No, No FiOS. Not Yours.

No, there wouldn’t be any high-speed fiber-optic communications today. Why would I think that?

Look, there’s not going to be any whining here. Verizon was very organized and efficient, in a very organized and inefficient way, and the fiber optic installer tried mightily to get the thing done. It was not practical, so he folded his tent and went into the… afternoon. He’ll be back eventually, and I will get what I desire. But his efforts in vain were instructive nonetheless. I gleaned information about the zeitgeist for people in a manual/technical trade.

I used to manage rather a lot of them, but I’m out of the loop. Half a decade is a long time in that sort of field. The ‘tude of your average worker bobs like a cork on the wave of what’s possible and what’s required. You can gauge the current by watching them.

He was on time. He was polite and deferential, but very interested in stopping talking to the customer as soon as possible, and working on the installation. All customers are obstacles to work. It was ever thus.

He knew what he was doing. He answered my technical questions without hesitation. He only faltered when he was asked about procedural difficulties with the home office. There was a deficiency on the paperwork he was clutching. It was at odds with what I desired. This was a real problem.

Nothing else was a problem for him. He was equipped properly by the same persons who stymied him with protocol when there was a deviation from the norm. He knew what to do. He even knew what had to happen for my little problem to go away. But he stood in the cold for over a half an hour by the clock, waiting on hold while a faraway clerk tried to find a keystroke somewhere to bless the whole procedure. And I realized that the little problem had intruded onto the part of the relationship between the customer and the company that involved being a government regulated utility. There were a lot of rules, most obscure to him, that added up to: Stop. Ask for permission, big time. He bore this with with equanimity, and a kind of fatalism I’ve seen often before.

There is a scale of alacrity, generally. From go-getter to stasis, this is how it goes:

Individuals
Small businesses
Big businesses
Unionized businesses
Government regulated businesses
The government

Nothing much, or conversely, all sorts of things but nothing that makes sense, happens at the end of that scale. I’m referring to the cold, dead hand of the frameworks involved. Individuals labor to make the best of all situations, but we are all susceptible to the manifold signals we get from our surroundings, and we act accordingly eventually. We can only swim upstream for so long; we all inevitably decide to drift with the current. Or find another ocean to swim in.

In my former life, I’d ask people for herculean efforts, and they’d deliver nine times out of ten. They’d overcome all sorts of problems in the field where is was often difficult and tiring, and sometimes dangerous. But there was one way to make everything stop. The government. Any government functionary, low to high, could make you stop everything and stand around while they figured out if they wanted to let you do something, and especially while they figured out if they felt like figuring anything out for a good long time.

In this passion play, the scrap of paper he clutched was his government. He knew what to do. He knew how to do it. He had the resources and the time to accomplish what he wanted to do. But he didn’t know if he was allowed to do it. He knew it was a formality, a little error somewhere, easily rectified. But he would not, dared not proceed until he was assured it was OK down to the last jot and tittle.

I’ve seen people do foolish and destructive things when left to their own devices. But it’s rarer than you might think. Productive people are generally very smart about their own affairs.

I study people that do things, that make the world go around, very carefully. It is interesting always to see exactly how much of their mental and physical energy goes towards figuring out what’s allowed, and how much towards what’s possible.

It’s about fifty-fifty. Your move.

Be Vewwy, Vewwy Qwiet… I’m Hunting FiOS

I’ve always used the most mundane and utilitarian version of just about everything. “Eschew surplusage,” says the guy that should eschew using the words “eschew” and “surplusage,” and just tell you to stop flapping your gums. It’s good advice for anyone.

Well, it’s the surplusage of god**** !@#$%&ing bleeping @#!$!% goldurned $%#&&$ time I’m forced to spend staring at a frozen screen that I’m interested in eschewing. And I can eschew muttering to myself for a good long while, before exploding in a rage and throwing the mouse at the wall, too, when all I’m trying to do is look at a two minute low resolution video clip but my intertubes are all clogged up with interwebbage already. Why? Because they’re made of copper they can’t even be bothered to put in a penny anymore.

If it doesn’t work, and all that fiber-optic goodness they’re supposedly bringing me today doesn’t get me off the low-grade DSL schneid I’m trapped in, you’re going to hear me –old school analog screaming style– from your house, even if your windows are closed.

Noticing Things

The wee one.

He’s still three. I see him all the time of course, and so it takes a moment of detachment to notice a change in him. This picture is — was — such a moment.

His brother was playing the trombone in the auditorium. There was a lot of dead time while various permutations of performers set up, so the little guy roamed. And when he hit the gym — look out.

There was a giggle, and a moment of decision, and then he lit out across the floor like a rocket.

The floor is that all purpose, vaguely rubbery skin that makes for excellent footing. And to a little dynamo, months into weather enforced interior seclusion, the prospect of wide open spaces in which to run was irresistible.

I laughed and chased him a bit, and we had a grand time. I didn’t notice it until I looked at the pictures, though.

Look at the picture. Look at his foot. Look at the angle of his ankle. Look at the lean of his body as he runs around the corner. Look at the swinging of his arms, caught in digital amber. He’s really running.

He’s not bouncing like a homeless jack-in-the-box, his arms flailing around him like a chimpanzee trying to keep his balance. His feet aren’t landing flat. He’s not running in straight wandering line. He’s running like a sophisticated coordinated human being.

And what that means, to his old man, is that part of his life is dead and buried, never to be seen again.

The World’s Greatest Plumber

My oldest boy plays the trombone. Just like his old man did. I abandoned it for electrified instruments a long time ago, but kept the nasty brass pipe in my attic. My son found it a few years ago, and was transported with the idea of it. We were pleasantly surprised that the elementary school in our town had a very good music instruction program, and sure enough, the boy brought home the news: “I’m going to play the trombone.”

He’s pretty good, too. It helps that the woman who runs the program, Hannah Moore, is a trombone player herself, and my boy’s lessons are informed by the particular knowledge of the instrument she wields. We went to see the sixth graders play the other night, and my boy walked to the front of the stage, and played a little solo in the middle of “Night Train.’ Of course the batteries in my camera had died 5 seconds before that. Oh well. The ephemeral is still important.

I wanted to show my boy someone playing the instrument in an engaging way, so he could see that it’s not a dead end if he doesn’t want it to be. I was once asked to play in the Westboro Symphony Orchestra, back when I still played. I sat down next to the other trombone dude. I opened the music. It had a big black bar atop the page, with a “134” atop it. It meant I was supposed to count 134 measures rest before playing. Then there was about twenty five notes. Then there was another big black bar. Classical music doesn’t have much use for the trombone in general. The other trombonist said: “Do you mind counting the measures? I’m going to read.” He had brought “War and Peace” to the rehearsal. I bought an electric guitar the next day.

So I scoured YouTube, trying to find something as cool as the four Scottish women playing The Stars And Stripes Forever, so my boy would know that there’s a place in the world for anybody that masters his instrument. I wasn’t disappointed. I found the greatest plumber on YouTube — Nils Landgren:

Big Chill

It’s insanely cold outside the window today.

The rhododendrons tell you all you need to know, there’s no need for a thermometer. The elegant, bronzy leaves of the miniature variety of rhody that peeks endlessly into our living room windows have winced into tight little curls until they look like pine needles. It’s winter, baby.

Winter is always late coming along the coast here in Massachusetts. The ocean water stays warm for a good long time. I’ve gone sailing in December in Sippican Harbor, and since the air and water temp were close together, there was nothing of a test of hardihood about it. Just a pleasant, windless sail.

The ocean ain’t warm anymore, and the weather we’re getting now wouldn’t care if it was lava. The earth turns and cools, and the polar weather comes down like an invasion; it pushes any last vestige of mildness in front of it like a plow, and shoves it to Portugal, for all I know — I know it ain’t here. I tried opening the door that faces northwest today to let the shivering cat in, and I had to push hard against the air to let it in. It wasn’t wind, it was pressure, pure and simple. An invisible glacier, moving implacably.

The interior delights trump all now. A fire in the evening. A pool of light under the swing arm lamp. A club chair and a little table, warm with the glow of the woodgrain itself, the sunlight of the tree’s life captured and held in its medullary rays. A hot cup of something on a little missal of a book. The tick of the baseboard heat.

Late at night, if you awaken, you can hear the not-too-distant bog groan as it tries to shoulder the load of ice it’s inherited. The moonbeams come in the window, and you can feel the cold of outer space on them. They illuminate, but do not warm, like a candle in a crypt. Then there is the faint sigh of the one you’re devoted to; or the indistinct rustle of the hot little heads that dream down the hall, as they shift in their nests of blankets, snug amongst their stuffed talismans of childhood.

It’s delightful to be warm in a cold world

Gypsy Davey

“The sun’s gonna pass the light at the point, and it’s still hot as August. Let’s have another song to chase the afternoon away, Davey.”

“I don’t know all those songs, the ones you want. I got one’s too long, but I’ll run at it.

Come all ye young sailormen listen to me, I’ll sing you a song of the fish of the sea.
Then blow ye winds westerly, westerly blow; we’re bound to the southward, so steady she goes.
Oh, first came the whale, he’s the biggest of all, he clumb up aloft, and let every sail fall.
Next came the mackerel with his striped back, he hauled aft the sheets and boarded each tack.
The porpoise came next with his little snout, he grabbed the wheel, calling “Ready? About!”.
Then blow ye winds westerly, westerly blow; we’re bound to the southward, so steady she goes.

” Oh, that’s grand, Davey, keep on in.”

Then came the smelt, the smallest of all, he jumped to the poop and sung out, “Topsail, haul!”.
The herring came saying, I’m king of the seas! If you want any wind, I’ll blow you a breeze.”
Up jumped the tuna saying, “No, I am the king! Just pull on the line, and let the bell ring.”
Next came the cod with his chucklehead, he went to the main-chains to heave to the lead.
Last come the flounder as flat as the ground, saying, “Damn your eyes, chucklehead, mind how you sound!”
Then blow ye winds westerly, westerly blow; we’re bound to the southward, so steady she goes.

“Oh, there’s a clincher comin’, I can feel it.”

Then, up jumps the fisherman with a big grin, and with his big net he scooped them all in.
Then blow ye winds westerly, westerly blow; we’re bound to the southward, so steady she goes.

“Oh Davey, that is grand. Sing one for the girl. She’s got the moon and stars in her eyes, and you in her hair. Her father’s off the banks, and won’t be home for days. Give her one to keep her here or it’s all buoys and no gulls. “

“É bonita, para certo. Mas um pai pode ver sobre um oceano.”

“Sing it, we’ll watch for the sails. If he’s riding low, he’ll have fish, and then money; and he’ll buy us all a round. If he’s riding high at the gunnels, it won’t matter if you’re friend or foe. He’ll have the olho evil. Sing it.”

It was late last night when the boss came home
askin’ for his lady
The only answer that he got:
She’s gone with the Gypsy Davey
She’s gone with the Gypsy Dave

Well I had not rode to the midnight moon
When I saw the campfire gleaming
I head the notes on the big guitar
And the voice of gypsies singing
That song of Gypsy Dave.

There in the light of the camping fire,
I saw her fair face beaming
Her heart in tune with the big guitar
And the voice of the gypsy singing
That song of Gypsy Dave.

Have you forsaken your house and home?
Forsaken you your baby?
Have you forsaken your husband dear
To go with Gypsy Davey?
For the song of Gypsy Davey?

Yes, I’ve forsaken my husband dear
To go with Gypsy Davey
And I’ve forsaken my mansion high
But not my blue-eyed baby.

She smiled to leave her husband dear
And go with Gypsy Davey;
But the tears come trickling down her cheek
To think of the blue-eyed baby-
The pretty blue-eyed baby.

Take off, and leave your buckskin gloves
Made of Spanish leather
Give to me your blonden hair
And we’ll ride home together
We’ll ride home again.

No I won’t take off the buckskin gloves,
Made of Spanish leather
I’ll go my way from day to day,
And sing with Gypsy Davey

“I’ve noticed Davey, that the girl never ditches a gypsy and runs off with any bankers in your songs. “

“Someday maybe I’ll buy a pencil, or get some money, and it’ll all be different.”

I Looked Down, And There It Was

It’s a hoary old joke my friend tells. The man of few words, in a restaurant slightly more elegant than he’s used to. The waiter asks: “How did you find your meal?” He answers: “I looked down, and there it was.”

Everything appears now, through a process so complex that no one can fully understand even a small portion of it. Persons that say they understand the machinations necessary to place the most mundane thing in front of a great many people well enough to regulate the whole affair, with an eye towards improving everything, are spouting nonsense. If a man walked up to you and confessed he didn’t know your name, but claimed he could list all the atoms in your body, would you hand him your wallet? How about your skin? All day long, I hear the groundskeepers telling me they should be the quarterback. And I can’t help noticing the grass has gone to seed, and the hash marks are crooked.

You look down, and there it is, all day long. There is a large chance that if you’re reading this, you have never participated in the actual making of anything in any meaningful way. And as the world gets more complex, we all get further and further removed from the ultimate source of all of our prosperity. How far removed? To the point where it gets obscure enough that it can be blithely strangled in its crib, on the supposition that it can be improved by infantile wishing, followed by fiat.

See the man on the sleigh, bringing the sap back to the shed to boil? He knows the tree like a brother. He knows the woods like a mother. He knows fire like a caveman. He knows commerce like a loanshark. He knows cold like a gravedigger. He knows sap like you know the alphabet. And he doesn’t have the slightest idea what you’re about, because you labor in a vineyard far removed from his — where the meaning of your efforts is likely always obscure, as all intellectual pursuits must be.

Remember always what you don’t know about him, lest one day, you look down, and there it ain’t.

Abandon Hope, All Ye Who Read Here

Can you tell me the way to Hope Street?

They tell me the road to hope is long, and fraught with peril, sir.

(Stunned silence. A moment of recognition. Wry smile.)

Yes, but at least it’s paved now.

The cobbles are made from the hearts of policemen, sir. They are only mortared loosely with good intentions.

You have the gun, so I defer to your judgement. The way?

Go back up the hill and turn right, if you want to find Hope. Abandon hope, all ye who stand here in the middle of the street with a policeman in the sleet.

Would you like a cup of coffee, officer?

I’d like a gold-plated Republican job and a roast turkey with a side order of another roast turkey, and a whiskey and an upholstered woman with a fireplace and access to more whiskey, thank you. But I’ll settle for a cup of coffee, if that’s what you meant.

I’ll need to cross the street to get it. Will you stop the traffic?

Sir, I’ll hold them here until the ammo runs out, then go hand to hand with the stragglers, if you’ll bring a sinker with the joe.

Done, and done.

Are those your lawyers, sir?

Spring is coming, officer, if we keep this up.

Go. I’ll cover you.

Robert Gordon Orr Oh Yeah

Football’s on today. I like football. I used to like hockey.

Sports are gladiatorial and gentlemanly at the same time. At least they’re supposed to be. The professionalisation of all manner of athletic endeavor has corroded the meaning of them in large measure. You can get rich riding a bike now. Skiers in “amateur” athletics have to pee in a cup, because the pile of money they can grab for simply wearing a patch on their clothing makes even a mundane competition worth cheating at to win. All children’s leagues are de facto minor leagues for paying athletic gigs at this point.

The idea that a few extraordinary talents might scratch out a living at doing what they did anyway for the love of sport and competition is in the rear view mirror, and back over the horizon. If you want to find inspiration, and perhaps discern the framework of a worthwhile worldview in sports now, you’re going to have to fashion it yourself out of the few scraps of decency and effort you might be able to glean from any particular tilt. It was not always so.

All things have a trajectory. They develop, then fade away, or perhaps ebb and flow over and over. But sometimes there is an apogee, and you can see it right away — this is it, it’s all downhill from here– and you know you’re looking at the pinnacle of the thing.

We need something Scandinavian for this guy, when he goes. Some sort of pyre, made from the remnants of the sport he was unarguably the best at ever. They really should have just given up trying after he retired, because we will never see his like again. And he’s as pleasant a person as any walk of life has ever produced.

Despite the choice of music, the fellow that made this mashup did a great job, and we need to forgive him for the Carly Simon – he’s trying to make a point here.

I saw Bobby Orr play dozens of times live, and hundreds of times on a dreadful black and white television the size of a porthole. I felt like a Free French fighter listening to Churchill on the wireless. Orr will save us.

People still try to tell me from time to time, that _________ was a better hockey player than Bobby Orr. I try to explain to them, that Bobby Orr isn’t the greatest hockey player that ever lived. He is the greatest athlete to ever participate in any organized competition. It’s kinda pointless to tell me about another hockey player. Orr is playing in a Pantheon league, and winning in it. His competition is Thorpe, and Brown, and Ruth, and Robinson, and a few others who aren’t just great; they define whole swathes of the landscape in and out of their sports. He’s like walking into a pawn shop and seeing the Statue of Liberty in there.

He was better than everybody else at everything. Look at the picture at the top. The series was a rout — four straight against the Saint Louis Blues. It was a foregone conclusion with him on the ice. Bobby Orr scored the goal, and the defenseman seen behind him sent him flying through the air, Orr’s face aglow with the instant recognition of the top of the mountain.

There was nothing left to do, for all the rest, but to try to trip him. He’s never faltered, though.