I have not commented much on politics and what is happening in the world lately. Certainly, for those who have read the Facebook notes, not as much as I used to. Sometimes, though, I feel the need to write a little bit. And so, in this month of record blog postings, let me make one more superfluous, poorly written post.
Very briefly: I don't know, honestly, where I fall on the debate on our actions in Libya. I would say that I am glad we were able to fashion a coalition of other nations, several of which are actually comitting military assets to the conflict. I don't know the geo-political calculus that got us involved in this war, but as to the use of force (a blunt instrument though it may be) to safe guard the lives of civilians, I would suggest there are about 7,000 tortured souls haunting the fields near Srebinica that would argue it may be worth trying.
Monday, March 28, 2011
Saturday, March 26, 2011
US Government Super Classico! The Republican Starting 11
The other day at work I was listening to The Thomas Jefferson Hour, and during the episode Thomas Jefferson (as portrayed by humanities scholar Clay Jenkinson) suggested that if we can not bring ourselves to tear up our constitution every generation and write a new one (an idea that the real TJ was in favor of), then perhaps it would be good to convene a new convention that would at least clarify some of the more contentious points. It's obvious, even to a former statesman who has been dead for nearly 200 years, that we are having a bit of a problem with the 2nd Amendment and with separation of Church and State, among other things. So maybe, instead of trying to divine the intention the founders, we should sit down and decide what these things mean for us today, and write those clarifications into that most sacred of documents.
An interesting idea, I thought. But who would get to go to this convention? I puzzled over this for a moment, but then decided it would be far more fun to pick a starting 11 for both the Republicans and Democrats if they were ever to play each other in soccer. It turned out to be extremely difficult. Just choosing formations for both teams took a good twenty minutes. But, after an afternoon of fretfully pouring over team sheets, stats, and abilities, I think I've got it.
So, first, the Republicans (Dems lineup will be posted next week).
Formation: The Republicans like to play in a 4-4-2. Even as most modern soccer teams are beginning to favor different formations that encourage a more free-flowing attack, the Republicans (and the English National Team), continue to stubbornly cling to this outdated, outmoded, conservative formation.
Keeper: Glenn Beck. Keepers must be crazy enough to be willing to stand in front of a man shooting a large plastic ball at incredible speed, knowing full well that while goal keepers can use their hands saving a shot may mean saving it with your balls. And that hurts. A lot. On the other hand, a keeper must be smart enough and to run the defense and know his position. Glen Beck is obviously incredibly crazy but also crazy smart. Plus, he got a clause written into his contract where he gets ice cream for every shutout.
Left Full Back: Rush Limbaugh. Naturally, he will want to play on the right wing instead of the left, and assuaging his considerable ego and getting him to play in his natural position will be hard for any manager.
Center Back (Left): Dick Cheney. Big on a defense an a terrible shot, it just makes sense to put him here. Note to the trainer: heart attack risk. Big time.
Center Back (Right): Chris Christie. Chris Christie is an able organizer and administrator who takes no B.S. from anyone. Perfect qualities for a center back. Because of his apparent administrative skills, I would tap him to be team captain. He will say "no, no, no, I don't want to be a captain, I just want to be the governor", but keep pressing. He'll come around.
Right Full Back: Larry Csonka. Little bit of confusion here. The Republicans got the full back positions in soccer and football mixed up, and asked 5 time pro-baller Larry Csonka if he wanted to play. He said sure (he was free). The manager will have some things to sort on the pitch (that'd be soccer for "field"), but I think it can work.
Side Midfielder (Left): Rand Paul. Should be a good position for him, as Paul the Younger tends to spend much of his time in left field anyway.
Center Midfielder (Left): John Boehner. An able defender who will join in and even initiate an attack, Boehner is expected to be the backbone of the Republican midfield.
Center Midfielder (Right): A Piece of Apple Pie, baked by Michelle Bachmann. In what is both a symbolic (nothing is more American than Apple Pie) and nose thumbing (if an Apple Pie can play soccer, then...) gesture, the Republicans made the bold selection of a slice of Apple Pie for the other center midfield. The Democrats should not take the Apple Pie lightly though. Bachmann's pie garnered a blue ribbon at the 2004 Minnesota State Fair, and while on loan to Olympic Marseilles in 2006 scored 9 goals in 28 appearances with an astounding 8 yellow cards and 1 very controversial straight red.
Side Midfielder (Right): Marco Rubio. Young and energetic, Rubio will add a little bit of energy into what is otherwise (for the most part..read on) a side comprised of old white men and a slice of pretty incredible pie.
Center Forward: Sarah Palin. Cunning and sharp with a nose for making the most of her opportunities. Some may question her experience, but when she looks outside across the sound at Russia she notices sometimes that the people over there are kicking this little ball about, so she should be ready to go.
Center Forward: Jesus Christ. Originally it was supposed to be Rudy Giuliani, but in training sessions Giuliani just couldn't convert Rubio's crosses into anything worthwhile, and he wasn't gelling well with the Apple Pie or Palin, which form a crucial triangle. So one day, Glenn Beck kneeled down and prayed "Oh God, Giuliani is really bad at soccer. With him our team, I don't think we can win. Please God, send us someone who can score goals." You know what? Sometimes God works in mysterious ways, like when he takes the form of a little man from Asbury Park who loves him some ski-ball. Othertimes, God works in very direct and clear ways, like sending his only begotten son back to Earth to be the Republican striker. Another great thing about the Christ is that he can turn water into Gatorade, thus saving the republican team (and you, the taxpayer...did you really think these guys were going to pay their own ways?) a little bit of dough.
Photo Credit: Graphic comes from Wikipedia Commons and is authored by MAXDZ8, based on work by Mario Ortegon.
An interesting idea, I thought. But who would get to go to this convention? I puzzled over this for a moment, but then decided it would be far more fun to pick a starting 11 for both the Republicans and Democrats if they were ever to play each other in soccer. It turned out to be extremely difficult. Just choosing formations for both teams took a good twenty minutes. But, after an afternoon of fretfully pouring over team sheets, stats, and abilities, I think I've got it.
So, first, the Republicans (Dems lineup will be posted next week).
Formation: The Republicans like to play in a 4-4-2. Even as most modern soccer teams are beginning to favor different formations that encourage a more free-flowing attack, the Republicans (and the English National Team), continue to stubbornly cling to this outdated, outmoded, conservative formation.
Keeper: Glenn Beck. Keepers must be crazy enough to be willing to stand in front of a man shooting a large plastic ball at incredible speed, knowing full well that while goal keepers can use their hands saving a shot may mean saving it with your balls. And that hurts. A lot. On the other hand, a keeper must be smart enough and to run the defense and know his position. Glen Beck is obviously incredibly crazy but also crazy smart. Plus, he got a clause written into his contract where he gets ice cream for every shutout.
Left Full Back: Rush Limbaugh. Naturally, he will want to play on the right wing instead of the left, and assuaging his considerable ego and getting him to play in his natural position will be hard for any manager.
Center Back (Left): Dick Cheney. Big on a defense an a terrible shot, it just makes sense to put him here. Note to the trainer: heart attack risk. Big time.
Center Back (Right): Chris Christie. Chris Christie is an able organizer and administrator who takes no B.S. from anyone. Perfect qualities for a center back. Because of his apparent administrative skills, I would tap him to be team captain. He will say "no, no, no, I don't want to be a captain, I just want to be the governor", but keep pressing. He'll come around.
Right Full Back: Larry Csonka. Little bit of confusion here. The Republicans got the full back positions in soccer and football mixed up, and asked 5 time pro-baller Larry Csonka if he wanted to play. He said sure (he was free). The manager will have some things to sort on the pitch (that'd be soccer for "field"), but I think it can work.
Side Midfielder (Left): Rand Paul. Should be a good position for him, as Paul the Younger tends to spend much of his time in left field anyway.
Center Midfielder (Left): John Boehner. An able defender who will join in and even initiate an attack, Boehner is expected to be the backbone of the Republican midfield.
Center Midfielder (Right): A Piece of Apple Pie, baked by Michelle Bachmann. In what is both a symbolic (nothing is more American than Apple Pie) and nose thumbing (if an Apple Pie can play soccer, then...) gesture, the Republicans made the bold selection of a slice of Apple Pie for the other center midfield. The Democrats should not take the Apple Pie lightly though. Bachmann's pie garnered a blue ribbon at the 2004 Minnesota State Fair, and while on loan to Olympic Marseilles in 2006 scored 9 goals in 28 appearances with an astounding 8 yellow cards and 1 very controversial straight red.
Side Midfielder (Right): Marco Rubio. Young and energetic, Rubio will add a little bit of energy into what is otherwise (for the most part..read on) a side comprised of old white men and a slice of pretty incredible pie.
Center Forward: Sarah Palin. Cunning and sharp with a nose for making the most of her opportunities. Some may question her experience, but when she looks outside across the sound at Russia she notices sometimes that the people over there are kicking this little ball about, so she should be ready to go.
Center Forward: Jesus Christ. Originally it was supposed to be Rudy Giuliani, but in training sessions Giuliani just couldn't convert Rubio's crosses into anything worthwhile, and he wasn't gelling well with the Apple Pie or Palin, which form a crucial triangle. So one day, Glenn Beck kneeled down and prayed "Oh God, Giuliani is really bad at soccer. With him our team, I don't think we can win. Please God, send us someone who can score goals." You know what? Sometimes God works in mysterious ways, like when he takes the form of a little man from Asbury Park who loves him some ski-ball. Othertimes, God works in very direct and clear ways, like sending his only begotten son back to Earth to be the Republican striker. Another great thing about the Christ is that he can turn water into Gatorade, thus saving the republican team (and you, the taxpayer...did you really think these guys were going to pay their own ways?) a little bit of dough.
Photo Credit: Graphic comes from Wikipedia Commons and is authored by MAXDZ8, based on work by Mario Ortegon.
Wednesday, March 23, 2011
A Review of Crucible of War, by Fred Anderson
This. Was. An. Awesome. Book. Full title: Crucible of War: The Seven Years' War and the Fate of Empire in British North America, 1754 - 1766.
Seriously, this is probably one of the better history books I have ever read. I struggle to find one that I actually enjoyed more that has a similarly epic scope; the only one I could think of was Robert K. Massie's Peter the Great.
Before going on, let's make one thing clear: this is a history book, one which makes a fairly detailed examination of a pretty complex subject. While I don't doubt the reader's ability to come to terms with the Seven Years War (which is what this book is about), I think I can safely say that if you do not like history you will probably still not like this book, no matter how well written or informative it is. Even if you do like history, there are inevitably places in a 746 page history book where things will drag. But if you can accept that, you are in for something amazing.
The subject, as aforementioned, is the Seven Year's War, or the French and Indian War. From history class, I remember the French and Indian war as being a sort of a prelude to the American Revolution where George Washington ironically fought for the British, and where Wolfe and Montcalm decided things (and died) at the Plains of Abraham, outside Quebec City. More than good enough for the Virginia SOLs; not good enough for one who really wants to get to grips with early American history.
This book filled in the gaps, and much, much more. The author's thesis is that it is important to look at the Seven Years War not backwards through the lens of revolution but rather forwards from the colonists understanding of their status as Englishmen. As Anderson chronicles the progress of the war and its aftermath he explores the cultural differences that were already present between colony and mother country, the different lessons that both colonists and Crown took from the conflict, the difficulties the British faced in governing the vast new empire they acquired from the victory, and the colonial response to their attempts to do so.
It is wonderfully written. The Seven Years War was a world war, fought in America, Europe, India, and Hispaniola, but Anderson manages the epic scope of the book well, treating events in America with great detail but sketching in events elsewhere so one can still see how everything fits together. When he is describing efforts by Britain to govern the colonies with the Proclamation of 1763 and the Stamp Act he does not remain neutral, but shifts his tone subtly to make the British efforts seem reasonable and the colonial response completely understandable (even if a little violent).
It helps that the man can turn a phrase. This was a carefully crafted work, obviously the effort of years and years. Great care was taken with the text and it was refreshing to read a work that was so informative and yet also actually pleasurable to read from a literary standpoint.
The only "problem" with the book is that Anderson ventures on a good bit of speculation with regards to the character of General Wolfe, commander of the British on the Plains of Abraham, one of the war's few open field battles. It was a smashing victory wrought by the discipline of the British army that faced a French army half composed of militia. Both Wolfe and the French commander, Montcalm, died on the field; Wolfe has been a lionized, almost romantic figure, ever since. But Anderson feels that he owes his reputation of tactical brilliance to good luck and a timely death.
According to Anderson, Wolfe did not get along well with his subordinate commanders, may have been slightly delusional due to a fever (he had horrible health), and launched a rather foolhardy attack late in the campaign season because he was more interested in dying a glorious death rather than return home a failure. Anderson even speculates that, once the British were in place, he did not have a plan for what he intended to do next. Fortunately for him Montcalm, fearing that the British were about to lay siege trenches (which they were not), decided to attack before his full force could arrive. The British soldiers won the day, Wolfe died leading his men in a charge (which most British Generals did not do at that time), and the rest is history.
It is a radically different interpretation than most are used to (its useful to read Francis Parkman's account of the battle; the facts are the same but Wolfe cuts a very different character), and in the footnotes Anderson does own up to the fact that he is making some rather large leaps. But its not wild speculation, he has plenty of footnotes to support his point of view. Bad history? Perhaps. Thought provoking? Absolutely.
So, a very good book. Till later, kiddos. I am watching the USA v. Argentina match replay on ESPN 3....which is turning into Messi v. Howard. Don't tell me how it ends!!
Seriously, this is probably one of the better history books I have ever read. I struggle to find one that I actually enjoyed more that has a similarly epic scope; the only one I could think of was Robert K. Massie's Peter the Great.
Before going on, let's make one thing clear: this is a history book, one which makes a fairly detailed examination of a pretty complex subject. While I don't doubt the reader's ability to come to terms with the Seven Years War (which is what this book is about), I think I can safely say that if you do not like history you will probably still not like this book, no matter how well written or informative it is. Even if you do like history, there are inevitably places in a 746 page history book where things will drag. But if you can accept that, you are in for something amazing.
The subject, as aforementioned, is the Seven Year's War, or the French and Indian War. From history class, I remember the French and Indian war as being a sort of a prelude to the American Revolution where George Washington ironically fought for the British, and where Wolfe and Montcalm decided things (and died) at the Plains of Abraham, outside Quebec City. More than good enough for the Virginia SOLs; not good enough for one who really wants to get to grips with early American history.
This book filled in the gaps, and much, much more. The author's thesis is that it is important to look at the Seven Years War not backwards through the lens of revolution but rather forwards from the colonists understanding of their status as Englishmen. As Anderson chronicles the progress of the war and its aftermath he explores the cultural differences that were already present between colony and mother country, the different lessons that both colonists and Crown took from the conflict, the difficulties the British faced in governing the vast new empire they acquired from the victory, and the colonial response to their attempts to do so.
It is wonderfully written. The Seven Years War was a world war, fought in America, Europe, India, and Hispaniola, but Anderson manages the epic scope of the book well, treating events in America with great detail but sketching in events elsewhere so one can still see how everything fits together. When he is describing efforts by Britain to govern the colonies with the Proclamation of 1763 and the Stamp Act he does not remain neutral, but shifts his tone subtly to make the British efforts seem reasonable and the colonial response completely understandable (even if a little violent).
It helps that the man can turn a phrase. This was a carefully crafted work, obviously the effort of years and years. Great care was taken with the text and it was refreshing to read a work that was so informative and yet also actually pleasurable to read from a literary standpoint.
The only "problem" with the book is that Anderson ventures on a good bit of speculation with regards to the character of General Wolfe, commander of the British on the Plains of Abraham, one of the war's few open field battles. It was a smashing victory wrought by the discipline of the British army that faced a French army half composed of militia. Both Wolfe and the French commander, Montcalm, died on the field; Wolfe has been a lionized, almost romantic figure, ever since. But Anderson feels that he owes his reputation of tactical brilliance to good luck and a timely death.
According to Anderson, Wolfe did not get along well with his subordinate commanders, may have been slightly delusional due to a fever (he had horrible health), and launched a rather foolhardy attack late in the campaign season because he was more interested in dying a glorious death rather than return home a failure. Anderson even speculates that, once the British were in place, he did not have a plan for what he intended to do next. Fortunately for him Montcalm, fearing that the British were about to lay siege trenches (which they were not), decided to attack before his full force could arrive. The British soldiers won the day, Wolfe died leading his men in a charge (which most British Generals did not do at that time), and the rest is history.
It is a radically different interpretation than most are used to (its useful to read Francis Parkman's account of the battle; the facts are the same but Wolfe cuts a very different character), and in the footnotes Anderson does own up to the fact that he is making some rather large leaps. But its not wild speculation, he has plenty of footnotes to support his point of view. Bad history? Perhaps. Thought provoking? Absolutely.
So, a very good book. Till later, kiddos. I am watching the USA v. Argentina match replay on ESPN 3....which is turning into Messi v. Howard. Don't tell me how it ends!!
Saturday, March 19, 2011
Some Thoughts on Turning 29
So, for my 29th Birthday I got up early and drove out Richmond to see the Virginia Fine Arts Museum's exhibition of Pablo Picasso works from the Musee Picasso (which is currently undergoing renovation). I consider it my good fortune to have been to two major Picasso exhibitions: this one at the VMFA and the truly once in a lifetime Matisse/Picasso exhibit at the MOMA in Queens, which ironically enough I also attended around my birthday in 2003. The VMFA exhibit was worth seeing, though I must confess I've decided I am more of Matisse man; I find his work way more accessible and, though certainly sensual, less jarringly erotic.
I probably would have enjoyed it more if there had been less people around. The gallery was packed, and it was distracting to hear people trying to figure out what the hell Picasso was trying to do, trying to piece together when the Spanish Civil War was (come on people, it's in the program!), and hear old southern ladies tsk-tsking about all the nudes rendered in Picasso's many different artistic styles on canvas and in sculpture. I don't know what people expected to see; this is a Picasso exhibition, after all.
It was a great relief to leave the exhibit and walk into the American Art gallery, which was completely quiet. But the maddening crowd soon followed, and I was treated to caustic commentaries on some fine Dutch works, outrage at how all the medieval religious paintings did not portray people in correct biblical era clothing, and the indifference of a gaggle of teen age girls to everything they saw around them.
I am no artist (blogging doesn't count, in my eyes), but I do take art seriously. The emotions that strike when you find yourself resonating with a particular work can open a window into the soul where, if you wish to, you may learn something about yourself. But then again, if art opens a window into the soul (or the self, if you prefer), then maybe the fact that I take it so seriously and have little patience for the snobbishly perceived banality of others shows that, in the 29th year of my life, I have begun to take myself too seriously once again. Nothing proves that more than the fact that, for my birthday, I elected to go to a culturally enriching exhibit. And that, perhaps, just shows how times have changed, how getting older altered has altered my priorities.
For my 9th birthday all I was really interested in was Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles, and I did get all four: Raphael, Donatello, Michelangelo, Leonardo (I wonder if that planted the seed for my interest in art??). Michelangelo had kickboxing action so powerful he could break through a stack of plastic oil barrels. KAPOW! For the 19th birthday all I was really interested in was girls, and I pursued one into the local honkey tonk where I stepped on everyone's cowboy booted toes (including the young woman's honkey tonk hubby) and ended up getting kicked in the balls, deservedly.
But hey, times change. Ages ago I used to say that Krispy Kreme had better donuts than Dunkin Donuts by a very good margin. I proved this to myself by conducting a taste test at the competing establishments in Penn Station. Now, I would say that I would rather go to Dunkin Donuts, not because they have better donuts, but because they have better coffee. Way better coffee. The important thing here is the fact that I now view coffee as being more important than donuts. I am now locked in on a long, gradual trajectory where one day sleep will be more important than sex and, eventually, a peaceful death will perhaps be preferable to a life where mind and body no longer adequately function.
And where that came from I don't know. Is it the lateness of the hour (which, again, if 12:14 is late, then...), or the (one) beer that I have downed? Perhaps, instead of spending the time piecing it together, it would be best to end this extremely personal entry and go to bed, so that I might be greeted with the happy possibilities of a shining morning sun and a new day.
I probably would have enjoyed it more if there had been less people around. The gallery was packed, and it was distracting to hear people trying to figure out what the hell Picasso was trying to do, trying to piece together when the Spanish Civil War was (come on people, it's in the program!), and hear old southern ladies tsk-tsking about all the nudes rendered in Picasso's many different artistic styles on canvas and in sculpture. I don't know what people expected to see; this is a Picasso exhibition, after all.
It was a great relief to leave the exhibit and walk into the American Art gallery, which was completely quiet. But the maddening crowd soon followed, and I was treated to caustic commentaries on some fine Dutch works, outrage at how all the medieval religious paintings did not portray people in correct biblical era clothing, and the indifference of a gaggle of teen age girls to everything they saw around them.
I am no artist (blogging doesn't count, in my eyes), but I do take art seriously. The emotions that strike when you find yourself resonating with a particular work can open a window into the soul where, if you wish to, you may learn something about yourself. But then again, if art opens a window into the soul (or the self, if you prefer), then maybe the fact that I take it so seriously and have little patience for the snobbishly perceived banality of others shows that, in the 29th year of my life, I have begun to take myself too seriously once again. Nothing proves that more than the fact that, for my birthday, I elected to go to a culturally enriching exhibit. And that, perhaps, just shows how times have changed, how getting older altered has altered my priorities.
For my 9th birthday all I was really interested in was Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles, and I did get all four: Raphael, Donatello, Michelangelo, Leonardo (I wonder if that planted the seed for my interest in art??). Michelangelo had kickboxing action so powerful he could break through a stack of plastic oil barrels. KAPOW! For the 19th birthday all I was really interested in was girls, and I pursued one into the local honkey tonk where I stepped on everyone's cowboy booted toes (including the young woman's honkey tonk hubby) and ended up getting kicked in the balls, deservedly.
But hey, times change. Ages ago I used to say that Krispy Kreme had better donuts than Dunkin Donuts by a very good margin. I proved this to myself by conducting a taste test at the competing establishments in Penn Station. Now, I would say that I would rather go to Dunkin Donuts, not because they have better donuts, but because they have better coffee. Way better coffee. The important thing here is the fact that I now view coffee as being more important than donuts. I am now locked in on a long, gradual trajectory where one day sleep will be more important than sex and, eventually, a peaceful death will perhaps be preferable to a life where mind and body no longer adequately function.
And where that came from I don't know. Is it the lateness of the hour (which, again, if 12:14 is late, then...), or the (one) beer that I have downed? Perhaps, instead of spending the time piecing it together, it would be best to end this extremely personal entry and go to bed, so that I might be greeted with the happy possibilities of a shining morning sun and a new day.
Wednesday, March 16, 2011
Preperations
So, where was I with the whole Appalachian Trail thing? I believe I had discussed an intention to blog about past experiences (very anti-blog) and I tried to answer some basic questions. Probably scared some people with mention of nude hiking day, but I didn't participate and I promise you won't hear another thing about it.
But before we start actually walking, we have to prepare for the hike.
Physically, I wasn't very well prepared to hike. This worried me, because as my time on the much vaunted BHS track team had taught me, being conditioned is important when one wants to avoid injuries.
I had planned on using the time between graduation from Virginia Tech, in May, and the start of my hike on July 1st to do some physical preparation, to get acclimated to walking long distances with heavy loads. I did a little of this. I would load up my backpack with 4 litres of water and some bricks and take a long stroll around the neighborhood. But, I must admit that I spent most of the time before the hike hanging out with my girlfriend (eventually wife) playing checkers, making cookies, playing records, engaging in other wholesome premarital activities. We spend hours by the pool, and many evenings in some Blacksburg's finest eateries and drinkeries. As a result, I ended up starting the trail in the worst shape of my life (save maybe today).
If I wasn't prepared physically, I was certainly prepared mentally. I walked through the trail on paper, pouring over maps and guidebooks, figuring out where I wanted to resupply and getting an overall strategy put together. My goal, I decided, was to focus on getting through the difficult first 500 miles, which would put me in Hanover, NH, and past the intimidating mountains in Maine and New Hampshire. I would take it slow, hoping that I would make up time later. Overall, I hoped to be home by Christmas.
I also bought a TON of stuff. I decided that most of the backpacking gear I had wasn't well suited to long trips, so I ended up pretty much buying much of what I needed. A lot of my purchases were good; my backpack turned out to be excellent, my clothes made it the entire trip, my trekking poles were a god send (though they broke in Vermont...duct tape made them last until Blacksburg, VA). But I also had a lot of stuff I didn't need or that turned out to be not the smartest choice. I got a GPS (useless), a whisperlite (super reliable, but too heavy) a Cat's meow sleeping bag (too heavy, not warm enough) AND a first aid kit capable of small field surgery (overkill).
So, physically and materially over equipped, but mentally ready, I flew up to Maine with my mom and my future wife, snapped some photos, hiked up to the to of Mount Kathadin (couldn't see a damn thing...except I think I saw Macbeth's witches moving through the fog), made it to the bottom, and I was on my way.
But before we start actually walking, we have to prepare for the hike.
Physically, I wasn't very well prepared to hike. This worried me, because as my time on the much vaunted BHS track team had taught me, being conditioned is important when one wants to avoid injuries.
I had planned on using the time between graduation from Virginia Tech, in May, and the start of my hike on July 1st to do some physical preparation, to get acclimated to walking long distances with heavy loads. I did a little of this. I would load up my backpack with 4 litres of water and some bricks and take a long stroll around the neighborhood. But, I must admit that I spent most of the time before the hike hanging out with my girlfriend (eventually wife) playing checkers, making cookies, playing records, engaging in other wholesome premarital activities. We spend hours by the pool, and many evenings in some Blacksburg's finest eateries and drinkeries. As a result, I ended up starting the trail in the worst shape of my life (save maybe today).
If I wasn't prepared physically, I was certainly prepared mentally. I walked through the trail on paper, pouring over maps and guidebooks, figuring out where I wanted to resupply and getting an overall strategy put together. My goal, I decided, was to focus on getting through the difficult first 500 miles, which would put me in Hanover, NH, and past the intimidating mountains in Maine and New Hampshire. I would take it slow, hoping that I would make up time later. Overall, I hoped to be home by Christmas.
I also bought a TON of stuff. I decided that most of the backpacking gear I had wasn't well suited to long trips, so I ended up pretty much buying much of what I needed. A lot of my purchases were good; my backpack turned out to be excellent, my clothes made it the entire trip, my trekking poles were a god send (though they broke in Vermont...duct tape made them last until Blacksburg, VA). But I also had a lot of stuff I didn't need or that turned out to be not the smartest choice. I got a GPS (useless), a whisperlite (super reliable, but too heavy) a Cat's meow sleeping bag (too heavy, not warm enough) AND a first aid kit capable of small field surgery (overkill).
So, physically and materially over equipped, but mentally ready, I flew up to Maine with my mom and my future wife, snapped some photos, hiked up to the to of Mount Kathadin (couldn't see a damn thing...except I think I saw Macbeth's witches moving through the fog), made it to the bottom, and I was on my way.
Sunday, March 13, 2011
March Madness Baby!
Good Grief, Dick Vitale has gotten OLD.
So, what do you do if you hate watching college basketball (and don't even bother to keep tabs on it) but love beating all your coworkers in the office pool?
Simple. Spend years developing a complex mathematical model that will predict the outcome of all the games for you.
This year I am pleased to announce that I will be filling out a bracket using my patent pending Collegiate Optimization Integrated Numeromethodology (COIN), which uses an incredibly sophisticated random probability method which will select the winners and losers at all stages of the March Madness campaign.
I have not watched a minute, nay, even a SECOND, of college basketball this year, as I have been too fully absorbed in other things to pay attention (as of late, I have been watching Arsenal's football fortunes turn to dust with great bemusement and a touch of sadness -- I will always have a special place in my heart for them, for some reason. Arsene Wenger wins my award for Quixotic sports figure of the year...for like 6 years running. A little inside joke to my soccer friends. Now THAT, my friends, is a sport I pay attention to. And that was a damn long aside). Despite this (my lack of basketball watching and/or knowledge, in case you forgot), I will fill out my bracket with my patent pending methodology and I fully expect to win.
It's as easy as flipping a coin.
So, what do you do if you hate watching college basketball (and don't even bother to keep tabs on it) but love beating all your coworkers in the office pool?
Simple. Spend years developing a complex mathematical model that will predict the outcome of all the games for you.
This year I am pleased to announce that I will be filling out a bracket using my patent pending Collegiate Optimization Integrated Numeromethodology (COIN), which uses an incredibly sophisticated random probability method which will select the winners and losers at all stages of the March Madness campaign.
I have not watched a minute, nay, even a SECOND, of college basketball this year, as I have been too fully absorbed in other things to pay attention (as of late, I have been watching Arsenal's football fortunes turn to dust with great bemusement and a touch of sadness -- I will always have a special place in my heart for them, for some reason. Arsene Wenger wins my award for Quixotic sports figure of the year...for like 6 years running. A little inside joke to my soccer friends. Now THAT, my friends, is a sport I pay attention to. And that was a damn long aside). Despite this (my lack of basketball watching and/or knowledge, in case you forgot), I will fill out my bracket with my patent pending methodology and I fully expect to win.
It's as easy as flipping a coin.
Monday, March 7, 2011
I'll Give You These Beads if You Show Me Your Pancakes
It is with incredible bemusement that I find myself every Fat Tuesday in one Church Hall or another, eating pancakes. It is probably the Church tradition I find the most bizarre. A virgin birth I can believe in, on a good day, for all things are possible with God. The belief that Christ was crucified and rose from the dead and that it means something important? I can buy that. But the idea that we would gather the night before one of the most somber Church services of the year to eat flapjacks? Come on.
For years I wondered why we did this. There, is after all, no commandment that "Thou shalt eat Pancakes". Jesus did not enjoy pancakes at the last supper (though I suppose he did have a passover meal of unleavened bread...but he certainly did not have syrup, or butter, or delicious, devilish bacon). I eventually settled on the idea that it was the Church's lame way to try to keep people from enjoying a more "traditional" Mardi Gras. But that didn't make much sense; in a battle between blueberry blintzes and beer, beads, and debauchery the later usually holds forth, and if you spend anytime with a Lutheran choir you will realize that keeping people from enjoying life is low on the list of mainline protestant priorities.
I eventually read online that historically people made pancakes and things like them on Fat Tuesday because they were trying to get rid of all the fatty rich foods they had before the fasting season of lent. But that doesn't make a lot of sense today, when right after Ash Wednesday services I can go down to the IHOP and eat a giant friggin plate of pancakes and no one will give me a second glance (provided I washed all that ash off of my forehead). It seems like its just another crazy thing we do because "it's what we've always done."
But is it really that crazy?
I am in a Lutheran Church, but our pastor is practically a Jesuit, and as a consequence a real effort is made to make Lent mean something. You get a sense of that if you come to the Ash Wednesday service, where the altar is draped in black and you are forced to contemplate the dust into which, one day, you will return. It's the one day in the liturgical year where all that stuff about everlasting life (whatever that means) is forgotten, and Christians are allowed to think about death without the safety net of Jesus in place. In that way, maybe Fat Tuesday is almost a metaphor for the last day of our lives.
So if you were given one night in which to live, if you knew that tomorrow a priest would sprinkle some ash on your forehead and you would be dead, how would you spend it? Some of us may choose to go out and party all night. But I'll bet a lot of us would also rather spend it quietly with family and friends, basking in love and fellowship as night turns to day and life waxes into death.
Historical explanations aside, I like to think that maybe that's why some of us gather in the Church Hall every year to eat pancakes served by whatever men's group has emerged the strongest after a brutal struggle for survival at our respective religious establishments. Yes, tonight we eat pancakes, but we will also see good friends and be surrounded by the Church family that so many of us rely upon to get by, week by week, as we grapple with the mysteries of faith and of life.
So Happy Mardi Gras! Eat, drink, be merry, for tomorrow we (figuratively) die.
For years I wondered why we did this. There, is after all, no commandment that "Thou shalt eat Pancakes". Jesus did not enjoy pancakes at the last supper (though I suppose he did have a passover meal of unleavened bread...but he certainly did not have syrup, or butter, or delicious, devilish bacon). I eventually settled on the idea that it was the Church's lame way to try to keep people from enjoying a more "traditional" Mardi Gras. But that didn't make much sense; in a battle between blueberry blintzes and beer, beads, and debauchery the later usually holds forth, and if you spend anytime with a Lutheran choir you will realize that keeping people from enjoying life is low on the list of mainline protestant priorities.
I eventually read online that historically people made pancakes and things like them on Fat Tuesday because they were trying to get rid of all the fatty rich foods they had before the fasting season of lent. But that doesn't make a lot of sense today, when right after Ash Wednesday services I can go down to the IHOP and eat a giant friggin plate of pancakes and no one will give me a second glance (provided I washed all that ash off of my forehead). It seems like its just another crazy thing we do because "it's what we've always done."
But is it really that crazy?
I am in a Lutheran Church, but our pastor is practically a Jesuit, and as a consequence a real effort is made to make Lent mean something. You get a sense of that if you come to the Ash Wednesday service, where the altar is draped in black and you are forced to contemplate the dust into which, one day, you will return. It's the one day in the liturgical year where all that stuff about everlasting life (whatever that means) is forgotten, and Christians are allowed to think about death without the safety net of Jesus in place. In that way, maybe Fat Tuesday is almost a metaphor for the last day of our lives.
So if you were given one night in which to live, if you knew that tomorrow a priest would sprinkle some ash on your forehead and you would be dead, how would you spend it? Some of us may choose to go out and party all night. But I'll bet a lot of us would also rather spend it quietly with family and friends, basking in love and fellowship as night turns to day and life waxes into death.
Historical explanations aside, I like to think that maybe that's why some of us gather in the Church Hall every year to eat pancakes served by whatever men's group has emerged the strongest after a brutal struggle for survival at our respective religious establishments. Yes, tonight we eat pancakes, but we will also see good friends and be surrounded by the Church family that so many of us rely upon to get by, week by week, as we grapple with the mysteries of faith and of life.
So Happy Mardi Gras! Eat, drink, be merry, for tomorrow we (figuratively) die.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)