Folks, I hope you'll indulge me for a few minutes. I should have done this last week, but I seem to recall promising to tell you why a certain French actor has me under such a spell. Her body of work comes under the "guilty pleasure" file, like chocolate for some and pasta for others. Here, then, is the text of an open letter I wrote last week.
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D'un admirateur Américain: An Open Letter
May 22, 2009
Mme. Isabelle Huppert
Exact Address Unknown
Paris
FRANCE
Dear Mme. Huppert:
The odds are that you may never read this letter—the Good Lord knows you have more important things to do, even at this moment. I have ruminated long and hard over what to tell you that other, far smarter and far deeper people have told you untold numbers of times before, in nearly every language.
The plain fact is that I am a thirty-year old man living in a house trailer in semi-rural Florida, which means I am not the target audience, I’m sure, for your prodigious body of work. I could go on and on about La Pianiste, Nue Propertie, and any number of films and the effect each of them had on me; I won’t here. However, let it just be said that beginning with only the most cursory viewing of La Pianiste some years ago and really going into overdrive in the past year, my admiration for you and your work has only expanded, and shall continue, I have no doubt.
Although I am an admirer of world cinema in general, I do not regularly follow the Cannes Film Festival. 2009 marks the first year that I have followed Cannes the way I normally do baseball. If the President of the Jury were virtually anyone else, I would turn the page of the newspaper, click the back button on the browser, or turn back to the classical music station. Mme. Huppert, you are not just anyone else. And this is the larger point. It seems to me that you occupy a higher state of being, and it makes you and your work stronger and richer than any actor now working in the world. The Dalai Lama speaks of three types of faith; my faith in you, Mme. Huppert, is the second type, aspiring faith. I wish I could attain the state of being that you and those like you occupy; that of apparent creative and spiritual invincibility.
Someone here in Florida asked me very recently who my favorite actor was. I could not bring myself to answer the question, not because I knew it was you, but because if I did tell that person, I’d be greeted at best with a blank stare. My wish for you, Madame Huppert, is that you and your films receive greater notice in these States. I wish people could talk about you, Depardieu, Deneuve, Ardant and the rest of the brilliant roster of French actors and filmmakers with the same reverence and love that greets most American and certain English actors here in this country.
Knowing that your work and you exist, Madame Huppert, has enriched my life and its experience in the same way that having and loving my family and my friends enrich them. Thank you from the bottom of my heart for being.
Very truly yours,
Matthew McIlvain
Tampa, Florida.
Sunday, May 24, 2009
Practical Destiny
May 24, 2009
I’m a big believer in the law of consequences. That is, I believe that if one thing did not happen in the past, then another thing would not have happened later. Let me give you a few examples.
I’m sure some of you have heard of Carlton Fisk, a catcher for the Boston Red Sox and later of the Chicago White Sox. Because of his home run in the twelfth inning of the sixth game of the 1975 World Series, it went seven games. Now think of this: six days earlier, Fisk’s batterymate that night, Luis Tiant, pitched a complete game in Game 4 against the Reds. Had the Red Sox not won that game, there would not be a sixth game in the first place. Extrapolate that just a bit further. If three days of rain had not interrupted the World Series, that sixth game would not have been played at night. The odds are more distant that the iconic image of Fisk waving the ball fair would even exist and become one the most enduring moments in sports television history. And had the ball not bounced fair off the left field foul pole in Fenway Park, it would not have just recently been rededicated in Carlton Fisk’s honor. Think about all that. Amazing, isn’t it?
Here’s a more recent example; there is an Austrian filmmaker called Michael Haneke. You’ll be reading about him soon enough. In 2000, he made a film called The Piano Teacher. Had Haneke never read the Elfriede Jelinek novel on which the film was based, he would never have made it, and my current idol, French actor Isabelle Huppert, would only have one Best Actress prize at Cannes and not two. Go a little further with this. If Haneke had never made The Piano Teacher, much less had the worldwide success with it that he did, he probably would not have had the ability or wherewithal to make a film called The White Ribbon. Two hours ago, Isabelle Huppert, the President of the Jury at the 62nd Cannes Film Festival, gave Michael Haneke the Palme D’Or for The White Ribbon. That exchange would never have happened if The Piano Teacher did not exist.
I just found another, better example. Take Helio Castroneves, a Brazilian who drives open-wheel race cars. Had he not won the Indianapolis 500 in back-to-back years (2001 and 2002), I might never have heard of him; he’d be one of thirty-three drivers in thirty-three cars running round and round the oval at Indianapolis. And if I didn’t know his name, I would never have known he won a celebrity ballroom dancing competition in 2007. Now consider this. In 2008, Castroneves was charged with tax evasion and tried. Had he been convicted, Castroneves would not have competed in, or even won, his third Indianapolis 500… one hour ago. He’d be in a cell, contemplating his fate.
My point, since I can practically feel the words on your tongue, is that if you study people you admire closely enough, you can see how the greatest moments of their lives were shaped. Nothing separates the great from the small quite like destiny; it’s the great intangible, greater than luck or chance. Our lives are planned for us long before we are born, but watching the course get charted is so much fun. Destiny is such a powerful force that I catch myself slack-jawed, and even at a loss for words. Which is what I am right now. I guess the amount I don’t understand about destiny could fill the Grand Canyon…
May 24, 2009
I’m a big believer in the law of consequences. That is, I believe that if one thing did not happen in the past, then another thing would not have happened later. Let me give you a few examples.
I’m sure some of you have heard of Carlton Fisk, a catcher for the Boston Red Sox and later of the Chicago White Sox. Because of his home run in the twelfth inning of the sixth game of the 1975 World Series, it went seven games. Now think of this: six days earlier, Fisk’s batterymate that night, Luis Tiant, pitched a complete game in Game 4 against the Reds. Had the Red Sox not won that game, there would not be a sixth game in the first place. Extrapolate that just a bit further. If three days of rain had not interrupted the World Series, that sixth game would not have been played at night. The odds are more distant that the iconic image of Fisk waving the ball fair would even exist and become one the most enduring moments in sports television history. And had the ball not bounced fair off the left field foul pole in Fenway Park, it would not have just recently been rededicated in Carlton Fisk’s honor. Think about all that. Amazing, isn’t it?
Here’s a more recent example; there is an Austrian filmmaker called Michael Haneke. You’ll be reading about him soon enough. In 2000, he made a film called The Piano Teacher. Had Haneke never read the Elfriede Jelinek novel on which the film was based, he would never have made it, and my current idol, French actor Isabelle Huppert, would only have one Best Actress prize at Cannes and not two. Go a little further with this. If Haneke had never made The Piano Teacher, much less had the worldwide success with it that he did, he probably would not have had the ability or wherewithal to make a film called The White Ribbon. Two hours ago, Isabelle Huppert, the President of the Jury at the 62nd Cannes Film Festival, gave Michael Haneke the Palme D’Or for The White Ribbon. That exchange would never have happened if The Piano Teacher did not exist.
I just found another, better example. Take Helio Castroneves, a Brazilian who drives open-wheel race cars. Had he not won the Indianapolis 500 in back-to-back years (2001 and 2002), I might never have heard of him; he’d be one of thirty-three drivers in thirty-three cars running round and round the oval at Indianapolis. And if I didn’t know his name, I would never have known he won a celebrity ballroom dancing competition in 2007. Now consider this. In 2008, Castroneves was charged with tax evasion and tried. Had he been convicted, Castroneves would not have competed in, or even won, his third Indianapolis 500… one hour ago. He’d be in a cell, contemplating his fate.
My point, since I can practically feel the words on your tongue, is that if you study people you admire closely enough, you can see how the greatest moments of their lives were shaped. Nothing separates the great from the small quite like destiny; it’s the great intangible, greater than luck or chance. Our lives are planned for us long before we are born, but watching the course get charted is so much fun. Destiny is such a powerful force that I catch myself slack-jawed, and even at a loss for words. Which is what I am right now. I guess the amount I don’t understand about destiny could fill the Grand Canyon…
Saturday, May 16, 2009
Odds and Ends
-- At the Cannes Film Festival, I'll tell you who I wonder about: the manager of the Haagen-Dazs shop across the street from the Palais du Festival, where all the competition films are shown. The managers of the Festival, in their infinite wisdom, have built bleaches across the street for onlookers, leavng the ice cream store obstructed. I wonder how business is at that store these days. Also, I wonder if employees of the shop are able to even see the arrivals. Maybe, if they had stepladders or giraffe's necks. But alas, probably not.
-- Last night, at the competition screening of Jane Campion's new film Bright Star, Juliette Binoche (whose name I'm sure Lauren Bacall still curses in her sleep) attended, leading an entourage conservatively of ten. Ostensibly, Binoche was there representing the Cinema du Monde foundation. An entourage of ten sounds about right for someone of Binoche's stature. Later that rainy night, the President of the Jury, Isabelle Huppert, attended a screening of a vampire film from South Korea (I think) called Thirst. Isabelle's entourage? Her assistant, carrying an umbrella. True greatness, I guess, travels very light. By the way, faithful readers will note that this is at least the third time I've referenced Isabelle in a blog entry. As soon as I can shape it into something that you are prepared to read, I will let you know why that this is so.
-- Today marks the annual running of the Preakness Stakes, the only horse race that's worth watching. The Kentucky Derby winner, as I''m sure you know, has to win this race in order to pursue horse racing's Triple Crown, which has never been done in my life. (Affirmed was the last to do this, when my mother was, I think, starting her second trimester with me.) My life will feel ever so slightly cocmplete if this ever comes to pass. I felt the same way about the Daytime Emmys, until Susan Lucci finally won hers in 1999. But that's another song, for later singing.
-- Here's today's grammar lesson: Tampa is to Orlando as Philadelphia to New York.
--Back to Cannes for a moment: I realize virtually everyone there is a charter member of the Mutual Admiration Society, but the first actor to ask his or her filmmaker if he wants to buy rhem a drink and take them somewhere private should get Honorable Mention.
--NYU held commencement excerises the other day at the new Yankee Stadium. Secretary of State Clinton received an Honorary Doctorate of Laws. For all of that, they still couldn't fill the joint--not even those thousand-dollar seats near the field.
--Going back to Juliette Binoche for a moment (this is stream-of-consciousness writing, don't you know): At Cannes, she declared herself to be a "citizen of the world." That's actually a very therapeutic way of living. One of the best things you can do for yourself is to free yourself of rigid borders and preconceptions, whether emotionally or physically. It doesn't matter if you travel to Tuscany or listen to its radio stations. Seeing how other people enjoy the world helps you become a citizen of the world,
--Get off the sandbox, Matthew. But be careful. Both Mme. Huppert and Mme. Binoche would notice if you broke your foot.
-- Last night, at the competition screening of Jane Campion's new film Bright Star, Juliette Binoche (whose name I'm sure Lauren Bacall still curses in her sleep) attended, leading an entourage conservatively of ten. Ostensibly, Binoche was there representing the Cinema du Monde foundation. An entourage of ten sounds about right for someone of Binoche's stature. Later that rainy night, the President of the Jury, Isabelle Huppert, attended a screening of a vampire film from South Korea (I think) called Thirst. Isabelle's entourage? Her assistant, carrying an umbrella. True greatness, I guess, travels very light. By the way, faithful readers will note that this is at least the third time I've referenced Isabelle in a blog entry. As soon as I can shape it into something that you are prepared to read, I will let you know why that this is so.
-- Today marks the annual running of the Preakness Stakes, the only horse race that's worth watching. The Kentucky Derby winner, as I''m sure you know, has to win this race in order to pursue horse racing's Triple Crown, which has never been done in my life. (Affirmed was the last to do this, when my mother was, I think, starting her second trimester with me.) My life will feel ever so slightly cocmplete if this ever comes to pass. I felt the same way about the Daytime Emmys, until Susan Lucci finally won hers in 1999. But that's another song, for later singing.
-- Here's today's grammar lesson: Tampa is to Orlando as Philadelphia to New York.
--Back to Cannes for a moment: I realize virtually everyone there is a charter member of the Mutual Admiration Society, but the first actor to ask his or her filmmaker if he wants to buy rhem a drink and take them somewhere private should get Honorable Mention.
--NYU held commencement excerises the other day at the new Yankee Stadium. Secretary of State Clinton received an Honorary Doctorate of Laws. For all of that, they still couldn't fill the joint--not even those thousand-dollar seats near the field.
--Going back to Juliette Binoche for a moment (this is stream-of-consciousness writing, don't you know): At Cannes, she declared herself to be a "citizen of the world." That's actually a very therapeutic way of living. One of the best things you can do for yourself is to free yourself of rigid borders and preconceptions, whether emotionally or physically. It doesn't matter if you travel to Tuscany or listen to its radio stations. Seeing how other people enjoy the world helps you become a citizen of the world,
--Get off the sandbox, Matthew. But be careful. Both Mme. Huppert and Mme. Binoche would notice if you broke your foot.
Sunday, May 10, 2009
HAPPIEST DAY
The happiest day of my life
Was the day I realized
How special I am.
The happiest day in the World
Was when I was sure
There was no one like me.
No one thinks quite like me
Talks quite like me.
Acts the way I do.
Thinks the way I do.
On this happy day
The skies were the most beautiful blue.
The grass was the most gorgeous green.
The sun shone brighter.
The wind blew the briskest.
And God was smiling.
He had given me the greatest gift in the world.
He wanted me to know how much
He loved me.
And on this day,
I truly loved him back.
The happiest day of my life…was today.
The happiest day of my life
Was the day I realized
How special I am.
The happiest day in the World
Was when I was sure
There was no one like me.
No one thinks quite like me
Talks quite like me.
Acts the way I do.
Thinks the way I do.
On this happy day
The skies were the most beautiful blue.
The grass was the most gorgeous green.
The sun shone brighter.
The wind blew the briskest.
And God was smiling.
He had given me the greatest gift in the world.
He wanted me to know how much
He loved me.
And on this day,
I truly loved him back.
The happiest day of my life…was today.
Saturday, May 9, 2009
The Dream
I dreamt the most
Beautiful Dream I’d ever
Dreamt last night.
I dreamt that I was doing
The most wonderful thing
A human being can do.
I saw myself
Making love
To a gorgeous, wondrous
Woman.
Only I know what
She looked like.
What she felt like.
But that smile
Could have lasted
An eternity.
I shall never forget that.
My dream went by
In a moment.
My memory will
Keep my dream
For always
And forever.
I dreamt the most
Beautiful Dream I’d ever
Dreamt last night.
I dreamt that I was doing
The most wonderful thing
A human being can do.
I saw myself
Making love
To a gorgeous, wondrous
Woman.
Only I know what
She looked like.
What she felt like.
But that smile
Could have lasted
An eternity.
I shall never forget that.
My dream went by
In a moment.
My memory will
Keep my dream
For always
And forever.
DIALSCAN BALTIMORE, SATURDAY, MAY 9, 2009
I’m not too sure I gave Baltimore a glowing review last time I visited, about a month ago. I guess I expected for Radio Free Charm City to be a bit more, I don’t know, charming. Maybe on a Saturday this is a possibility.
So we start at WBIS 1190, the business station that should, at least on Saturdays, when there’s not too much actual business to be done, billing itself as My Leisure and Information Station. We join it midway World of Boating. My father would appreciate it; he is actually a very good boatsman. I can remember at least twice Dad taking our family bareboating in the British Virgin Islands. Living on board a boat, whether for a day or for a week, is an amazing and altering experience. I should do it again one day, now that I’m older. It’s quite cute that World of Boating is produced by Overboard Productions, Inc., maybe overtly so. Here at 2:00PM EDT, CNN Radio comes on the air with its News on the Hour. Tornadoes, wildfires, and swine flu dominate the two-minute newsbreak from “The Most Trusted Name in News.” Moments later, in a referendum on how boring the management of WBIS thinks boating is, they switch to pre-recorded—yes, that harmful word, pre-recorded—material from Radio China International. Incongruously enough, the anchor on this pre-recorded program, purportedly originating from China is telling me what Pope Benedict XVI is doing. All right, enough of this.
Now, we did not visit WHFC-FM 91.1 when we last sampled Charm City’s radio palate. So you can imagine my delight when I turn over to it to find organ music being played. Baltimore’s most demanding radio listeners, it appears, do not have to go too terribly far for their classical music fix. WHFC is just two clicks down the FM dial from WBJC-FM 91.5, which I’ve heard and loved over the years. WHFC originates from Harford Community College in nearby Bel Air, and looking at its website, appears to have some really neat and funky stuff besides classical music; shows feature jazz music, blues music, Celtic, New Age, just about everything. It’s an honest-to-God variety station. A big, big smile just crossed my face; the Announcer just put on John Williams’ Excerpts from Close Encounters of the Third Kind; Zubin Mehta conducting the Los Angeles Philharmonic. Would you excuse me for about ten minutes while I glory in this?
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Ellen Hopkins just signed off, introducing me to Mendelssohn’s Fifth Symphony, a/k/a his Reformation Symphony; a travel show will supersede the World’s Greatest Music in twenty-eight minutes. If every corporate peon who ever ran a “variety” station largely predicated on playing the same fifty “Soft and Contemporary” in hot rotation every day stopped here to listen to this, at least one of them would be making some drastic changes.
Over at WBJC, which was our next port of call anyway, it’s their Saturday Operafest. There must be an intermission afoot—there’s a roundtable similar to that which you might hear on the Metropolitan Opera’s Saturday Aftermoon broadcasts in the winter. It was evidently pre-recorded; the broadcaster for the less well-known Lyric Opera of Chicago broadcasts is taking us into Pagliacci. I guess opera fans need their fix, too. But I prefer the Met’s majestic broadcasts by a wide margin. Every Saturday for twenty-two weeks, it’s must listening for a happier and more serene life. Since Margaret Juntwait took the broadcasts over in 2004 from stodgy, dry Peter Allen, the Met is Appointment Radio times fifty. There are only two reasons I’d want satellite radio—all the baseball games I’d want; and Met Opera Radio when there’s no baseball to be played. But I’d be missing out on all the great jazz and talk, wouldn’t I? Besides which, satellite radio costs too damn much.
Let’s to the sports stations—and we start at WJZ-AM 1300, which I can tell you contains a little bit of local programming, thank goodness. Most of the rest of the time, it’s ESPN Radio. And just now, it’s SportsCenter Saturday. The Yankees just happen to be in Baltimore this weekend, and that’s exactly who’s under discussion at present. (Funny how the Yankees always seem to be in the city whose radio I’m sampling; can’t imagine why.) Andrew Marchand of the New York Post is trying to explain why the Yanks can’t win in the new ballpark that exhausts all superlatives…their own. At ESPN headquarters, Amy Lawrence holds court, her voice a miniature Tennessee Williams play—Summer and Smoke. Lots of it. In commercial, some dumkampf with no personality inveighs against starting pitchers who can’t throw more than 100 pitches.
We keep moving, realizing that there’s another station I did not visit: WVIE-AM 1370. Not so very long ago, they broadcast women’s programming—Dr. Laura, Laura Ingraham, Laura who was the sixth city councilwoman from the left at the Mayor’s press conference yesterday. Then, at some heretofore unknown point in the last two years or so, it changed formats and broadcasts Fox Sports Radio. Right at the moment, some imbecile thinks that college lacrosse is worthy of broadcast. I promise, only about eight people are listening. Make that seven.
Matthew pursed his lips, took a swig of Aquafina, and pointed his web browser to wnst.com. He clicked on the “listen live” button, and was at least slightly cheered to hear a conversation about the Baltimore Orioles. Matthew found it a bit of a shame to hear it coming from two testosterone cases that had irritating radio voices. And could that possibly have been a smattering of techno music Matthew heard in the background? He knew that not everyone who sat down at the radio mike could be Edward R. Murrow or Vin Scully, but a personality was not too much to ask from a sports-talk host. He should have stayed at WJZ a while longer. Summer and Smoke were just a little easier to take in comparison. With that, Matthew turned off the Windows Media Player for the moment and took another hit of by-now lukewarm Aquafina.
I skip WCBM-AM 680 entirely; a lawyer is on.
By the time I hit WBAL-AM 1090, and realize that Sporting News Radio is on and will be for six big hours, I realize that I have managed to squeeze all the charm out of Charm City’s Saturday. At least for four hours, by which time the Yanks and Orioles will be playing.
By the way, I’d have done a Dialscan during the week; I’ve just been too exhausted to do; please accept my apologies. But know this: the next one will be something entirely different.
I’m not too sure I gave Baltimore a glowing review last time I visited, about a month ago. I guess I expected for Radio Free Charm City to be a bit more, I don’t know, charming. Maybe on a Saturday this is a possibility.
So we start at WBIS 1190, the business station that should, at least on Saturdays, when there’s not too much actual business to be done, billing itself as My Leisure and Information Station. We join it midway World of Boating. My father would appreciate it; he is actually a very good boatsman. I can remember at least twice Dad taking our family bareboating in the British Virgin Islands. Living on board a boat, whether for a day or for a week, is an amazing and altering experience. I should do it again one day, now that I’m older. It’s quite cute that World of Boating is produced by Overboard Productions, Inc., maybe overtly so. Here at 2:00PM EDT, CNN Radio comes on the air with its News on the Hour. Tornadoes, wildfires, and swine flu dominate the two-minute newsbreak from “The Most Trusted Name in News.” Moments later, in a referendum on how boring the management of WBIS thinks boating is, they switch to pre-recorded—yes, that harmful word, pre-recorded—material from Radio China International. Incongruously enough, the anchor on this pre-recorded program, purportedly originating from China is telling me what Pope Benedict XVI is doing. All right, enough of this.
Now, we did not visit WHFC-FM 91.1 when we last sampled Charm City’s radio palate. So you can imagine my delight when I turn over to it to find organ music being played. Baltimore’s most demanding radio listeners, it appears, do not have to go too terribly far for their classical music fix. WHFC is just two clicks down the FM dial from WBJC-FM 91.5, which I’ve heard and loved over the years. WHFC originates from Harford Community College in nearby Bel Air, and looking at its website, appears to have some really neat and funky stuff besides classical music; shows feature jazz music, blues music, Celtic, New Age, just about everything. It’s an honest-to-God variety station. A big, big smile just crossed my face; the Announcer just put on John Williams’ Excerpts from Close Encounters of the Third Kind; Zubin Mehta conducting the Los Angeles Philharmonic. Would you excuse me for about ten minutes while I glory in this?
##################################################
Ellen Hopkins just signed off, introducing me to Mendelssohn’s Fifth Symphony, a/k/a his Reformation Symphony; a travel show will supersede the World’s Greatest Music in twenty-eight minutes. If every corporate peon who ever ran a “variety” station largely predicated on playing the same fifty “Soft and Contemporary” in hot rotation every day stopped here to listen to this, at least one of them would be making some drastic changes.
Over at WBJC, which was our next port of call anyway, it’s their Saturday Operafest. There must be an intermission afoot—there’s a roundtable similar to that which you might hear on the Metropolitan Opera’s Saturday Aftermoon broadcasts in the winter. It was evidently pre-recorded; the broadcaster for the less well-known Lyric Opera of Chicago broadcasts is taking us into Pagliacci. I guess opera fans need their fix, too. But I prefer the Met’s majestic broadcasts by a wide margin. Every Saturday for twenty-two weeks, it’s must listening for a happier and more serene life. Since Margaret Juntwait took the broadcasts over in 2004 from stodgy, dry Peter Allen, the Met is Appointment Radio times fifty. There are only two reasons I’d want satellite radio—all the baseball games I’d want; and Met Opera Radio when there’s no baseball to be played. But I’d be missing out on all the great jazz and talk, wouldn’t I? Besides which, satellite radio costs too damn much.
Let’s to the sports stations—and we start at WJZ-AM 1300, which I can tell you contains a little bit of local programming, thank goodness. Most of the rest of the time, it’s ESPN Radio. And just now, it’s SportsCenter Saturday. The Yankees just happen to be in Baltimore this weekend, and that’s exactly who’s under discussion at present. (Funny how the Yankees always seem to be in the city whose radio I’m sampling; can’t imagine why.) Andrew Marchand of the New York Post is trying to explain why the Yanks can’t win in the new ballpark that exhausts all superlatives…their own. At ESPN headquarters, Amy Lawrence holds court, her voice a miniature Tennessee Williams play—Summer and Smoke. Lots of it. In commercial, some dumkampf with no personality inveighs against starting pitchers who can’t throw more than 100 pitches.
We keep moving, realizing that there’s another station I did not visit: WVIE-AM 1370. Not so very long ago, they broadcast women’s programming—Dr. Laura, Laura Ingraham, Laura who was the sixth city councilwoman from the left at the Mayor’s press conference yesterday. Then, at some heretofore unknown point in the last two years or so, it changed formats and broadcasts Fox Sports Radio. Right at the moment, some imbecile thinks that college lacrosse is worthy of broadcast. I promise, only about eight people are listening. Make that seven.
Matthew pursed his lips, took a swig of Aquafina, and pointed his web browser to wnst.com. He clicked on the “listen live” button, and was at least slightly cheered to hear a conversation about the Baltimore Orioles. Matthew found it a bit of a shame to hear it coming from two testosterone cases that had irritating radio voices. And could that possibly have been a smattering of techno music Matthew heard in the background? He knew that not everyone who sat down at the radio mike could be Edward R. Murrow or Vin Scully, but a personality was not too much to ask from a sports-talk host. He should have stayed at WJZ a while longer. Summer and Smoke were just a little easier to take in comparison. With that, Matthew turned off the Windows Media Player for the moment and took another hit of by-now lukewarm Aquafina.
I skip WCBM-AM 680 entirely; a lawyer is on.
By the time I hit WBAL-AM 1090, and realize that Sporting News Radio is on and will be for six big hours, I realize that I have managed to squeeze all the charm out of Charm City’s Saturday. At least for four hours, by which time the Yanks and Orioles will be playing.
By the way, I’d have done a Dialscan during the week; I’ve just been too exhausted to do; please accept my apologies. But know this: the next one will be something entirely different.
Saturday, May 2, 2009
Watch What You’re Doing
Al Pacino tells the story of the night he quit drinking, in 1977. He was at a tipping point in his career, just having won his Tony Award for The Basic Training of Pavlo Hummel. Demands for his services and opinions were flying at Al from all corners and he had turned to drink to deal with the strain. One night, Al was out drinking with his friend Charlie Laughton, who was worrying for the great actor. Just as Al was uncapping the bottle, Charlie told him words to this effect: “Al, think about what you’re doing. You’re pouring the bottle. You’re putting the glass to your lips. It’s an action. I can’t prevent you from doing that, but just think about what you’re doing. Please, Al.” Pacino thought for a moment, recapped the bottle, and so far as I know, hasn’t had a drink since. Because of that thought, Al Pacino’s creative brilliance has gone nearly untrammeled for more than thirty years.
I bring this up only to raise the idea that often, a lot of us do things by rote, without actually thinking about what we do, considering the consequences. And just as often, we think very little about what other people are actually doing at any given moment. Let’s see if I can.
It is 5:03PM EDT, Saturday, May 2, 2009. I am sitting in a corner of the Panera Bread at the Clearwater Mall in Clearwater, Florida. I just raised a plastic cup containing Pepsi to my lips, took a sip and wiped my lips with a brown napkin made apparently from recycled elements. I am bobbing my left leg up and down, as it sometimes does when I am inspired. The lady just down from me, an Asian lady wearing a blue sundress, puts her feet up and re-immerses herself in her studies; a large schooltext lies open in front of her, as does a large three-ring binder. I scratch below my nose with my right thumb. The Asian Lady is packing her schooltext and other belongings and moving, as an acquaintance has beckoned her company. Outside, it is a glorious Florida late afternoon. I close one eye to better appreciate it through the blinds—there is nary a cloud in the sky and a gentle breeze blows. I scratch again below my nose, this time with a napkin. I pause to reapply hand-sanitizing spray to my hands, cogent of the spread of germs, particularly in view of a recent flu outbreak. A father and daughter have passed me, the restrooms being directly behind me. And now they come back, as another man passes by.
Sure, the above paragraph sounds like play-by-play of mundane doings, but I am trying to bring out the idea of awareness. I am aware that just as quickly as one of the employees brought a high chair to the stack in front of me, two of them were just as quickly taken away by a family with small children. I am aware that a piano scherzo was, until just now, wafting through the speakers, and now is replaced by a string trio. I think that if this is not what the metaphysicians and New Age teachers call being in the present moment, then I have maybe just scratched the surface.
Now let me expand on this, if I can, and take this idea outside the confines of Panera Bread.
It is now 5:19PM, EDT. In Boston, at the Seaport World Trade Center, the actor Diane Keaton is more than likely at the tail end of a lecture on leadership; about 1,500 business leaders, nearly all of them women, are in attendance. Let’s say I’m at this lecture. Am I taking notes? If so, can I even make out what I’m writing in the semi-dark? Do I have a tape recorder to record what Diane is saying? Have I had to reload the machine? Are the muscles in my mouth exhausted from smiling so much because I’m in the presence of so legendary a figure as Diane Keaton? I’m asking myself, will she take questions? If so, does she employ ex-Secret Service agents named Bruce and Joe to gently remove me from the room lest I bring up Woody, Warren, or Al? If that’s what’s on my mind, then I haven’t been paying attention. The point is, when Diane Keaton—or anyone like her—talks, you better listen and remember what she says.
Eleven minutes have elapsed. In fifty-four minutes, for the 135th time, the Kentucky Derby is going to be run. Let’s say, for purposes of this activity, by what can only be deemed as Divine Providence, I’m on line at the betting window. In front of me is a sheik with a moustache and a gray nubby silk suit; behind me is a tanned, patrician Southern gentleman wearing his money like a second tanned skin. Like them, I have a very large amount of money in my pocket that I would bet on a horse. I look up and the morning-line favorite has been scratched. I have two choices. I can plunk down the six-figure sum I’ve been entrusted with on horse X. Horse X can be eased in mid-stretch, I would not be able to make my mortgage payment, my wife would divorce me and bar me from ever seeing my children, I’d lose my job and I’d end up wandering the streets of Tampa growing a messianic beard, wearing tattered clothing and telling you, dear Reader, the exact time and date of the Armageddon.
Or, I can walk away, rejoin my wife and children, and watch the nineteen horses splash down the homestretch with a clear conscience. What would you do if you were me?
Even more importantly, what would you—yes, you—do?
If I’ve done my job with any efficiency, are you asking yourself: Do I know where I am? Do I know where I’m going from here? Did that son of a bitch McIlvain make any damn sense?
I just ask this: if you respond to this, be aware of your fingers dancing across the keyboard.
Al Pacino tells the story of the night he quit drinking, in 1977. He was at a tipping point in his career, just having won his Tony Award for The Basic Training of Pavlo Hummel. Demands for his services and opinions were flying at Al from all corners and he had turned to drink to deal with the strain. One night, Al was out drinking with his friend Charlie Laughton, who was worrying for the great actor. Just as Al was uncapping the bottle, Charlie told him words to this effect: “Al, think about what you’re doing. You’re pouring the bottle. You’re putting the glass to your lips. It’s an action. I can’t prevent you from doing that, but just think about what you’re doing. Please, Al.” Pacino thought for a moment, recapped the bottle, and so far as I know, hasn’t had a drink since. Because of that thought, Al Pacino’s creative brilliance has gone nearly untrammeled for more than thirty years.
I bring this up only to raise the idea that often, a lot of us do things by rote, without actually thinking about what we do, considering the consequences. And just as often, we think very little about what other people are actually doing at any given moment. Let’s see if I can.
It is 5:03PM EDT, Saturday, May 2, 2009. I am sitting in a corner of the Panera Bread at the Clearwater Mall in Clearwater, Florida. I just raised a plastic cup containing Pepsi to my lips, took a sip and wiped my lips with a brown napkin made apparently from recycled elements. I am bobbing my left leg up and down, as it sometimes does when I am inspired. The lady just down from me, an Asian lady wearing a blue sundress, puts her feet up and re-immerses herself in her studies; a large schooltext lies open in front of her, as does a large three-ring binder. I scratch below my nose with my right thumb. The Asian Lady is packing her schooltext and other belongings and moving, as an acquaintance has beckoned her company. Outside, it is a glorious Florida late afternoon. I close one eye to better appreciate it through the blinds—there is nary a cloud in the sky and a gentle breeze blows. I scratch again below my nose, this time with a napkin. I pause to reapply hand-sanitizing spray to my hands, cogent of the spread of germs, particularly in view of a recent flu outbreak. A father and daughter have passed me, the restrooms being directly behind me. And now they come back, as another man passes by.
Sure, the above paragraph sounds like play-by-play of mundane doings, but I am trying to bring out the idea of awareness. I am aware that just as quickly as one of the employees brought a high chair to the stack in front of me, two of them were just as quickly taken away by a family with small children. I am aware that a piano scherzo was, until just now, wafting through the speakers, and now is replaced by a string trio. I think that if this is not what the metaphysicians and New Age teachers call being in the present moment, then I have maybe just scratched the surface.
Now let me expand on this, if I can, and take this idea outside the confines of Panera Bread.
It is now 5:19PM, EDT. In Boston, at the Seaport World Trade Center, the actor Diane Keaton is more than likely at the tail end of a lecture on leadership; about 1,500 business leaders, nearly all of them women, are in attendance. Let’s say I’m at this lecture. Am I taking notes? If so, can I even make out what I’m writing in the semi-dark? Do I have a tape recorder to record what Diane is saying? Have I had to reload the machine? Are the muscles in my mouth exhausted from smiling so much because I’m in the presence of so legendary a figure as Diane Keaton? I’m asking myself, will she take questions? If so, does she employ ex-Secret Service agents named Bruce and Joe to gently remove me from the room lest I bring up Woody, Warren, or Al? If that’s what’s on my mind, then I haven’t been paying attention. The point is, when Diane Keaton—or anyone like her—talks, you better listen and remember what she says.
Eleven minutes have elapsed. In fifty-four minutes, for the 135th time, the Kentucky Derby is going to be run. Let’s say, for purposes of this activity, by what can only be deemed as Divine Providence, I’m on line at the betting window. In front of me is a sheik with a moustache and a gray nubby silk suit; behind me is a tanned, patrician Southern gentleman wearing his money like a second tanned skin. Like them, I have a very large amount of money in my pocket that I would bet on a horse. I look up and the morning-line favorite has been scratched. I have two choices. I can plunk down the six-figure sum I’ve been entrusted with on horse X. Horse X can be eased in mid-stretch, I would not be able to make my mortgage payment, my wife would divorce me and bar me from ever seeing my children, I’d lose my job and I’d end up wandering the streets of Tampa growing a messianic beard, wearing tattered clothing and telling you, dear Reader, the exact time and date of the Armageddon.
Or, I can walk away, rejoin my wife and children, and watch the nineteen horses splash down the homestretch with a clear conscience. What would you do if you were me?
Even more importantly, what would you—yes, you—do?
If I’ve done my job with any efficiency, are you asking yourself: Do I know where I am? Do I know where I’m going from here? Did that son of a bitch McIlvain make any damn sense?
I just ask this: if you respond to this, be aware of your fingers dancing across the keyboard.
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