles of the human condition, and above all, love, in all its variations. Plot, characterization, setting, all these elements became important to our enjoyment of a good story, as did of course the skill and the reputation of the storyteller.
We got our stories from books and from the movies, and later from television. But I think it was the movies that really revolutionized storytelling. Nowadays it's pretty common to hear someone say, when asked if they read such-and-such a best-selling novel, "No, I'm waiting for the movie."
Sound is a very important element in movies, and nowadays we could not imagine a movie without it, whether it be a simple ingredient such as voice-over narration, or a more elaborate musical background to accompany the images. Moviemakers nowadays use sound as part of the storytelling process, not just to embellish the story line as they used to do in the early days of cinema. Sound, and especially musical sound, adds dramatic effect to a movie in a way that images alone seldom can.
So the silent 'movies' became the 'talkies', and their wide-screen multi-channel surround-sound descendents continue to attract us in our theaters and in our homes, with stories that never seem to get old, no matter how many times they have been retold.
Sunday, March 05, 2006
Oscars
The 78th Academy Awards ceremony is over, and I'm very glad that "Crash" won for Best Picture, and not the hot favorite "Brokeback Mountain". I thought Jon Stewart did a fair-to-middling job as the host of the show, though to my mind, there are few people who can do it with the panache of a Billy Crystal.
I'm also happy that "Wallace and Gromit – The Curse of the Werewolf" won in the animation category. I always enjoyed the Aardvark productions, starting with their very first efforts.
But for me the best news at the event was the award for Best Documentary to "The March of the Penguins". If you have not yet seen this delightful film, created under the most difficult of conditions, about the annual migration of the Emperor Penguins to their very hostile mating grounds in Antarctica, I would simply say to you that you must see it. It's not just for kids, though they will be the ones who will enjoy it the most. Their parents and grandparents will love it as well.
My wife is not a great one for watching nature documentaries, but I think that with "Penguins" getting an Oscar, I can persuade her to see it now. I'd be quite willing to see it again with her.
I'm also happy that "Wallace and Gromit – The Curse of the Werewolf" won in the animation category. I always enjoyed the Aardvark productions, starting with their very first efforts.
But for me the best news at the event was the award for Best Documentary to "The March of the Penguins". If you have not yet seen this delightful film, created under the most difficult of conditions, about the annual migration of the Emperor Penguins to their very hostile mating grounds in Antarctica, I would simply say to you that you must see it. It's not just for kids, though they will be the ones who will enjoy it the most. Their parents and grandparents will love it as well.
My wife is not a great one for watching nature documentaries, but I think that with "Penguins" getting an Oscar, I can persuade her to see it now. I'd be quite willing to see it again with her.
Wednesday, March 01, 2006
Another Day Another Doctor
Another little problem creeps up on me, requiring a visit to the ophthalmologist (that's one of the big words I know with four consecutive consonants).
At the office, a modern one in a glass-fronted medical building in the heart of downtown, the receptionists are several, and all are busy. Not efficiently busy, but busily busy with businesslike busyness.
The office has eight doctors, of which it appears four are partners, and the other four are not. The partners are middle-aged Anglo and Jewish males, the non-partners are younger Asian women. The receptionists and billing clerks are mainly Latina and Asian women in their twenties and thirties. Please do not read anything into the demographics of this office, which is a real money-maker with its attached optical shop selling designer frames and specialty lenses. At least they have not yet, I don't think, outsourced anything to South Asia.
One of the receptionists eventually takes my medical insurance identification card for photocopying, and tells me to take a seat. Over there. I do. The magazines on the large coffee table in the reception area are the current crop. I pick up the March issue of the National Geographic. Immediately after I settle into a chair to look at Viktor Yushchenko's dioxin-damaged face, and start reading about the problems in the Ukraine, a pregnant nurse calls out my name and asks for my glasses.
I put the magazine down, get up, hand her my glasses, and blindly follow her vague waddle into one of the inner exam rooms.
Soon a Chinese woman doctor comes in to do the refraction (which, incidentally, my insurance does not cover, and has to be paid for in cash or plastic before I leave).
Hands me a black plastic paddle. Cover your left eye. Can you read this?
Yes.
Now, cover your right eye. What's the smallest text you can read?
E-Z-P-O.
Swings the swivelling multi-lensed machine over my face. I position my eyes at the eyepieces. She clicks once. That's one. Clicks again. That's two.
No response.
She tries again. One, two. Which one is clearer?
Two.
Another two clicks: One and two, which one's better?
One.
Again, one, two.
And so it goes for about fifteen sets of one-two's, until I tell her that there's no difference between one and two.
Turns out my eyesight has not changed since last year.
Eyedrops to dilate the pupils, then she sends me out to the waiting area. It takes about twenty minutes for the drops to do their stuff.
Eventually I am summoned back to be examined by one of the partner doctors. Gives me the glaucoma test, the bright white light lasering into my eye while I try to focus without blinking, on the tip of his nose.
I tell him about the little bump I see on my right eyeball, near the tearduct. He checks it out.
Is it bothering you? he asks.
Not really.
He does not think it's anything to worry about. If it gets bigger or starts bothering me, then I am to see him again. Shakes my hand, leads me to the payment desk. Latina clerk takes my credit card.
I go out into the street. The day is sunny and seems extra brilliant. But that's only because my pupils are still dilated from those eyedrops.
At the office, a modern one in a glass-fronted medical building in the heart of downtown, the receptionists are several, and all are busy. Not efficiently busy, but busily busy with businesslike busyness.
The office has eight doctors, of which it appears four are partners, and the other four are not. The partners are middle-aged Anglo and Jewish males, the non-partners are younger Asian women. The receptionists and billing clerks are mainly Latina and Asian women in their twenties and thirties. Please do not read anything into the demographics of this office, which is a real money-maker with its attached optical shop selling designer frames and specialty lenses. At least they have not yet, I don't think, outsourced anything to South Asia.
One of the receptionists eventually takes my medical insurance identification card for photocopying, and tells me to take a seat. Over there. I do. The magazines on the large coffee table in the reception area are the current crop. I pick up the March issue of the National Geographic. Immediately after I settle into a chair to look at Viktor Yushchenko's dioxin-damaged face, and start reading about the problems in the Ukraine, a pregnant nurse calls out my name and asks for my glasses.
I put the magazine down, get up, hand her my glasses, and blindly follow her vague waddle into one of the inner exam rooms.
Soon a Chinese woman doctor comes in to do the refraction (which, incidentally, my insurance does not cover, and has to be paid for in cash or plastic before I leave).
Hands me a black plastic paddle. Cover your left eye. Can you read this?
Yes.
Now, cover your right eye. What's the smallest text you can read?
E-Z-P-O.
Swings the swivelling multi-lensed machine over my face. I position my eyes at the eyepieces. She clicks once. That's one. Clicks again. That's two.
No response.
She tries again. One, two. Which one is clearer?
Two.
Another two clicks: One and two, which one's better?
One.
Again, one, two.
And so it goes for about fifteen sets of one-two's, until I tell her that there's no difference between one and two.
Turns out my eyesight has not changed since last year.
Eyedrops to dilate the pupils, then she sends me out to the waiting area. It takes about twenty minutes for the drops to do their stuff.
Eventually I am summoned back to be examined by one of the partner doctors. Gives me the glaucoma test, the bright white light lasering into my eye while I try to focus without blinking, on the tip of his nose.
I tell him about the little bump I see on my right eyeball, near the tearduct. He checks it out.
Is it bothering you? he asks.
Not really.
He does not think it's anything to worry about. If it gets bigger or starts bothering me, then I am to see him again. Shakes my hand, leads me to the payment desk. Latina clerk takes my credit card.
I go out into the street. The day is sunny and seems extra brilliant. But that's only because my pupils are still dilated from those eyedrops.
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