Post No. 996 - Down to the Wire

“It is a common symptom of rank melancholy to keep imagining the past instead of a future, because the future feels both foreclosed and uncertain, whereas the past is all there is, infinitely reproducible.” Aleksandar Hemon, The World And All That It Holds

Coming out of a few down days. I thought the genesis of the spiral might have something to do with summer coming to an end, but I’m not sure. The past several days have been warm in SB, almost uncomfortable at times. Not like Philadelphia where I was a couple of weeks ago, that was a different kind of warm. I should be feeling buoyant after getting my daughter situated for her last year of college, but worries large and small, real and imagined, have beset me. Buying future trouble. I can far more easily imagine a dim future than I can a bright or comfortable one. 

Today this thought crossed my mind: You’re OK as long as you still have a card to play. 

As far as the future is concerned, all we may be able to say for sure is that it will be different. Most people will adapt, but some won’t. Everything will change, the new will be built on the bones of the old. 

My cousin lives in Madeira Beach, Florida, and had to evacuate her home for higher ground in the face of Hurricane Idalia. How much damage will this storm cause, how many lives will it take? Florida is a cursed child under the malign leadership of Ron DeSantis, another morally bankrupt Ivy League product, like Josh Hawley and Ted Cruz. America’s Best & Brightest? Please. The priorities of people like DeSantis and his ilk, including the Ken-Doll Tech-Bro Vivek Ramaswamy, are out of touch with reality and the needs of ordinary citizens. Ramaswamy switched his entire position on climate change and now claims it’s a hoax, and that the solution is to burn more fossil fuel…because human flourishing is impossible without fossil fuel. This pint-sized Trump pretender wants to be president. DeSantis, Ramaswamy, Pence, Haley, all of them are unfit for office. The litmus test should be this: if you still support Donald Trump, you’re an authoritarian not a Republican.  

I came across an Alan Watts lecture on YouTube about letting go and not taking life too seriously. I’ve listened to Watts off and on over the years and much of the time his notions just become jumbled in my mind. I sort of get what Watts is driving at, a deeper recognition about what life is about, but I’m never entirely satisfied and remain trapped inside my own head, which can be a wildly unimaginative place at times. I did understand Watts when he talked about the way we view time in western culture, as a commodity so valuable that not to use it for the purpose of maximum productivity is a sign of sloth. Watts used the example of artists, painters, inventors, musicians, and writers to argue that we need to redefine our ideas and allow more time for imagining, day-dreaming, and directionless wandering. Easier said than done, at least for me. If I’m not engaged in doing something I feel like I’m wasting time; it’s one thing I dislike about my personality. How can I achieve idleness without guilt?

For the third or fourth time I’m reading True North by Jim Harrison. The novel is on my Kindle and every once in a while I’ll turn to it. If you pressed me to name my favorite Jim Harrison work I’d say Dalva or The Road Home, but True North always impresses me for how effortlessly it flows and the deep interiority Harrison achieves with his first-person narrator. 

I just finished Last Call, an account of the rise and fall of Prohibition by Daniel Okrent. I’m reading a biography of James Baldwin by David Leeming and The Pornography Wars by Kelsy Burke.

Four posts to go to reach 1,000 and then I’m done here.  

Post No. 995 - Dog Day Blues

“There is no escape from the strange spasms of the world as we’ve remade it.” Jeffrey St. Clair, Counterpunch

August of my second year of semi-retirement and the money blues are starting to sing. It’s been a summer of unexpected expenses, our daughter coming home from college in May, working sporadically at a local deli; in July she had breast reduction surgery for the second time in five years -- smaller breasts, a relief for her, but hefty medical bills for us -- with the standard barrage of paper notices regarding  in-network/out-of-network services, co-pays, deductibles, all the familiar ways costs are shifted to American patients because this country doesn’t provide medical care for all its citizens. It’s the same cost-shifting racket seen in other areas of the economy. Fees. Service Charges. Tiered plans. Subscriptions. American “consumers” get hosed right and left, preyed upon by banks and credit card companies and airlines and mobile phone and cable companies, all down the line. All these “rents” make some people richer than monarchs. 

I think our portion of the bill(s) will be around $10K. Shows you how high our annual out of pocket maximum is, but accepting that risk is the only way we can keep the premiums affordable. Damned, one way or another. 

Our daughter made a wee mess of her student loans, even though we’d been riding her to sort out her financial aid situation since May. We thought, erroneously as it turned out, that we had to cover a large tuition bill in order for her to enroll in her courses. On the one hand it serves us right because we left school finances to our 21-year-old daughter, expecting her to inform us when we needed to take action on her behalf. This, we thought, was a responsibility she could, and should, handle. She did, sort of, though if we had the money we fronted now, I’d be breathing a little easier. But we won’t see a refund for another month or so. That was our little cushion, our what if the washing machine dies or one of the cars needs new tires? cushion. But isn’t that the thing about being part of the working or retired poor? The unexpected expense that drops you in a hole can take months or years to climb out of. My wife and I are good about paying down debt, chipping away at it, but right now it’s about equilibrium between the money coming in and the money going out, the balance is off and I fret and stew and create dark scenarios of poverty and destitution.  

That’s one of my major life problems and bad habits, buying trouble in the future. It’s almost a certainty that we’ll be forced before too much longer to leave Santa Barbara. We’re local products, born and bred, but we missed the real estate lottery and haven’t a prayer of becoming property owners now. Precarious renters we shall be. When my mother-in-law passes, our last good reason for remaining here will be eliminated. But when I think of relocating my head hurts because there are more and more places in America where I refuse to live. Short list, for starters: Texas, Florida, Alabama, Arizona, Arkansas, Oklahoma, Utah, Montana and Wyoming. Other places are ruled out due to cost or climate. I think my wife would go mad in wet, cold Oregon. I wonder if Wisconsin or Minnesota might be viable. 

I collected my first Social Security check in July. Most of it went immediately to my daughter for school expenses and airline tickets. I reduced my hours at the Market from 24 per week to 16, in part to stay under the income limits imposed by Social Security for workers my age, but primarily because my body needs more recovery time between shifts. I’ve got all kinds of physical ailments, from arthritis in both thumbs to a torn rotator cuff muscle, to neuropathy in both feet; I snore at night and my restless legs drive my wife crazy. “Who the hell are you trying to kick?” I’m still fit, but I need more recovery time between training sessions, and I’m forced now to constantly modify my routines, fewer reps and shorter durations, lighter weights. My arthritic thumbs are a challenge I didn’t see coming. Anyway, working two days a week, Tuesday and Saturday, is perfect, but I bring home less money. Compounds the problem. 

My daughter did some growing this summer, even though it seemed at times that she was dead set on self-sabotage. By the time we flew to Philadelphia together, and spent a couple of priceless father-daughter days setting up her room in her apartment on Spruce Street, she had set her mind on making the best of her final year. It was hot and humid in Philadelphia, the kind of heat that clings to the skin, a soporific heat. We made trips to Target and CVS and Trader Joe’s, but also made time to see the Liberty Bell and Constitution Hall, the Ben Franklin museum. We had drinks in a cash-only hole-in-the-wall bar whose walls were adorned with Philly sports memorabilia. The Little League World Series played on the TV. My Old Fashioned was tasteless. 

At night the sounds of the city kept me awake: screeching tires, car horns, alarms, voices, sirens and helicopters. People wandered in the alley below the window.

Back home Hurricane Hillary was moving ominously toward California, and the island of Maui was still in shock after wildfires destroyed a swath of Lahaina; hundreds of people there remain unaccounted for, many of them children. Canada. Greece. Portugal. Fires, floods, record breaking temperatures across the world. Catastrophic climate change isn’t coming, it’s already here, along with a debased and diseased political system that is incapable of taking action on this most pressing problem. More important matters, like banning objectionable books from school libraries and blaming America’s decline on transgender children, chasing Woke phantoms from university campuses, and making abortion illegal in all 50 states are the issues upon which our rulers and media fixate. They waste time and our tax dollars on insignificant and entirely contrived problems while the house burns and smoke pours from the roof. 

Post No. 994 - Gutted

I’m gutted for England. Not that the ladies from Spain are not worthy champions of the world, they are, but I liked the way England set up and played, and in particular I admire Lucy Bronze, who has probably played her last World Cup. 

Like Argentina this past summer, when the men suffered a shock loss to Saudi Arabia in the group stage and then went on to run the table and lift the cup, Spain was humiliated by a spunky Japanese team, 4-0. The Japanese made it look easy, running through and around Spain on their way to topping the group. But that’s the point about tournament football -- a team can weather a poor outing in the group stage and get themselves sorted out -- which is precisely what Spain did.

Like so many finals, this one was close, hard fought, competitive, and it was one error by England and one moment of recognition and flawless execution that sealed it for Spain. When Lucy Bronze carried the ball into the center circle and was dispossessed it left a massive space behind her that her teammates were slow to fill. Two quick passes set Olga Carmona of Spain free to send a low shot into the far corner, perfectly placed, beyond the reach of England’s goalkeeper. That 29th minute goal was all Spain needed. For the next 70 minutes Spain throttled England’s attack, making it difficult for England to move the ball and create chances. England is a good attacking team, but they just couldn’t find a way through the extremely well-organized and disciplined Spanish defense. England hardly troubled Spain’s goalkeeper, a testament to Spain’s tactical plan and execution. 

As I mentioned, I’m particularly bummed for Lucy Bronze, a consummate professional at her position. She did everything she possibly could for her team, from trying to create links with the attacking players to putting her body on the line to block shots. Her reading of the match was superb. She ran and ran and ran. A remarkable player. 

But take nothing away from Spain. They created more chances than England and displayed solidity on defense and were the better side on the day. Champions just get the job done. 

Post No. 993 - The Ladies of Japan Fall

Nothing against Sweden, but I was hoping Japan would win and move on to the semi-final of the Women’s World Cup. As I wrote in a post recently, I admire the way Japan set-up and play, and use movement and passing to compensate for a lack of size and physicality. At their best, Japan is quick and smooth, with a squad of steady, technically capable players. But it was clear early on that Sweden was making it difficult for Japan to get its passing game going. Those long-legged Swedish ladies clogged the spaces and pressed the Japanese into uncharacteristic errors. 

When Sweden had possession they were intent on putting balls in the box for their height-advantaged teammates to attack. In the early going Sweden made the better chances and looked more threatening. Using its size and bulk advantage, Sweden controlled the midfield, which was very disruptive for Japan, whose players were finding it hard to link up. It was obvious that Japan was struggling, and I wasn’t surprised when they conceded in the 32nd minute. 

Now it was a test of character and will for the Japanese ladies. I was curious to see their reaction. Even though they came up short, I think Japan passed the character test because they didn’t hang their heads or quit. They fought their way back into the match. When all was said and done, they had 50% of possession, eleven shots with three on target, including two shots that banged off the post. They scored a goal in the 87th minute. Not an ounce of quit in the squad. 

Japan also had some good fortune when their goalkeeper, Yamashita, deflected two of Sweden’s shots off the post. If either of those balls had found the back of the net, Japan would have been toast. Japan had good and bad luck in equal measure. 

Japan played with more precision when they were forced to chase the game, and space opened up for their passing game as the Swedes tired. Japan pressed hard for an equalizer, but Sweden was able to hang on for the win. The match was competitive, played at high tempo, with several dramatic moments. It’s a shame that one side had to lose, but the Japanese players and the coaching staff have nothing to be ashamed of. 

England versus Colombia should be intriguing. Stay tuned. 

Post No. 992 - Infinite Gifts

Can't predict the future

Can't forget the past

Feels like any moment

Could be the last

All you believers

Standing inside this room

Can't you see it coming

Shooting out across the moon

Robbie Robertson, RIP

In about an hour or so I’m going to the beautiful Lobero Theater to see Patti Smith and her trio. The sky is filled with light clouds and the air feels muggy. I just read the first story in Aleksander Hemon’s collection, Love and Obstacles. Over the past couple of months I’ve read a lot of Hemon’s work, and some reviews written about him. He’s a marvelous writer, inventive, precise, amusing, with depth. 

I’m an unknown small town book reviewer. It doesn’t matter as much as it once did. What matters now is that I write reviews of books that interest or move me; moreover, books I choose, and the practice is just an extension of my lifelong reading habit. Until recently, I didn’t give my love of reading much thought, it’s what I’ve always done, but then it occurred to me how few people can confess to a lifelong reading habit. A compulsion to read as much as possible, in almost every spare moment, before bed and upon awakening, while waiting for a bus or a train or a plane. I have this fuzzy memory of the second grade at Hope School, the class outside seated on grass, a young, tawny-haired teacher holding a book aloft and telling the group that I had won some contest, who can read the most pages in 30 days or some such pedagogical gimmick, but it made me proud, though not as proud as when the teacher told my mother that my reading composition was far beyond an average second grader. 

I’ve hauled books from every place I’ve ever lived. Japan. Honolulu. Seattle. I remember the year in Hawaii when the roof of the clapboard house my wife and I were living in in the Kaimuki neighborhood of Honolulu, sprung multiple leaks during a drowning rain and soaked my entire library. I still have some of those books on my shelves, stained with mildew. They exude an odor of decay, though that was some 40 years ago now. My first wife would be 70 now. One day I will write about her, the life we shared for eight years. So long ago. 

I can say that reading changed the trajectory of my life. It opened my eyes to other possibilities, my ears to unusual sounds, and my head to ideas. In school I always excelled in writing, English and History classes, but was middling in Math and Science, with the distinction of failing an Industrial Arts class in Drafting at La Colina junior high. Industrial Arts exposed me as a mechanical ignoramus. It’s true, and to this day I’m not adept with tools or any home project of more than rudimentary difficulty; I can’t tell the difference between a manifold and a carburetor. I’m good at cleaning and maintenance, but not construction. I have a terrible eye for geometry, angles; I struggled with Math, just as my children have. If it came to pass that I had to build a shelter from the foundation up, I would fail miserably. Perhaps this is why I have such respect for tradespeople, carpenters, plumbers, electricians, roofers, who have a fundamental survival skill I will never have.

My dad wasn’t a mechanical man, either. He played golf, he didn’t tinker with engines or snake the plumbing. He was a gardener, possessed with a skill with plants that rivaled his skill with cards. He had a lathe house built in a section of our narrow patio, which was otherwise all cement, and grew several varieties of orchid. At times this seems so strange to me, my father’s love of growing things, an act of husbandry. It was absent in other areas of his life. 

I’ll leave the house in about a half an hour and walk down Canon Perdido to the Lobero. It’s about a 15 minute walk at a steady pace. My ticket is at Will Call. We bought it months ago, when Smith’s show was announced, for $175. The cost is why I’m going alone. Patti Smith is a hero to me more than she is to my wife, though my wife appreciates artists and is aware of Smith’s musical work. We believe in the power of the Arts in our house, of stories, plays, songs, dances, painting and textiles. I suppose it’s the reason we are precariously comfortable. 

Anyway, I’m looking forward to the performance. Patti Smith, Bob Dylan, Springsteen, and others, now in their 70s or 80s yet still playing gigs, still making art. I think of the absolutely badass actor from “Hadestown” and other Broadway shows, Andre DeShields, a man who will never slow down. I’m talking about people with a powerful life force that isn’t constantly pointed at wealth and power, that seeks something deeper and more significant. Emotion. Beauty. Meaning. 

10:15 p.m. Patti Smith was brilliant, a creative force of nature. Her voice is still strong. Her son Jackson played acoustic and electric guitars. I wonder what that’s like, playing guitar next to your mother, a legend. She played for 90 minutes and received several standing ovations. Smith closed the show with “People Have the Power.”

Post No. 991 - Women's World Cup

I just watched England edge Nigeria on penalties in the Women’s World Cup. 

Lauren James, whose brother Reece plays for Chelsea, the Premier League club team I follow, as well as the England Men’s national team, is a lucky lass. Lauren has had a very productive world cup, but against Nigeria she was nonexistent for long stretches and then completely lost her cool and got sent off for violent conduct in the 86th minute. This forced her teammates to battle for nearly half an hour a player down, which is one of the toughest things to do in all of sports. Football (soccer) is a game of space, passing lanes, and losing a player puts enormous pressure on the team. Fortunately, England, the reigning European Champions, have enough talent and nous in their squad to overcome such a devastating occurrence. Lauren James is a technically gifted player, but there’s simply no excuse for what she did. It was obviously deliberate, a stupid decision that hurt her team, in the match with Nigeria and the next one when she will be ineligible to play.  

My favorite English player is Lucy Bronze, who plays her club football for the Barcelona ladies. Bronze was running as hard in the 120th minute as she was in the 40th. She’s not the flashiest, but she is the kind of player I respect because of her work rate, her smarts, and her on-field leadership. Bronze does all the little things that are needed to win tournaments. She’s a remarkable player. 

I’ve watched Japan play twice now and have been very impressed. The Japanese are extremely well-drilled. While they’re not the most physically imposing or athletic side, they show a collective understanding of how to play football. They maintain a compact shape, move the ball crisply, and move as a unit. They transition from defense to offense very quickly. While I have some doubts about them, I will not count them out. With a bit of good fortune, they could win the tournament. 

France is another side that has impressed me. Very athletic and dynamic. I was particularly impressed with Sakina Karchaoui. She not only defends effectively, but puts dangerous balls into the box. 

The other player that has impressed me with her all around play is Danielle van de Donk of the Netherlands. She’s another player who understands the game, who reads the game and instinctively knows what to do. 

I saw that Donald Trump put out a statement on his third-rate Twitter look-alike platform criticizing the US Women’s Team for being eliminated. The American team set a very high bar for themselves as multiple World Cup winners. It goes to show how difficult it is to win a World Cup, let alone repeat as winners. So many things have to go right, and there’s always a bit of luck involved. Trump extrapolated the loss as an example of America’s decline under Joe Biden, about as ignorant an argument as you’ll ever hear. Trump knows as much about football as he does about the Constitution, which, of course, is next to nothing. 

One thing is for certain: these women are fantastic athletes, fantastic competitors, and it’s a pleasure to watch them perform. 

Post No. 990 - PETE

Today is my dad’s 90th birthday. He died 33 years ago at the age of 57. Emphysema and cirrhosis of the liver. He was a heavy smoker and drinker for most of his life. He didn’t live to see me married and have children of my own. I think I’ve been a better father to my children than he was to me, though I don’t hold it against him. 

His name was Robert Donald Tanguay, but he went by Pete. He was born in Salem, MA, and his parents died shortly thereafter. My mother says he was practically an orphan. He had an older brother, Donald, and a sister, Carmen. They were raised by relatives, aunts and uncles. My mother and father met in high school in Salem. My father joined the Army in 1952 or 53 and was sent to Germany. My mother wrote to my father several times a week, and when he was discharged they married. 

My mother was the youngest child, the lone girl. Her side of the family emigrated to the US from Quebec in the late 19th century, part of a small wave of French-Canadians who settled in Maine, Vermont, Rhode Island, and Massachusetts. Working-class, they labored in mills and factories, linen and leather. My mother was sheltered, as many girls were then, and my father was my mom’s first love. In 1955 or 56, they loaded what they owned in a red and white Chevrolet coupe and started across the country, headed, as so many were at the time, to the Golden State, California. 

Santa Barbara felt right, so they stopped here and tried to put down roots. By trade my father was a butcher, a skilled one, who never cut himself and rarely got blood or fat on his apron, under which he always wore a dress shirt. He liked clothes. Born with nothing, lucky to have learned a trade in the Army, he was attracted to luxury and flash. He taught himself to play golf and became a respectable amateur. He was adroit with cards. His drink of choice was a vodka-tonic, his card game of choice was gin rummy. He played with a lit cigarette dangling from his mouth. 

I didn’t get to know my dad because my parents split when I was ten. They spent two years living apart but somewhat committed to a reconciliation, though it didn’t happen because my dad couldn’t give up drinking or gambling. I think Pete needed the rush of gambling, of having money on the line with the possibility of winning big; he needed to feel the edge, the risk. He ran with men who peeled c-notes from a roll they kept in their pocket. Money-clip men, with heavy pinky rings. When my dad was flush he’d buy the house a round. He tipped waiters and waitresses as if money were no object. Often he’d slip me a twenty. 

I was 18 when I left Santa Barbara for the Air Force, and ten years would pass before I returned. I saw my dad a little more often, but not enough to really get to know him. He was involved in a local bookmaking scheme by then, and would get arrested for it. The lure of easy money was always irresistible. 

There was more to my dad then I ever knew, layers, stories. I wish I could have talked to him more, got to know him better. 

August 4, 1933. Franklin Delano Roosevelt was president and the nation was mired in the Great Depression. 

When Pete’s lungs and liver gave out, George H.W. Bush was in the White House.