I am seeing this now, rightly or wrongly, as an immigrant's story. My heart bleeds for this kid, caught between two cultures, isolated, the question mark. His parents working all hours to make a life. He has no one to talk to, fits in nowhere, and it just spirals downward until he snaps. That these pressures, these traumas, at least aggravated and finally destroyed a psyche that was already fragile. Take this terribly, worryingly, pathologically shy kid, born into a culture that is achievement-driven and ashamed of weakness, make him an alien, isolate him, separate him from his family...
The no-one-reaching-out-to-him, I tend to buy that too. But then his roommates sure sounded like they tried, and longer than I would've done. Still, maybe no one had time or cared enough to try hard enough. (Fr. Flanagan: "There are no bad boys.")
I bleed for his parents, too, and the immigrants' dilemma; the terrible cost. And it makes me feel guilty for how easy I've had it.
But what about the evil that can curdle self-pity? The choice for that?
One of the Korean pastors quoted in the paper had the courage to tell his congregation that the potential for such evil is in all of us, that "I am not so different from Cho. The father of one of the victims had the courage and compassion to call for prayers for Cho's parents, "for they too have lost a son." Some of the VT students had the strength to resolve that "we need to reach out to the loners."
Surely the voice of Christ is from these, and from Lucinda Roy, who noticed the crying behind the sunglasses and tried to help, scared as she was, and not from Nikki Giovanni, who could not see beyond the "meanness," the "weirdness," the "crap," or Leonard Pitts, who wrote "I don't want to understand this pathetic kid."
Tuesday, April 24, 2007
Monday, April 23, 2007
The boys are back. Maybe? L'il bit?
It's not clear yet whether it was my last post or the team meeting that did it, but the Phillies have shown distinct signs of life in their last two games. The kid, Cole Hamels, pitched a masterpiece on Saturday night, striking out 15 Reds and getting the complete game. Utley hit a homer and a double. And the infield pulled off a triple play to boot! "Nunez to Rollins to Dobbs," oh my.
Then yesterday afternoon Freddy Garcia looked pretty good for 5+ innings, and the hitters finally erupted. Two more doubles for Utley, and Ryan Howard, back after three games, taxed one to center.
That's what I'm talkin' about.
Then yesterday afternoon Freddy Garcia looked pretty good for 5+ innings, and the hitters finally erupted. Two more doubles for Utley, and Ryan Howard, back after three games, taxed one to center.
That's what I'm talkin' about.
Saturday, April 21, 2007
You said it, brother.
In one of his Lenten retreat talks, Creighton’s Larry Gillick, SJ, quotes Orwell:
“ ‘It’s a tremendous human struggle just to see the things that are right under your nose —’ to become alert and attentive and stay that way.”
“ ‘It’s a tremendous human struggle just to see the things that are right under your nose —’ to become alert and attentive and stay that way.”
De profundis
The Phillies lost another heartbreaker last night. At 4-11, they are now officially the worst team in baseball.
Last night it was Tom “Flash” Gordon’s turn to blow it. After Jon Lieber pitched beautifully in his first start since being reinstated, and Charlie Manuel walked the managing tightrope to get the Phillies out of the 6th, and Alfonseca and Myers did their jobs well in the 7th and 8th, respectively, Gordon came on in the 9th with a 1-0 lead, got two outs, and then gave up a game-tying homer to a guy whose name I can’t remember. Back out for the 10th, Gordon completely unraveled. The Reds won it, 2-1, with only four hits.
Yes, the offense was terrible, too. Their only run was a gift—a third-to-first throwing error that Carlos Ruiz exploited well to score from second. Ruiz is one of few bright spots outside Myers and the starting pitching. A man among zombies, he has been a spunky hitter, a fine defensive catcher, and smart on the bases.
Utley, Howard, Burrell, Rowand, Helms, Victorino. None of these guys is hitting worth a damn. Burrell has hit, but not in the clutch. Utley and Howard are still in hibernation. They’ll come out of it, everybody says. Sure, but by then the Phillies may be all but invisible in the Mets’ (or the Braves’) rear-view mirror. Howard sat for the second day with a leg injury that I haven’t seen specified. He may struggle all year. Utley’s patience has been painful to watch, as he waits grimly for the sap to start flowing. Only Jimmy Rollins has played up to his pre-season prediction.
The bullpen is a disaster zone, as predicted. Geary and Madson have been awful, and Gordon himself has appeared shaky. The converted Myers has pitched well in two outings, looking strong-armed and determined, and Alfonseca (the big-bellied, six-fingered “El Pulpo”) has been fairly effective. Too early to tell whether the fire-throwing Rosario can help. Last night, I found myself willing Charlie to leave Myers in to pitch the 9th. I have a feeling that Gordon, the compact, coil-springed right-hander, may be reaching the end of the line. He’s been a real pro, and he looks strong physically, but right now I don’t see him lasting the season as closer.
“It’s still early.” They’re still saying that in the locker room, but by now it’s coming through clenched teeth. There’ve already been a half-dozen dispiriting losses like last night’s. How many more until their confidence, and their season, slip away entirely?
Last night it was Tom “Flash” Gordon’s turn to blow it. After Jon Lieber pitched beautifully in his first start since being reinstated, and Charlie Manuel walked the managing tightrope to get the Phillies out of the 6th, and Alfonseca and Myers did their jobs well in the 7th and 8th, respectively, Gordon came on in the 9th with a 1-0 lead, got two outs, and then gave up a game-tying homer to a guy whose name I can’t remember. Back out for the 10th, Gordon completely unraveled. The Reds won it, 2-1, with only four hits.
Yes, the offense was terrible, too. Their only run was a gift—a third-to-first throwing error that Carlos Ruiz exploited well to score from second. Ruiz is one of few bright spots outside Myers and the starting pitching. A man among zombies, he has been a spunky hitter, a fine defensive catcher, and smart on the bases.
Utley, Howard, Burrell, Rowand, Helms, Victorino. None of these guys is hitting worth a damn. Burrell has hit, but not in the clutch. Utley and Howard are still in hibernation. They’ll come out of it, everybody says. Sure, but by then the Phillies may be all but invisible in the Mets’ (or the Braves’) rear-view mirror. Howard sat for the second day with a leg injury that I haven’t seen specified. He may struggle all year. Utley’s patience has been painful to watch, as he waits grimly for the sap to start flowing. Only Jimmy Rollins has played up to his pre-season prediction.
The bullpen is a disaster zone, as predicted. Geary and Madson have been awful, and Gordon himself has appeared shaky. The converted Myers has pitched well in two outings, looking strong-armed and determined, and Alfonseca (the big-bellied, six-fingered “El Pulpo”) has been fairly effective. Too early to tell whether the fire-throwing Rosario can help. Last night, I found myself willing Charlie to leave Myers in to pitch the 9th. I have a feeling that Gordon, the compact, coil-springed right-hander, may be reaching the end of the line. He’s been a real pro, and he looks strong physically, but right now I don’t see him lasting the season as closer.
“It’s still early.” They’re still saying that in the locker room, but by now it’s coming through clenched teeth. There’ve already been a half-dozen dispiriting losses like last night’s. How many more until their confidence, and their season, slip away entirely?
Bromberg at the State
Lola and I caught David Bromberg (and the “Angel Band”) last night at the newly refurbished (and magnificent) State Theater. I couldn’t stop marveling that I had last seen him some 27 years ago, at a long-demolished bar here in town called the Brickhouse. So apparently had a fair number in the crowd; several voices yelled out "Brickhouse!" throughout the evening, to no response from the stage.
The crowd was relaxed and a little rowdy. (Before the band came on, one guy hollered at the M.C., “Can we smoke pot?” “Not unless you have enough for everybody,” was the retort.) The show began with a short set by the Angel Band, a sweet-harmonizing female trio made up of two sexy young things and Bromberg’s wailing, witty wife. “Obi Wan” Bromberg she called him, introducing him with the rest of her back-up band.
After intermission, Obi and his sidemen reassembled as the David Bromberg Quartet. It was quickly evident that the old master can still bring it. He is thick-waisted now, and gray-bearded, and his antic side has been diminished, but he still sings, plays, and performs with great soul and wizardry, and that old wicked wit. He still plays country blues guitar like Robert Johnson and vamps like Bo Diddley. Still has that nasally, textured, mercurial voice that runs from a full-out blues shout to a a falsetto whisper and back again, accompanied by an amazing range of funny, tortured grimaces as he wrings blazing notes from the neck of his guitar. Still does “Sharon.”
No surprise that his sidemen on mandolin and fiddle are brilliant. The two sets made an appealing contrast: the sweetness and sass and hymn-like qualities of the Angel Band followed by the rambunctious low-down blues and ball-busting virtuosity of the Quartet. Only Bromberg remained on stage all night. He played ‘til he was tired, and left his old fans smiling.
The crowd was relaxed and a little rowdy. (Before the band came on, one guy hollered at the M.C., “Can we smoke pot?” “Not unless you have enough for everybody,” was the retort.) The show began with a short set by the Angel Band, a sweet-harmonizing female trio made up of two sexy young things and Bromberg’s wailing, witty wife. “Obi Wan” Bromberg she called him, introducing him with the rest of her back-up band.
After intermission, Obi and his sidemen reassembled as the David Bromberg Quartet. It was quickly evident that the old master can still bring it. He is thick-waisted now, and gray-bearded, and his antic side has been diminished, but he still sings, plays, and performs with great soul and wizardry, and that old wicked wit. He still plays country blues guitar like Robert Johnson and vamps like Bo Diddley. Still has that nasally, textured, mercurial voice that runs from a full-out blues shout to a a falsetto whisper and back again, accompanied by an amazing range of funny, tortured grimaces as he wrings blazing notes from the neck of his guitar. Still does “Sharon.”
No surprise that his sidemen on mandolin and fiddle are brilliant. The two sets made an appealing contrast: the sweetness and sass and hymn-like qualities of the Angel Band followed by the rambunctious low-down blues and ball-busting virtuosity of the Quartet. Only Bromberg remained on stage all night. He played ‘til he was tired, and left his old fans smiling.
The Witch is Dead
The horror at Virginia Tech has chased the Imus “scandal” off the stage. I told myself that I wouldn’t spend a moment of my life thinking about the demise of this puerile bloviator, but then found myself drawn to columns by Frank Rich, Bob Herbert, and E.J. Dionne, among others, and a Time cover story on the debacle.
These stories came after the initial wave, and in response to it. There were endless tropes:
--The hypocrisy of the corporations, Imus’s employers, who remained silent until they could gauge the level of public outrage, then cut the guy loose.
--The hypocrisy of those Imus pals who now condemned Imus (again after sniffing the wind) after having profited from “looking the other way” for so many years.
--The hypocrisy of those who crucified Imus for using language that black rappers use, with impunity, every day. (“Prison culture,” one African-American commentator called it.)
--The hypocrisy of Imus’s delayed-onset apologetics.
--The hypocrisy of Al Sharpton.
--The despicable unfairness of a media superstar randomly disparaging a group of heretofore anonymous young women. (This is what “did it.”)
--Imus’s redeeming qualities, grudgingly allowed.
--The frat-boy ugliness at the core of Imus’s act. (Somehow, Imus’s actual physical ugliness—his baleful hawk-like visage, the Wicked Witch of the West in a cowboy hat—was left untouched. There were many mentions of his advanced age and irrelevance.)
--The idea that this incident would or should “re-open” a discussion of race relations in the U.S. (Sure it will.)
--The idea that PC is dead, and there’s something worse in its place: rampant, juvenile incivility. We are Frat boy/Gangsta Nation. Idiocracy.
--The heroic class displayed by the Rutgers women.
I think the most bizarre moment in the whole ordeal was the CNN camera vigil in front of the New Jersey governor’s mansion. Imus had gone there to meet with the women and apologize “privately;” CNN seemed to want to give this meeting the gravity of the JFK funeral. The surrealism was cranked up even higher when it came out later that Gov. Corzine, racing through the Jersey night in his government SUV to make this historic klieg-lighted encounter, had crashed on the Turnpike and nearly been killed.
Second most bizarre were the reports that the right-wing was terrified that this was but the first move in a vast liberal conspiracy to bring down all of talk radio: “Is Rush Limbaugh next?”
Finally, though, I think Slate culture critic Stephen Metcalf summed it up best in trying to account for “the I-man”’s immense popularity over all these years:
“How iced-out in the bedroom and thumbed-under at work are America’s commuters,” Metcalf wrote, “that they find drive-time radio funny?”
These stories came after the initial wave, and in response to it. There were endless tropes:
--The hypocrisy of the corporations, Imus’s employers, who remained silent until they could gauge the level of public outrage, then cut the guy loose.
--The hypocrisy of those Imus pals who now condemned Imus (again after sniffing the wind) after having profited from “looking the other way” for so many years.
--The hypocrisy of those who crucified Imus for using language that black rappers use, with impunity, every day. (“Prison culture,” one African-American commentator called it.)
--The hypocrisy of Imus’s delayed-onset apologetics.
--The hypocrisy of Al Sharpton.
--The despicable unfairness of a media superstar randomly disparaging a group of heretofore anonymous young women. (This is what “did it.”)
--Imus’s redeeming qualities, grudgingly allowed.
--The frat-boy ugliness at the core of Imus’s act. (Somehow, Imus’s actual physical ugliness—his baleful hawk-like visage, the Wicked Witch of the West in a cowboy hat—was left untouched. There were many mentions of his advanced age and irrelevance.)
--The idea that this incident would or should “re-open” a discussion of race relations in the U.S. (Sure it will.)
--The idea that PC is dead, and there’s something worse in its place: rampant, juvenile incivility. We are Frat boy/Gangsta Nation. Idiocracy.
--The heroic class displayed by the Rutgers women.
I think the most bizarre moment in the whole ordeal was the CNN camera vigil in front of the New Jersey governor’s mansion. Imus had gone there to meet with the women and apologize “privately;” CNN seemed to want to give this meeting the gravity of the JFK funeral. The surrealism was cranked up even higher when it came out later that Gov. Corzine, racing through the Jersey night in his government SUV to make this historic klieg-lighted encounter, had crashed on the Turnpike and nearly been killed.
Second most bizarre were the reports that the right-wing was terrified that this was but the first move in a vast liberal conspiracy to bring down all of talk radio: “Is Rush Limbaugh next?”
Finally, though, I think Slate culture critic Stephen Metcalf summed it up best in trying to account for “the I-man”’s immense popularity over all these years:
“How iced-out in the bedroom and thumbed-under at work are America’s commuters,” Metcalf wrote, “that they find drive-time radio funny?”
No nukes
It has been at least six months since our microwave oven conked out. Remarkable how little we’ve missed it. Left-overs heat just fine in a pan on the stove—just add a little water—and “nuked” coffee tastes of metal anyway. The only other thing we used it for, besides occasional defrosting, was popcorn. That, too, is better done in a pot: It comes out less dry and airy, and more flavorsome, and you aren’t a hostage to additives.
Lola’s mom wanted to buy us a new one. She couldn’t survive without hers, and our deprivation seems unimaginable to her. My folks, too, are in the habit of using their “micro,” along with their George Foreman grill. They use it most to heat water for tea, which may be the perfect example of how modern gadgets can take the soul out of cookery. What could be more satisfying, more peacefully engaging, than the simple ritual of preparing tea, or coffee, the old-fashioned way?
Lola’s mom wanted to buy us a new one. She couldn’t survive without hers, and our deprivation seems unimaginable to her. My folks, too, are in the habit of using their “micro,” along with their George Foreman grill. They use it most to heat water for tea, which may be the perfect example of how modern gadgets can take the soul out of cookery. What could be more satisfying, more peacefully engaging, than the simple ritual of preparing tea, or coffee, the old-fashioned way?
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