I Feel a Poem Coming On

I've been in search of a horse racing story to memorialize in a lengthy poem.

Seabiscuit's been done in a major-selling book and movie.

Red Rum remains a possibility, but it seems overly involved.

I've even considered setting one in the Olympian Hills with the gods and goddesses overseeing.

Could a story be developing right under my very eyes? Giacomo's jockey, Mike Smith also rode his sire Holy Bull in a failed Kentucky Derby bid eleven years prior. That's story.

Afleet Alex almost bit the dust in the Preakness (quite literally), but went on to win anyway. Giacomo came in third after being jammed behind a wall of horses for most of the race. More story.

It all comes down to the Belmont Stakes.

Perhaps there's the making of a poem.

Wrong Turn

Socrates

Robert Graves, author of The Greek Myths--the book that single-handedly raised Greek mythology out of kiddiedom and restored it to its rightful place as the granddaddy of it all--believes there was a point when it all went wrong. That point, he says, was Socrates.

Socrates had a way of trivializing the myths on his way to introducing us to rationalism. He was the beginning of Western civilization, the progenitor of Western thought as we know it.

So Mr. Graves, in seeking to right the wrong Socrates did, is also telling us that when we made the right turn into Western thought, we made a very wrong turn indeed.

SEE: In Search of Genius by William Fifield for more on this.

What's the Catch?

The Devil approaches a New Russian, offering to buy his soul.
-- "How much are you willing to pay?" the New Russian asks.
-- "Any price you ask," replies the Devil.
-- The New Russian thinks for a moment, then says: "What about fifteen shipping containers of mahogany?"
-- "No problem," says the Devil.
-- "Twenty containers?"
-- "No problem."
-- "Twenty five?!"
-- "You got it," the Devil replies.

The New Russian falls into a deeply pensive mood for a number of minutes.
-- "Is there something wrong?" asks the Devil.
-- "I can't figure out what the catch is!" confides the New Russian.

"Morning or Afternoon?"

Ivan paid the required 5,000 rubles in advance for an automobile, and the factory representative informed him that it would be delivered in exactly ten years to the day.

--"Will that be in the morning or the afternoon?" asked Ivan.
--"How could that possibly matter?" asked the factory representative.  "We're talking ten years from now."
--"Well, you see" replied Ivan "the plumber comes that afternoon."

"Leo Who?"

I was aghast a couple years ago to discover that the latest generation of Americans don't know who Leo Tolstoy (1828-1910) was.

Reading the author's biographical blurb on a brilliant collection of essays he wrote entitled What Is Art?, I came across a fact hitherto unknown to me.  Turning to the kid behind the counter at my favorite diner in wonder (and perhaps a little admiration) . .

"Did you know Leo Tolstoy had thirteen children?" I asked. "Leo who?" he replied.

This scared me so much that I started quizzing the staff about simple things I thought they should know.  Like when major wars were fought, who was president at the time.  The inaccuracy of their responses was troubling.

I then brought in questions used for the U.S. citizenship test on the theory that if they want to be legitimate U.S. citizens they ought to be able to answer them.  They struggled with those too.

Tolstoy overlooked in today's United States . . why?  He's more than just the author of what many consider to be the greatest novel every written:  War and Peace.  Some argue that his Anna Karenina deserves that title.  He's an institution.  Philosopher, religious thinker, friend to the peasantry, etc.

Could it be that his works are just to long and hard for young students to grasp?  I remember my brother reading it in high school, so I don't see the problem there.

Is he viewed as politically incorrect because he held serfs?

Hidden Blood

A constant source of wonder and amusement, and no small amount of consternation, is the number of times I'm taken for Jewish even without being asked.  Often I'm told "I thought you were Jewish."  Or "I just assumed you were Jewish."

Their minds get set on this and it becomes a reality for them--no need to verify or confirm.

As a result of this phenomenon I've been the victim of anti-Semitism.  Once in college a friend reported that another student referred to me as a "jewboy".  How many times it's happened out of earshot, or affected my pathway in life, who can say.

The other night in a cafe, commenting on how differently northerners view male-female relationships than do southerners in this country, a college kid from New Jersey, who was born in Poland, took umbrage. To which I said "especially if they're from New Jersey, and especially if they're speaking Polish."

Depending on the audience, this could be handled humorously.  Instead, this kid came back instantly, and quite vehemently, with:  "And I suppose it's better when they're speaking Hebrew!"

What do you do with that? I did provoke him, in a way, but his response was based on a fallacy.  I was raised Catholic.

I've also visited Auschwitz in Poland, and know quite well their record on that score.  Most of the Jews exterminated during the war were done so on their soil, or so I've been told. When I was there in 1990, only 5,000 Jews continued to live in Poland.

So, do I respond out of righteousness for these atrocities against humanity? Do I protest proclaiming my actual religious allegiances? This seems a minor point against the former.

A complication does arise with my ethnicity.  On this my Polish friend may not have missed the mark by all that much.

The part of my ethnicity I believe I can vouch for is the one quarter Irish plus the one quarter Italian, both Catholic. The part that is somewhat questionable is officially one quarter French (from my father's side) and one quarter Lithuanian (from my mother's).

Actually, as I've been able to reconstruct it by various means, and through family denial and evasion, my paternal grandfather was a quarter Jewish ethnically and my maternal grandfather was a half.  So I consider myself to be three sixteenths Jewish ethnically.

Curiously, but perhaps predictably, the hidden blood on one side of the family found the hidden blood on the other.

I'm certainly not a practicing Jew, and have no real intention to convert. The whole concept of being "racially Jewish" is controversial in the Jewish community. And so, officially at least, I do not qualify as a Jew.

This doesn't change the way people see me, though, and short of wearing a priest's robe I see very little I can do about that.

Living in the Vortex

Just to show me that I'm on the right path, that I'm "exactly where I'm supposed to be", who's ever Up There keeps tossing me little bones in the vortex. Little synchronicities and coincidences and serendipities that keep me paying attention, and trying to be grateful.

Today it occurred as I was walking back down Connecticut Avenue in Upper Northwest Washington, D.C. after getting to a task I'd put off way too long.  After passing an Irish bar where I used to do most of my drinking in the Bad Old Days, I noticed the little guitar shop tucked in behind its shadow. I'd been in there once before, I remembered, and I always find it hard to pass a music store.

On my way across the tarmac I remembered that not long ago I'd thought about becoming a street musician. It's good training, and you can earn a little cash while you're at it.

I entered just in time to hear a young lady asking about guitar lessons. She was a singer-songwriter who had taught herself to play guitar, but now she wanted to move to the next level. The proprietors weren't being too forthcoming, offering as they did more Spanish-style training; classical and flamenco and what-not. She persisted.

Finally, put off by their off-putting attitudes, she pulled off, at which point I asked her what sort of music she played. This led to a long discussion related to her desire to play gigs in the area, and frustration at not having done more already.

"Have you thought about setting up on some street corner somewhere?"

"Yes! That's exactly what I'm thinking about doing."

At which point I told her about my friend in Charlottesville, Virginia — a very talented and accomplished blues guitarist — who had done just that.

"I went to school in Charlottesville!" (University of Virginia, she meant.)

Of course.  I suggested she launch her musical career down there, it's like a 1980s Austin, Texas they say.

"I'm from Austin!"

Of course.  She then told me to visit her webpage at Sonicbids.  I'd just been to that site the day before for a related purpose.

So, all you bloggers out there in Blogger Land, help make Kathleen Collins super-famous doing what she calls "girl - guitar - acoustica".

Leitmotif

Things Russian keep showing up in my vortex at the oddest times.  People who speak it, often.  (I lived in Moscow as a kid, and later learned enough Russian to speak it fluently).

The other day at a open-air bluegrass music event, a fund-raiser for a local bluegrass appreciation and support group.  I didn't know the limits of the festivities, it was being held in a town park, so I couldn't tell where the food was (not to state my priorities too clearly).

Wandering down to where I saw a picnic table full of edible items, I realized everyone standing around me was speaking Russian.  This seemed to touch off a spate of synchronicities that might take me all weekend to finish writing about (see "Lindsey Brings Good News").

More importantly, the event inspired me to write a bluegrass song lyric (see "That's My Love for You").

Yesterday I was in the Starbucks at the Barnes and Noble bookstore in Georgetown when an older man started coming onto a college-age female student studying at the table next to me.  He explained to her that he was Syrian.

I have a Syrian friend to whom I describe some of these vortex happenings to.  So I'm already thinking "hmmmm".

She explains that she's lived in Russia and the next thing you know this Arab guy and this South American gal are speaking Russian.

Today, after another serendipity befell me (see "Living in the Vortex") the gal using the computer at Afterwords Cafe in Dupont Circle was from Belarus.

I feel like buying a Theremin and playing it everytime I encounter a Russian to highlight the spookiness of it all.

Null and Void

An annulment is defined as a "judicial declaration that a marriage is void and null, as though it never existed."

So what does it mean for the children that resulted from that marriage?

The Diocese of St. Cloud website states . .

"The legitimacy of children is determined by the laws of the states. Just as a divorce does not make children illegitimate, neither does an annulment granted by the Church. The laws of the Church state that children born of a supposedly valid union are legitimate children. Therefore, if the marriage is later shown to have been invalid, the status of the children remains unchanged: they are legitimate."

"Legitimate" according to the "laws of the states", but what about in the eyes of the Church?

I Remember Carthage

Finding a woman's passport on the sidewalk the other day, upon return from the theater, I wondered what to do with it. How had it gotten there? Would I incriminate myself somehow by returning it?

After consulting with two members of the U.S. Postal Service, guys who should know about this sort of thing, I asked if I could just pop it into a mailbox. "Yeah, that'll get to her eventually" one of them replied.

So I dropped the woman's lost passport in the mail.

It reminded me of my father's wallet coming back to him in the mail after he left it in a taxi cab in Tunis. That was a magical thing, I thought, especially considering we were living in Moscow, USSR at the time.

Of course, it came back empty, minus his $50. He said to me after losing the wallet that he'd have preferred to have bought the carpet my mother had picked out rather than to lose the money like that.

I remember the visit to the ruins of Carthage by the sea. 

"What were the Romans doing way down here?" I thought as a 10-year-old.

My sister sneaked a turtle out of Tunisia on the plane, naming it Myrtle. It would remain her pet until it scrambled into the underbrush in Upper Northwest Washington, D.C. My father raked the backyard in search of it, more for show than anything else. The creature was long gone.

I remember the feel, the aroma, the sights of Tunis. The smell of rope, the tawny colors, the French in the air (giving my mother a chance to show off hers). The desert dress. The camels. The pleasant service.

Coincidence?

I followed three "bluegrass" bands when I first got to Charlottesville, Virginia in the Summer of 1999 (pretty much on a lark).

On the cutting edge, what I then called "exploratory bluegrass", was "Walker's Run" out of Lexington, Virginia.  Traditional bluegrass was held down by "Nothin' Fancy", also out of Lexington.  More old-timey were the "Hackensaw Boys" who hailed some from Harrisonburg, Virginia, some from elsewhere.  I'd catch these bands in Charlottesville, in Lexington, and some times someplace in between.

I'd just come from Washington, D.C., so I was trying to help the band leader of "Walker's Run" get gigs up this-a-way (as if I really could), with an emphasis on the Birchmere.  That would have been a pretty big deal for a new band made up of college students.  Everybody who's anybody plays there, especially nowadays.

Fast-forward to May 20, 2005.  It's "Nothin' Fancy" that will be playing the Birchmere for the very first time, and quite excited about it, thank you very much. The band the "Walker's Run" guy is now hooked up with, "Sugar Grove", will be playing Old Town Theater in a show originally meant to be one last "Walker's Run" show before he leaves the country again. It may not be the Birchmere, but it's very close by and in the same city of Alexandria, Virginia.  "Hackensaw", meanwhile, will be appearing down at the Haymaker Music Festival outside of Fredericksburg, Virginia.  The festival starts the same day.

For the symmetry of this story I leave out "Old Crow Medicine Show", whom I also "followed", just not as closely.  They weren't really "local", despite their Harrisonburg, Virginia roots, they spent a lot of time travelling.  So I only caught them when they cross-pollinated with "Hackensaw" from time-to-time.

But they were recently given "the Nashville Scene Music Award for best Bluegrass/Old-Timey band" so I can still brag about my ear.

A Local Call

During his visit to the USSR, Richard Nixon was intrigued by a new telephone capable of connecting with Hell.

He spoke briefly with the devil, and the call cost him 27 cents.

When he came back home, he found out that this same service was now available in the US too.

He tried it again and received a bill for $12,000.

Nixon was distressed.

--"How come?!" he asked the operator.  "The same call only cost me 27 cents in the USSR."

--"You see, sir", said the operator. "Over there it's a local call."

More Russian jokes.

"Why Do You Ask?"

For many years the Americans had been training an agent to work in Russia.

His legend was superbly elaborated.

Finally, he was dropped off from a plane into the Russian territory dressed in a quilted jacket, felt high boots and a cap with ear-flaps.

He stepped out of the woods came to the nearest log cabin and asked the old woman who lived there for a drink.

--"Are you a spy?" the lady asked.

--"Why would you ask such a thing?" he replied.

--"Well, we've never seen a black man in these parts before."

More Russian jokes.

"Why Blue?"

Vladimir Putin goes to bed one evening and Stalin appears to him in a dream.

Putin asks Stalin for some help with the state of Russian economy, crime, etc.

--"Round up every male between the age of 21 and 30 and shoot him" Stalin says.  "Then paint the inside of the Kremlin blue."

--"Why blue?" Putin asks.

--"I knew you would ask me about the second part first."

More Russian jokes.

"Absolutely Not"

An American physician asked his Russian colleague:

--"Is it true that there are cases in your country where a patient was treated for one disease, only to have the autopsy reveal another cause of death?"

--"Absolutely not" responded the Russian. "All our patients die from the diseases we treat them for."

RUSSIAN JOKE: The Line to Shoot Gorbachev

Just after Mikhail Gorbachev placed restrictions on the sale of vodka in the former Soviet Union, Ivan and Serge were standing in line to buy a bottle or two.


After waiting several hours, Ivan finally says to his friend:  "This is ridiculous.  We've been waiting forever to buy vodka and we haven't moved a single step.  I'm going to go shoot Gorbachev."


His friend replies:  "Good.  You go shoot Gorbachev.  I'll save your place in line.  By the time you get back things should be moving a little faster."

Ivan goes off to shoot Gorbachev, but he returns in 45 minutes.  Serge says:  "Back so soon?  Surely it takes longer than that to shoot Gorbachev."

Ivan shrugs and says:  "It turns out the line to shoot Gorbachev was longer than the line for buying vodka, so I decided to come right back."

Show Me Yours

Brezhnev asks the Pope . .

"Why do people believe in your paradise in Heaven, but refuse to believe in our Communist paradise on Earth?"

"That's because we never show them ours," responds the Pope.