Print this article
Thu, 29 Jun 2006 05:43:37 +0200
Dog Training
To mark the festival of association football, try a bit of word association - with "Germany". Running a personal search engine through our memories and misconceptions can have unfortunate results. These may well begin with "terrible food", continue with a stereotype about the nation's territorial aspirations for everything from poolside sunloungers to Poland, and end - at least among English football fans - with the chant of "Two World Wars and one World Cup, doo-dah".
As a result of a mindset rooted in the post-war era, the vast majority of Commonwealth citizens neglect going to Germany - and we are the losers.
Germany is a near-perfect holiday destination. Whether you seek a world-class city-break (Berlin, Munich, Cologne), startling scenery (Bavaria and the Harz Mountains), or history and high culture (Dresden, Weimar, Bayreuth), the Federal Republic provides the answer. And with every degree of global warming, Baltic and North Sea beaches become that bit more appealing. Germany should be up there with France, Spain and Italy on the list of European favourites.
Germany is a profoundly beautiful, welcoming and cultured nation. I propose a journey that deliberately seeks places way off even the most eccentric - or erudite - tourist's trail. They also have names that resonate with a certain distaste: Neanderthal, Frankenstein and Rottweilers. And to vary the diet, I shall throw in a dash of Worms and the odd Wuppertal.
My trip, I confess, began inauspiciously with a cheap flight from England to a nearby airport. If your boarding pass reads "Dortmund", bad luck: you are about to have your prejudices reinforced. The plane lands at an airport on the edge of a city that was almost entirely wiped out by Second World War bombing.
Nothing unusual there: dozens of German cities were flattened by the RAF, and have been meticulously reconstructed according to the original plans. But not Dortmund. I spent what felt like a very long afternoon in the city, of which the highlights were a) the airport and b) the former Gestapo headquarters, now a museum aimed at keeping the memory of unspeakable cruelty alive.
Stay with me, though, because close by you can find a pair of intriguing attractions. First, make your way through the post-industrial detritus that pocks the Ruhr into a deep, thickly wooded valley. This was carved by the Dussel, the river that gains a "dorf" where it meets the Rhine. The vale is named, though, after a 17th-century romantic poet called Joachim Neander who used to meander hereabouts. His valley became known as Neanderthal. And when, in 1856, remains of a colony of proto-humans was discovered, the species was named Neanderthal man.
Neanderthals roamed around Europe and the western parts of Asia between 300,000 and 30,000 years ago; there is no truth that their tribal totem was a white flag bearing a red cross. Amid the blossoming trees you encounter sculptures representing a curious, stunted species with large noses. They were wiped out during the last Ice Age, their sad story told in the nearby Neanderthal Museum.
If Neandertal man had had a chance to design a public transport system, it might look like the one just south of here, in Wuppertal - a very long and very thin town, with homes and factories sprinkled along the slopes and floor of the valley formed by, you guessed it, the Wupper river.
In the late 19th century, Wuppertal needed a new transport system. The valley was already very crowded, so a surface line was out of the question. Digging an underground railway would have proved absurdly expensive for a small town, and so the German equivalent of Heath Robinson was brought in to build something that looks like a misguided vision of what the future will look like: the Schwebebahn, or suspended railway. Vehicles resembling floating trams whoosh in the manner of high-speed Zeppelins along the valley, suspended about 15 metres above roads and river by an elaborate system of pylons and cables.
Somehow the system lasted long enough to celebrate the centenary of its completion - despite a nasty incident in 1950 when an elephant, being carried on a promotional exercise, took fright and leapt into the river below. He survived, as has the Schwebebahn.
The carriages reach high speeds, and you might initially find the way they sway disconcerting. But they are addictive: besides the feeling of being on a municipal theme-park ride, you see a town from on high and from end to end.
After the full eight-mile stretch, you will demand another go. The flat fare of '1.80 ($3.65) is cheaper than Disney - and if you are travelling on a regional rail ticket, you get the ride thrown in.
Forty years after Adolf Hitler opened the factory that was to make the Volkswagen - a mass-produced vehicle designed by Ferdinand Porsche for the new network of autobahnen - Germans appear to have decided that they prefer their bahnen without the auto. The nation's public transport system is both a superb model of integration - connecting any tiny hamlet with any quarter of every big city - and amazing value. I bought a sequence of one-day regional tickets that allow unlimited travel on trains, buses, trams and preposterous aerial tramways for a low, fixed fare.
Services are extremely reliable, even in the most vicious of winters; a classic and long-standing advert for Deutsche Bahn is "Alle reden vom wetter. Wir nicht". (Everybody talks about the weather. We don't). Next stop on my cut-price, high-speed tour: Frankenstein's castle. This 13th-century fortress, just south of Darmstad, is straight out of central casting, and the inspiration for Mary Shelley's novel. One dark night in 1816 the writer ventured here to investigate a legend: that Johann Conrad Dippel, a mysterious physician-theologian, had conducted experiments using human body parts. His ghost is reputed to sit on the roof and replicate the research for a week each winter between Christmas and New Year.
The castle's name comes from the original owners, the von Frankenstein
family. Later, it became a military prison, then fell into disrepair. You are welcome to wander around the ruins, and inspect the life-size relief of a von Frankenstein in the chapel. You will also want to admire, from the ramparts, the splendid view of the Rhine valley: the artery of western Europe.
Time for dinner - at which point some travellers will run a mile, usually straight across the Rhine towards France. In the 800-plus pages of Lonely Planet's guide to Germany, not a single line is found for the places on my tour so far: Neanderthal, Wuppertal and Frankenstein's castle. But the book is far from silent about the food: "A land of meat, pickled cucumbers and potato dumplings," it opines, adding: "No part of the pig is safe from Bavarian chefs".
The Germans do like meat. All of it. They like to get every pfennig's worth from a pfund of fleisch, which means that if you have longed to know what sausage made from brains tastes like, you are in the right country. But anyone who eats meat should celebrate their fortune in being somewhere with such an appetite for animals. If miscellaneous minced organs do not appeal, try sauerbraten: beef marinated for an age, which melts in the mouth in minutes.
While German chefs have their work cut out to make the country more vegetarian-friendly, the brewers need no help. The German policy of purity (when applied to beer, at least) is a model prescription. Only water, malt, yeast and hops may be used by brewers: a simple recipe that creates a deliciously complex array of beers.
By the time I crossed the Rhine to reach Worms (no smirking at the back of the class, please), the light was beginning to fade.
I asked a man in a Mercedes for directions to the centre. He insisted that he would drive me there; and no, he wasn't a taxi driver.
The city that was once the seat of the Holy Roman Empire's parliament, or Diet, is best seen at dusk late in spring, when mist disguises the beauty of the city and cloaks everything in a Mitteleuropean melancholy - especially the vast Dom (cathedral), which has, er, dominated this European crossroads for nine centuries.
Germans pronounce the city roughly as "Vorms", to rhyme with "forms", and we should really get over our childish amusement at the name. Even so, I could not resist searching, unsuccessfully, for a Cafe Worms or a Worms takeaway.
So I slid into the Worms Youth Hostel ("slither in, wriggle out", could be its slogan), which, like all other hostels I have been to in Germany, is spotlessly clean and ridiculously good value. Just '17.50 ($35.50) buys you a sun-lounger with towel - sorry, a bed in a dorm including linen - plus the best breakfast Worms can provide. Tee hee.
A little further south, you may glimpse the occasional tourist, especially in Heidelberg: a sparkling university city. But keep going south to watch the scenery improve with every mile - and encounter another country. The most easterly point of France jabs in to the ribs of Baden-Wurttemberg just a few miles from the city of Karlsruhe. The river dividing Alsace-Lorraine from the Saarland is a curious no-man's land even 61 years after the end of the Second World War. From the map, I thought I could detect a bridge linking Germany with France. When I turned up, I found a tiny ferry shuttling back and forth across the river with a few cars and pedestrians until nightfall.
From here, most people head south into the Black Forest. But I wanted to meet the Rottweilers - about 25,000 of them, contentedly chewing the fat in the tranquillity that now prevails in the oldest city in Germany's south-west.
Rottweil once lay astride a European superhighway, which is how it came to lend its name to fierce dogs. The original hund came from across the Alps - indeed, the Romans and later traders brought the animal over the mountains because it was strong enough to get its teeth into an Alpine traverse. Rottweil lay on the main highway north, and happened to have some fairly robust sheepdogs. They were crossed to create the Rottweiler Metzgerhund - which translates as the butcher's dog of Rottweil.
The dog's reputation in Britain may be fearsome, but in Germany the Rottweiler is so well-regarded that it is the standard guide dog for the blind.
Rottweil is one of the most beautiful towns in Germany. With no strategic targets, the town evaded the sights of Allied bombers during the Second World War.
As a result, its Gothic Hauptstrasse looks as though it is the backdrop for the most fabulous of fairytales - perhaps one involving a young lad, a football and the Weltmeisterschaft (Germany's name for the World Cup, which I think has unfortunate overtones of world domination).
Rottweil is also splendidly provincial. To get the finest of panoramas, head uphill to the Hoch Turm (high tower). First, though, call at the tourist office to ask for the key for the gate. I was given it in return for, temporarily, surrendering my passport in the manner of an English hooligan.
From the summit, survey the majestic architecture. Let your eyes explore the hills - handsomely embroidered by human effort.
Then head for the convivial Cafe Schadle for a glass of the robust local wine and relax. For you, Tommy, the tour is over.
To mark the festival of association football, try a bit of word association - with "Germany". Running a personal search engine through our memories and misconceptions can have unfortunate results. These may well begin with "terrible food", continue with a stereotype about the nation's territorial aspirations for everything from poolside sunloungers to Poland, and end - at least among English football fans - with the chant of "Two World Wars and one World Cup, doo-dah".
As a result of a mindset rooted in the post-war era, the vast majority of Commonwealth citizens neglect going to Germany - and we are the losers.
Germany is a near-perfect holiday destination. Whether you seek a world-class city-break (Berlin, Munich, Cologne), startling scenery (Bavaria and the Harz Mountains), or history and high culture (Dresden, Weimar, Bayreuth), the Federal Republic provides the answer. And with every degree of global warming, Baltic and North Sea beaches become that bit more appealing. Germany should be up there with France, Spain and Italy on the list of European favourites.
Germany is a profoundly beautiful, welcoming and cultured nation. I propose a journey that deliberately seeks places way off even the most eccentric - or erudite - tourist's trail. They also have names that resonate with a certain distaste: Neanderthal, Frankenstein and Rottweilers. And to vary the diet, I shall throw in a dash of Worms and the odd Wuppertal.
My trip, I confess, began inauspiciously with a cheap flight from England to a nearby airport. If your boarding pass reads "Dortmund", bad luck: you are about to have your prejudices reinforced. The plane lands at an airport on the edge of a city that was almost entirely wiped out by Second World War bombing.
Nothing unusual there: dozens of German cities were flattened by the RAF, and have been meticulously reconstructed according to the original plans. But not Dortmund. I spent what felt like a very long afternoon in the city, of which the highlights were a) the airport and b) the former Gestapo headquarters, now a museum aimed at keeping the memory of unspeakable cruelty alive.
Stay with me, though, because close by you can find a pair of intriguing attractions. First, make your way through the post-industrial detritus that pocks the Ruhr into a deep, thickly wooded valley. This was carved by the Dussel, the river that gains a "dorf" where it meets the Rhine. The vale is named, though, after a 17th-century romantic poet called Joachim Neander who used to meander hereabouts. His valley became known as Neanderthal. And when, in 1856, remains of a colony of proto-humans was discovered, the species was named Neanderthal man.
Neanderthals roamed around Europe and the western parts of Asia between 300,000 and 30,000 years ago; there is no truth that their tribal totem was a white flag bearing a red cross. Amid the blossoming trees you encounter sculptures representing a curious, stunted species with large noses. They were wiped out during the last Ice Age, their sad story told in the nearby Neanderthal Museum.
If Neandertal man had had a chance to design a public transport system, it might look like the one just south of here, in Wuppertal - a very long and very thin town, with homes and factories sprinkled along the slopes and floor of the valley formed by, you guessed it, the Wupper river.
In the late 19th century, Wuppertal needed a new transport system. The valley was already very crowded, so a surface line was out of the question. Digging an underground railway would have proved absurdly expensive for a small town, and so the German equivalent of Heath Robinson was brought in to build something that looks like a misguided vision of what the future will look like: the Schwebebahn, or suspended railway. Vehicles resembling floating trams whoosh in the manner of high-speed Zeppelins along the valley, suspended about 15 metres above roads and river by an elaborate system of pylons and cables.
Somehow the system lasted long enough to celebrate the centenary of its completion - despite a nasty incident in 1950 when an elephant, being carried on a promotional exercise, took fright and leapt into the river below. He survived, as has the Schwebebahn.
The carriages reach high speeds, and you might initially find the way they sway disconcerting. But they are addictive: besides the feeling of being on a municipal theme-park ride, you see a town from on high and from end to end.
After the full eight-mile stretch, you will demand another go. The flat fare of '1.80 ($3.65) is cheaper than Disney - and if you are travelling on a regional rail ticket, you get the ride thrown in.
Forty years after Adolf Hitler opened the factory that was to make the Volkswagen - a mass-produced vehicle designed by Ferdinand Porsche for the new network of autobahnen - Germans appear to have decided that they prefer their bahnen without the auto. The nation's public transport system is both a superb model of integration - connecting any tiny hamlet with any quarter of every big city - and amazing value. I bought a sequence of one-day regional tickets that allow unlimited travel on trains, buses, trams and preposterous aerial tramways for a low, fixed fare.
Services are extremely reliable, even in the most vicious of winters; a classic and long-standing advert for Deutsche Bahn is "Alle reden vom wetter. Wir nicht". (Everybody talks about the weather. We don't). Next stop on my cut-price, high-speed tour: Frankenstein's castle. This 13th-century fortress, just south of Darmstad, is straight out of central casting, and the inspiration for Mary Shelley's novel. One dark night in 1816 the writer ventured here to investigate a legend: that Johann Conrad Dippel, a mysterious physician-theologian, had conducted experiments using human body parts. His ghost is reputed to sit on the roof and replicate the research for a week each winter between Christmas and New Year.
The castle's name comes from the original owners, the von Frankenstein
family. Later, it became a military prison, then fell into disrepair. You are welcome to wander around the ruins, and inspect the life-size relief of a von Frankenstein in the chapel. You will also want to admire, from the ramparts, the splendid view of the Rhine valley: the artery of western Europe.
Time for dinner - at which point some travellers will run a mile, usually straight across the Rhine towards France. In the 800-plus pages of Lonely Planet's guide to Germany, not a single line is found for the places on my tour so far: Neanderthal, Wuppertal and Frankenstein's castle. But the book is far from silent about the food: "A land of meat, pickled cucumbers and potato dumplings," it opines, adding: "No part of the pig is safe from Bavarian chefs".
The Germans do like meat. All of it. They like to get every pfennig's worth from a pfund of fleisch, which means that if you have longed to know what sausage made from brains tastes like, you are in the right country. But anyone who eats meat should celebrate their fortune in being somewhere with such an appetite for animals. If miscellaneous minced organs do not appeal, try sauerbraten: beef marinated for an age, which melts in the mouth in minutes.
While German chefs have their work cut out to make the country more vegetarian-friendly, the brewers need no help. The German policy of purity (when applied to beer, at least) is a model prescription. Only water, malt, yeast and hops may be used by brewers: a simple recipe that creates a deliciously complex array of beers.
By the time I crossed the Rhine to reach Worms (no smirking at the back of the class, please), the light was beginning to fade.
I asked a man in a Mercedes for directions to the centre. He insisted that he would drive me there; and no, he wasn't a taxi driver.
The city that was once the seat of the Holy Roman Empire's parliament, or Diet, is best seen at dusk late in spring, when mist disguises the beauty of the city and cloaks everything in a Mitteleuropean melancholy - especially the vast Dom (cathedral), which has, er, dominated this European crossroads for nine centuries.
Germans pronounce the city roughly as "Vorms", to rhyme with "forms", and we should really get over our childish amusement at the name. Even so, I could not resist searching, unsuccessfully, for a Cafe Worms or a Worms takeaway.
So I slid into the Worms Youth Hostel ("slither in, wriggle out", could be its slogan), which, like all other hostels I have been to in Germany, is spotlessly clean and ridiculously good value. Just '17.50 ($35.50) buys you a sun-lounger with towel - sorry, a bed in a dorm including linen - plus the best breakfast Worms can provide. Tee hee.
A little further south, you may glimpse the occasional tourist, especially in Heidelberg: a sparkling university city. But keep going south to watch the scenery improve with every mile - and encounter another country. The most easterly point of France jabs in to the ribs of Baden-Wurttemberg just a few miles from the city of Karlsruhe. The river dividing Alsace-Lorraine from the Saarland is a curious no-man's land even 61 years after the end of the Second World War. From the map, I thought I could detect a bridge linking Germany with France. When I turned up, I found a tiny ferry shuttling back and forth across the river with a few cars and pedestrians until nightfall.
From here, most people head south into the Black Forest. But I wanted to meet the Rottweilers - about 25,000 of them, contentedly chewing the fat in the tranquillity that now prevails in the oldest city in Germany's south-west.
Rottweil once lay astride a European superhighway, which is how it came to lend its name to fierce dogs. The original hund came from across the Alps - indeed, the Romans and later traders brought the animal over the mountains because it was strong enough to get its teeth into an Alpine traverse. Rottweil lay on the main highway north, and happened to have some fairly robust sheepdogs. They were crossed to create the Rottweiler Metzgerhund - which translates as the butcher's dog of Rottweil.
The dog's reputation in Britain may be fearsome, but in Germany the Rottweiler is so well-regarded that it is the standard guide dog for the blind.
Rottweil is one of the most beautiful towns in Germany. With no strategic targets, the town evaded the sights of Allied bombers during the Second World War.
As a result, its Gothic Hauptstrasse looks as though it is the backdrop for the most fabulous of fairytales - perhaps one involving a young lad, a football and the Weltmeisterschaft (Germany's name for the World Cup, which I think has unfortunate overtones of world domination).
Rottweil is also splendidly provincial. To get the finest of panoramas, head uphill to the Hoch Turm (high tower). First, though, call at the tourist office to ask for the key for the gate. I was given it in return for, temporarily, surrendering my passport in the manner of an English hooligan.
From the summit, survey the majestic architecture. Let your eyes explore the hills - handsomely embroidered by human effort.
Then head for the convivial Cafe Schadle for a glass of the robust local wine and relax. For you, Tommy, the tour is over.
Mon, 26 Jun 2006 07:52:49 +0200
Paul told Scott Morris that he let the dog out one morning. About the same time, a young woman jogged toward his house.
First, Paul whistled for Honey to come back inside. The dog ignored him, as did the woman. Then Paul yelled. "Honey, come here!"
He said the young woman, who never saw the dog, wheeled around and glared at him for an instant as if to say, "Not in your wildest dreams." She didn't jog past his house again for a long time.
Don't go there
The state's two-year college chancellor, Roy Johnson, talked to members of the state Board of Education about detailed plans for college involvement in hurricane evacuation.
After the session, M.J. Ellington reports, Roy said he had a much simpler solution that would not involve the colleges at all.
"I hope they just go away," he quipped, about the powerful storms.
Cut that out!
A frustrated federal judge, tired of the bickering between lawyers in a case, made his view clear in a recent decision, Eric Fleischauer reports.
The judge ordered the lawyers to meet at the courthouse steps with a witness present. "At that time and location, counsel shall engage in one (1) game of 'rock, paper, scissors.' "
Presbyterians seeing sights
Some 4,000 Presbyterians who will be in Birmingham for their General Assembly, starting Thursday, will find opportunities to experience Alabama's rich religious life ' and try out some not-so-religious activities ' Melanie Smith learned.
A canoe trip on the Cahaba River, led by a minister who was once the denomination's moderator, is one option. There is a church tie-in, beyond the obvious one of experiencing God's creation. A presbytery is creating a camp along the Cahaba.
Delegates also will be able to take a side trip to visit Huntsville First Presbyterian Church, founded in 1822. Other options include tours of churches involved in the civil-rights movement, church ministries to the needy in Birmingham, a Selma church started in 1816, and Stillman College in Tuscaloosa, founded by Presbyterians in 1875.
As young as you feel
At age 99, my wife's grandfather renewed his driver license for four years. In his youthful outlook, he had something in common with Cliff Garl, who recently earned his pilot's certificate in Arlington, Wash., at age 91.
Cliff made his first solo flight in a Cessna 172. He's thinking of logging more flying hours to earn a recreational or private pilot's certificate, according to The Associated Press.
"You go to a nursing home, and you'll see people a lot younger than he just sitting there," said his flight instructor, Joe Bennett, 75. Before taking lessons, Cliff had to show the Federal Aviation Administration that he was healthy enough.
Dog Training
First, Paul whistled for Honey to come back inside. The dog ignored him, as did the woman. Then Paul yelled. "Honey, come here!"
He said the young woman, who never saw the dog, wheeled around and glared at him for an instant as if to say, "Not in your wildest dreams." She didn't jog past his house again for a long time.
Don't go there
The state's two-year college chancellor, Roy Johnson, talked to members of the state Board of Education about detailed plans for college involvement in hurricane evacuation.
After the session, M.J. Ellington reports, Roy said he had a much simpler solution that would not involve the colleges at all.
"I hope they just go away," he quipped, about the powerful storms.
Cut that out!
A frustrated federal judge, tired of the bickering between lawyers in a case, made his view clear in a recent decision, Eric Fleischauer reports.
The judge ordered the lawyers to meet at the courthouse steps with a witness present. "At that time and location, counsel shall engage in one (1) game of 'rock, paper, scissors.' "
Presbyterians seeing sights
Some 4,000 Presbyterians who will be in Birmingham for their General Assembly, starting Thursday, will find opportunities to experience Alabama's rich religious life ' and try out some not-so-religious activities ' Melanie Smith learned.
A canoe trip on the Cahaba River, led by a minister who was once the denomination's moderator, is one option. There is a church tie-in, beyond the obvious one of experiencing God's creation. A presbytery is creating a camp along the Cahaba.
Delegates also will be able to take a side trip to visit Huntsville First Presbyterian Church, founded in 1822. Other options include tours of churches involved in the civil-rights movement, church ministries to the needy in Birmingham, a Selma church started in 1816, and Stillman College in Tuscaloosa, founded by Presbyterians in 1875.
As young as you feel
At age 99, my wife's grandfather renewed his driver license for four years. In his youthful outlook, he had something in common with Cliff Garl, who recently earned his pilot's certificate in Arlington, Wash., at age 91.
Cliff made his first solo flight in a Cessna 172. He's thinking of logging more flying hours to earn a recreational or private pilot's certificate, according to The Associated Press.
"You go to a nursing home, and you'll see people a lot younger than he just sitting there," said his flight instructor, Joe Bennett, 75. Before taking lessons, Cliff had to show the Federal Aviation Administration that he was healthy enough.
Dog Training
Mon, 26 Jun 2006 07:51:09 +0200
When we first bought our puppy, I lay awake at night worrying that someone might reach over our front fence and steal her. Now, 10 months on, I lie awake at night worrying that someone might not reach over our fence and steal her.
How has it come to this?
All the other dog owners I know adore their pets. They have photos of their dog in their wallet; they bore workmates witless with tales of their dog's latest adorable antics; they have a permanent whiff of liver-flavoured dog treats emanating from their trouser pockets; and they don't hesitate for a second when asked to agree to yet another astoundingly expensive course of veterinary treatment.
As far as I'm aware, none of them fantasise about throwing a tennis ball for their dog to fetch in front of a fast-moving truck, or daydream about driving to a secluded patch of wasteland at midnight and digging a terrier-shaped shallow grave under the trees.
Type "love dogs" into Google and you will find more than 80 million entries; type in "hate dogs" and there are a mere 19 million. It's not the most scientific of surveys, but clearly, the consensus is that dogs are a good thing.
I can't pinpoint the exact moment when I fell out of love with my dog. It may have been when she chewed our lounge sofa and two chairs with such thoroughness that we had to have them entirely reupholstered. It may have been when she reduced our newly designed front garden to a quagmire of muddy holes, uprooted saplings and flattened shrubs. Or it may have been when she saturated our bed with a torrent of urine, presumably because she'd recently been able to tick "wee on every square centimetre of lounge carpet" off her Things To Do list and felt ready for a new challenge.
Though, thinking about it, I suspect it was the time shortly before Christmas when the dog took umbrage at being tied to a Property Press stand while I went into the butcher's.
Seconds after being given the "stay" command 'C which, frankly, might as well be the "balance on your forepaws and woof the theme tune to Grey's Anatomy" command for all the notice she takes of it 'C she hared off down the street toward home, Property Presses scattering in her wake and the metal stand clanking terrifyingly on the end of her lead.
Alerted by the screams of bystanders, I ran out the door, sped off after the dog, and rugby-tackled the magazine stand while various neighbours lined up behind their fences to yell encouragement.
For a few seconds, the dog was sufficiently strong to pull me along, creating what must have seemed to onlookers a grotesque parody of the traditional Christmas tableau: a red dog-drawn sleigh pulling along behind it a portly passenger clutching, instead of a sackful of presents, a plastic bag of pork sausages.
MORE recently, the dog discovered how to open our letterbox. She ignores Warehouse fliers, real estate agents' cards and community newspapers, preferring to concentrate on the mail we might actually want to read. You can imagine my delight when I came home two weeks ago to discover the remains of a cheque, shredded into dozens of tiny fluttering pieces, on the welcome mat.
Oddly, the dog is as adored outside the house as she is disliked within it. From 3pm each day, gaggles of schoolchildren cluster around the gate, swooning with delight if they succeed in tempting her out of her kennel. Anonymous admirers bring her bones. When I take the dog for a walk, passersby stop to greet her by name and engulf her in hugs, while ignoring me entirely.
Thanks to nothing more than a genetic tendency toward extreme fluffiness, she has cultivated a fan base that most of the contestants on NZ Idol can only dream of.
I have tried every piece of advice on managing this canine nutcase that I've been given, from puppy pre-schools to dog obedience courses to tips from a dog listener on television.
None of them were any more successful than my own approach, which involved screaming oaths at the dog while repeatedly clouting her over the head with a paperback copy of Enid Blyton's The Faraway Tree.
Currently, I'm experimenting with a method that involves treating both the dog and the rest of the family as a kind of urban wolf pack. You are the leader; the dog is the lowliest wolf cub.
This sounds fine in theory, but in practice I suspect I will have to tear the throat out of a live caribou with my teeth before the dog respects me enough to stop shredding my cheques.
Dog Training
How has it come to this?
All the other dog owners I know adore their pets. They have photos of their dog in their wallet; they bore workmates witless with tales of their dog's latest adorable antics; they have a permanent whiff of liver-flavoured dog treats emanating from their trouser pockets; and they don't hesitate for a second when asked to agree to yet another astoundingly expensive course of veterinary treatment.
As far as I'm aware, none of them fantasise about throwing a tennis ball for their dog to fetch in front of a fast-moving truck, or daydream about driving to a secluded patch of wasteland at midnight and digging a terrier-shaped shallow grave under the trees.
Type "love dogs" into Google and you will find more than 80 million entries; type in "hate dogs" and there are a mere 19 million. It's not the most scientific of surveys, but clearly, the consensus is that dogs are a good thing.
I can't pinpoint the exact moment when I fell out of love with my dog. It may have been when she chewed our lounge sofa and two chairs with such thoroughness that we had to have them entirely reupholstered. It may have been when she reduced our newly designed front garden to a quagmire of muddy holes, uprooted saplings and flattened shrubs. Or it may have been when she saturated our bed with a torrent of urine, presumably because she'd recently been able to tick "wee on every square centimetre of lounge carpet" off her Things To Do list and felt ready for a new challenge.
Though, thinking about it, I suspect it was the time shortly before Christmas when the dog took umbrage at being tied to a Property Press stand while I went into the butcher's.
Seconds after being given the "stay" command 'C which, frankly, might as well be the "balance on your forepaws and woof the theme tune to Grey's Anatomy" command for all the notice she takes of it 'C she hared off down the street toward home, Property Presses scattering in her wake and the metal stand clanking terrifyingly on the end of her lead.
Alerted by the screams of bystanders, I ran out the door, sped off after the dog, and rugby-tackled the magazine stand while various neighbours lined up behind their fences to yell encouragement.
For a few seconds, the dog was sufficiently strong to pull me along, creating what must have seemed to onlookers a grotesque parody of the traditional Christmas tableau: a red dog-drawn sleigh pulling along behind it a portly passenger clutching, instead of a sackful of presents, a plastic bag of pork sausages.
MORE recently, the dog discovered how to open our letterbox. She ignores Warehouse fliers, real estate agents' cards and community newspapers, preferring to concentrate on the mail we might actually want to read. You can imagine my delight when I came home two weeks ago to discover the remains of a cheque, shredded into dozens of tiny fluttering pieces, on the welcome mat.
Oddly, the dog is as adored outside the house as she is disliked within it. From 3pm each day, gaggles of schoolchildren cluster around the gate, swooning with delight if they succeed in tempting her out of her kennel. Anonymous admirers bring her bones. When I take the dog for a walk, passersby stop to greet her by name and engulf her in hugs, while ignoring me entirely.
Thanks to nothing more than a genetic tendency toward extreme fluffiness, she has cultivated a fan base that most of the contestants on NZ Idol can only dream of.
I have tried every piece of advice on managing this canine nutcase that I've been given, from puppy pre-schools to dog obedience courses to tips from a dog listener on television.
None of them were any more successful than my own approach, which involved screaming oaths at the dog while repeatedly clouting her over the head with a paperback copy of Enid Blyton's The Faraway Tree.
Currently, I'm experimenting with a method that involves treating both the dog and the rest of the family as a kind of urban wolf pack. You are the leader; the dog is the lowliest wolf cub.
This sounds fine in theory, but in practice I suspect I will have to tear the throat out of a live caribou with my teeth before the dog respects me enough to stop shredding my cheques.
Dog Training
Mon, 26 Jun 2006 07:49:42 +0200
But just a few weeks ago, a line from the show made me put the paper down. The terminally-cute Neela was mourning the roadside bombing death of her soldier/husband, Dr. Gallant, when she made the comment, "I can't even remember his voice."
How can that be, I wondered? I can't get my father's voice out of my head and he's been dead almost 12 years.
My dad, Herman J. Fuselier Sr., was a lifelong mechanic. But he should have been a preacher.
He had personal commandments he lived by and preached to the children whenever he had the chance. But Daddy was especially inspired on the nights he filled a tall mug full of Miller High Life.
This man knew how to enjoy his Saturday nights with a little Miller, a good Western movie or a little Sinatra, Duke Ellington or Nancy Wilson on the record player. But he never missed 7:30 a.m. Mass the next morning, although his very tired children wished that he would.
During Miller time, Daddy became a philosopher, fortune teller and sanctified preacher, all rolled into one. The Rev. Fuselier's favorite sayings included:
"The world is full of uncertainty" - That meant there would be trouble in life, but you can always overcome it.
"They're just going to have to be miserable" - That was Daddy's answer to racists, bigots and nosey people who didn't like the way he was enjoying his life.
"There's nothing more pretty than a new car, a beautiful girl and a fine race horse" - Self-explanatory.
"The good die young and the trashes stay" - The honest, hard-working people of the world seem to have all the bad luck and trouble while the criminals are healthy and care free.
"Do it and keep on doing it until you get it right" - That was Daddy's answer to shoddy work, laziness and bad grades. He also had a leather belt that could adjust the most stubborn of attitudes. My sister Kathy once had a whipping for a bad grade and my grades went up by two letters.
"Let her rip" - Some things in life you just can't control. You just have to let it go.
And last but not least, fait 'tention, boog. That's French for be careful.
I used to think "that old man doesn't know what he's talking about." But on those days when the transmission doesn't transmit, the carburetor doesn't carburate and some sap is on the phone rattling on about a late charge, Daddy's sermons come roaring back.
I'm so grateful that voice is still in my head.
Remembering the fore, fatherFor someone who, throughout my life, repeatedly stressed the importance of values like honesty, integrity and loyalty, my father, Tim Landry Sr., sure used to scare the bajeezus out of me.
Not in the traditional "scary dad" sense usually reserved for the father of whatever girl I may be dating at the time. I mean my dad used to go out of his way to physically frighten me to the point where I'd actually invent new expletives.
I can't say I blame him. Should I become a father, I'll act the same way. I'll gladly hide next to the fridge and wait for my unsuspecting 5-year-old son to walk by in his Super Mario underoos. I'll then pretend I'm a big dog and bark at him from behind, which should propel him upward at a rate fast enough to break the kitchen's gravitational pull. Such propulsion will act as a learning experience because my son, like his old man, will no doubt also dream of having the ultimate career: palentologist/astronaut/quarterback.
I remember one evening my dad was feeling especially complex-inducing. He hid behind a doorway and jumped out, screaming something original like "Boo!" I freaked out, ran to my room and was on edge for the rest of the evening. Eventually, I built up the courage to leave my room. I passed by another room that contained a coatrack. I, naturally, thought the coatrack was my father playing dead ... while standing up ... and wearing three hats. I cried for my mother who yelled at the coatrack for a good three minutes. My father then walked in from a side door, flicking his cigarette into the yard. Mom then began yelling at him. Bewildered, he could only raise his eyebrow in defense.
I also remember the time I accidentally got back at my dad by scaring him. I was 12 and he was teaching me to play golf. We were at a driving range, and he told me to focus on his swing. I focused a little too closely from behind and accidentally got clocked in the head with a three wood. I saw a flash of white as the club hit my temple. My fingers numbed as time slowed, and I collapsed to the ground. Five seconds later, nature resumed its normal speed and my father walked me to the car.
At the hospital, the doctor held up various items for me to follow with my eyes. I snuck peeks at my dad between tongue depressor wavings. I remember him pursing his lips and hanging his head as he sat in the chair next to the magazines. I had never seen him feel so terrible because he had never done anything wrong to me in his life. The doctor would say I was fine, but for that hour, my father was in agony. Seeing that kind of worry was new to me. He told me he loved me on a regular basis, but it was at this moment, I knew what it really meant.
When Daddy cleared his throatMy father never spoke much. People who knew them said it was because my mother never let him get a word in edgewise.
He always said that you'd be surprised how much you learn about people if you just listen.
He was quiet by nature and calm and even-tempered. I don't think I've ever seen him really angry. Well, only if you count the time my brother, Ronnie, and I, ages 4 and 7, respectively, decided to drive the DeSoto through the gate he had just opened. I took the steering wheel; Ronnie took the gas pedal. Fortunately, we hadn't mastered the concept of the clutch and gear shift.
I remember so clearly the angry tone in his voice, if not the words, because it was so rare. I don't remember any repercussions.
There probably weren't any.
My mother, who had no problem expressing her disapproval, usually handled disciplinary matters. If we misbehaved too much, she would pull out the traditional "Wait until your Daddy gets home."
In retrospect, it strikes me as funny that the threat worked so well. I'm not sure what we expected, since he never yelled or even fussed at us. But you could tell when you were testing his patience. He would clear his throat.
That sound was enough to stop us in our tracks. I guess the idea of incurring his disapproval was enough.
Daddy didn't believe in corporal punishment, long before the notion was in vogue. No big philosophical reasons. He just said it never worked on him and just made him more determined to do whatever had precipitated the punishment.
It seems that in his youth, he had been quite the delinquent, fighting at school, carrying on feuds with other teens. It was a side of this gentle, loving, hard-working, responsible father that his four children had never seen. It mystified us.
When I think of Daddy, all I see is that little half-smile of his that was our reward just for being us.
There was another side of him, another phase in his life that was incongruent with his gentle nature.
Daddy served with the U.S. Army in the Pacific during World War II. He hopped from the Aleutian Islands of Alaska to islands with exotic names like Kawajalen. We still have an 8 by 10 photo of him and his buddy, whose name has long been forgotten, on the island of Okinawa.
He would regale us with stories of weathering storms in pup tents and swimming in the ocean. We wondered where the combat part came in. He was one of those guys you hear about who won't talk about it.
One day, when I was about 12, I was looking for my birth certificate - I don't remember why. I stumbled across his discharge papers and in the course of reading them, discovered he had received a medal. He had never mentioned it.
When I asked my mother about it, she became agitated and even angry. She forbade me to ask him about it.
I never did.
Now that he's gone, sometimes, I wish I had.
In my father's eyesThe truth is, I may never know.
I avoided responsibility as a child. Taking out the trash, cleaning the bathrooms, mowing the grass - they were all my chores. Somehow they all got done while I stayed in my room trying to master another guitar riff in a Black Sabbath, Cream, Iron Maiden or Metallica track.
Dad didn't let his disappointment go unnoticed. It's amazing how much he could communicate with a simple stare, the way his eyes could dig into my chest and squeeze my heart. Filled with youthful pride, I'd shrug it off and get back to what mattered most to me - music, college, friends.
Something happened in my 20s. Weekends brought about unofficial traditions. Fishing trips to the levee near Lake Dauterive. Golf or football on the tube on a Sunday afternoon. No matter where we were, somehow Dad and I always found an excuse to talk about work, family, friends. There was a life lesson in every word he uttered, but I was still too immature to realize it and understand the value in what he said.
Somewhere along the way what he thought of me started to matter. His disappointment in my decisions cut like a knife. Still, I sought his consultation on just about everything. I didn't always follow his advice, and usually paid the price. His stare said "I told you so" louder than his words ever could.
His eyes said much more as I grew older. They told me how much he loved me when the words just wouldn't come. They expressed the joy in his heart when I earned my college diploma and started my first full-time job. And, they showed the concern in his heart when I underwent surgery.
A careless driver struck Dad as he crossed the street on foot to go to work one cool, damp November morning in 2003. The force of the impact caused him to suffer a severe stroke. He lapsed into a coma almost immediately.
Doctors at a New Iberia hospital told my mother, sister and I that Dad would not survive the night. His injuries were too severe. He was transferred to a Lafayette hospital to have the diagnosis confirmed.
I made the 30-minute drive from New Iberia to Lafayette a million times growing up, a million more as a teen and college student. The trip behind the ambulance that day seemed like forever. The road looked different.
Maybe it was the tears in my eyes. Maybe it was the glare of the flashing lights. Maybe it was the realization that the man I looked to as a beacon in this confusion we call life would no longer be just a phone call or short drive away to guide me through whatever I faced.
I felt alone for the first time. I felt the weight of my family's stares as they looked to this immature, terrified boy to be the man of the family, to be the one they leaned on, the one they counted on for support and guidance.
The days turned into weeks, the weeks months. By April 2004, Dad awoke from his coma in a New Orleans hospital and began the long journey to regain what physical and mental faculties he possibly could.
I watched him struggle to close his right hand into a fist. I stood silent in a corner with tears clouding in my eyes as he tried in vain time and again to remember my name, but the therapist's question went unanswered.
Then, one day, while half asleep in the chair next to his hospital bed, it came.
"Trevis." It was a whisper at first. The second attempt came in clear. And, somehow, just that whisper confirmed I had a second chance, a chance many never get.
Dad came home in June 2004, seven months after his accident. He still has limited use of his hands, arms and legs. He spends most of his days in a wheelchair and a hospital bed. Some days he knows the family, days he most resembles the proud, healthy, active man I once knew.
The truth is, I may never know what it feels like to hear my father say that I make him proud, that I've earned his respect and made up for the disappointment I caused him as a child. I may never again hear him say, "I love you, son."
But, I know what it feels like to see his smile when he opens his eyes and realizes it's my lips on his forehead, my hand in his, my voice saying, "Hey, Pop. It's the boy. I love you."
What's in a name?If you asked my dad, he'd probably tell you that he's not crazy about cats. The stray cats in his neighborhood, however, know the real truth.
Since my brothers and I have moved out of the house, my childhood home has become a halfway house for troubled felines. And although my dad likes to blame all of the four-legged acquisitions on my mother, he has become quite attached to his extended litter.
From Romeo to Trouble to CoCo, the Gruse household has been the home to an eclectic mix of temperaments and meows.
But one cat really stands out above the others.
During one of my regular phone calls home from college, my mother told me that a kitten had shown up in the yard. By this time, I had heard the story before, and I knew what she really meant: We found a stray. We've been feeding it, and we're about to take it to the vet for shots and neutering.
I just accepted the fact that this refugee had become a Gruse. I knew the cat would soon be receiving Christmas presents and a spot on my parents' bed along with the growing pack of recently adopted furry creatures.
"So, what are you going to name him," I asked my mother.
"Well," my mom said, followed by an uncomfortable pause. "Your father wants to name him Irish."
"Irish?" I asked. "Why would you name a cat Irish?"
"Well, your dad thinks he looks Irish," my mom said with an enthusiasm that couldn't mask her own confusion.
"Mom, how can a cat look Irish?"
"I don't know," my mom said softer. "But you know your father."
I knew there was no point even addressing the fact that a cat doesn't really have an ethnicity, so I decided to just focus on the name.
"Maybe you could give the cat an Irish name," I suggested.
I heard my mother yell the idea to my father.
I could tell the comment had made an impact.
"Like O'Malley or Blarney," I said.
My mom repeated the names to my father.
After a moment, I hear my dad shout out.
"Kevin," he said.
"What?" I heard my mom's muffled voice ask.
"You're dad says Kevin," she explained over the phone.
"Is Kevin an Irish name?" I asked.
I then heard my dad explaining in the background that he had known several Irish guys named Kevin.
"There was Kevin O'Toole, Kevin Sullivan, Kevin ..."
"Mom, " I tried to plead.
"We're not naming a cat Kevin," my mom said to both my dad and me.
"Well, the cat is either Kevin or Irish," my dad shouted.
My parents bickered for a while while I sat quietly on the other end of the phone, but my dad wouldn't budge.
In the end, the "Irish-looking" cat was stuck with the name Kevin.
Kevin was a part of my family's life for almost 15 years, but I could never call him by his real name. He was always "Kevbo" or "Kevvy" to me.
The story about my parents' oddly named cat has become a bit of Gruse lore. I always swore that when I got pets of my own, I'd give them less embarrassing names.
Last year I adopted a two-year-old dog from animal rescue. For some reason, his name was Whiffenpoof. When I first brought him home, I intended to change it - but he already had lived the first two years of his life with the name. He knew it. He answered to it. He accepted it.
I usually call him Whiffen or Whiffy. But he's definitely a Whiffenpoof.
When I told my dad about the new addition to my household, he only had one comment.
"And you thought Kevin was a weird name."
Originally published June 18, 2006
Print this article Email this to a friend Subscribe Now
Herman Fuselier's father, Herman J. Fuselier Sr., was a mechanic who easily could have been a preacher.
Tim Landry's father, Tim Sr. and the rest of his Acadiana band, Horizon, circa 1977.
Judy Bastien's father, Wilson Higginbotham at age 18 in 1934.
Submitted photo
Raymond Badeaux poses with his toy poodle, Missy.
Submitted photo
Dennis and Monte Gruse are the proud parents of numerous cats.
Dog Training
How can that be, I wondered? I can't get my father's voice out of my head and he's been dead almost 12 years.
My dad, Herman J. Fuselier Sr., was a lifelong mechanic. But he should have been a preacher.
He had personal commandments he lived by and preached to the children whenever he had the chance. But Daddy was especially inspired on the nights he filled a tall mug full of Miller High Life.
This man knew how to enjoy his Saturday nights with a little Miller, a good Western movie or a little Sinatra, Duke Ellington or Nancy Wilson on the record player. But he never missed 7:30 a.m. Mass the next morning, although his very tired children wished that he would.
During Miller time, Daddy became a philosopher, fortune teller and sanctified preacher, all rolled into one. The Rev. Fuselier's favorite sayings included:
"The world is full of uncertainty" - That meant there would be trouble in life, but you can always overcome it.
"They're just going to have to be miserable" - That was Daddy's answer to racists, bigots and nosey people who didn't like the way he was enjoying his life.
"There's nothing more pretty than a new car, a beautiful girl and a fine race horse" - Self-explanatory.
"The good die young and the trashes stay" - The honest, hard-working people of the world seem to have all the bad luck and trouble while the criminals are healthy and care free.
"Do it and keep on doing it until you get it right" - That was Daddy's answer to shoddy work, laziness and bad grades. He also had a leather belt that could adjust the most stubborn of attitudes. My sister Kathy once had a whipping for a bad grade and my grades went up by two letters.
"Let her rip" - Some things in life you just can't control. You just have to let it go.
And last but not least, fait 'tention, boog. That's French for be careful.
I used to think "that old man doesn't know what he's talking about." But on those days when the transmission doesn't transmit, the carburetor doesn't carburate and some sap is on the phone rattling on about a late charge, Daddy's sermons come roaring back.
I'm so grateful that voice is still in my head.
Remembering the fore, fatherFor someone who, throughout my life, repeatedly stressed the importance of values like honesty, integrity and loyalty, my father, Tim Landry Sr., sure used to scare the bajeezus out of me.
Not in the traditional "scary dad" sense usually reserved for the father of whatever girl I may be dating at the time. I mean my dad used to go out of his way to physically frighten me to the point where I'd actually invent new expletives.
I can't say I blame him. Should I become a father, I'll act the same way. I'll gladly hide next to the fridge and wait for my unsuspecting 5-year-old son to walk by in his Super Mario underoos. I'll then pretend I'm a big dog and bark at him from behind, which should propel him upward at a rate fast enough to break the kitchen's gravitational pull. Such propulsion will act as a learning experience because my son, like his old man, will no doubt also dream of having the ultimate career: palentologist/astronaut/quarterback.
I remember one evening my dad was feeling especially complex-inducing. He hid behind a doorway and jumped out, screaming something original like "Boo!" I freaked out, ran to my room and was on edge for the rest of the evening. Eventually, I built up the courage to leave my room. I passed by another room that contained a coatrack. I, naturally, thought the coatrack was my father playing dead ... while standing up ... and wearing three hats. I cried for my mother who yelled at the coatrack for a good three minutes. My father then walked in from a side door, flicking his cigarette into the yard. Mom then began yelling at him. Bewildered, he could only raise his eyebrow in defense.
I also remember the time I accidentally got back at my dad by scaring him. I was 12 and he was teaching me to play golf. We were at a driving range, and he told me to focus on his swing. I focused a little too closely from behind and accidentally got clocked in the head with a three wood. I saw a flash of white as the club hit my temple. My fingers numbed as time slowed, and I collapsed to the ground. Five seconds later, nature resumed its normal speed and my father walked me to the car.
At the hospital, the doctor held up various items for me to follow with my eyes. I snuck peeks at my dad between tongue depressor wavings. I remember him pursing his lips and hanging his head as he sat in the chair next to the magazines. I had never seen him feel so terrible because he had never done anything wrong to me in his life. The doctor would say I was fine, but for that hour, my father was in agony. Seeing that kind of worry was new to me. He told me he loved me on a regular basis, but it was at this moment, I knew what it really meant.
When Daddy cleared his throatMy father never spoke much. People who knew them said it was because my mother never let him get a word in edgewise.
He always said that you'd be surprised how much you learn about people if you just listen.
He was quiet by nature and calm and even-tempered. I don't think I've ever seen him really angry. Well, only if you count the time my brother, Ronnie, and I, ages 4 and 7, respectively, decided to drive the DeSoto through the gate he had just opened. I took the steering wheel; Ronnie took the gas pedal. Fortunately, we hadn't mastered the concept of the clutch and gear shift.
I remember so clearly the angry tone in his voice, if not the words, because it was so rare. I don't remember any repercussions.
There probably weren't any.
My mother, who had no problem expressing her disapproval, usually handled disciplinary matters. If we misbehaved too much, she would pull out the traditional "Wait until your Daddy gets home."
In retrospect, it strikes me as funny that the threat worked so well. I'm not sure what we expected, since he never yelled or even fussed at us. But you could tell when you were testing his patience. He would clear his throat.
That sound was enough to stop us in our tracks. I guess the idea of incurring his disapproval was enough.
Daddy didn't believe in corporal punishment, long before the notion was in vogue. No big philosophical reasons. He just said it never worked on him and just made him more determined to do whatever had precipitated the punishment.
It seems that in his youth, he had been quite the delinquent, fighting at school, carrying on feuds with other teens. It was a side of this gentle, loving, hard-working, responsible father that his four children had never seen. It mystified us.
When I think of Daddy, all I see is that little half-smile of his that was our reward just for being us.
There was another side of him, another phase in his life that was incongruent with his gentle nature.
Daddy served with the U.S. Army in the Pacific during World War II. He hopped from the Aleutian Islands of Alaska to islands with exotic names like Kawajalen. We still have an 8 by 10 photo of him and his buddy, whose name has long been forgotten, on the island of Okinawa.
He would regale us with stories of weathering storms in pup tents and swimming in the ocean. We wondered where the combat part came in. He was one of those guys you hear about who won't talk about it.
One day, when I was about 12, I was looking for my birth certificate - I don't remember why. I stumbled across his discharge papers and in the course of reading them, discovered he had received a medal. He had never mentioned it.
When I asked my mother about it, she became agitated and even angry. She forbade me to ask him about it.
I never did.
Now that he's gone, sometimes, I wish I had.
In my father's eyesThe truth is, I may never know.
I avoided responsibility as a child. Taking out the trash, cleaning the bathrooms, mowing the grass - they were all my chores. Somehow they all got done while I stayed in my room trying to master another guitar riff in a Black Sabbath, Cream, Iron Maiden or Metallica track.
Dad didn't let his disappointment go unnoticed. It's amazing how much he could communicate with a simple stare, the way his eyes could dig into my chest and squeeze my heart. Filled with youthful pride, I'd shrug it off and get back to what mattered most to me - music, college, friends.
Something happened in my 20s. Weekends brought about unofficial traditions. Fishing trips to the levee near Lake Dauterive. Golf or football on the tube on a Sunday afternoon. No matter where we were, somehow Dad and I always found an excuse to talk about work, family, friends. There was a life lesson in every word he uttered, but I was still too immature to realize it and understand the value in what he said.
Somewhere along the way what he thought of me started to matter. His disappointment in my decisions cut like a knife. Still, I sought his consultation on just about everything. I didn't always follow his advice, and usually paid the price. His stare said "I told you so" louder than his words ever could.
His eyes said much more as I grew older. They told me how much he loved me when the words just wouldn't come. They expressed the joy in his heart when I earned my college diploma and started my first full-time job. And, they showed the concern in his heart when I underwent surgery.
A careless driver struck Dad as he crossed the street on foot to go to work one cool, damp November morning in 2003. The force of the impact caused him to suffer a severe stroke. He lapsed into a coma almost immediately.
Doctors at a New Iberia hospital told my mother, sister and I that Dad would not survive the night. His injuries were too severe. He was transferred to a Lafayette hospital to have the diagnosis confirmed.
I made the 30-minute drive from New Iberia to Lafayette a million times growing up, a million more as a teen and college student. The trip behind the ambulance that day seemed like forever. The road looked different.
Maybe it was the tears in my eyes. Maybe it was the glare of the flashing lights. Maybe it was the realization that the man I looked to as a beacon in this confusion we call life would no longer be just a phone call or short drive away to guide me through whatever I faced.
I felt alone for the first time. I felt the weight of my family's stares as they looked to this immature, terrified boy to be the man of the family, to be the one they leaned on, the one they counted on for support and guidance.
The days turned into weeks, the weeks months. By April 2004, Dad awoke from his coma in a New Orleans hospital and began the long journey to regain what physical and mental faculties he possibly could.
I watched him struggle to close his right hand into a fist. I stood silent in a corner with tears clouding in my eyes as he tried in vain time and again to remember my name, but the therapist's question went unanswered.
Then, one day, while half asleep in the chair next to his hospital bed, it came.
"Trevis." It was a whisper at first. The second attempt came in clear. And, somehow, just that whisper confirmed I had a second chance, a chance many never get.
Dad came home in June 2004, seven months after his accident. He still has limited use of his hands, arms and legs. He spends most of his days in a wheelchair and a hospital bed. Some days he knows the family, days he most resembles the proud, healthy, active man I once knew.
The truth is, I may never know what it feels like to hear my father say that I make him proud, that I've earned his respect and made up for the disappointment I caused him as a child. I may never again hear him say, "I love you, son."
But, I know what it feels like to see his smile when he opens his eyes and realizes it's my lips on his forehead, my hand in his, my voice saying, "Hey, Pop. It's the boy. I love you."
What's in a name?If you asked my dad, he'd probably tell you that he's not crazy about cats. The stray cats in his neighborhood, however, know the real truth.
Since my brothers and I have moved out of the house, my childhood home has become a halfway house for troubled felines. And although my dad likes to blame all of the four-legged acquisitions on my mother, he has become quite attached to his extended litter.
From Romeo to Trouble to CoCo, the Gruse household has been the home to an eclectic mix of temperaments and meows.
But one cat really stands out above the others.
During one of my regular phone calls home from college, my mother told me that a kitten had shown up in the yard. By this time, I had heard the story before, and I knew what she really meant: We found a stray. We've been feeding it, and we're about to take it to the vet for shots and neutering.
I just accepted the fact that this refugee had become a Gruse. I knew the cat would soon be receiving Christmas presents and a spot on my parents' bed along with the growing pack of recently adopted furry creatures.
"So, what are you going to name him," I asked my mother.
"Well," my mom said, followed by an uncomfortable pause. "Your father wants to name him Irish."
"Irish?" I asked. "Why would you name a cat Irish?"
"Well, your dad thinks he looks Irish," my mom said with an enthusiasm that couldn't mask her own confusion.
"Mom, how can a cat look Irish?"
"I don't know," my mom said softer. "But you know your father."
I knew there was no point even addressing the fact that a cat doesn't really have an ethnicity, so I decided to just focus on the name.
"Maybe you could give the cat an Irish name," I suggested.
I heard my mother yell the idea to my father.
I could tell the comment had made an impact.
"Like O'Malley or Blarney," I said.
My mom repeated the names to my father.
After a moment, I hear my dad shout out.
"Kevin," he said.
"What?" I heard my mom's muffled voice ask.
"You're dad says Kevin," she explained over the phone.
"Is Kevin an Irish name?" I asked.
I then heard my dad explaining in the background that he had known several Irish guys named Kevin.
"There was Kevin O'Toole, Kevin Sullivan, Kevin ..."
"Mom, " I tried to plead.
"We're not naming a cat Kevin," my mom said to both my dad and me.
"Well, the cat is either Kevin or Irish," my dad shouted.
My parents bickered for a while while I sat quietly on the other end of the phone, but my dad wouldn't budge.
In the end, the "Irish-looking" cat was stuck with the name Kevin.
Kevin was a part of my family's life for almost 15 years, but I could never call him by his real name. He was always "Kevbo" or "Kevvy" to me.
The story about my parents' oddly named cat has become a bit of Gruse lore. I always swore that when I got pets of my own, I'd give them less embarrassing names.
Last year I adopted a two-year-old dog from animal rescue. For some reason, his name was Whiffenpoof. When I first brought him home, I intended to change it - but he already had lived the first two years of his life with the name. He knew it. He answered to it. He accepted it.
I usually call him Whiffen or Whiffy. But he's definitely a Whiffenpoof.
When I told my dad about the new addition to my household, he only had one comment.
"And you thought Kevin was a weird name."
Originally published June 18, 2006
Print this article Email this to a friend Subscribe Now
Herman Fuselier's father, Herman J. Fuselier Sr., was a mechanic who easily could have been a preacher.
Tim Landry's father, Tim Sr. and the rest of his Acadiana band, Horizon, circa 1977.
Judy Bastien's father, Wilson Higginbotham at age 18 in 1934.
Submitted photo
Raymond Badeaux poses with his toy poodle, Missy.
Submitted photo
Dennis and Monte Gruse are the proud parents of numerous cats.
Dog Training
Mon, 26 Jun 2006 07:48:29 +0200
Veterinarian Brian Silverlieb, DVM, Town Clerk Cindy Simon, Veterinary Assistant Mary Simpson, and Cairn terrier Wafer gathered at Edmond Town Hall earlier this week to remind local dog and cat owners about a low-cost rabies clinic set for this Saturday. Dog owners can also take advantage of the opportunity to not only obtain necessary rabies vaccinations, but to license their pooches as well. -Bee Photo, Voket
Newtown dog owners can take advantage of a special session being offered Saturday to get their dog licenses and rabies shots at the same time. Cat owners will not be left out, since local felines are also invited to the low-cost rabies clinic on that day.
The town clerk's office will be conducting a low-cost rabies vaccination clinic on Saturday, June 17, from 1 to 3 pm at the Edmond Town Hall Gymnasium. There are no residency requirements.
Those attending Saturday's low-cost rabies clinic may also purchase the new 2006 dog licenses at that time. Public Act 91-46 requires all cats and dogs three months of age or older to be vaccinated against rabies.
Although rabies is rare among humans, it is almost always fatal.
The virus, in the saliva of infected animals, enters a victim through a skin puncture or open wound, and it affects the central nervous system. Rabies moved up the East Coast in 1991 and has been detected in every town in the state.
Since then, more than 5,000 animals test positive in Connecticut, and of these, nearly 4,000 have been raccoons and around 1,000 have been skunks. The remaining several hundred cases have been confirmed in cats, foxes, woodchucks, cows, dogs, horses, sheep, coyote, goats, squirrel, deer, otter, ferret, bobcat, and rabbit.
It can be legitimately argued, however, that these numbers represent only a percentage of the total, due to the fact that not all animals suspected to have rabies are tested after their deaths. Members of the Connecticut Veterinary Medical Association donate their time to the clinics as a public service in order to help protect the health of Connecticut's residents and their pets.
The cost is $15 - cash only - per animal. Due to the increasing incidence of rabies, written proof of prior vaccination for rabies or a current dog license must be presented to qualify for a three-year certificate. The rabies certificate must be presented; tags are not acceptable.
A one-year certificate will be given to all others. This is in compliance with the Directive of the State Veterinarian.
State law requires that all pets vaccinated for the first time in 2005 must be vaccinated again in 2006; check your pets' rabies vaccination certificates for the expiration date.
Collar tags and certificates of vaccination will be provided as required by law. All dogs must be on leashes and cats must be in carriers.
And if a dog's shots are already up-to-date but the dog is unlicensed, Ms Simon reminds dog owners that all dogs six months of age and over must get licensed annually during the month of June. The new 2006 licenses are now available at the Town Clerk's office Monday through Friday, 8 am to 4:30 pm.
The State of Connecticut requires that all dogs must have rabies vaccinations. Therefore, when licensing a dog it will be necessary to present a current rabies vaccination certificate and if licensing a dog for the first time, it will be necessary to present the spaying or neutering certificate in order to obtain the lower license fee.
The fees are $8 for a neutered male or spayed female and $19 for others. Licenses may be ordered by mail by sending a self-addressed stamped envelope with a check or money order for the proper amount and the following information: rabies certificate, spay or neuter certificate, owner's name, phone number, address, dog's name, breed, age of dog, color markings, and sex of dog.
Residents may also send or bring to the office a self-addressed stamped envelope to have a reminder sent next year at this time.
During the first week of July, the town clerk will be drawing a license from all those that have registered through June 30 to determine who will be the #1 Dog of Newtown. Any dog licensed in June can qualify for the honor, and the special doggy goodie basket that is presented to the #1 dog and his or her master.
For additional information on licensing or the rabies clinic, contact the town clerk's office at 270-4210.
Dog Training
Newtown dog owners can take advantage of a special session being offered Saturday to get their dog licenses and rabies shots at the same time. Cat owners will not be left out, since local felines are also invited to the low-cost rabies clinic on that day.
The town clerk's office will be conducting a low-cost rabies vaccination clinic on Saturday, June 17, from 1 to 3 pm at the Edmond Town Hall Gymnasium. There are no residency requirements.
Those attending Saturday's low-cost rabies clinic may also purchase the new 2006 dog licenses at that time. Public Act 91-46 requires all cats and dogs three months of age or older to be vaccinated against rabies.
Although rabies is rare among humans, it is almost always fatal.
The virus, in the saliva of infected animals, enters a victim through a skin puncture or open wound, and it affects the central nervous system. Rabies moved up the East Coast in 1991 and has been detected in every town in the state.
Since then, more than 5,000 animals test positive in Connecticut, and of these, nearly 4,000 have been raccoons and around 1,000 have been skunks. The remaining several hundred cases have been confirmed in cats, foxes, woodchucks, cows, dogs, horses, sheep, coyote, goats, squirrel, deer, otter, ferret, bobcat, and rabbit.
It can be legitimately argued, however, that these numbers represent only a percentage of the total, due to the fact that not all animals suspected to have rabies are tested after their deaths. Members of the Connecticut Veterinary Medical Association donate their time to the clinics as a public service in order to help protect the health of Connecticut's residents and their pets.
The cost is $15 - cash only - per animal. Due to the increasing incidence of rabies, written proof of prior vaccination for rabies or a current dog license must be presented to qualify for a three-year certificate. The rabies certificate must be presented; tags are not acceptable.
A one-year certificate will be given to all others. This is in compliance with the Directive of the State Veterinarian.
State law requires that all pets vaccinated for the first time in 2005 must be vaccinated again in 2006; check your pets' rabies vaccination certificates for the expiration date.
Collar tags and certificates of vaccination will be provided as required by law. All dogs must be on leashes and cats must be in carriers.
And if a dog's shots are already up-to-date but the dog is unlicensed, Ms Simon reminds dog owners that all dogs six months of age and over must get licensed annually during the month of June. The new 2006 licenses are now available at the Town Clerk's office Monday through Friday, 8 am to 4:30 pm.
The State of Connecticut requires that all dogs must have rabies vaccinations. Therefore, when licensing a dog it will be necessary to present a current rabies vaccination certificate and if licensing a dog for the first time, it will be necessary to present the spaying or neutering certificate in order to obtain the lower license fee.
The fees are $8 for a neutered male or spayed female and $19 for others. Licenses may be ordered by mail by sending a self-addressed stamped envelope with a check or money order for the proper amount and the following information: rabies certificate, spay or neuter certificate, owner's name, phone number, address, dog's name, breed, age of dog, color markings, and sex of dog.
Residents may also send or bring to the office a self-addressed stamped envelope to have a reminder sent next year at this time.
During the first week of July, the town clerk will be drawing a license from all those that have registered through June 30 to determine who will be the #1 Dog of Newtown. Any dog licensed in June can qualify for the honor, and the special doggy goodie basket that is presented to the #1 dog and his or her master.
For additional information on licensing or the rabies clinic, contact the town clerk's office at 270-4210.
Dog Training
Thu, 22 Jun 2006 08:43:03 +0200
Wednesday's column item about a dog named Honey reminded Jane Bradford of Decatur about a guide dog by the same name.
This Honey, a female German shepherd, belonged to Cecil Hartselle from Hartselle. He was a blind teacher of organ and piano in the 1940s at Anderson College and Theological Seminary (now Anderson University) in Anderson, Ind.
"When he went out on the front porch calling for Honey to come home, it was that dog, not his wife," said Jane, now 76.
Jane attended that college, and Cecil was a friend of her family. He was a short, thin man with long fingers, "marvelous for a pianist," she said.
Helen Keller's bridge?
Jane says Cecil Hartselle studied at some of the same places as Helen Keller, the deaf and blind woman from Tuscumbia who inspired millions.
As a girl, Jane met Helen Keller in Decatur and thanked her for Keller Memorial Bridge, which at that time carried U.S. 31 across the Tennessee River here.
"She laughed. ... She said, 'That's a memorial, and I'm not dead yet.' "
In fact, Keller Bridge was named after Helen Keller's brother William S. Keller, the first director of Alabama's highway department.
Where's that dog?
The Honey story reminded John Godbey of a dog in his family named Surprise. Heads would turn when, in search of the dog, they'd yell "Surprise!"
Pageant vandalism
Someone wasn't after the Miss Congeniality award at the Miss Alabama pageant in Birmingham, Barry Sublett says.
When Katie Boyd, Miss Point Mallard, went to put on her white two-piece swimsuit for dress rehearsal, she saw that the pads in the top had been cut out.
Instead of being irked, Katie found the sabotage flattering. Someone apparently felt she was too much competition.
The suit was repaired, and Katie went on to become first runner-up. The person with the scissors remains at large.
Silence in class
Now there is a cell-phone ring tone that older people can't hear.
Presbycusis, or aging ear, afflicts most adults over 40 or 50, reducing their ability to hear frequencies higher than 8,000 hertz.
Dog Training
This Honey, a female German shepherd, belonged to Cecil Hartselle from Hartselle. He was a blind teacher of organ and piano in the 1940s at Anderson College and Theological Seminary (now Anderson University) in Anderson, Ind.
"When he went out on the front porch calling for Honey to come home, it was that dog, not his wife," said Jane, now 76.
Jane attended that college, and Cecil was a friend of her family. He was a short, thin man with long fingers, "marvelous for a pianist," she said.
Helen Keller's bridge?
Jane says Cecil Hartselle studied at some of the same places as Helen Keller, the deaf and blind woman from Tuscumbia who inspired millions.
As a girl, Jane met Helen Keller in Decatur and thanked her for Keller Memorial Bridge, which at that time carried U.S. 31 across the Tennessee River here.
"She laughed. ... She said, 'That's a memorial, and I'm not dead yet.' "
In fact, Keller Bridge was named after Helen Keller's brother William S. Keller, the first director of Alabama's highway department.
Where's that dog?
The Honey story reminded John Godbey of a dog in his family named Surprise. Heads would turn when, in search of the dog, they'd yell "Surprise!"
Pageant vandalism
Someone wasn't after the Miss Congeniality award at the Miss Alabama pageant in Birmingham, Barry Sublett says.
When Katie Boyd, Miss Point Mallard, went to put on her white two-piece swimsuit for dress rehearsal, she saw that the pads in the top had been cut out.
Instead of being irked, Katie found the sabotage flattering. Someone apparently felt she was too much competition.
The suit was repaired, and Katie went on to become first runner-up. The person with the scissors remains at large.
Silence in class
Now there is a cell-phone ring tone that older people can't hear.
Presbycusis, or aging ear, afflicts most adults over 40 or 50, reducing their ability to hear frequencies higher than 8,000 hertz.
Dog Training
Thu, 22 Jun 2006 08:40:55 +0200
His commercials, which offer chiropractic and other services to accident victims, run relentlessly.
His toll-free 'ASK' number and catchy slogan blanket buses, billboards, bay area Yellow Pages.
And yet, beyond his moniker ' Koby ' not much else is known about him. He never appears in or narrates the commercials bearing his name.
In one of the television spots, a man's car is totaled, but he doesn't have proper insurance coverage.
'Well,' the claims adjuster tells him, 'the city has great buses.'
'Koby don't play that,' a Jamaican-accented voice snaps.
'You better ask Koby,' says another. '1-8-7-7-A-S-K-K-O-B-Y.'
When the camera pans back toward the man, he's holding the phone to his ear.
So who is the mysterious guy on the other end of the line? Who are any of the guys in the increasingly noisy and crowded field of TV chiropractic?
And why are they suing each other?
***
Next to the X-ray room, in a corner office, the red light flashes, illuminating the clear 'Line 4' button. A man with a buzzed haircut, a lime dress shirt and gray slacks comes alive. It's a Monday. He says he usually sees anywhere from 60 to 70 patients a day, but business is slow. The sound of the telephone ringing will be the most action he sees all day.
'Let me get this,' the man says. 'It's the Koby line.'
He adjusts his telephone headset.
'Thank you for calling ASK-KOBY,' he says. 'May I help you?'
His real name isn't Koby. It's Leonard.
'Koby's an old nickname of mine,' says Leonard Linardos .
He's not Jamaican, like the characters and narrators in his television commercials. He's Greek. But he loves the Jamaican accent and thinks it's different, memorable.
He's 38 and lives in a $400,000, 2,700-square-foot waterfront home in Tarpon Springs with a dog and a cat.
Most days, on his way to work, he stops by a Hess gas station to buy a can of Red Bull. He can't get through the day without it.
He has a Porsche but rarely drives it. 'It's so small,' he says. 'You hit bumps and it seems like everything rattles.'
He listens to Andrea Bocelli , Ozzy Osbourne and Juvenile. He has 29 bottles of cologne. 'I'm a cologne freak,' he says. He constantly sanitizes his hands with bottles of Purell soap.
He grew up in Gary, Ind., before his family settled in Daytona Beach.
He played professional jai-alai until he tore his Achilles tendon, a career-ending injury that forced him to figure out something else to do with his life.
He enrolled in Life University, a chiropractic school in suburban Atlanta, in 1995. While there, he says, the concept of ASK-KOBY was born.
'Every time you turned on the TV,' he says, 'there was an auto accident injury referral service.'
He figured he would replicate the marketing technique when he opened his practice.
He graduated from Life in June 2000 and opened his first clinic, West Coast Spine & Injury Center , in February 2003. It's in Holiday.
He has another office in Tampa and plans to open a third in Lakeland.
He launched his first ASK-KOBY advertisement on WBTP-FM 95.7 in October 2004. When he started, the commercials were $5,000 per month. Now, marketing Koby monthly costs $40,000.
As many as 60 percent of the patients that walk through his Tampa practice are referred through his Koby marketing arm. In Holiday, he says, the figure is closer to 20 percent.
***
If somebody rear-ends you and gives you a backache in Tampa Bay, you can also ask Dave. Or Jery. Or Gary.
Dave is David Dismuke, an Auburndale lawyer who works for Burnetti P.A., which has offices in Lakeland and Tampa.
Jery is Stephen Steller , a St. Petersburg chiropractor who owns Spinal Correction Centers.
But Gary Kompothecras calls himself 'the creator.'
The 46-year-old Sarasota man recently filed a lawsuit in Hillsborough Circuit Court against Linardos and Steller. Kompothecras, president of 1st Health Inc., a chain of accident clinics throughout Florida, accuses Linardos and others of copying the 1-800-ASK model from him.
His commercials started airing locally in January 2003, more than a year before Linardos'. At the time, Kompothecras alleges, no other company had the toll-free ASK number.
'There's only one creator,' he says, 'and there are three copycats.' The case remains unresolved. On his lawyer's advice, Linardos wouldn't talk about it.
Copycats or not, what would lead anyone to call any of these guys?
***
Rachel Taylor says she figured, 'what's the worst that could happen?'
In October, the New Port Richey woman was on her way to work, stuck in traffic, when a car slammed into hers. Her back ached and she needed treatment. She didn't have health insurance. Taylor says the help line was the first number that came to mind.
'You kind of don't know what else to do if you don't know anybody and you don't have health insurance,' she says.
She called Kompothecras' number first. 'The other guy,' she calls him. Two weeks passed before she heard from him. (He didn't return a reporter's calls asking about this.) By then, she had already reached out to Linardos, who still offers her corrective spinal therapy.
In Florida, every driver is required to carry $10,000 in personal injury protection. Linardos bills auto insurance providers for his services.
Now, Taylor is the star of Linardos' latest Koby ad. He says he didn't pay her to do an on-camera testimonial, though he did give her the gas money she needed to drive from Pasco County to a production studio in Tampa where the commercial was shot. In the ad, Taylor recounts her accident and how she turned to Gary, then Koby for help.
I was on my way to work, stopped in traffic. I watched him look up and realized he was going to hit me. I mean I knew I was hit, but it was kind of like what happened.
When I called that 800 number . . .
A black background with white letters slides across the screen. 'First she called the other guys.'
. . . they didn't pay attention to what I was saying. I was telling them I was in pain, and I was telling them I was hurt and they looked at me like I was crazy.
When I called them and told them I wanted a new doctor, they took two weeks to get back to me and by then I was like, well, forget it.
Another black screen. 'Then she called 1-877-ASK-KOBY.'
***
The red light flashes again. Linardos glances toward the telephone on his left. He presses the blue speakerphone button.
'Thank you for calling ASK-KOBY,' he says. 'May I help you?'
The caller doesn't ask with whom he's speaking. He just begins telling his story.
Rodney Thrash can be reached at (727) 893-8352 or rthrash@sptimes.com.
[Last modified June 18, 2006, 17:16:55]
Dog Training
His toll-free 'ASK' number and catchy slogan blanket buses, billboards, bay area Yellow Pages.
And yet, beyond his moniker ' Koby ' not much else is known about him. He never appears in or narrates the commercials bearing his name.
In one of the television spots, a man's car is totaled, but he doesn't have proper insurance coverage.
'Well,' the claims adjuster tells him, 'the city has great buses.'
'Koby don't play that,' a Jamaican-accented voice snaps.
'You better ask Koby,' says another. '1-8-7-7-A-S-K-K-O-B-Y.'
When the camera pans back toward the man, he's holding the phone to his ear.
So who is the mysterious guy on the other end of the line? Who are any of the guys in the increasingly noisy and crowded field of TV chiropractic?
And why are they suing each other?
***
Next to the X-ray room, in a corner office, the red light flashes, illuminating the clear 'Line 4' button. A man with a buzzed haircut, a lime dress shirt and gray slacks comes alive. It's a Monday. He says he usually sees anywhere from 60 to 70 patients a day, but business is slow. The sound of the telephone ringing will be the most action he sees all day.
'Let me get this,' the man says. 'It's the Koby line.'
He adjusts his telephone headset.
'Thank you for calling ASK-KOBY,' he says. 'May I help you?'
His real name isn't Koby. It's Leonard.
'Koby's an old nickname of mine,' says Leonard Linardos .
He's not Jamaican, like the characters and narrators in his television commercials. He's Greek. But he loves the Jamaican accent and thinks it's different, memorable.
He's 38 and lives in a $400,000, 2,700-square-foot waterfront home in Tarpon Springs with a dog and a cat.
Most days, on his way to work, he stops by a Hess gas station to buy a can of Red Bull. He can't get through the day without it.
He has a Porsche but rarely drives it. 'It's so small,' he says. 'You hit bumps and it seems like everything rattles.'
He listens to Andrea Bocelli , Ozzy Osbourne and Juvenile. He has 29 bottles of cologne. 'I'm a cologne freak,' he says. He constantly sanitizes his hands with bottles of Purell soap.
He grew up in Gary, Ind., before his family settled in Daytona Beach.
He played professional jai-alai until he tore his Achilles tendon, a career-ending injury that forced him to figure out something else to do with his life.
He enrolled in Life University, a chiropractic school in suburban Atlanta, in 1995. While there, he says, the concept of ASK-KOBY was born.
'Every time you turned on the TV,' he says, 'there was an auto accident injury referral service.'
He figured he would replicate the marketing technique when he opened his practice.
He graduated from Life in June 2000 and opened his first clinic, West Coast Spine & Injury Center , in February 2003. It's in Holiday.
He has another office in Tampa and plans to open a third in Lakeland.
He launched his first ASK-KOBY advertisement on WBTP-FM 95.7 in October 2004. When he started, the commercials were $5,000 per month. Now, marketing Koby monthly costs $40,000.
As many as 60 percent of the patients that walk through his Tampa practice are referred through his Koby marketing arm. In Holiday, he says, the figure is closer to 20 percent.
***
If somebody rear-ends you and gives you a backache in Tampa Bay, you can also ask Dave. Or Jery. Or Gary.
Dave is David Dismuke, an Auburndale lawyer who works for Burnetti P.A., which has offices in Lakeland and Tampa.
Jery is Stephen Steller , a St. Petersburg chiropractor who owns Spinal Correction Centers.
But Gary Kompothecras calls himself 'the creator.'
The 46-year-old Sarasota man recently filed a lawsuit in Hillsborough Circuit Court against Linardos and Steller. Kompothecras, president of 1st Health Inc., a chain of accident clinics throughout Florida, accuses Linardos and others of copying the 1-800-ASK model from him.
His commercials started airing locally in January 2003, more than a year before Linardos'. At the time, Kompothecras alleges, no other company had the toll-free ASK number.
'There's only one creator,' he says, 'and there are three copycats.' The case remains unresolved. On his lawyer's advice, Linardos wouldn't talk about it.
Copycats or not, what would lead anyone to call any of these guys?
***
Rachel Taylor says she figured, 'what's the worst that could happen?'
In October, the New Port Richey woman was on her way to work, stuck in traffic, when a car slammed into hers. Her back ached and she needed treatment. She didn't have health insurance. Taylor says the help line was the first number that came to mind.
'You kind of don't know what else to do if you don't know anybody and you don't have health insurance,' she says.
She called Kompothecras' number first. 'The other guy,' she calls him. Two weeks passed before she heard from him. (He didn't return a reporter's calls asking about this.) By then, she had already reached out to Linardos, who still offers her corrective spinal therapy.
In Florida, every driver is required to carry $10,000 in personal injury protection. Linardos bills auto insurance providers for his services.
Now, Taylor is the star of Linardos' latest Koby ad. He says he didn't pay her to do an on-camera testimonial, though he did give her the gas money she needed to drive from Pasco County to a production studio in Tampa where the commercial was shot. In the ad, Taylor recounts her accident and how she turned to Gary, then Koby for help.
I was on my way to work, stopped in traffic. I watched him look up and realized he was going to hit me. I mean I knew I was hit, but it was kind of like what happened.
When I called that 800 number . . .
A black background with white letters slides across the screen. 'First she called the other guys.'
. . . they didn't pay attention to what I was saying. I was telling them I was in pain, and I was telling them I was hurt and they looked at me like I was crazy.
When I called them and told them I wanted a new doctor, they took two weeks to get back to me and by then I was like, well, forget it.
Another black screen. 'Then she called 1-877-ASK-KOBY.'
***
The red light flashes again. Linardos glances toward the telephone on his left. He presses the blue speakerphone button.
'Thank you for calling ASK-KOBY,' he says. 'May I help you?'
The caller doesn't ask with whom he's speaking. He just begins telling his story.
Rodney Thrash can be reached at (727) 893-8352 or rthrash@sptimes.com.
[Last modified June 18, 2006, 17:16:55]
Dog Training
Thu, 22 Jun 2006 08:39:23 +0200
Sixty years ago, just after the war, Richard F. Walsh lay in bed, dreaming of hot dogs.
He'd just come back from a nice dinner out with his wife, but his mind danced with hot dogs and onions. Hot dogs with mustard. Hot dogs, most definitely, with chili. Cokes, Pepsis, Hires Root Beers on the side, but mainly hot dogs.
And, the dream told him, name them after the flying Roman god of love.
When Walsh woke, he knew he would open Cupid's Hot Dogs. It took a while, but on June 17, 1946, he finally had his first stand on Burbank Boulevard in North Hollywood.
A Massachusetts transplant, he worked in the movies before trying his hand as a restaurateur. His wife, L. Berniece, a Kansas farm girl, worked at Hughes Aircraft. At Cupid's, they cut their own onions.
They worked hard, made some money and kept selling hot dogs. Lots and lots of hot dogs.
"We never changed," said Rick Walsh, their son and current owner of the company. "My three stores are doing what they did when they opened: They sell hot dogs, chips and drinks."
There have been some alterations. Stores have come and gone, non-company locations have changed the brand and stretched it as far as Arizona.
But at his trio of shops in Northridge, Canoga Park and Simi Valley, things aren't too different than when his mom and dad chucked their day jobs for the hot dog world 60 years ago.
Today, at the three stores, Walsh is offering 60-cent hot dogs from 11 a.m. to 8 p.m. Though limited to five dogs per order, patrons can indulge in the commingling of nostalgia and chili at prices not seen for years.
"My dad used to take me when I was a kid in Panorama City," said Marty Bresler, a 51-year-old truck driver. "There's other places around, like The Stand, but that's yuppie hot dogs. It's always the same, good ol' thing here."
His standard meal is four dogs: two with everything, two with cheese; two for now, two for later.
And it's people like him that have kept the chain going all these years.
Walsh, a database administrator who took over after his parents died in the 1980s, tries to keep things traditional. The chili recipe hasn't changed since the day his dad opened the first site.
And in that way, the chain became interwoven with the modern development of the Valley. Countless kids like Bresler grew up eating its hot dogs and drinking from its paper cups, emblazoned with little red hearts.
Cupid's was never where you went to impress a date - it was the place you met up with your buddies or you took the kids to get 'em out of the house on a hot summer Saturday.
The original site shut down in the mid-1960s after the Walshes lost their lease, but they added the Canoga Park spot in '62, then the Northridge store, co-owned with partners, in '65.
Walsh opened the Simi Valley site in 1988 and a number of licensed stores operate outside his corporate control throughout the area.
"There's not too many places you can say that lasted this long," said Len Campa, a 52-year-old from Reseda who works for United Parcel Service and favors chili, mustard and onions on his pair of dogs.
Dog Training
He'd just come back from a nice dinner out with his wife, but his mind danced with hot dogs and onions. Hot dogs with mustard. Hot dogs, most definitely, with chili. Cokes, Pepsis, Hires Root Beers on the side, but mainly hot dogs.
And, the dream told him, name them after the flying Roman god of love.
When Walsh woke, he knew he would open Cupid's Hot Dogs. It took a while, but on June 17, 1946, he finally had his first stand on Burbank Boulevard in North Hollywood.
A Massachusetts transplant, he worked in the movies before trying his hand as a restaurateur. His wife, L. Berniece, a Kansas farm girl, worked at Hughes Aircraft. At Cupid's, they cut their own onions.
They worked hard, made some money and kept selling hot dogs. Lots and lots of hot dogs.
"We never changed," said Rick Walsh, their son and current owner of the company. "My three stores are doing what they did when they opened: They sell hot dogs, chips and drinks."
There have been some alterations. Stores have come and gone, non-company locations have changed the brand and stretched it as far as Arizona.
But at his trio of shops in Northridge, Canoga Park and Simi Valley, things aren't too different than when his mom and dad chucked their day jobs for the hot dog world 60 years ago.
Today, at the three stores, Walsh is offering 60-cent hot dogs from 11 a.m. to 8 p.m. Though limited to five dogs per order, patrons can indulge in the commingling of nostalgia and chili at prices not seen for years.
"My dad used to take me when I was a kid in Panorama City," said Marty Bresler, a 51-year-old truck driver. "There's other places around, like The Stand, but that's yuppie hot dogs. It's always the same, good ol' thing here."
His standard meal is four dogs: two with everything, two with cheese; two for now, two for later.
And it's people like him that have kept the chain going all these years.
Walsh, a database administrator who took over after his parents died in the 1980s, tries to keep things traditional. The chili recipe hasn't changed since the day his dad opened the first site.
And in that way, the chain became interwoven with the modern development of the Valley. Countless kids like Bresler grew up eating its hot dogs and drinking from its paper cups, emblazoned with little red hearts.
Cupid's was never where you went to impress a date - it was the place you met up with your buddies or you took the kids to get 'em out of the house on a hot summer Saturday.
The original site shut down in the mid-1960s after the Walshes lost their lease, but they added the Canoga Park spot in '62, then the Northridge store, co-owned with partners, in '65.
Walsh opened the Simi Valley site in 1988 and a number of licensed stores operate outside his corporate control throughout the area.
"There's not too many places you can say that lasted this long," said Len Campa, a 52-year-old from Reseda who works for United Parcel Service and favors chili, mustard and onions on his pair of dogs.
Dog Training
Thu, 22 Jun 2006 08:38:07 +0200
A three-year-old boy was playing with his cousin, a little girl, on the Sayisi Dene First Nation in Tadoule Lake when he was attacked by two dogs just after 4 p.m. Thursday.
Thompson RCMP Staff Sgt. Bill Ritchat said the mauling was so severe the boy died before adults knew what had happened.
"Apparently there were just children who saw it," he said. "By the time anyone got there it was over and done with."
Police would not release the name of the boy yesterday but local residents identified him as Rory Clipping.
An autopsy performed in Winnipeg yesterday confirmed he died of multiple injuries stemming from dog bites, including wounds to his throat.
Ritchat said investigators believe a couple of dogs were involved in the attack. One of the dogs, a husky-cross, was shot and killed by a band member shortly after the mauling.
Tadoule Lake, a remote fly-in reserve with about 350 residents, is 960 km north of Winnipeg. Chief Joe Thorassie Jr. said the community was stunned by the grisly death of one of its children.
"Right now everybody's in shock," he said.
Shauna Duck, who moved to Winnipeg from Tadoule Lake a few months ago, said she lived next door to Clipping and her daughter is around the same age.
"He was a very outgoing and happy little boy," she said.
RCMP spokesman Sgt. Steve Colwell said many reserves have problems with dogs running loose.
"It's not like in the city where they have to be tagged and licensed and kept either in a fenced compound or on a leash," he said.
Ritchat said the dogs involved were not strays and he's unaware of any previous fatal dog attacks at Tadoule Lake.
First fatality
"There may have been people bit by dogs there but this is the first fatality that I'm aware of on this particular reserve," he said.
Fatal dog maulings occur in small communities from time to time but are extremely rare in urban centres.
"I have never heard of anyone being killed by a dog in Winnipeg," said Tim Dack, the city's animal services spokesman.
Dog Training
Thompson RCMP Staff Sgt. Bill Ritchat said the mauling was so severe the boy died before adults knew what had happened.
"Apparently there were just children who saw it," he said. "By the time anyone got there it was over and done with."
Police would not release the name of the boy yesterday but local residents identified him as Rory Clipping.
An autopsy performed in Winnipeg yesterday confirmed he died of multiple injuries stemming from dog bites, including wounds to his throat.
Ritchat said investigators believe a couple of dogs were involved in the attack. One of the dogs, a husky-cross, was shot and killed by a band member shortly after the mauling.
Tadoule Lake, a remote fly-in reserve with about 350 residents, is 960 km north of Winnipeg. Chief Joe Thorassie Jr. said the community was stunned by the grisly death of one of its children.
"Right now everybody's in shock," he said.
Shauna Duck, who moved to Winnipeg from Tadoule Lake a few months ago, said she lived next door to Clipping and her daughter is around the same age.
"He was a very outgoing and happy little boy," she said.
RCMP spokesman Sgt. Steve Colwell said many reserves have problems with dogs running loose.
"It's not like in the city where they have to be tagged and licensed and kept either in a fenced compound or on a leash," he said.
Ritchat said the dogs involved were not strays and he's unaware of any previous fatal dog attacks at Tadoule Lake.
First fatality
"There may have been people bit by dogs there but this is the first fatality that I'm aware of on this particular reserve," he said.
Fatal dog maulings occur in small communities from time to time but are extremely rare in urban centres.
"I have never heard of anyone being killed by a dog in Winnipeg," said Tim Dack, the city's animal services spokesman.
Dog Training
Wed, 21 Jun 2006 06:16:54 +0200
BERLIN -- Three French soccer fans were pinned to the ground, handcuffed, and put into vans by police in Stuttgart on Tuesday, the most tense encounter on another tranquil day of World Cup action.
Few fans at each game were having their ticket details checked by security, and tournament organizers said there still had been no problems with hooliganism.
FIFA and German organizers announced before the tournament that no fan would be allowed into a stadium if the name on the ticket did not match personal identification information submitted when the ticket was bought.
But Germany 2006 vice president Wolfgang Niersbach said Tuesday that only 500 to 1,000 people were being checked at random at each match, calling the ticketing process "a positive success story."
In Stuttgart, where France played Switzerland, police officers approached eight black youths wearing French national team jerseys and appeared to ask them to show their passports.
The youths reacted angrily, shouting accusations of racism at police, and there was some pushing and shoving before officers pinned three of the fans to the ground.
Police spokesman Olef Petersen said the officers sought to arrest one man on suspicion of pickpocketing when the others tried to interfere.
Separately, a 48-year-old from Toulouse died of natural causes outside Stuttgart's stadium. Petersen said the fan collapsed in the parking lot and emergency care personnel were unable to resuscitate him.
In England, two supporters arrested in Frankfurt for wearing Nazi symbols appeared before English magistrates as authorities sought to have them banned from future matches.
A court in Leeds was told the two fans, arrested Saturday after England's 1-0 win over Paraguay, were wearing Nazi insignia, including the SS of Adolf Hitler's concentration camp guards.
They were arrested Monday upon their return to England. They may still face prosecution in Germany.
Also Monday, pickpockets stole match tickets from at least seven fans before Italy's match against Ghana. Italy coach Marcello Lippi's son was among the victims, police said.
Lippi's son had his shoulder bag stolen at a Hanover hotel two hours before kickoff. In addition to two tickets, he lost credit and identity cards.
DESERT DACHSUND?: Japan's team mascot may be cute, but its name isn't exactly charming.
Rommel, a 10-year-old male miniature dachshund, is named after Erwin Rommel, the World War II German field marshal. The team has been criticized by some for the dog's name.
Rommel is supposed to be good luck for the team. When he visits the team's training camp, Japan rarely loses. In 18 straight internationals, Japan had never lost a match after a visit from the dog. The streak was broken Monday when Japan lost their World Cup Group F opener 3-1 to Australia.
"He's getting on in years, but he's still in pretty good shape," Japan's public relations director Hideto Teshima said Tuesday. "His main role is to interact with fans."
With his miniature replica of Japan's blue shirt and an official ID pass, Rommel is a big hit at Japan's media and cultural center in downtown Bonn, posing for pictures and getting plenty of hugs from Japan supporters.
Teshima, who is the dog's owner, said this will be Rommel's last World Cup. A veteran of two World Cups, Rommel will retire soon.
ARGENTINE SUBS: Julio Cruz scored two goals and Lionel Messi had another in a practice game Tuesday between an under-20 Argentine team and a team of players from the Argentine national team.
Messi and Cruz did not play a single minute in Argentina's World Cup opener on Saturday, a 2-1 victory over Ivory Coast.
"I'm eager to play," Cruz said.
He's not alone. Argentina has four strikers waiting for a chance behind starters Hernan Crespo and Javier Saviola. Coach Jose Pekerman is expected to start the same 11 he used last Saturday against Serbia-Montenegro on Friday .
Dog Training
Few fans at each game were having their ticket details checked by security, and tournament organizers said there still had been no problems with hooliganism.
FIFA and German organizers announced before the tournament that no fan would be allowed into a stadium if the name on the ticket did not match personal identification information submitted when the ticket was bought.
But Germany 2006 vice president Wolfgang Niersbach said Tuesday that only 500 to 1,000 people were being checked at random at each match, calling the ticketing process "a positive success story."
In Stuttgart, where France played Switzerland, police officers approached eight black youths wearing French national team jerseys and appeared to ask them to show their passports.
The youths reacted angrily, shouting accusations of racism at police, and there was some pushing and shoving before officers pinned three of the fans to the ground.
Police spokesman Olef Petersen said the officers sought to arrest one man on suspicion of pickpocketing when the others tried to interfere.
Separately, a 48-year-old from Toulouse died of natural causes outside Stuttgart's stadium. Petersen said the fan collapsed in the parking lot and emergency care personnel were unable to resuscitate him.
In England, two supporters arrested in Frankfurt for wearing Nazi symbols appeared before English magistrates as authorities sought to have them banned from future matches.
A court in Leeds was told the two fans, arrested Saturday after England's 1-0 win over Paraguay, were wearing Nazi insignia, including the SS of Adolf Hitler's concentration camp guards.
They were arrested Monday upon their return to England. They may still face prosecution in Germany.
Also Monday, pickpockets stole match tickets from at least seven fans before Italy's match against Ghana. Italy coach Marcello Lippi's son was among the victims, police said.
Lippi's son had his shoulder bag stolen at a Hanover hotel two hours before kickoff. In addition to two tickets, he lost credit and identity cards.
DESERT DACHSUND?: Japan's team mascot may be cute, but its name isn't exactly charming.
Rommel, a 10-year-old male miniature dachshund, is named after Erwin Rommel, the World War II German field marshal. The team has been criticized by some for the dog's name.
Rommel is supposed to be good luck for the team. When he visits the team's training camp, Japan rarely loses. In 18 straight internationals, Japan had never lost a match after a visit from the dog. The streak was broken Monday when Japan lost their World Cup Group F opener 3-1 to Australia.
"He's getting on in years, but he's still in pretty good shape," Japan's public relations director Hideto Teshima said Tuesday. "His main role is to interact with fans."
With his miniature replica of Japan's blue shirt and an official ID pass, Rommel is a big hit at Japan's media and cultural center in downtown Bonn, posing for pictures and getting plenty of hugs from Japan supporters.
Teshima, who is the dog's owner, said this will be Rommel's last World Cup. A veteran of two World Cups, Rommel will retire soon.
ARGENTINE SUBS: Julio Cruz scored two goals and Lionel Messi had another in a practice game Tuesday between an under-20 Argentine team and a team of players from the Argentine national team.
Messi and Cruz did not play a single minute in Argentina's World Cup opener on Saturday, a 2-1 victory over Ivory Coast.
"I'm eager to play," Cruz said.
He's not alone. Argentina has four strikers waiting for a chance behind starters Hernan Crespo and Javier Saviola. Coach Jose Pekerman is expected to start the same 11 he used last Saturday against Serbia-Montenegro on Friday .
Dog Training
Wed, 21 Jun 2006 06:15:15 +0200
WASHINGTON 'Thou hast most traitorously corrupted the youth of the realm in erecting a grammar school," said Jack Cade, who led a rebellion against the English crown in 1450, as recounted by Shakespeare in his "Henry VI, Part II." In the play, Cade went beyond accusing Lord Say of royal extravagance and the loss of lands in France; worse, "thou has caused printing to be used." The uprising's leader was especially infuriated by those who presumed to educate the populace in their own language: "It will be proved to thy face that thou has men about thee that usually talk of a noun and a verb, and such abominable words as no Christian ear can endure to hear." For these crimes, the articulate Lord Say - the Bard's martyr in the cause of teaching grammar - was beheaded.
Grammarians, logophiles and assorted word mavens are doing better these days. In the book- publishing world, this is the era of philological proliferation, in which each popular semanticist and linguistic scientist has his Say. I found the Cade quotation in the galley proofs of "Sister Bernadette's Barking Dog" (Melville House, $20, coming in the autumn), by Kitty Burns Florey about diagramming sentences. Here are a few of the gallimaufry of new word books available now.
"Ballyhoo, Buckaroo, and Spuds," subtitled "Ingenious Tales of Words and Their Origins" (HarperCollins, $13), by Michael Quinion. Quinion, a slashing-edge Oxford English Dictionary lexicographer who is host of the useful World Wide Words Web site, delights in debunking myths: Between the devil and the deep blue sea is not, as some folk etymologists would have it, "that the devil was a seam between the planks of a sailing ship, one that was particularly hard to get at; it required the sailors set the task of caulking it at sea to hang over the side in bosun's chairs, so forcing them to be precariously situated between the devil and the sea." Fuggetaboudit: Earliest citations from the 17th century have nothing to do with sailors.
"Green-Eyed Monsters & Good Samaritans" (McGraw-Hill, $13), by Leonard Mann, also requires a subtitle to tell the reader what it is: "Literary Allusions in Everyday Language." His titular ogre is from Shakespeare's "Othello": "O beware, my lord, of jealousy! It is the green-eyed monster which doth mock the meat it feed on," which Mann explains refers to "felines - cats, lions, leopards - that torment their prey before killing it." The author also suggests that between the devil and the deep blue sea is rooted in between Scylla and Charybdis, a six- headed monster and a whirlpool, a guesstymology that Quinion is likely to debunk in his next edition.
The most descriptive subtitle of the year is "How the Right Turned Liberalism Into a Tax-Raising, Latte-Drinking, Sushi-Eating, Volvo-Driving, New York Times-Reading, Body-Piercing, Hollywood-Loving, Left-Wing Freak Show" for Geoffrey Nunberg's "Talking Right" (PublicAffairs, $26). Nunberg writes about the political language with partisan gusto, bemoaning the failure of the left to come up with "words that do the kind of work that values and elite have done for the right."
"Language and Human Nature" (Regent Press, $30), by Mark Halpern, plunges into the controversy between follow-the-rules prescriptivists (John Simon and the good-usage gang, usually including me) and the permissive descriptivists (Nunberg, the psychologist-linguist Steven Pinker, most lexicographers). Halpern vigorously takes on the linguistic scientists in what the usagist Jacques Barzun, in his preface, calls "the first thorough discussion of the pros and cons of this debate."
"How Maps Name, Claim, and Inflame" is the rhyming subtitle of "From Squaw Tit to Whorehouse Meadow" (University of Chicago Press, $25), by Mark Monmonier, distinguished professor of geography at the Maxwell School at Syracuse University. This scholarly treatise was given a zippy title by the swinging marketers in Chicago; it is included in today's review for its discussion of sexist and racial nomenclature and to see if I can get the title past this newspaper's editors.
Squaw is now considered a slur, to be replaced by "woman" or "wife." Tit, the Old English spelling of "teat," is considered vulgar in reference to humans; "breast" is preferred, just as "brothel" is the preferred synonym for the harsh-sounding whorehouse. Historic usages of whore, however, as in the 1620s John Ford play, "'Tis Pity She's a Whore," are acceptable in advertising.
WASHINGTON 'Thou hast most traitorously corrupted the youth of the realm in erecting a grammar school," said Jack Cade, who led a rebellion against the English crown in 1450, as recounted by Shakespeare in his "Henry VI, Part II." In the play, Cade went beyond accusing Lord Say of royal extravagance and the loss of lands in France; worse, "thou has caused printing to be used." The uprising's leader was especially infuriated by those who presumed to educate the populace in their own language: "It will be proved to thy face that thou has men about thee that usually talk of a noun and a verb, and such abominable words as no Christian ear can endure to hear." For these crimes, the articulate Lord Say - the Bard's martyr in the cause of teaching grammar - was beheaded.
Grammarians, logophiles and assorted word mavens are doing better these days. In the book- publishing world, this is the era of philological proliferation, in which each popular semanticist and linguistic scientist has his Say. I found the Cade quotation in the galley proofs of "Sister Bernadette's Barking Dog" (Melville House, $20, coming in the autumn), by Kitty Burns Florey about diagramming sentences. Here are a few of the gallimaufry of new word books available now.
"Ballyhoo, Buckaroo, and Spuds," subtitled "Ingenious Tales of Words and Their Origins" (HarperCollins, $13), by Michael Quinion. Quinion, a slashing-edge Oxford English Dictionary lexicographer who is host of the useful World Wide Words Web site, delights in debunking myths: Between the devil and the deep blue sea is not, as some folk etymologists would have it, "that the devil was a seam between the planks of a sailing ship, one that was particularly hard to get at; it required the sailors set the task of caulking it at sea to hang over the side in bosun's chairs, so forcing them to be precariously situated between the devil and the sea." Fuggetaboudit: Earliest citations from the 17th century have nothing to do with sailors.
"Green-Eyed Monsters & Good Samaritans" (McGraw-Hill, $13), by Leonard Mann, also requires a subtitle to tell the reader what it is: "Literary Allusions in Everyday Language." His titular ogre is from Shakespeare's "Othello": "O beware, my lord, of jealousy! It is the green-eyed monster which doth mock the meat it feed on," which Mann explains refers to "felines - cats, lions, leopards - that torment their prey before killing it." The author also suggests that between the devil and the deep blue sea is rooted in between Scylla and Charybdis, a six- headed monster and a whirlpool, a guesstymology that Quinion is likely to debunk in his next edition.
The most descriptive subtitle of the year is "How the Right Turned Liberalism Into a Tax-Raising, Latte-Drinking, Sushi-Eating, Volvo-Driving, New York Times-Reading, Body-Piercing, Hollywood-Loving, Left-Wing Freak Show" for Geoffrey Nunberg's "Talking Right" (PublicAffairs, $26). Nunberg writes about the political language with partisan gusto, bemoaning the failure of the left to come up with "words that do the kind of work that values and elite have done for the right."
"Language and Human Nature" (Regent Press, $30), by Mark Halpern, plunges into the controversy between follow-the-rules prescriptivists (John Simon and the good-usage gang, usually including me) and the permissive descriptivists (Nunberg, the psychologist-linguist Steven Pinker, most lexicographers). Halpern vigorously takes on the linguistic scientists in what the usagist Jacques Barzun, in his preface, calls "the first thorough discussion of the pros and cons of this debate."
"How Maps Name, Claim, and Inflame" is the rhyming subtitle of "From Squaw Tit to Whorehouse Meadow" (University of Chicago Press, $25), by Mark Monmonier, distinguished professor of geography at the Maxwell School at Syracuse University. This scholarly treatise was given a zippy title by the swinging marketers in Chicago; it is included in today's review for its discussion of sexist and racial nomenclature and to see if I can get the title past this newspaper's editors.
Squaw is now considered a slur, to be replaced by "woman" or "wife." Tit, the Old English spelling of "teat," is considered vulgar in reference to humans; "breast" is preferred, just as "brothel" is the preferred synonym for the harsh-sounding whorehouse. Historic usages of whore, however, as in the 1620s John Ford play, "'Tis Pity She's a Whore," are acceptable in advertising.
WASHINGTON 'Thou hast most traitorously corrupted the youth of the realm in erecting a grammar school," said Jack Cade, who led a rebellion against the English crown in 1450, as recounted by Shakespeare in his "Henry VI, Part II." In the play, Cade went beyond accusing Lord Say of royal extravagance and the loss of lands in France; worse, "thou has caused printing to be used." The uprising's leader was especially infuriated by those who presumed to educate the populace in their own language: "It will be proved to thy face that thou has men about thee that usually talk of a noun and a verb, and such abominable words as no Christian ear can endure to hear." For these crimes, the articulate Lord Say - the Bard's martyr in the cause of teaching grammar - was beheaded.
Grammarians, logophiles and assorted word mavens are doing better these days. In the book- publishing world, this is the era of philological proliferation, in which each popular semanticist and linguistic scientist has his Say. I found the Cade quotation in the galley proofs of "Sister Bernadette's Barking Dog" (Melville House, $20, coming in the autumn), by Kitty Burns Florey about diagramming sentences. Here are a few of the gallimaufry of new word books available now.
"Ballyhoo, Buckaroo, and Spuds," subtitled "Ingenious Tales of Words and Their Origins" (HarperCollins, $13), by Michael Quinion. Quinion, a slashing-edge Oxford English Dictionary lexicographer who is host of the useful World Wide Words Web site, delights in debunking myths: Between the devil and the deep blue sea is not, as some folk etymologists would have it, "that the devil was a seam between the planks of a sailing ship, one that was particularly hard to get at; it required the sailors set the task of caulking it at sea to hang over the side in bosun's chairs, so forcing them to be precariously situated between the devil and the sea." Fuggetaboudit: Earliest citations from the 17th century have nothing to do with sailors.
"Green-Eyed Monsters & Good Samaritans" (McGraw-Hill, $13), by Leonard Mann, also requires a subtitle to tell the reader what it is: "Literary Allusions in Everyday Language." His titular ogre is from Shakespeare's "Othello": "O beware, my lord, of jealousy! It is the green-eyed monster which doth mock the meat it feed on," which Mann explains refers to "felines - cats, lions, leopards - that torment their prey before killing it." The author also suggests that between the devil and the deep blue sea is rooted in between Scylla and Charybdis, a six- headed monster and a whirlpool, a guesstymology that Quinion is likely to debunk in his next edition.
The most descriptive subtitle of the year is "How the Right Turned Liberalism Into a Tax-Raising, Latte-Drinking, Sushi-Eating, Volvo-Driving, New York Times-Reading, Body-Piercing, Hollywood-Loving, Left-Wing Freak Show" for Geoffrey Nunberg's "Talking Right" (PublicAffairs, $26). Nunberg writes about the political language with partisan gusto, bemoaning the failure of the left to come up with "words that do the kind of work that values and elite have done for the right."
"Language and Human Nature" (Regent Press, $30), by Mark Halpern, plunges into the controversy between follow-the-rules prescriptivists (John Simon and the good-usage gang, usually including me) and the permissive descriptivists (Nunberg, the psychologist-linguist Steven Pinker, most lexicographers). Halpern vigorously takes on the linguistic scientists in what the usagist Jacques Barzun, in his preface, calls "the first thorough discussion of the pros and cons of this debate."
"How Maps Name, Claim, and Inflame" is the rhyming subtitle of "From Squaw Tit to Whorehouse Meadow" (University of Chicago Press, $25), by Mark Monmonier, distinguished professor of geography at the Maxwell School at Syracuse University. This scholarly treatise was given a zippy title by the swinging marketers in Chicago; it is included in today's review for its discussion of sexist and racial nomenclature and to see if I can get the title past this newspaper's editors.
Squaw is now considered a slur, to be replaced by "woman" or "wife." Tit, the Old English spelling of "teat," is considered vulgar in reference to humans; "breast" is preferred, just as "brothel" is the preferred synonym for the harsh-sounding whorehouse. Historic usages of whore, however, as in the 1620s John Ford play, "'Tis Pity She's a Whore," are acceptable in advertising.
WASHINGTON 'Thou hast most traitorously corrupted the youth of the realm in erecting a grammar school," said Jack Cade, who led a rebellion against the English crown in 1450, as recounted by Shakespeare in his "Henry VI, Part II." In the play, Cade went beyond accusing Lord Say of royal extravagance and the loss of lands in France; worse, "thou has caused printing to be used." The uprising's leader was especially infuriated by those who presumed to educate the populace in their own language: "It will be proved to thy face that thou has men about thee that usually talk of a noun and a verb, and such abominable words as no Christian ear can endure to hear." For these crimes, the articulate Lord Say - the Bard's martyr in the cause of teaching grammar - was beheaded.
Grammarians, logophiles and assorted word mavens are doing better these days. In the book- publishing world, this is the era of philological proliferation, in which each popular semanticist and linguistic scientist has his Say. I found the Cade quotation in the galley proofs of "Sister Bernadette's Barking Dog" (Melville House, $20, coming in the autumn), by Kitty Burns Florey about diagramming sentences. Here are a few of the gallimaufry of new word books available now.
"Ballyhoo, Buckaroo, and Spuds," subtitled "Ingenious Tales of Words and Their Origins" (HarperCollins, $13), by Michael Quinion. Quinion, a slashing-edge Oxford English Dictionary lexicographer who is host of the useful World Wide Words Web site, delights in debunking myths: Between the devil and the deep blue sea is not, as some folk etymologists would have it, "that the devil was a seam between the planks of a sailing ship, one that was particularly hard to get at; it required the sailors set the task of caulking it at sea to hang over the side in bosun's chairs, so forcing them to be precariously situated between the devil and the sea." Fuggetaboudit: Earliest citations from the 17th century have nothing to do with sailors.
"Green-Eyed Monsters & Good Samaritans" (McGraw-Hill, $13), by Leonard Mann, also requires a subtitle to tell the reader what it is: "Literary Allusions in Everyday Language." His titular ogre is from Shakespeare's "Othello": "O beware, my lord, of jealousy! It is the green-eyed monster which doth mock the meat it feed on," which Mann explains refers to "felines - cats, lions, leopards - that torment their prey before killing it." The author also suggests that between the devil and the deep blue sea is rooted in between Scylla and Charybdis, a six- headed monster and a whirlpool, a guesstymology that Quinion is likely to debunk in his next edition.
The most descriptive subtitle of the year is "How the Right Turned Liberalism Into a Tax-Raising, Latte-Drinking, Sushi-Eating, Volvo-Driving, New York Times-Reading, Body-Piercing, Hollywood-Loving, Left-Wing Freak Show" for Geoffrey Nunberg's "Talking Right" (PublicAffairs, $26). Nunberg writes about the political language with partisan gusto, bemoaning the failure of the left to come up with "words that do the kind of work that values and elite have done for the right."
"Language and Human Nature" (Regent Press, $30), by Mark Halpern, plunges into the controversy between follow-the-rules prescriptivists (John Simon and the good-usage gang, usually including me) and the permissive descriptivists (Nunberg, the psychologist-linguist Steven Pinker, most lexicographers). Halpern vigorously takes on the linguistic scientists in what the usagist Jacques Barzun, in his preface, calls "the first thorough discussion of the pros and cons of this debate."
"How Maps Name, Claim, and Inflame" is the rhyming subtitle of "From Squaw Tit to Whorehouse Meadow" (University of Chicago Press, $25), by Mark Monmonier, distinguished professor of geography at the Maxwell School at Syracuse University. This scholarly treatise was given a zippy title by the swinging marketers in Chicago; it is included in today's review for its discussion of sexist and racial nomenclature and to see if I can get the title past this newspaper's editors.
Squaw is now considered a slur, to be replaced by "woman" or "wife." Tit, the Old English spelling of "teat," is considered vulgar in reference to humans; "breast" is preferred, just as "brothel" is the preferred synonym for the harsh-sounding whorehouse. Historic usages of whore, however, as in the 1620s John Ford play, "'Tis Pity She's a Whore," are acceptable in advertising.
Dog Training
Grammarians, logophiles and assorted word mavens are doing better these days. In the book- publishing world, this is the era of philological proliferation, in which each popular semanticist and linguistic scientist has his Say. I found the Cade quotation in the galley proofs of "Sister Bernadette's Barking Dog" (Melville House, $20, coming in the autumn), by Kitty Burns Florey about diagramming sentences. Here are a few of the gallimaufry of new word books available now.
"Ballyhoo, Buckaroo, and Spuds," subtitled "Ingenious Tales of Words and Their Origins" (HarperCollins, $13), by Michael Quinion. Quinion, a slashing-edge Oxford English Dictionary lexicographer who is host of the useful World Wide Words Web site, delights in debunking myths: Between the devil and the deep blue sea is not, as some folk etymologists would have it, "that the devil was a seam between the planks of a sailing ship, one that was particularly hard to get at; it required the sailors set the task of caulking it at sea to hang over the side in bosun's chairs, so forcing them to be precariously situated between the devil and the sea." Fuggetaboudit: Earliest citations from the 17th century have nothing to do with sailors.
"Green-Eyed Monsters & Good Samaritans" (McGraw-Hill, $13), by Leonard Mann, also requires a subtitle to tell the reader what it is: "Literary Allusions in Everyday Language." His titular ogre is from Shakespeare's "Othello": "O beware, my lord, of jealousy! It is the green-eyed monster which doth mock the meat it feed on," which Mann explains refers to "felines - cats, lions, leopards - that torment their prey before killing it." The author also suggests that between the devil and the deep blue sea is rooted in between Scylla and Charybdis, a six- headed monster and a whirlpool, a guesstymology that Quinion is likely to debunk in his next edition.
The most descriptive subtitle of the year is "How the Right Turned Liberalism Into a Tax-Raising, Latte-Drinking, Sushi-Eating, Volvo-Driving, New York Times-Reading, Body-Piercing, Hollywood-Loving, Left-Wing Freak Show" for Geoffrey Nunberg's "Talking Right" (PublicAffairs, $26). Nunberg writes about the political language with partisan gusto, bemoaning the failure of the left to come up with "words that do the kind of work that values and elite have done for the right."
"Language and Human Nature" (Regent Press, $30), by Mark Halpern, plunges into the controversy between follow-the-rules prescriptivists (John Simon and the good-usage gang, usually including me) and the permissive descriptivists (Nunberg, the psychologist-linguist Steven Pinker, most lexicographers). Halpern vigorously takes on the linguistic scientists in what the usagist Jacques Barzun, in his preface, calls "the first thorough discussion of the pros and cons of this debate."
"How Maps Name, Claim, and Inflame" is the rhyming subtitle of "From Squaw Tit to Whorehouse Meadow" (University of Chicago Press, $25), by Mark Monmonier, distinguished professor of geography at the Maxwell School at Syracuse University. This scholarly treatise was given a zippy title by the swinging marketers in Chicago; it is included in today's review for its discussion of sexist and racial nomenclature and to see if I can get the title past this newspaper's editors.
Squaw is now considered a slur, to be replaced by "woman" or "wife." Tit, the Old English spelling of "teat," is considered vulgar in reference to humans; "breast" is preferred, just as "brothel" is the preferred synonym for the harsh-sounding whorehouse. Historic usages of whore, however, as in the 1620s John Ford play, "'Tis Pity She's a Whore," are acceptable in advertising.
WASHINGTON 'Thou hast most traitorously corrupted the youth of the realm in erecting a grammar school," said Jack Cade, who led a rebellion against the English crown in 1450, as recounted by Shakespeare in his "Henry VI, Part II." In the play, Cade went beyond accusing Lord Say of royal extravagance and the loss of lands in France; worse, "thou has caused printing to be used." The uprising's leader was especially infuriated by those who presumed to educate the populace in their own language: "It will be proved to thy face that thou has men about thee that usually talk of a noun and a verb, and such abominable words as no Christian ear can endure to hear." For these crimes, the articulate Lord Say - the Bard's martyr in the cause of teaching grammar - was beheaded.
Grammarians, logophiles and assorted word mavens are doing better these days. In the book- publishing world, this is the era of philological proliferation, in which each popular semanticist and linguistic scientist has his Say. I found the Cade quotation in the galley proofs of "Sister Bernadette's Barking Dog" (Melville House, $20, coming in the autumn), by Kitty Burns Florey about diagramming sentences. Here are a few of the gallimaufry of new word books available now.
"Ballyhoo, Buckaroo, and Spuds," subtitled "Ingenious Tales of Words and Their Origins" (HarperCollins, $13), by Michael Quinion. Quinion, a slashing-edge Oxford English Dictionary lexicographer who is host of the useful World Wide Words Web site, delights in debunking myths: Between the devil and the deep blue sea is not, as some folk etymologists would have it, "that the devil was a seam between the planks of a sailing ship, one that was particularly hard to get at; it required the sailors set the task of caulking it at sea to hang over the side in bosun's chairs, so forcing them to be precariously situated between the devil and the sea." Fuggetaboudit: Earliest citations from the 17th century have nothing to do with sailors.
"Green-Eyed Monsters & Good Samaritans" (McGraw-Hill, $13), by Leonard Mann, also requires a subtitle to tell the reader what it is: "Literary Allusions in Everyday Language." His titular ogre is from Shakespeare's "Othello": "O beware, my lord, of jealousy! It is the green-eyed monster which doth mock the meat it feed on," which Mann explains refers to "felines - cats, lions, leopards - that torment their prey before killing it." The author also suggests that between the devil and the deep blue sea is rooted in between Scylla and Charybdis, a six- headed monster and a whirlpool, a guesstymology that Quinion is likely to debunk in his next edition.
The most descriptive subtitle of the year is "How the Right Turned Liberalism Into a Tax-Raising, Latte-Drinking, Sushi-Eating, Volvo-Driving, New York Times-Reading, Body-Piercing, Hollywood-Loving, Left-Wing Freak Show" for Geoffrey Nunberg's "Talking Right" (PublicAffairs, $26). Nunberg writes about the political language with partisan gusto, bemoaning the failure of the left to come up with "words that do the kind of work that values and elite have done for the right."
"Language and Human Nature" (Regent Press, $30), by Mark Halpern, plunges into the controversy between follow-the-rules prescriptivists (John Simon and the good-usage gang, usually including me) and the permissive descriptivists (Nunberg, the psychologist-linguist Steven Pinker, most lexicographers). Halpern vigorously takes on the linguistic scientists in what the usagist Jacques Barzun, in his preface, calls "the first thorough discussion of the pros and cons of this debate."
"How Maps Name, Claim, and Inflame" is the rhyming subtitle of "From Squaw Tit to Whorehouse Meadow" (University of Chicago Press, $25), by Mark Monmonier, distinguished professor of geography at the Maxwell School at Syracuse University. This scholarly treatise was given a zippy title by the swinging marketers in Chicago; it is included in today's review for its discussion of sexist and racial nomenclature and to see if I can get the title past this newspaper's editors.
Squaw is now considered a slur, to be replaced by "woman" or "wife." Tit, the Old English spelling of "teat," is considered vulgar in reference to humans; "breast" is preferred, just as "brothel" is the preferred synonym for the harsh-sounding whorehouse. Historic usages of whore, however, as in the 1620s John Ford play, "'Tis Pity She's a Whore," are acceptable in advertising.
WASHINGTON 'Thou hast most traitorously corrupted the youth of the realm in erecting a grammar school," said Jack Cade, who led a rebellion against the English crown in 1450, as recounted by Shakespeare in his "Henry VI, Part II." In the play, Cade went beyond accusing Lord Say of royal extravagance and the loss of lands in France; worse, "thou has caused printing to be used." The uprising's leader was especially infuriated by those who presumed to educate the populace in their own language: "It will be proved to thy face that thou has men about thee that usually talk of a noun and a verb, and such abominable words as no Christian ear can endure to hear." For these crimes, the articulate Lord Say - the Bard's martyr in the cause of teaching grammar - was beheaded.
Grammarians, logophiles and assorted word mavens are doing better these days. In the book- publishing world, this is the era of philological proliferation, in which each popular semanticist and linguistic scientist has his Say. I found the Cade quotation in the galley proofs of "Sister Bernadette's Barking Dog" (Melville House, $20, coming in the autumn), by Kitty Burns Florey about diagramming sentences. Here are a few of the gallimaufry of new word books available now.
"Ballyhoo, Buckaroo, and Spuds," subtitled "Ingenious Tales of Words and Their Origins" (HarperCollins, $13), by Michael Quinion. Quinion, a slashing-edge Oxford English Dictionary lexicographer who is host of the useful World Wide Words Web site, delights in debunking myths: Between the devil and the deep blue sea is not, as some folk etymologists would have it, "that the devil was a seam between the planks of a sailing ship, one that was particularly hard to get at; it required the sailors set the task of caulking it at sea to hang over the side in bosun's chairs, so forcing them to be precariously situated between the devil and the sea." Fuggetaboudit: Earliest citations from the 17th century have nothing to do with sailors.
"Green-Eyed Monsters & Good Samaritans" (McGraw-Hill, $13), by Leonard Mann, also requires a subtitle to tell the reader what it is: "Literary Allusions in Everyday Language." His titular ogre is from Shakespeare's "Othello": "O beware, my lord, of jealousy! It is the green-eyed monster which doth mock the meat it feed on," which Mann explains refers to "felines - cats, lions, leopards - that torment their prey before killing it." The author also suggests that between the devil and the deep blue sea is rooted in between Scylla and Charybdis, a six- headed monster and a whirlpool, a guesstymology that Quinion is likely to debunk in his next edition.
The most descriptive subtitle of the year is "How the Right Turned Liberalism Into a Tax-Raising, Latte-Drinking, Sushi-Eating, Volvo-Driving, New York Times-Reading, Body-Piercing, Hollywood-Loving, Left-Wing Freak Show" for Geoffrey Nunberg's "Talking Right" (PublicAffairs, $26). Nunberg writes about the political language with partisan gusto, bemoaning the failure of the left to come up with "words that do the kind of work that values and elite have done for the right."
"Language and Human Nature" (Regent Press, $30), by Mark Halpern, plunges into the controversy between follow-the-rules prescriptivists (John Simon and the good-usage gang, usually including me) and the permissive descriptivists (Nunberg, the psychologist-linguist Steven Pinker, most lexicographers). Halpern vigorously takes on the linguistic scientists in what the usagist Jacques Barzun, in his preface, calls "the first thorough discussion of the pros and cons of this debate."
"How Maps Name, Claim, and Inflame" is the rhyming subtitle of "From Squaw Tit to Whorehouse Meadow" (University of Chicago Press, $25), by Mark Monmonier, distinguished professor of geography at the Maxwell School at Syracuse University. This scholarly treatise was given a zippy title by the swinging marketers in Chicago; it is included in today's review for its discussion of sexist and racial nomenclature and to see if I can get the title past this newspaper's editors.
Squaw is now considered a slur, to be replaced by "woman" or "wife." Tit, the Old English spelling of "teat," is considered vulgar in reference to humans; "breast" is preferred, just as "brothel" is the preferred synonym for the harsh-sounding whorehouse. Historic usages of whore, however, as in the 1620s John Ford play, "'Tis Pity She's a Whore," are acceptable in advertising.
WASHINGTON 'Thou hast most traitorously corrupted the youth of the realm in erecting a grammar school," said Jack Cade, who led a rebellion against the English crown in 1450, as recounted by Shakespeare in his "Henry VI, Part II." In the play, Cade went beyond accusing Lord Say of royal extravagance and the loss of lands in France; worse, "thou has caused printing to be used." The uprising's leader was especially infuriated by those who presumed to educate the populace in their own language: "It will be proved to thy face that thou has men about thee that usually talk of a noun and a verb, and such abominable words as no Christian ear can endure to hear." For these crimes, the articulate Lord Say - the Bard's martyr in the cause of teaching grammar - was beheaded.
Grammarians, logophiles and assorted word mavens are doing better these days. In the book- publishing world, this is the era of philological proliferation, in which each popular semanticist and linguistic scientist has his Say. I found the Cade quotation in the galley proofs of "Sister Bernadette's Barking Dog" (Melville House, $20, coming in the autumn), by Kitty Burns Florey about diagramming sentences. Here are a few of the gallimaufry of new word books available now.
"Ballyhoo, Buckaroo, and Spuds," subtitled "Ingenious Tales of Words and Their Origins" (HarperCollins, $13), by Michael Quinion. Quinion, a slashing-edge Oxford English Dictionary lexicographer who is host of the useful World Wide Words Web site, delights in debunking myths: Between the devil and the deep blue sea is not, as some folk etymologists would have it, "that the devil was a seam between the planks of a sailing ship, one that was particularly hard to get at; it required the sailors set the task of caulking it at sea to hang over the side in bosun's chairs, so forcing them to be precariously situated between the devil and the sea." Fuggetaboudit: Earliest citations from the 17th century have nothing to do with sailors.
"Green-Eyed Monsters & Good Samaritans" (McGraw-Hill, $13), by Leonard Mann, also requires a subtitle to tell the reader what it is: "Literary Allusions in Everyday Language." His titular ogre is from Shakespeare's "Othello": "O beware, my lord, of jealousy! It is the green-eyed monster which doth mock the meat it feed on," which Mann explains refers to "felines - cats, lions, leopards - that torment their prey before killing it." The author also suggests that between the devil and the deep blue sea is rooted in between Scylla and Charybdis, a six- headed monster and a whirlpool, a guesstymology that Quinion is likely to debunk in his next edition.
The most descriptive subtitle of the year is "How the Right Turned Liberalism Into a Tax-Raising, Latte-Drinking, Sushi-Eating, Volvo-Driving, New York Times-Reading, Body-Piercing, Hollywood-Loving, Left-Wing Freak Show" for Geoffrey Nunberg's "Talking Right" (PublicAffairs, $26). Nunberg writes about the political language with partisan gusto, bemoaning the failure of the left to come up with "words that do the kind of work that values and elite have done for the right."
"Language and Human Nature" (Regent Press, $30), by Mark Halpern, plunges into the controversy between follow-the-rules prescriptivists (John Simon and the good-usage gang, usually including me) and the permissive descriptivists (Nunberg, the psychologist-linguist Steven Pinker, most lexicographers). Halpern vigorously takes on the linguistic scientists in what the usagist Jacques Barzun, in his preface, calls "the first thorough discussion of the pros and cons of this debate."
"How Maps Name, Claim, and Inflame" is the rhyming subtitle of "From Squaw Tit to Whorehouse Meadow" (University of Chicago Press, $25), by Mark Monmonier, distinguished professor of geography at the Maxwell School at Syracuse University. This scholarly treatise was given a zippy title by the swinging marketers in Chicago; it is included in today's review for its discussion of sexist and racial nomenclature and to see if I can get the title past this newspaper's editors.
Squaw is now considered a slur, to be replaced by "woman" or "wife." Tit, the Old English spelling of "teat," is considered vulgar in reference to humans; "breast" is preferred, just as "brothel" is the preferred synonym for the harsh-sounding whorehouse. Historic usages of whore, however, as in the 1620s John Ford play, "'Tis Pity She's a Whore," are acceptable in advertising.
Dog Training
Wed, 21 Jun 2006 06:13:43 +0200
MAMARONECK, N.Y. -- ESPN.com's Gene Wojciechowski and Ivan Maisel, who rarely agree on anything, are here at Winged Foot to cover the U.S. Open. They both walked the course, both watched the leaderboard, and both needed help to identify your Open co-leader, Kenneth Ferrie of England. As the final round approaches, Geno and Ivan discuss what happened Saturday, and what could happen Sunday.
Geno: OK, I'm not ashamed to admit it: I didn't know Kenneth Ferrie existed on this planet until Friday. I thought the Kenneth Ferrie is the boat you took to cross the Kenneth River. All those who picked Ferrie to be the 54-hole Open co-leader -- European Tour followers or Golf Channel geeks don't qualify -- raise your hands. Thought so. But I'll give the guy credit: For someone making his first-ever U.S. Open appearance, he handled Winged Foot and the third-round pressure with a smile, grace, and some nice golf. Of course, it's going to be a lot different being paired with the people's choice, Phil Mickelson, for Sunday's final round, as opposed to playing with Geoff Ogilvy on Saturday.
Ivan: If it makes you feel any better, Geno, even Mickelson said he knew nothing about Ferrie's game. He softened it by saying, "He's in the final group of the U.S. Open. He's got to be some kind of player." Hey, I'm not about to knock a guy who won the 2005 Smurfit European Open. That trophy of Papa Smurfit is really cool. Ferrie has got the fastest swing since Nick Price, and he's made it work for three rounds. But longshots don't win the Open, especially at Winged Foot. The four previous Open winners here -- Bobby Jones, Billy Casper, Hale Irwin and Fuzzy Zoeller -- all won at least two majors. It's time, Geno, to ask the Dan Rather question: "What's the frequency, Kenneth?"
Geno: Nobody knew who he was -- not me, Mickelson, R.E.M., most of the galleries at Winged Foot, NBC and, admit it, not you. Did you see the outdated mugshot of Ferrie that NBC ran during its telecast? It looks like his high school graduation photo. But the big English lug (6-foot-4, 245 pounds) has a good sense of humor and, like Mickelson said, a solid game to shoot 71-70-71 at a course that a lot of the pros here are calling the hardest, but one of the fairest Open setups in years, decades, maybe ever. But let's face it, Ferrie has never faced what he's going to face Sunday: A Lefty Lovefest, where the galleries are going to be 10 deep, and all rooting for Mickelson ... greens that are going to dry out even more (it's supposed to be in the low 90s here) ... and the p-r-e-s-s-u-r-e. Mickelson, who has won the last two majors and seems to almost always play well at a big tournament in the New York area, is the logical favorite to leave Mamaroneck with another trophy. Meanwhile, Ferrie's best finish in the States is a 19th-place finish at the 2005 WGC-NEC Invitational.
Ivan: I'm not dumb enough to make any guarantees about Ferrie not winning. I covered Ben Curtis winning the 2003 British Open. Four or five guys are still kicking themselves over giving that one away. Think about this: There's not much at stake for ol' Phil there, Geno. The guy has finished second in three of the last seven Opens. He has played in the final twosome twice. If he doesn't win Sunday, there's going to be a faint aroma of Sam Snead about Lefty. Snead is the greatest player never to win the U.S. Open. Tom Watson struggled to win it, too. He had six top-10s before he won in his 11th start, at Pebble Beach in 1982.
I'm not panicking, but this is Mickelson's 16th Open. I realize he is just hitting his prime at 36, while Watson won only three times after he turned 34. But this is the best opportunity Mickelson has had yet. He has never held a share of the lead going into the final round of the Open. Only three guys who have even won a major are within five strokes of him, and the closest, Vijay Singh, is spotting Phil three shots.
If Mickelson wins, that's three legs of the Tiger Slam and half of the Grand Slam. If he loses -- and by that I mean, someone doesn't pull a Johnny Miller at Oakmont and have a lifetime round -- that's what this Open will be remembered for: the one Mickelson lost. And I don't think there are any 65s out there, much less 63s. The low round of the tournament remains a 68. Mike Weir, who's four back, said after the round that he thinks there's a 65 out there for him, which makes me wonder if his TaylorMades aren't the only Canadian Club he pulled on Saturday.
Geno: How dare you bark at me like some little junkyard dog (and, by the way, I liked the Canadian Club line, though I don't think Weirsy is going to laugh). Look, I'm not guaranteeing a Lefty win, but before you start invoking Ben Curtis' name (and, yes, we all know you covered the British -- you take tea every afternoon), chew on these numbers: Mickelson has won 17 of the last 22 tournaments he led going into the final round, including eight of his last nine. Three of those eight just happened to be majors. Is that any good?
Scarily enough, I agree with you about no 65s out there. I'm not sure there's any 66s, 67s or 68s out there, either. There were only two sub-70 rounds on Saturday, and only eight for the tournament. So we can pretty much rule out anyone going Johnny on us.
Now let me ask you a question: Do you have a problem with your U.S. Open winner finishing above par?
Ivan: Absolutely not. It's a funny thing, watching this Open. You really have to recalibrate your thinking about good play. At The Masters, we live for the roars, for the way Augusta National makes guys get on the risk-reward fulcrum and choose one. At Winged Foot, a guy makes a charge by standing still. Luke Donald shot 78 on Thursday and stood tied for 90th. He has put up rounds of 69 and 70 and is now tied for 11th. Which, by the way, is another measure of the Maturation of Phil. He has made seven birdies in the three rounds, and he's leading. Mickelson said Saturday night, "I'm just going to try to make a lot of pars, maybe a birdie here or there."
I think it's now fair to ask the question: why in the name of A.W. Tillinghast did it take the USGA 22 years to get back here? I know the members wouldn't stand for it, but as far as I'm concerned, let's make Winged Foot the official New York home of the Open, and forget about Shinnecock and Bethpage.
That has nothing to do with the fact that I'm sleeping in my own bed this week. Well, not much.
For argument's sake, to coin a phrase, if Mickelson doesn't win it, who does?
Geno: I'll get to the winner in a minute, but first, a little something about recalibration, to use one of your Stanford words. On most holes here, a par is equal to a birdie at, say, the Honda Classic. Mickelson said Saturday night that six consecutives pars moves you up the leaderboard. At most tournaments, six pars means you stay still or lose ground.
I love this place. To me, it's been the star of the week. The clubhouse. The classic design. The easy-to-walk factor. All of it is wonderful. But here's why it takes so long for return visits: The USGA shaves the greens down to peach fuzz. Mickelson says it will actually kill some of these greens, which must thrill the members here. But it makes for great golf ... golf at the absolute highest (and sometimes, most ridiculous) level, which is what U.S. Opens are known for.
You talk about the maturation of Phil. I didn't know this until after his third round, but Mickelson had a 64-degree wedge made to use on this course. He knew he was going to need to land the ball softer on these greens. He used the wedge at The Memorial and you saw what happened. He hit the thing like buttah. I don't want to get too inside-golf here, but that special wedge is saving him all sorts of strokes here at Winged Foot.
Now then, my U.S. Open pick. I wrote Thursday that Lefty was best positioned to win this thing, and nothing has changed my mind about his chances. He knows the course. He knows these New Yorkers want to marry him. And he knows how to be patient. I'll stick with Mickelson, but Geoff Ogilvy and Colin Montgomerie could make a serious run. Ogilvy is one of the best golfers the casual golf fan has never heard of, and Monty didn't let a front-nine 40 destroy him Saturday. He came back with a little 35, which puts him only three strokes off the lead. Ogilvy is only one back.
OK, let me guess: you're picking ... Luke Donald?
Ivan: No, I'm picking Mickelson, too, mainly because his victory would be the best story, and, as always, I root for me. I like your Ogilvy pick, because he won the Match Play this year and not just anyone wins the Match Play. Well, yeah, Steve Stricker won it. He started beautifully on Saturday, but just lost it after five holes. He played the final 13 in 7-over.
Monty showed everyone something Saturday, and it will be charming and heartwarming if he wins, but at this point, I still think the headlines Monday would be "Mickelson Loses." I'll say this: If Mickelson leaves an opening Sunday, the first guy to blow through it will be Veej. Like Mickelson, Singh would be three-quarters of the way to the career Grand Slam if he wins Sunday. I don't think he will catch Mickelson because I don't think Mickelson shifts it into "R." If I knew anything about NASCAR, I'd make some clever analogy here, but I don't. So that's it.
Ivan Maisel is a senior writer for ESPN.com. He can be reached at Ivan.Maisel@espn3.com. Gene Wojciechowski is the senior national columnist for ESPN.com. You can contact him at gene.wojciechowski@espn3.com.
Dog Training
Geno: OK, I'm not ashamed to admit it: I didn't know Kenneth Ferrie existed on this planet until Friday. I thought the Kenneth Ferrie is the boat you took to cross the Kenneth River. All those who picked Ferrie to be the 54-hole Open co-leader -- European Tour followers or Golf Channel geeks don't qualify -- raise your hands. Thought so. But I'll give the guy credit: For someone making his first-ever U.S. Open appearance, he handled Winged Foot and the third-round pressure with a smile, grace, and some nice golf. Of course, it's going to be a lot different being paired with the people's choice, Phil Mickelson, for Sunday's final round, as opposed to playing with Geoff Ogilvy on Saturday.
Ivan: If it makes you feel any better, Geno, even Mickelson said he knew nothing about Ferrie's game. He softened it by saying, "He's in the final group of the U.S. Open. He's got to be some kind of player." Hey, I'm not about to knock a guy who won the 2005 Smurfit European Open. That trophy of Papa Smurfit is really cool. Ferrie has got the fastest swing since Nick Price, and he's made it work for three rounds. But longshots don't win the Open, especially at Winged Foot. The four previous Open winners here -- Bobby Jones, Billy Casper, Hale Irwin and Fuzzy Zoeller -- all won at least two majors. It's time, Geno, to ask the Dan Rather question: "What's the frequency, Kenneth?"
Geno: Nobody knew who he was -- not me, Mickelson, R.E.M., most of the galleries at Winged Foot, NBC and, admit it, not you. Did you see the outdated mugshot of Ferrie that NBC ran during its telecast? It looks like his high school graduation photo. But the big English lug (6-foot-4, 245 pounds) has a good sense of humor and, like Mickelson said, a solid game to shoot 71-70-71 at a course that a lot of the pros here are calling the hardest, but one of the fairest Open setups in years, decades, maybe ever. But let's face it, Ferrie has never faced what he's going to face Sunday: A Lefty Lovefest, where the galleries are going to be 10 deep, and all rooting for Mickelson ... greens that are going to dry out even more (it's supposed to be in the low 90s here) ... and the p-r-e-s-s-u-r-e. Mickelson, who has won the last two majors and seems to almost always play well at a big tournament in the New York area, is the logical favorite to leave Mamaroneck with another trophy. Meanwhile, Ferrie's best finish in the States is a 19th-place finish at the 2005 WGC-NEC Invitational.
Ivan: I'm not dumb enough to make any guarantees about Ferrie not winning. I covered Ben Curtis winning the 2003 British Open. Four or five guys are still kicking themselves over giving that one away. Think about this: There's not much at stake for ol' Phil there, Geno. The guy has finished second in three of the last seven Opens. He has played in the final twosome twice. If he doesn't win Sunday, there's going to be a faint aroma of Sam Snead about Lefty. Snead is the greatest player never to win the U.S. Open. Tom Watson struggled to win it, too. He had six top-10s before he won in his 11th start, at Pebble Beach in 1982.
I'm not panicking, but this is Mickelson's 16th Open. I realize he is just hitting his prime at 36, while Watson won only three times after he turned 34. But this is the best opportunity Mickelson has had yet. He has never held a share of the lead going into the final round of the Open. Only three guys who have even won a major are within five strokes of him, and the closest, Vijay Singh, is spotting Phil three shots.
If Mickelson wins, that's three legs of the Tiger Slam and half of the Grand Slam. If he loses -- and by that I mean, someone doesn't pull a Johnny Miller at Oakmont and have a lifetime round -- that's what this Open will be remembered for: the one Mickelson lost. And I don't think there are any 65s out there, much less 63s. The low round of the tournament remains a 68. Mike Weir, who's four back, said after the round that he thinks there's a 65 out there for him, which makes me wonder if his TaylorMades aren't the only Canadian Club he pulled on Saturday.
Geno: How dare you bark at me like some little junkyard dog (and, by the way, I liked the Canadian Club line, though I don't think Weirsy is going to laugh). Look, I'm not guaranteeing a Lefty win, but before you start invoking Ben Curtis' name (and, yes, we all know you covered the British -- you take tea every afternoon), chew on these numbers: Mickelson has won 17 of the last 22 tournaments he led going into the final round, including eight of his last nine. Three of those eight just happened to be majors. Is that any good?
Scarily enough, I agree with you about no 65s out there. I'm not sure there's any 66s, 67s or 68s out there, either. There were only two sub-70 rounds on Saturday, and only eight for the tournament. So we can pretty much rule out anyone going Johnny on us.
Now let me ask you a question: Do you have a problem with your U.S. Open winner finishing above par?
Ivan: Absolutely not. It's a funny thing, watching this Open. You really have to recalibrate your thinking about good play. At The Masters, we live for the roars, for the way Augusta National makes guys get on the risk-reward fulcrum and choose one. At Winged Foot, a guy makes a charge by standing still. Luke Donald shot 78 on Thursday and stood tied for 90th. He has put up rounds of 69 and 70 and is now tied for 11th. Which, by the way, is another measure of the Maturation of Phil. He has made seven birdies in the three rounds, and he's leading. Mickelson said Saturday night, "I'm just going to try to make a lot of pars, maybe a birdie here or there."
I think it's now fair to ask the question: why in the name of A.W. Tillinghast did it take the USGA 22 years to get back here? I know the members wouldn't stand for it, but as far as I'm concerned, let's make Winged Foot the official New York home of the Open, and forget about Shinnecock and Bethpage.
That has nothing to do with the fact that I'm sleeping in my own bed this week. Well, not much.
For argument's sake, to coin a phrase, if Mickelson doesn't win it, who does?
Geno: I'll get to the winner in a minute, but first, a little something about recalibration, to use one of your Stanford words. On most holes here, a par is equal to a birdie at, say, the Honda Classic. Mickelson said Saturday night that six consecutives pars moves you up the leaderboard. At most tournaments, six pars means you stay still or lose ground.
I love this place. To me, it's been the star of the week. The clubhouse. The classic design. The easy-to-walk factor. All of it is wonderful. But here's why it takes so long for return visits: The USGA shaves the greens down to peach fuzz. Mickelson says it will actually kill some of these greens, which must thrill the members here. But it makes for great golf ... golf at the absolute highest (and sometimes, most ridiculous) level, which is what U.S. Opens are known for.
You talk about the maturation of Phil. I didn't know this until after his third round, but Mickelson had a 64-degree wedge made to use on this course. He knew he was going to need to land the ball softer on these greens. He used the wedge at The Memorial and you saw what happened. He hit the thing like buttah. I don't want to get too inside-golf here, but that special wedge is saving him all sorts of strokes here at Winged Foot.
Now then, my U.S. Open pick. I wrote Thursday that Lefty was best positioned to win this thing, and nothing has changed my mind about his chances. He knows the course. He knows these New Yorkers want to marry him. And he knows how to be patient. I'll stick with Mickelson, but Geoff Ogilvy and Colin Montgomerie could make a serious run. Ogilvy is one of the best golfers the casual golf fan has never heard of, and Monty didn't let a front-nine 40 destroy him Saturday. He came back with a little 35, which puts him only three strokes off the lead. Ogilvy is only one back.
OK, let me guess: you're picking ... Luke Donald?
Ivan: No, I'm picking Mickelson, too, mainly because his victory would be the best story, and, as always, I root for me. I like your Ogilvy pick, because he won the Match Play this year and not just anyone wins the Match Play. Well, yeah, Steve Stricker won it. He started beautifully on Saturday, but just lost it after five holes. He played the final 13 in 7-over.
Monty showed everyone something Saturday, and it will be charming and heartwarming if he wins, but at this point, I still think the headlines Monday would be "Mickelson Loses." I'll say this: If Mickelson leaves an opening Sunday, the first guy to blow through it will be Veej. Like Mickelson, Singh would be three-quarters of the way to the career Grand Slam if he wins Sunday. I don't think he will catch Mickelson because I don't think Mickelson shifts it into "R." If I knew anything about NASCAR, I'd make some clever analogy here, but I don't. So that's it.
Ivan Maisel is a senior writer for ESPN.com. He can be reached at Ivan.Maisel@espn3.com. Gene Wojciechowski is the senior national columnist for ESPN.com. You can contact him at gene.wojciechowski@espn3.com.
Dog Training
Wed, 21 Jun 2006 06:12:23 +0200
No one can argue on his knees'Walter Bagehot, 1826-1877, English Economist, Journalist and Social Critic.
THE People's Democratic Party, PDP, is on its knees; knocked down by a series of blows
delivered by the tag team of Obasanjo, Anenih, Ali, George, Maduekwe and all the other camp followers, in the pursuit of third term and absolute power for the president. Last week and the week before, this column, not only predicted the failure of the reconciliation programme, but the imminent factionalisation of the party itself. Several weeks ago, the point was also made that Vice President Atiku Abubakar fell into the class of those politicians who, in the words of late U.S. Speaker, Sam Rayburn, (1882-1961): 'Are better kept on the inside pissing out than on the outside pissing in'. But, the power delirious leaders of the PDP would not listen.
They went about sending Atiku out; and not just Atiku, a truckload of people who can be classified in the same category. Now, with the announced factionalisation of the PDP, the party has, at last, proved right the observation by Dr Arbuthnot (1667-1735) that: 'All political parties die at last of swallowing their own lies.' PDP party members have gladly swallowed their own lies for so long, most of them would not even recognise the truth even if it was placed before their self-blindfolded eyes.
For a long time, everybody operated on the principle of 'see no evil, hear no evil, resist no evil'. They collectively forgot the day of reckoning, which usually arrives unannounced. Now, Nemesis is here for retribution. One thing is certain: Obasanjo will soon witness many political 'rats' deserting the sinking ship on board, of which he is the undisputed captain. They never loved him anyway. Unfortunately for the president, who by tradition in the navy, must be the last man to go down with the ship, his most trusted aides are still living in a fool's paradise. Like the man, who, when told there is a tsunami approaching, replied: 'No problem, I am on the second floor of the hotel'. They are still clinging, because their political lives depend on it, to the vestiges of power that was severely weakened last month.
One of them, a certain Mr Odey, whose status as publicity secretary is now being strongly disputed, released this hilarious statement to a press conference. 'As the PDP continues to grow both in size and in its preparations for the 2007 elections (please don't laugh even though this is first rate comedy), we expect that those with an agenda to weaken the party, as the election draws near, will stop at nothing and we really mean they will stop at nothing' The latest of their antics are press conferences of largely discredited and disgruntled members of the former National Working Committee, who were not re-electable (God help us, this is coming from a man who was not elected himself) for reasons ranging from lack of probity to lack of competence. We wish to reiterate our earlier position that there are no factions in PDP. No disagreement in PDP has graduated to the acceptable status of a faction (italics mine).
Self-deceit does not come written larger than that. Possibly, Mr Odey has never heard of the Russian proverb: 'It takes two to lie down one on top of another' courtesy of Bernard Malamud in The Fixer. A faction exists, whether the Odeys of this world accept it or not, the minute a sub-group splinters from the main group and are claiming title to the name of the group. Those on top of whom the PDP leaders have been lying since May 1999 have simply decided to shove them off; like the woman who has had enough. That is the reality which Odey and co refuse to face. And you can't bully reality.
At any rate, if people accused of being discredited and disgrunted, in addition to lacking in probity and competence want to leave, then, what is the basis for reconciliation? Would the party not be better off to rid itself of such people? Again, one shudders to think at the quality of brain power at the top level of the party which directs the affairs of this country. The critical question at this point remains: Is there any quality brain power left at the top of that party? This is serious, because the PDP might actually drag this country down with it.
To be continued next week.
Fani Kayode in the lion's den
Life is a joke that's just begun
'Sir W.S. Gilbert (1836-1911)
THERE's no doubt in my mind that the failure of the third term bid will lead to mass purge in the corridors of power. The heads have already started to roll and more will follow. It was also certain that one of the few remaining would be Femi Fani-Kayode, the erudite special adviser for public affairs, or some such designation.
He might have gone overboard in his defense of the President and he sometimes used language inappropriate for a government official. But, by and large, it must be admitted that he did what he was employed to do 'C he defended his boss with everything he has got. No boss can ask for more. But, should the reward for absolute loyalty, which the President values above all other attributes, have been nomination as a minister? I honestly doubt it.
Obasanjo has a reputation for being a top drawer comedian when he chooses to be funny. But, this, to me, is carrying a joke too far. Oddly enough, I object to this nomination, not because Femi is 'unqualified' (whatever that means in the Nigerian political context), but, because I strongly believe that this is the wrong time to offer this reward to a faithful servant. The President is simply handing Fani-Kayode like a lamb to the lions in the Senate to tear to pieces.
Even if (and that is very dicey), the majority votes for his appointment, the minority, and a fairly large one at that, would have had their chance to take their pounds of flesh. And it is doubtful if Femi has the temperament to go through with the inquisition that will surely be conducted in the name of hearings for confirmation.
My advice, which although not sought and might never be, is to both Obasanjo and Femi. The nomination should either be withdrawn or the candidate should voluntarily withdraw. I hate to see a young man torn to pieces on AIT - which would want to televise that particular session because it will be a show stopper . He is a brother to those of us not old enough to call him son; a son to those over 70. We should forgive his trespasses. He is still young enough to learn- if he wants.
NB. This piece was submitted before Fani Kayode's clearance in the Senate last week
Ogunlewe for Lagos governor? the final PDP tragedy
He cannot chew gum and walk straight at the same time
'President Lyndon Johnson, 36th U.S President describing Republican House Minority Leader, Gerald Ford, in 1960.
THAT seeming insult was Johnson's way of telling everyone that Ford was incapable of handling complex situations. It is an apt description of Senator Ogunlewe. Lagos is an extremely complex state to govern; it requires someone with demonstrated capacity for mastering gargantuan under-takings; not a demonstrable failure.
Since I have never registered as a member of any political party and have largely remained neutral, my rather large perimeter wall suffers from posters every time election campaigns are in top gear. I have never removed nor ordered removal of any poster, even by a candidate I don't particularly like. But, last week, an exception was made. I ordered removal of two posters of former minister of works, Ogunlewe for governor of Lagos State. I went further and gave a standing instruction that any of his posters found on the wall should be removed, unless those pasting them are not caught. If caught, they should be held and I intend to sue them for trespassing.
Dog Training
THE People's Democratic Party, PDP, is on its knees; knocked down by a series of blows
delivered by the tag team of Obasanjo, Anenih, Ali, George, Maduekwe and all the other camp followers, in the pursuit of third term and absolute power for the president. Last week and the week before, this column, not only predicted the failure of the reconciliation programme, but the imminent factionalisation of the party itself. Several weeks ago, the point was also made that Vice President Atiku Abubakar fell into the class of those politicians who, in the words of late U.S. Speaker, Sam Rayburn, (1882-1961): 'Are better kept on the inside pissing out than on the outside pissing in'. But, the power delirious leaders of the PDP would not listen.
They went about sending Atiku out; and not just Atiku, a truckload of people who can be classified in the same category. Now, with the announced factionalisation of the PDP, the party has, at last, proved right the observation by Dr Arbuthnot (1667-1735) that: 'All political parties die at last of swallowing their own lies.' PDP party members have gladly swallowed their own lies for so long, most of them would not even recognise the truth even if it was placed before their self-blindfolded eyes.
For a long time, everybody operated on the principle of 'see no evil, hear no evil, resist no evil'. They collectively forgot the day of reckoning, which usually arrives unannounced. Now, Nemesis is here for retribution. One thing is certain: Obasanjo will soon witness many political 'rats' deserting the sinking ship on board, of which he is the undisputed captain. They never loved him anyway. Unfortunately for the president, who by tradition in the navy, must be the last man to go down with the ship, his most trusted aides are still living in a fool's paradise. Like the man, who, when told there is a tsunami approaching, replied: 'No problem, I am on the second floor of the hotel'. They are still clinging, because their political lives depend on it, to the vestiges of power that was severely weakened last month.
One of them, a certain Mr Odey, whose status as publicity secretary is now being strongly disputed, released this hilarious statement to a press conference. 'As the PDP continues to grow both in size and in its preparations for the 2007 elections (please don't laugh even though this is first rate comedy), we expect that those with an agenda to weaken the party, as the election draws near, will stop at nothing and we really mean they will stop at nothing' The latest of their antics are press conferences of largely discredited and disgruntled members of the former National Working Committee, who were not re-electable (God help us, this is coming from a man who was not elected himself) for reasons ranging from lack of probity to lack of competence. We wish to reiterate our earlier position that there are no factions in PDP. No disagreement in PDP has graduated to the acceptable status of a faction (italics mine).
Self-deceit does not come written larger than that. Possibly, Mr Odey has never heard of the Russian proverb: 'It takes two to lie down one on top of another' courtesy of Bernard Malamud in The Fixer. A faction exists, whether the Odeys of this world accept it or not, the minute a sub-group splinters from the main group and are claiming title to the name of the group. Those on top of whom the PDP leaders have been lying since May 1999 have simply decided to shove them off; like the woman who has had enough. That is the reality which Odey and co refuse to face. And you can't bully reality.
At any rate, if people accused of being discredited and disgrunted, in addition to lacking in probity and competence want to leave, then, what is the basis for reconciliation? Would the party not be better off to rid itself of such people? Again, one shudders to think at the quality of brain power at the top level of the party which directs the affairs of this country. The critical question at this point remains: Is there any quality brain power left at the top of that party? This is serious, because the PDP might actually drag this country down with it.
To be continued next week.
Fani Kayode in the lion's den
Life is a joke that's just begun
'Sir W.S. Gilbert (1836-1911)
THERE's no doubt in my mind that the failure of the third term bid will lead to mass purge in the corridors of power. The heads have already started to roll and more will follow. It was also certain that one of the few remaining would be Femi Fani-Kayode, the erudite special adviser for public affairs, or some such designation.
He might have gone overboard in his defense of the President and he sometimes used language inappropriate for a government official. But, by and large, it must be admitted that he did what he was employed to do 'C he defended his boss with everything he has got. No boss can ask for more. But, should the reward for absolute loyalty, which the President values above all other attributes, have been nomination as a minister? I honestly doubt it.
Obasanjo has a reputation for being a top drawer comedian when he chooses to be funny. But, this, to me, is carrying a joke too far. Oddly enough, I object to this nomination, not because Femi is 'unqualified' (whatever that means in the Nigerian political context), but, because I strongly believe that this is the wrong time to offer this reward to a faithful servant. The President is simply handing Fani-Kayode like a lamb to the lions in the Senate to tear to pieces.
Even if (and that is very dicey), the majority votes for his appointment, the minority, and a fairly large one at that, would have had their chance to take their pounds of flesh. And it is doubtful if Femi has the temperament to go through with the inquisition that will surely be conducted in the name of hearings for confirmation.
My advice, which although not sought and might never be, is to both Obasanjo and Femi. The nomination should either be withdrawn or the candidate should voluntarily withdraw. I hate to see a young man torn to pieces on AIT - which would want to televise that particular session because it will be a show stopper . He is a brother to those of us not old enough to call him son; a son to those over 70. We should forgive his trespasses. He is still young enough to learn- if he wants.
NB. This piece was submitted before Fani Kayode's clearance in the Senate last week
Ogunlewe for Lagos governor? the final PDP tragedy
He cannot chew gum and walk straight at the same time
'President Lyndon Johnson, 36th U.S President describing Republican House Minority Leader, Gerald Ford, in 1960.
THAT seeming insult was Johnson's way of telling everyone that Ford was incapable of handling complex situations. It is an apt description of Senator Ogunlewe. Lagos is an extremely complex state to govern; it requires someone with demonstrated capacity for mastering gargantuan under-takings; not a demonstrable failure.
Since I have never registered as a member of any political party and have largely remained neutral, my rather large perimeter wall suffers from posters every time election campaigns are in top gear. I have never removed nor ordered removal of any poster, even by a candidate I don't particularly like. But, last week, an exception was made. I ordered removal of two posters of former minister of works, Ogunlewe for governor of Lagos State. I went further and gave a standing instruction that any of his posters found on the wall should be removed, unless those pasting them are not caught. If caught, they should be held and I intend to sue them for trespassing.
Dog Training
Tue, 20 Jun 2006 12:11:52 +0200
We were watching the sunset from Knafves outdoor restaurant where we dined on fried mackerel and new potatoes. A group of locals shared a bottle of wine nearby, while their dog walked between the tables. I gave it some bread. In front of us, a young man sipped a beer while reading a novel. He looked like a regular, since, unlike us, he turned his back to the view.
This old resort town was our first stop on a five-day trip around the coastline of Oresund (in English, The Sound), the strait separating Sweden's Skane province from Zealand in Denmark. My husband, John, and I had driven down from Stockholm, where I grew up. On previous trips we had visited the major cities: the Danish capital Copenhagen, and Malmo, Sweden's third largest city. This time we planned to explore palaces, historic gardens and the pristine, sandy beaches known as Scandinavia's Riviera.
Because the distances are short, within and between the two coasts, we stayed in one city on each side--Helsingborg in Sweden and Helsingor on the Danish side--making day trips from each location.
Karnan tower above Helsingborg was the perfect place to contemplate The Sound's strategic importance. The tower is all that remains of a medieval fortress raised by the Danes, who ruled Skane until the late 17th Century. The city lay below our feet: Sankta Mariakyrkan, a Gothic brick church surrounded by half-timbered houses and narrow, winding streets right below us; and pedestrians and bicyclists moving back and forth between the department stores in the modern shopping district to our right. Traffic was brisk on the boulevard by the harbor where ferries crossing The Sound departed and arrived in a constant flow. Like a white band, the flat coastline of Skane stretched into infinity in a north-south direction. Looking straight west across the water, we could make out Helsingor and the towers of Kronborg, better known as the Elsinore castle of William Shakespeare's "Hamlet."
The Danish legacy is visible all over Skane. At Krapperup, we were reminded of the fictitious Danish prince. The moated castle belongs to the Gyllenstierna family, namesake of the ill-fated Guildenstern in "Hamlet." The name, meaning "golden star," is expressed quite literally on the unusual facade. White bricks, fashioned into seven-pointed stars in different sizes, had been fitted into the red brick walls, creating a striking pattern.
Skane was once Denmark's richest province, which explains why there are more castles here than in any other region in Sweden. Vrams Gunnarstorp, one of the grandest, was only a half-hour's drive from Krapperup.
Stately rows of trees bordered the country road leading to Vrams Gunnarstorp, a working farm. The four identical palace wings enclose a courtyard, and the ornate, gabled roof reflected the Dutch influence on Scandinavian Renaissance style. Although the castle is a private home, the beautiful park is open to the public (a common practice in Skane). We walked through a boxwood maze as old as the building. And we discovered that the topiary bushes groomed into geometrical patterns were best appreciated from the top of the garden.
Lundagard is the heart of old Lund, the site of a prestigious university founded in the late 17th Century as an effort to make Skane Swedish. The tall trees and the centuries-old university buildings are dwarfed by the twin-tower Domkyrkan at the center of the park, the greatest Romanesque cathedral in Scandinavia.
We headed straight for the 12th Century crypt, a visually complex space supported by columns decorated with the tale of Finn, the giant said to have built the church. Suddenly, the other visitors checked their watches and rushed upstairs. A crowd had gathered in a corner of the church, in front of a colorful astronomical clock from the 14th Century. The doors on the clock face opened. Two knights emerged, striking swords three times. It was 3 o'clock.
The next day, we drove along the coast between Molle and Malmo, stopping often to take pictures of sand dunes and villages. In Viken, like in many other villages here, the old fishermen's cottages had been turned into vacation homes and the harbor was filled with sailboats rather than fishing boats. The narrow, winding streets barely were wide enough for our compact rental car, and the small, multi-colored cottages looked like doll houses surrounded by manicured gardens and hedges.
A rain shower drove us into Cafe Oresund where we had some of the best Danish pastry (known as wienerbrod in Sweden and Denmark) of our trip. After our coffee break, we bought sandwiches for a picnic on the beach.
The following morning, we crossed over to Denmark via ferry from Helsingborg. Kronborg was intimidating even at a distance. A citadel guarded the massive fortress, and the copper-clad towers rose over the coast. As the ferry drew closer to Helsingor, we could make out the cannons trained at The Sound, barely 2 miles wide at this point. In the old days, Denmark exacted sound toll from all passing ships, in effect controlling traffic to the Baltic Sea.
Helsingor lived up to its name as an ancient place of commerce. In medieval times, the herring trade fueled the economy. Nowadays, the price of liquor had become the attraction. As the ship docked, many passengers hurried down the gangplank with their empty dollies rented from the shipping line. Once ashore, they made a beeline for the liquor stores strategically located on the square across from the harbor. Moments later they returned to the port, balancing impressive amounts of beer, crate atop crate stacked on dollies and even on baby prams.
These shoppers were unmistakably Swedes taking advantage of bargain prices on alcohol, compared to the state-monopoly liquor stores back home. As an American, John found the frenzy amusing. And because I now live in the United States, I wasn't tempted by this particular border bargain. Besides, we had just arrived and were headed for the castle.
Kronborg is one of Denmark's major attractions, thanks to Hamlet, a mythical figure in Norse and Celtic texts before Shakespeare made him famous.
We crossed the drawbridge into the walled castle complex. Through a thick wall and past a Renaissance arch, we finally reached the main courtyard. The elaborately decorated Renaissance space would be a beautiful backdrop for a Shakespeare play. I could easily imagine Laurence Olivier and Vivian Leigh performing Hamlet and Ophelia here. The Old Vic Company production, back in 1937, helped start a Hamlet festival at Kronborg. In a few days, the Shanghai Peking Opera would perform their adaptation. The gloomy, cavernous palace had a satisfyingly tragic atmosphere. It felt like Hamlet could have slept here.
The next day, we drove north from Helsingor along a coastal road past golf courses, campsites and long stretches of sandy beaches. Homes with an enviable sea view bordered the left side of the road. Our destination was the beach at Gilleleje, an old village of thatched-roofed cottages that had grown into a beach resort with souvenir shops, a marina and beachfront restaurants.
Despite the congestion in town, the beach was unspoiled: several miles of soft sand and not a building in sight, except for the grill where we bought scarlet-red Danish hot dogs. Sunbathers on this beach seemed to prefer the shelter and privacy of the grass-grown dunes. The packed sand near the water, meanwhile, was the playing field for beach-ball games, joggers and children building sand castles. I swam past a pre-school-age boy wearing inflatable life preservers around his arms. A young woman next to him smiled and motioned for him to keep going. As the boy flailed his arms, the orange cushions fluttered like butterflies atop the water's surface.
At the end of our last day, we strolled through Helsingor's well-preserved medieval district. The shops were closing and the streets were nearly deserted. We followed the maze of narrow streets, passing half-timbered houses looking like they had changed little through the centuries. Sankt Olai Kirke, an old church on the corner of Stengade and Sankt Anne Gade, was open.
Pushing open the heavy door, my eyes adjusting to the darkness, I was startled to stand face to face with a knight wearing chain mail.
The former Carmelite cloister had been taken over by spotlights, cameras and people talking on cell phones.
A woman holding a script held up her hand, motioning for us to be quiet. We retreated into the church. While we admired the painted interior, the knight entered. His long cape fluttering behind him, he disappeared through a creaking wooden door.
- - -
IF YOU GO
GETTING THERE
Scandinavian Airlines (SAS) has daily, non-stop flights from Chicago O'Hare to Copenhagen Kastrup Airport.
TRAVELING AROUND THE SOUND
Public transportation is excellent on and between both coasts of Oresund.
The Danish State Railway (DSB) connects Copenhagen with the rest of the Oresund coast, including Helsingor. Sweden's State railway company (SJ) connects the cities and the towns on the Swedish coast to Malmo.
CROSSING ORESUND
Between Copenhagen and Malmo at the southern end of The Sound, the fast way is the Oresund Bridge and rail link (trains depart every 20 minutes from each city, and stop at Kastrup Airport).
The passenger ferry between Nyhavn in Copenhagen and Malmo takes an hour.
Car and passenger ferries between Helsingborg and Helsingor on the northern end of The Sound (two to three departures per hour) take about 25 minutes.
DISCOUNTS
The Copenhagen Card gives free entrance or discounts to museums and transportation in Denmark, and to some museums in Skane.
In Sweden, travelers can buy the Oresund Rundt train ticket to travel around The Sound, with unlimited stops (ferry and rail link included). www.malmo.se/tourist
INFORMATION
Visit Denmark: 212-885-9700; www.visitdenmark.com
Wonderful Copenhagen: Radhusstraede 13, and at Central Station, Bernstorffsgade, 1; 01145-33-25-74 00; www.visitdenmark.dk
Swedish Travel & Tourism Council: 212-885-9700; www.visitsweden.com
Malmo Tourism: Centralstationen, Malmo; 01146-40-34-12-00; www.malmo.se/tourist
--M.N.
Dog Training
This old resort town was our first stop on a five-day trip around the coastline of Oresund (in English, The Sound), the strait separating Sweden's Skane province from Zealand in Denmark. My husband, John, and I had driven down from Stockholm, where I grew up. On previous trips we had visited the major cities: the Danish capital Copenhagen, and Malmo, Sweden's third largest city. This time we planned to explore palaces, historic gardens and the pristine, sandy beaches known as Scandinavia's Riviera.
Because the distances are short, within and between the two coasts, we stayed in one city on each side--Helsingborg in Sweden and Helsingor on the Danish side--making day trips from each location.
Karnan tower above Helsingborg was the perfect place to contemplate The Sound's strategic importance. The tower is all that remains of a medieval fortress raised by the Danes, who ruled Skane until the late 17th Century. The city lay below our feet: Sankta Mariakyrkan, a Gothic brick church surrounded by half-timbered houses and narrow, winding streets right below us; and pedestrians and bicyclists moving back and forth between the department stores in the modern shopping district to our right. Traffic was brisk on the boulevard by the harbor where ferries crossing The Sound departed and arrived in a constant flow. Like a white band, the flat coastline of Skane stretched into infinity in a north-south direction. Looking straight west across the water, we could make out Helsingor and the towers of Kronborg, better known as the Elsinore castle of William Shakespeare's "Hamlet."
The Danish legacy is visible all over Skane. At Krapperup, we were reminded of the fictitious Danish prince. The moated castle belongs to the Gyllenstierna family, namesake of the ill-fated Guildenstern in "Hamlet." The name, meaning "golden star," is expressed quite literally on the unusual facade. White bricks, fashioned into seven-pointed stars in different sizes, had been fitted into the red brick walls, creating a striking pattern.
Skane was once Denmark's richest province, which explains why there are more castles here than in any other region in Sweden. Vrams Gunnarstorp, one of the grandest, was only a half-hour's drive from Krapperup.
Stately rows of trees bordered the country road leading to Vrams Gunnarstorp, a working farm. The four identical palace wings enclose a courtyard, and the ornate, gabled roof reflected the Dutch influence on Scandinavian Renaissance style. Although the castle is a private home, the beautiful park is open to the public (a common practice in Skane). We walked through a boxwood maze as old as the building. And we discovered that the topiary bushes groomed into geometrical patterns were best appreciated from the top of the garden.
Lundagard is the heart of old Lund, the site of a prestigious university founded in the late 17th Century as an effort to make Skane Swedish. The tall trees and the centuries-old university buildings are dwarfed by the twin-tower Domkyrkan at the center of the park, the greatest Romanesque cathedral in Scandinavia.
We headed straight for the 12th Century crypt, a visually complex space supported by columns decorated with the tale of Finn, the giant said to have built the church. Suddenly, the other visitors checked their watches and rushed upstairs. A crowd had gathered in a corner of the church, in front of a colorful astronomical clock from the 14th Century. The doors on the clock face opened. Two knights emerged, striking swords three times. It was 3 o'clock.
The next day, we drove along the coast between Molle and Malmo, stopping often to take pictures of sand dunes and villages. In Viken, like in many other villages here, the old fishermen's cottages had been turned into vacation homes and the harbor was filled with sailboats rather than fishing boats. The narrow, winding streets barely were wide enough for our compact rental car, and the small, multi-colored cottages looked like doll houses surrounded by manicured gardens and hedges.
A rain shower drove us into Cafe Oresund where we had some of the best Danish pastry (known as wienerbrod in Sweden and Denmark) of our trip. After our coffee break, we bought sandwiches for a picnic on the beach.
The following morning, we crossed over to Denmark via ferry from Helsingborg. Kronborg was intimidating even at a distance. A citadel guarded the massive fortress, and the copper-clad towers rose over the coast. As the ferry drew closer to Helsingor, we could make out the cannons trained at The Sound, barely 2 miles wide at this point. In the old days, Denmark exacted sound toll from all passing ships, in effect controlling traffic to the Baltic Sea.
Helsingor lived up to its name as an ancient place of commerce. In medieval times, the herring trade fueled the economy. Nowadays, the price of liquor had become the attraction. As the ship docked, many passengers hurried down the gangplank with their empty dollies rented from the shipping line. Once ashore, they made a beeline for the liquor stores strategically located on the square across from the harbor. Moments later they returned to the port, balancing impressive amounts of beer, crate atop crate stacked on dollies and even on baby prams.
These shoppers were unmistakably Swedes taking advantage of bargain prices on alcohol, compared to the state-monopoly liquor stores back home. As an American, John found the frenzy amusing. And because I now live in the United States, I wasn't tempted by this particular border bargain. Besides, we had just arrived and were headed for the castle.
Kronborg is one of Denmark's major attractions, thanks to Hamlet, a mythical figure in Norse and Celtic texts before Shakespeare made him famous.
We crossed the drawbridge into the walled castle complex. Through a thick wall and past a Renaissance arch, we finally reached the main courtyard. The elaborately decorated Renaissance space would be a beautiful backdrop for a Shakespeare play. I could easily imagine Laurence Olivier and Vivian Leigh performing Hamlet and Ophelia here. The Old Vic Company production, back in 1937, helped start a Hamlet festival at Kronborg. In a few days, the Shanghai Peking Opera would perform their adaptation. The gloomy, cavernous palace had a satisfyingly tragic atmosphere. It felt like Hamlet could have slept here.
The next day, we drove north from Helsingor along a coastal road past golf courses, campsites and long stretches of sandy beaches. Homes with an enviable sea view bordered the left side of the road. Our destination was the beach at Gilleleje, an old village of thatched-roofed cottages that had grown into a beach resort with souvenir shops, a marina and beachfront restaurants.
Despite the congestion in town, the beach was unspoiled: several miles of soft sand and not a building in sight, except for the grill where we bought scarlet-red Danish hot dogs. Sunbathers on this beach seemed to prefer the shelter and privacy of the grass-grown dunes. The packed sand near the water, meanwhile, was the playing field for beach-ball games, joggers and children building sand castles. I swam past a pre-school-age boy wearing inflatable life preservers around his arms. A young woman next to him smiled and motioned for him to keep going. As the boy flailed his arms, the orange cushions fluttered like butterflies atop the water's surface.
At the end of our last day, we strolled through Helsingor's well-preserved medieval district. The shops were closing and the streets were nearly deserted. We followed the maze of narrow streets, passing half-timbered houses looking like they had changed little through the centuries. Sankt Olai Kirke, an old church on the corner of Stengade and Sankt Anne Gade, was open.
Pushing open the heavy door, my eyes adjusting to the darkness, I was startled to stand face to face with a knight wearing chain mail.
The former Carmelite cloister had been taken over by spotlights, cameras and people talking on cell phones.
A woman holding a script held up her hand, motioning for us to be quiet. We retreated into the church. While we admired the painted interior, the knight entered. His long cape fluttering behind him, he disappeared through a creaking wooden door.
- - -
IF YOU GO
GETTING THERE
Scandinavian Airlines (SAS) has daily, non-stop flights from Chicago O'Hare to Copenhagen Kastrup Airport.
TRAVELING AROUND THE SOUND
Public transportation is excellent on and between both coasts of Oresund.
The Danish State Railway (DSB) connects Copenhagen with the rest of the Oresund coast, including Helsingor. Sweden's State railway company (SJ) connects the cities and the towns on the Swedish coast to Malmo.
CROSSING ORESUND
Between Copenhagen and Malmo at the southern end of The Sound, the fast way is the Oresund Bridge and rail link (trains depart every 20 minutes from each city, and stop at Kastrup Airport).
The passenger ferry between Nyhavn in Copenhagen and Malmo takes an hour.
Car and passenger ferries between Helsingborg and Helsingor on the northern end of The Sound (two to three departures per hour) take about 25 minutes.
DISCOUNTS
The Copenhagen Card gives free entrance or discounts to museums and transportation in Denmark, and to some museums in Skane.
In Sweden, travelers can buy the Oresund Rundt train ticket to travel around The Sound, with unlimited stops (ferry and rail link included). www.malmo.se/tourist
INFORMATION
Visit Denmark: 212-885-9700; www.visitdenmark.com
Wonderful Copenhagen: Radhusstraede 13, and at Central Station, Bernstorffsgade, 1; 01145-33-25-74 00; www.visitdenmark.dk
Swedish Travel & Tourism Council: 212-885-9700; www.visitsweden.com
Malmo Tourism: Centralstationen, Malmo; 01146-40-34-12-00; www.malmo.se/tourist
--M.N.
Dog Training
Tue, 20 Jun 2006 12:10:28 +0200
That was the age that Paul McCartney says he wrote 'When I'm Sixty-Four,' the dance-hall ditty that appeared on the 1967 Beatles album 'Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band.'
Today, the rock icon does turn 64, and he certainly doesn't have to worry about losing his hair, if someone will feed him, need him or send him a birthday greeting.
But it's been a long and winding road since he was a lad in Liverpool, and we figure there are still a lot people who don't know about his storied career. So here are 64 things you may or may not know about the legend.
And by the way: Happy Birthday, Paul.
1. Before they were famous, the Beatles performed 'When I'm Sixty-Four' at clubs during crowd fights and power blackouts.
2. In order to satisfy Paul's request to 'sound younger - and be a teenager again,' producer George Martin sped up the vocals on 'Sixty-Four' when it was recorded.
3. Subject of one of rock's most famous myths: that McCartney died in an auto accident in 1966 and was replaced by look-alike Billy Shears.
4. Credited as Paul Ramon, he played drums and sang harmony on the track 'My Dark Hour' from the Steve Miller Band's 'Brave New World' album in 1969.
5. Indirectly named the Ramones. Prior to Beatles fame, McCartney used the stage name Paul Ramon ' a rock tidbit that inspired the Ramones to add an 'e' and drop the fourth chord.
6. More Ramones ' 'Haven't We Met Somewhere Before?' penned by Paul for the film 'Heaven Can Wait' but rejected, was used as the opening number of the Ramones' 'Rock 'n' Roll High School' ' performed by the Ramones.
7. Was involved in the fastest-released single in history when his July 2, 2005, performance of 'Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band' with U2 at Live 8 was issued 45 minutes after the performance took place.
8. Clunker 'Ebony and Ivory,' sung by Paul and Stevie Wonder, was voted 10th-worst song ever by Blender magazine a couple of years ago. Hey, they can't all be 'Eleanor Rigby,' OK?
9. Even his old shoes are worth a fortune ' a pair of Paul's used slippers (size 10 ?) recently grossed more than $3,500 at auction.
10. Reads about himself and gets mad. A half-dozen recent messages from Paul on his Web site (paulmccartney.com) rail against tabloid stories about his breakup with Heather.
11. Hired two guys with nearly sound-alike surnames for various Wings lineups ' guitarists Henry McCullough and (the late) Jimmy McCulloch. Makes roll call a lot easier.
12. Once dug pot so much he spent 10 days behind bars in Japan after he was busted in 1980 with a sleek half-pound for personal use in Tokyo and later deported. Says the song 'Got to Get You Into My Life' was directly about the stuff.
13. Made a valiant effort to raise normal kids. He and Linda brought up their children ' James, Stella, Mary and Heather (Linda's child from her first marriage) ' in out-of-the way houses in southern England and Scotland.
14. Made the Hofner violin-shaped electric bass guitar a rock 'n' roll icon ' and made it cool to play left-handed. However, he had wanted to play guitar in the Beatles and got to play lead on the George Harrison song 'Taxman.'
15. Tried to get the order of the famous 'Lennon/McCartney' songwriting credit reversed a few years ago to a huge outcry from Beatles fans.
16. Sang backup on Donovan's 'Mellow Yellow.'
17. Banned by the BBC in '72 for the political single 'Give Ireland Back to the Irish,' later parodied by National Lampoon.
18. Owns the stand-up bass that once belonged to Elvis Presley's bassist Bill Black.
19. Helped bankroll London's Indica Bookshop/Gallery, where John and Yoko met in 1966.
20. Called his 1965 visit with Elvis Presley, in which he and his mates played Chuck Berry tunes with the King, 'one of the great meetings of my life.'
21. Originally wrote the first two lines of 'I Saw Her Standing There' as 'She was just 17 / Never been a beauty queen.' When he sang it for John, they both thought the second line was 'useless.' Finally, they came up with 'you know what I mean' ' cheeky with sexual innuendo.
22. When he plays some of his old Beatles hits in America, royalties go to Michael Jackson, who bought the publishing rights for $47.5 million in 1985.
23. Paul's nickname is Macca.
24. One of his worst songs resulted in one of history's worst cover versions ' 'Live and Let Die' massacred by Guns N' Roses.
25. In the late '60s, Paul, Linda, the kids and their sheepdog, Martha, would take strolls in London's Regents Park without bodyguards.
26. That family pet was the inspiration for 'Martha, My Dear' on the Beatles' 'White Album.'
27. Listed in the Guinness Book of Records as the most successful composer in popular music history.
28. Has a record 29 U.S. No. 1 singles, 20 with the Beatles, the rest with Wings and as a solo artist.
29. Has written or has co-writing credit on more than 50 Top 10 hits.
30. His middle name is actually Paul. He was born James Paul McCartney.
31. His first instrument was trumpet, but he gave it up when he realized he couldn't sing and play at the same time.
32. Met John Lennon at a church picnic on July 6, 1957.
33. Working title of one of his own personal fave songs, 'Yesterday,' was 'Scrambled Eggs.' (He had written just a melody, which he said came to him in a dream.)
34. 'Yesterday' is one of the most-covered songs of all time, with more than 3,000 refried versions.
35. The first Beatle to record an outside project, composing (with George Martin) a score for the 1966 feature film 'The Family Way,' starring Hayley Mills.
36. In the late 1980s, wrote songs with Elvis Costello; the best-known is 'Veronica.'
37. Became a vegetarian and animal-rights activist along with late wife Linda after watching lambs frolicking in a field as they ate a meal of lamb.
38. He's a painter, exhibiting his work for the first time in Germany in 1997.
39. Made his first attempt at classical music in 1991, collaborating with Carl Davis to compose the quasi-autobiographical 'Liverpool Oratorio.'
40. Knighted in 1997 by Queen Elizabeth II.
41. Released a children's book in October 2005, titled 'High in the Clouds: An Urban Furry Tail.'
42. In 1967, produced the song 'I'm the Urban Spaceman' by the Bonzo Dog Doo-Dah Band, credited as 'Apollo C. Vermouth.'
43. Performed before the largest stadium audience in history when 184,000 paid to see him in Rio de Janeiro in April 1990.
44. As of 2005-06, considered the richest rock star in the world, with an estimated personal fortune of more than $1 billion.
45. Has been nominated for Academy Awards for the title songs to the films 'Vanilla Sky' and 'Live and Let Die.'
46. Say he's never read musical notation; writes and plays by ear.
47. A star is born when, upon Paul's recommendation, Jimi Hendrix was brought to California for a show-stealing turn at the 1967 Monterey Pop Festival, rendering Hendrix an immediate sensation. Jimi returned the favor by covering 'Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band' at the 1970 Isle of Wight festival, Hendrix's second-to-last gig.
48. Penned 'Hey Jude,' with Lennon's son, Julian, in mind. The original phrase was 'Hey Jules.'
49. Was the world's first recipient of the 1992 Swedish Polar Music Award, a Nobel Prize for music.
50. Owns one of the world's most valuable records, the first pressing of Buddy Holly's 'That'll Be the Day,' recorded in 1958 by the Quarry Men, made up of McCartney, more than $180,000.
51. Strummed guitar to accompany a poetry reading by old pal Allen Ginsberg at the Royal Albert Hall.
52. Broadcast the first concert into space when the International Space Station crew, 220 miles above Earth, heard a live musical wake-up call from Paul last Nov. 12.
53. Posed nude, but semi-obscured, in the bathroom of his house for a picture on the poster accompanying 'The White Album.'
54. Most evocative post-Beatles commentary: the cover shot on Paul's 1970 solo debut, 'McCartney,' showing an empty bowl surrounded by cherries.
55. Hired New Orleans r&b piano legend Professor Longhair to play a party on the Queen Mary in 1975, resulting in one of Fess' finest live recordings.
56. In 1995, Paul and Linda taped an episode of 'The Simpsons,' playing themselves as they help Lisa Simpson's conversion to vegetarianism.
57. Publishing rights to most of Holly's songs are owned by McCartney.
58. His music publishing company MPL Communications also holds the copyrights of other major composers, including Jerry Herman, Frank Loesser, Meredith Willson and Harold Arlen.
59. Sometimes dines at the Good Earth in Studio City, owns a mansion in Pasadena and recorded his latest album, 'Chaos and Creation in the Backyard,' on Sunset Boulevard.
60. Daughter Stella's fashion collection premiere took place in London in 1995 with a new Paul song, 'Stella May,' as part of the runway music.
61. Fleetwood Mac's song 'Silver Heels' has a line about wanting to 'sing like Paul McCartney.'
62. 'Helter Skelter,' from the 'White Album,' was Paul's attempt to outrock Pete Townshend of the Who. The song was actually about a fairground ride in the U.K., a fact that went over the head of Charles Manson.
63. Inspired by glasnost in 1988, he recorded an album of rock oldies for a Soviet label under a title roughly translated as 'Back in the USSR.'
64. He was the Walrus, according to Lennon in 'Glass Onion,' and though some may think he's, pardon the pun, a bit long in the tooth, Paul's still out there making music. So his life isn't just about yesterday.
Dog Training
Today, the rock icon does turn 64, and he certainly doesn't have to worry about losing his hair, if someone will feed him, need him or send him a birthday greeting.
But it's been a long and winding road since he was a lad in Liverpool, and we figure there are still a lot people who don't know about his storied career. So here are 64 things you may or may not know about the legend.
And by the way: Happy Birthday, Paul.
1. Before they were famous, the Beatles performed 'When I'm Sixty-Four' at clubs during crowd fights and power blackouts.
2. In order to satisfy Paul's request to 'sound younger - and be a teenager again,' producer George Martin sped up the vocals on 'Sixty-Four' when it was recorded.
3. Subject of one of rock's most famous myths: that McCartney died in an auto accident in 1966 and was replaced by look-alike Billy Shears.
4. Credited as Paul Ramon, he played drums and sang harmony on the track 'My Dark Hour' from the Steve Miller Band's 'Brave New World' album in 1969.
5. Indirectly named the Ramones. Prior to Beatles fame, McCartney used the stage name Paul Ramon ' a rock tidbit that inspired the Ramones to add an 'e' and drop the fourth chord.
6. More Ramones ' 'Haven't We Met Somewhere Before?' penned by Paul for the film 'Heaven Can Wait' but rejected, was used as the opening number of the Ramones' 'Rock 'n' Roll High School' ' performed by the Ramones.
7. Was involved in the fastest-released single in history when his July 2, 2005, performance of 'Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band' with U2 at Live 8 was issued 45 minutes after the performance took place.
8. Clunker 'Ebony and Ivory,' sung by Paul and Stevie Wonder, was voted 10th-worst song ever by Blender magazine a couple of years ago. Hey, they can't all be 'Eleanor Rigby,' OK?
9. Even his old shoes are worth a fortune ' a pair of Paul's used slippers (size 10 ?) recently grossed more than $3,500 at auction.
10. Reads about himself and gets mad. A half-dozen recent messages from Paul on his Web site (paulmccartney.com) rail against tabloid stories about his breakup with Heather.
11. Hired two guys with nearly sound-alike surnames for various Wings lineups ' guitarists Henry McCullough and (the late) Jimmy McCulloch. Makes roll call a lot easier.
12. Once dug pot so much he spent 10 days behind bars in Japan after he was busted in 1980 with a sleek half-pound for personal use in Tokyo and later deported. Says the song 'Got to Get You Into My Life' was directly about the stuff.
13. Made a valiant effort to raise normal kids. He and Linda brought up their children ' James, Stella, Mary and Heather (Linda's child from her first marriage) ' in out-of-the way houses in southern England and Scotland.
14. Made the Hofner violin-shaped electric bass guitar a rock 'n' roll icon ' and made it cool to play left-handed. However, he had wanted to play guitar in the Beatles and got to play lead on the George Harrison song 'Taxman.'
15. Tried to get the order of the famous 'Lennon/McCartney' songwriting credit reversed a few years ago to a huge outcry from Beatles fans.
16. Sang backup on Donovan's 'Mellow Yellow.'
17. Banned by the BBC in '72 for the political single 'Give Ireland Back to the Irish,' later parodied by National Lampoon.
18. Owns the stand-up bass that once belonged to Elvis Presley's bassist Bill Black.
19. Helped bankroll London's Indica Bookshop/Gallery, where John and Yoko met in 1966.
20. Called his 1965 visit with Elvis Presley, in which he and his mates played Chuck Berry tunes with the King, 'one of the great meetings of my life.'
21. Originally wrote the first two lines of 'I Saw Her Standing There' as 'She was just 17 / Never been a beauty queen.' When he sang it for John, they both thought the second line was 'useless.' Finally, they came up with 'you know what I mean' ' cheeky with sexual innuendo.
22. When he plays some of his old Beatles hits in America, royalties go to Michael Jackson, who bought the publishing rights for $47.5 million in 1985.
23. Paul's nickname is Macca.
24. One of his worst songs resulted in one of history's worst cover versions ' 'Live and Let Die' massacred by Guns N' Roses.
25. In the late '60s, Paul, Linda, the kids and their sheepdog, Martha, would take strolls in London's Regents Park without bodyguards.
26. That family pet was the inspiration for 'Martha, My Dear' on the Beatles' 'White Album.'
27. Listed in the Guinness Book of Records as the most successful composer in popular music history.
28. Has a record 29 U.S. No. 1 singles, 20 with the Beatles, the rest with Wings and as a solo artist.
29. Has written or has co-writing credit on more than 50 Top 10 hits.
30. His middle name is actually Paul. He was born James Paul McCartney.
31. His first instrument was trumpet, but he gave it up when he realized he couldn't sing and play at the same time.
32. Met John Lennon at a church picnic on July 6, 1957.
33. Working title of one of his own personal fave songs, 'Yesterday,' was 'Scrambled Eggs.' (He had written just a melody, which he said came to him in a dream.)
34. 'Yesterday' is one of the most-covered songs of all time, with more than 3,000 refried versions.
35. The first Beatle to record an outside project, composing (with George Martin) a score for the 1966 feature film 'The Family Way,' starring Hayley Mills.
36. In the late 1980s, wrote songs with Elvis Costello; the best-known is 'Veronica.'
37. Became a vegetarian and animal-rights activist along with late wife Linda after watching lambs frolicking in a field as they ate a meal of lamb.
38. He's a painter, exhibiting his work for the first time in Germany in 1997.
39. Made his first attempt at classical music in 1991, collaborating with Carl Davis to compose the quasi-autobiographical 'Liverpool Oratorio.'
40. Knighted in 1997 by Queen Elizabeth II.
41. Released a children's book in October 2005, titled 'High in the Clouds: An Urban Furry Tail.'
42. In 1967, produced the song 'I'm the Urban Spaceman' by the Bonzo Dog Doo-Dah Band, credited as 'Apollo C. Vermouth.'
43. Performed before the largest stadium audience in history when 184,000 paid to see him in Rio de Janeiro in April 1990.
44. As of 2005-06, considered the richest rock star in the world, with an estimated personal fortune of more than $1 billion.
45. Has been nominated for Academy Awards for the title songs to the films 'Vanilla Sky' and 'Live and Let Die.'
46. Say he's never read musical notation; writes and plays by ear.
47. A star is born when, upon Paul's recommendation, Jimi Hendrix was brought to California for a show-stealing turn at the 1967 Monterey Pop Festival, rendering Hendrix an immediate sensation. Jimi returned the favor by covering 'Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band' at the 1970 Isle of Wight festival, Hendrix's second-to-last gig.
48. Penned 'Hey Jude,' with Lennon's son, Julian, in mind. The original phrase was 'Hey Jules.'
49. Was the world's first recipient of the 1992 Swedish Polar Music Award, a Nobel Prize for music.
50. Owns one of the world's most valuable records, the first pressing of Buddy Holly's 'That'll Be the Day,' recorded in 1958 by the Quarry Men, made up of McCartney, more than $180,000.
51. Strummed guitar to accompany a poetry reading by old pal Allen Ginsberg at the Royal Albert Hall.
52. Broadcast the first concert into space when the International Space Station crew, 220 miles above Earth, heard a live musical wake-up call from Paul last Nov. 12.
53. Posed nude, but semi-obscured, in the bathroom of his house for a picture on the poster accompanying 'The White Album.'
54. Most evocative post-Beatles commentary: the cover shot on Paul's 1970 solo debut, 'McCartney,' showing an empty bowl surrounded by cherries.
55. Hired New Orleans r&b piano legend Professor Longhair to play a party on the Queen Mary in 1975, resulting in one of Fess' finest live recordings.
56. In 1995, Paul and Linda taped an episode of 'The Simpsons,' playing themselves as they help Lisa Simpson's conversion to vegetarianism.
57. Publishing rights to most of Holly's songs are owned by McCartney.
58. His music publishing company MPL Communications also holds the copyrights of other major composers, including Jerry Herman, Frank Loesser, Meredith Willson and Harold Arlen.
59. Sometimes dines at the Good Earth in Studio City, owns a mansion in Pasadena and recorded his latest album, 'Chaos and Creation in the Backyard,' on Sunset Boulevard.
60. Daughter Stella's fashion collection premiere took place in London in 1995 with a new Paul song, 'Stella May,' as part of the runway music.
61. Fleetwood Mac's song 'Silver Heels' has a line about wanting to 'sing like Paul McCartney.'
62. 'Helter Skelter,' from the 'White Album,' was Paul's attempt to outrock Pete Townshend of the Who. The song was actually about a fairground ride in the U.K., a fact that went over the head of Charles Manson.
63. Inspired by glasnost in 1988, he recorded an album of rock oldies for a Soviet label under a title roughly translated as 'Back in the USSR.'
64. He was the Walrus, according to Lennon in 'Glass Onion,' and though some may think he's, pardon the pun, a bit long in the tooth, Paul's still out there making music. So his life isn't just about yesterday.
Dog Training
Tue, 20 Jun 2006 12:09:17 +0200
This medicine involves three different colours. The reddish vitamin pill is a sedative, the Sofitol tablet is brown, and the orange Desametazone tablet is used to cure ulcers. I don't need any sedatives or anti-ulcer drugs, but am following the instructions of a certain doctor. I take them three times a day. After ten days I put on five kilos. I marvelled at what was going on with these pills that they had created such a wonder inside my body. It was an unbelievable but true story, possibly the story of a crazy forty-nine-year-old man. This craziness began with Akiko...
I told Akiko more than once that we shouldn't get so close. Still, Akiko always thought I was joking. As an Asian woman she believed in fate. I am Asian too.
I had visited Akiko's homeland many years ago for a painting exhibition, at the invitation of an international artists' association. In Tokyo I met many Japanese friends. However, my story doesn't begin here'
Five years later at an art gallery in Sai Gon I was introduced to a Japanese girl of twenty or so, her long hair pinned up at the back of the head with a red clip. She had come with a group of Vietnamese students who were studying in Japan. Her name was Akiko.
Akiko had enjoyed my paintings in Tokyo. At that time she had yet to enter university. Most likely she had once sketched in her mind an image of a painter, so when we met, she stopped for a moment without speaking a word.
The previous night at the opening ceremony I had drunk too much. I had stood before her in my worst form and touched the grey hairs on my head. This image of me would surely be different from the one that Akiko kept in her mind. After a moment she suddenly spoke.
"Is that you? You look so thin! You look so different now. You used to look so gentle, so longing. Maybe you've painted yourself into your art!"
The people standing around burst out laughing, and I did too. While a strange series of questions, a visitor had voiced them with all sincerity. Suddenly it all seemed somewhat honest and lovely, if not ingratiating.
"I'm sorry if my face makes you sad. It may be because besides those pictures, I don't have anything else!"
"Yes, you've got something'"
Akiko trailed off, her eyes fixed on mine. Later she told me what she had wanted to say that I had beautiful eyes in which she had discovered the soul of my art. In them she saw passion and gentleness.
Akiko spoke fluent Vietnamese. She was not pretty, but I liked her immediately 'C it was a combination of slenderness and roundness in her face, her hair pinned up neatly, her slim neck and black eyes.
We walked to the centre of Sai Gon in the July rains. Akiko seemed so affectionate that in a dark corner of an empty street, I even ventured to kiss her. Unfortunately for me, she refused politely.
"Had it been somebody else I'd have boxed him on the ear"
She pronounced "boxed on the ear" very slowly. She said it with a lovely smile, and I felt relieved.
That weekend, she returned to Moscow. I started painting, writing and boozing again. Out of the blue, one morning the phone rang. It was Akiko. She enquired after my health and about my work. I asked how she was doing.
"It was great in the past, but now it is terrible beyond description'"
"Why?"
"Because I miss, always miss..."
"You miss home, don't you, Akiko?"
"Oh, no, dear. I miss Sai Gon."
"Akiko..."
"I had a feeling that in Sai Gon I met my fate, but I avoided it at the time."
"Akiko, if it's fate, you can't evade it."
"You think so? Oh God, so my feelings are real'"
After that conversation, every Sunday morning when I woke up, I felt so nervous as though I was expecting a call from royalty.
Then one day, Akiko returned to the city. It was a surprise for me because she was supposed to have gone to Tokyo in winter to visit her parents because she had already had her summer holidays in Sai Gon. But here she was, present in the flesh. She embraced the maid. Then she took my hands and asked about the painting she liked best. I led her upstairs as it was hung right above my bed.
The painting was called Venting My Sadness. It was an empty bottle, lying abandoned near an overturned glass. Out of a window, a crescent moon looked cold. All was painted against deep, cold blues.
Akiko stared at it with her large, black eyes smiling. I stood in silence, admiring her. Her lips were thin and red, her cheeks rosy. Her colour contrasted the painting.
"Mr Vu, do you know why I came back so early? I dreamed that I saw this painting, but it was not a single glass, it was two glasses lying side by side. The bottle was full of alcohol, it was rising slowly from the bottom to the neck and it spilled over like a fountain."
I was so moved and my voice became hoarse.
"I will paint it for you, Akiko. But its title should be completely different, something like 'I welcome my joy'."
I tried to hug Akiko, but she turned around quickly.
"There's no need to paint such a thing."
We embraced. Akiko buried her head in my shoulder.
"Mr Vu, why are you always on my mind? On the pages of books, on the walls of my bedroom, in the playground, on the river in the afternoon, why are you everywhere?"
I kissed her. My loneliness was torn, I was no longer myself.
I can't describe the happiness of those days and months. Akiko came and went and came again. When she came, the city seemed changed, with a different sunshine, a different wind. When she left, there was something aching and soft inside me.
On her last return, Akiko was surprised at the change in my paintings. The world of still life with those broken bottles, the cold moon, the dead clocks, those paintings had been hung in one side of the room. The opposite side were the new paintings done in colour, warm and bright. It was a world of flowers, birds, girls, buds and autumn mists.
"All of these are for you, Akiko, and I hung them on the east side because you're from the land of rising sun."
Akiko rushed close to them and kissed all the fresh paintings. Finally she kissed me, and once more, her kiss penetrated my loneliness, reminding me of the changes in my life.
The next day, Akiko came to my house with her suitcase in hand. She said she was afraid of the four white walls of the hotel. So, I let Akiko stay in my house, invading my quiet world, bringing along something that had once belonged to her, something now belonging to the sun, rainbows and flowers of the temperate zone.
Our strange winter holiday began without any creature comforts. There were no skiing vacations, dancing or winter games. Only nights with sudden power cuts, cockroaches in the bookcase, and an old kerosene stove. All this seen through the eyes of a girl born in Tokyo.
Akiko became engrossed in learning how to cook bun moc and bun Hue, Vietnamese soups. She even bought books on Vietnamese cuisine and tried to cook the dishes on her own. She was so proud when I told her that her cooking was delicious.
When I was away from home, Akiko chatted with the maid. She asked about my childhood, the girls who had come through my life. Eventually she learned many of my life stories.
In the evening when I returned home, Akiko often waited for me in the studio on a round cushion amid my sketches. She wore a silk kimono. She would sit me down and take off my shoes while I caressed her hair.
"Akiko, do people still live this way in Japan?"
"No longer, dear. It only existed in my grandparents' time."
"So why do you spoil me this way?"
"You're my small Lord. I've given you this title myself."
Oh, Akiko! A silent winter in a land without winter!
Happiness. Happiness was not still life, not human beings, not landscapes. I would never be able to paint it. I painted in haste, constantly, as I was afraid that the holiday would end and Akiko would take it all away with her, leaving me alone, with an empty bottle and the lonely glass.
One afternoon when I returned, I found that the maid was not at home. Akiko was kneeling on the wood floor, scrubbing with a rag. Sweat was pouring down her face.
"Akiko, what are you doing?"
Helping her stand up, I hurried to get my handkerchief and wipe away the sweat.
"The maid is old now. If she goes, who else but me will do these things for you?"
I embraced her and looked deep into her eyes. I found only chastity, transparency and sincerity. It seemed that she had thought for a long time now that this house would forever be associated with her life.
"What did you say? Akiko?"
"I'm graduating, only one year to go. My dear Vu, do you know that I've already asked permission to marry you?"
I was so moved, stunned into silence.
"Do you... you really want to be with me forever? Have you thought it over, Akiko?"
Akiko nodded her head with affection.
"What's there to think about? Right from the beginning I knew you were my fate."
"But Akiko, you have thought about the fact that I will never be able to leave this place. If I could live far away, I would have left a long time ago."
"I did think about it and I do understand quite well'"
Akiko pressed her fingers to my lips.
"I will live here with you. I will go to work and during my spare time, I will help you mix colours."
Akiko stared at me fixedly. She was surprised when I remained silent.
"What? It's not what you want?"
"Oh, Akiko, it's impossible!"
From somewhere deep inside me the words burst out. She looked at me in great bewilderment.
"Why? Why? You've told me so many times that you'll be miserable when I leave'"
"You don't remember how many times I told you that we shouldn't get so close."
"When did you say that? I don't remember!"
Akiko took a few steps away from me, and then collapsed on the wooden floor.
How could I say anything to her now?
"You want to live here for the rest of your life? With the kerosene stoves? The cockroaches? With the bottles of alcohol, my sick liver, with my strands of grey hair?"
"Yes, yes, with all of those things. I know them and I love them all. Except for the alcohol, it's damaged your body and I hate it."
"No use now, Akiko. I can't live without alcohol. I've been empty for so many years before you came. During those years, sometimes I wanted to destroy myself."
"What about now? Now that I'm here?"
Akiko cried, her eyes were riveted on me.
"It's too late now. You can't teach an old dog new tricks. I have become helpless and worse. Marriage? It's too great a happiness for me to carry!"
"So what's been the use of all of this? Is our love only a dream?"
Akiko moaned, I could see she was in pain. I wanted to help her up, to console her and for her to console me too. She suddenly became sulky, sceptical. I understood that she had no longer believed in me...
I didn't sleep a wink that night. The deep silence of the night let me hear Akiko's tossing and turning. I silently opened the door of her room. Her face was buried in a pillow.
"Akiko..." I called to her and sat by her side.
Akiko looked up at me. I caressed her hair. The moon was shining through the window and its light was spreading all over her body. I cupped her face in my hands.
"Akiko, you know, here in Viet Nam there are a lot of legends, and I want to tell you one of them. There was once a princess and a fisherman-artist..."
I told her the story of Truong Chi that I had heard when I was a little boy. Akiko lay in silence and listened.
"Akiko, can you see that our situation is almost the same as the characters in the story? It is an insurmountable situation. Our passion is limitless, but there is a limit to reality."
"Frivolous. It's impossible that we are this story. For me, it's as simple as I love you. That is the only thing that means anything to me. In your paintings, there are no limits at all, no helplessness, no'"
Akiko's voice sounded so sad and cold.
She turned to me, and in the moonlight, I saw that her eyes had become pale and wild. How could I explain to her that all the things in the paintings, all the moments between her and me, belonged to different worlds. It was divinity, and divinity must be held aloft in worship and not be touched, because if you touch it, it disappears into nothingness!
Akiko! What if she had appeared in my life much earlier, say ten or fifteen years? But now, now all the strength of my life has gone into the shoreless world of paintings. Maybe one day she would realise that she only found the dry skin of an orange lying abandoned in the garden, not its succulent fruit.
I embraced Akiko and kissed her face. Her skin reminded me of a lotus petal or the silk and down of a bird.
"Akiko, you've come to me, filling my paintings, but I haven't painted you yet. Tomorrow I'll paint your portrait."
Akiko shook her head.
"Tomorrow I'll go back to the hotel' Those white walls are terrible but I will feel better there than here. You want to paint me? Why not tonight, while I'm still here."
I stood up and grabbed the easel. Akiko also stood up. The unbuttoned kimono revealed her gorgeous feminine physique in the moonlight.
I sat before the easel and after a while, I began painting.
I painted Akiko's portrait with a lotus in her hand. The portrait was finished early in the morning and we were both so exhausted that we fell asleep. When I woke up, Akiko was gone. The suitcase was on the floor, right in the middle. I heard a clanking and then glass being broken.
I rushed downstairs. Akiko was smashing my bottles of alcohol. Alcohol was flowing all over the kitchen. Pieces of glass were flying all over the place, scratching her face. Blood was oozing from small cuts.
"Akiko, are you crazy?"
I held her tight but she struggled against me.
"Vu, I'm going now since you don't need me anymore, but I beg you not to drink. I don't want to see you to die from it. I want to know from far away that you're in good health and will never die!"
Akiko suddenly loosened her grip.
"Oh, dear Vu, how will I live without you?"
Her last words were said in Japanese, as though she was having a conversation with herself, with fate. I wanted to embrace her but I couldn't because if I did, I would hold her forever...
I stayed silent. Akiko walked out of the house, taking with her the portrait. After that, my world returned to the past. I hung the picture of the empty bottle and the fallen glass back above my bed. I never did a self-portrait because that empty bottle was my face, my fate.
Still, I felt Akiko everywhere. In the bedroom. On the roof. In the moonlight. In every piece of furniture. Everywhere she appeared I saw that round face. Because of this, I began painting that face on the table, the door, the bookshelf, the armchair. Everywhere Akiko was present, but none of the paintings ever brought me the completeness, the smoothness of the silk, the lotus and the down.
I kept all the broken pieces of bottles on an iron shelf in the kitchen. Since that day I only drank light wine. If I touched any brandy, the image of a furious Akiko would return... I had given up my bad habit after fifteen years. If that was a miracle, it was a miracle that bore her name.
However, for ten years now, my health has been getting worse and worse. I became ever thinner. My hair got whiter. Yes, it was loneliness that quickened the ageing. A week ago a newspaper reporter came to see me, enquiring if I had used a "three colour medicine" that had sickened hundreds of young people who had used it.
I said nothing to the reporter. I couldn't understand why strong young people had used this poisonous medicine, even if it was a trend. As far as I was concerned, each time I took the colourful pills I had the feeling I was gulping down a centipede. Yes, I looked fatter and my cheeks filled out. No one could tell my liver was breaking down. No miraculous drug could help. The tourism season was about to begin. Who could say Akiko wouldn't come back' She would be happy to see me unchanged and fit! How could she know I had given up one type of poisonous medicine for another?
Would she ever come back? The question rang in my head whenever Akiko appeared in those pieces of furniture! For a long time my phone hadn't rung with her voice. Was it that when she left me, it was forever? It was possible that in her country, she was looking for another fate and she buried those colourful memories of our time deep inside.
Is this true, Akiko? Each time that question pops into my head, I vaguely imagine that from far away, as if from those clouds high above, a voice echoes:
"No, no, as long as I live, I will never forget you!"
The same goes for me. As long as I live, I will wait for her. Even though she's gone I can still imagine she'll return again, and I will live once more in the world of colours. It was the colour of white roses. It was the deep blue in the eyes of kissing couples. It was the deep purple of happy nights. These expectations had smouldered inside me like burning ashes, ashes that would keep burning until completely white.
Akiko! Even if its only once, please come back to me! Please come home to me from the land of cranes' wings.
Dog Training
I told Akiko more than once that we shouldn't get so close. Still, Akiko always thought I was joking. As an Asian woman she believed in fate. I am Asian too.
I had visited Akiko's homeland many years ago for a painting exhibition, at the invitation of an international artists' association. In Tokyo I met many Japanese friends. However, my story doesn't begin here'
Five years later at an art gallery in Sai Gon I was introduced to a Japanese girl of twenty or so, her long hair pinned up at the back of the head with a red clip. She had come with a group of Vietnamese students who were studying in Japan. Her name was Akiko.
Akiko had enjoyed my paintings in Tokyo. At that time she had yet to enter university. Most likely she had once sketched in her mind an image of a painter, so when we met, she stopped for a moment without speaking a word.
The previous night at the opening ceremony I had drunk too much. I had stood before her in my worst form and touched the grey hairs on my head. This image of me would surely be different from the one that Akiko kept in her mind. After a moment she suddenly spoke.
"Is that you? You look so thin! You look so different now. You used to look so gentle, so longing. Maybe you've painted yourself into your art!"
The people standing around burst out laughing, and I did too. While a strange series of questions, a visitor had voiced them with all sincerity. Suddenly it all seemed somewhat honest and lovely, if not ingratiating.
"I'm sorry if my face makes you sad. It may be because besides those pictures, I don't have anything else!"
"Yes, you've got something'"
Akiko trailed off, her eyes fixed on mine. Later she told me what she had wanted to say that I had beautiful eyes in which she had discovered the soul of my art. In them she saw passion and gentleness.
Akiko spoke fluent Vietnamese. She was not pretty, but I liked her immediately 'C it was a combination of slenderness and roundness in her face, her hair pinned up neatly, her slim neck and black eyes.
We walked to the centre of Sai Gon in the July rains. Akiko seemed so affectionate that in a dark corner of an empty street, I even ventured to kiss her. Unfortunately for me, she refused politely.
"Had it been somebody else I'd have boxed him on the ear"
She pronounced "boxed on the ear" very slowly. She said it with a lovely smile, and I felt relieved.
That weekend, she returned to Moscow. I started painting, writing and boozing again. Out of the blue, one morning the phone rang. It was Akiko. She enquired after my health and about my work. I asked how she was doing.
"It was great in the past, but now it is terrible beyond description'"
"Why?"
"Because I miss, always miss..."
"You miss home, don't you, Akiko?"
"Oh, no, dear. I miss Sai Gon."
"Akiko..."
"I had a feeling that in Sai Gon I met my fate, but I avoided it at the time."
"Akiko, if it's fate, you can't evade it."
"You think so? Oh God, so my feelings are real'"
After that conversation, every Sunday morning when I woke up, I felt so nervous as though I was expecting a call from royalty.
Then one day, Akiko returned to the city. It was a surprise for me because she was supposed to have gone to Tokyo in winter to visit her parents because she had already had her summer holidays in Sai Gon. But here she was, present in the flesh. She embraced the maid. Then she took my hands and asked about the painting she liked best. I led her upstairs as it was hung right above my bed.
The painting was called Venting My Sadness. It was an empty bottle, lying abandoned near an overturned glass. Out of a window, a crescent moon looked cold. All was painted against deep, cold blues.
Akiko stared at it with her large, black eyes smiling. I stood in silence, admiring her. Her lips were thin and red, her cheeks rosy. Her colour contrasted the painting.
"Mr Vu, do you know why I came back so early? I dreamed that I saw this painting, but it was not a single glass, it was two glasses lying side by side. The bottle was full of alcohol, it was rising slowly from the bottom to the neck and it spilled over like a fountain."
I was so moved and my voice became hoarse.
"I will paint it for you, Akiko. But its title should be completely different, something like 'I welcome my joy'."
I tried to hug Akiko, but she turned around quickly.
"There's no need to paint such a thing."
We embraced. Akiko buried her head in my shoulder.
"Mr Vu, why are you always on my mind? On the pages of books, on the walls of my bedroom, in the playground, on the river in the afternoon, why are you everywhere?"
I kissed her. My loneliness was torn, I was no longer myself.
I can't describe the happiness of those days and months. Akiko came and went and came again. When she came, the city seemed changed, with a different sunshine, a different wind. When she left, there was something aching and soft inside me.
On her last return, Akiko was surprised at the change in my paintings. The world of still life with those broken bottles, the cold moon, the dead clocks, those paintings had been hung in one side of the room. The opposite side were the new paintings done in colour, warm and bright. It was a world of flowers, birds, girls, buds and autumn mists.
"All of these are for you, Akiko, and I hung them on the east side because you're from the land of rising sun."
Akiko rushed close to them and kissed all the fresh paintings. Finally she kissed me, and once more, her kiss penetrated my loneliness, reminding me of the changes in my life.
The next day, Akiko came to my house with her suitcase in hand. She said she was afraid of the four white walls of the hotel. So, I let Akiko stay in my house, invading my quiet world, bringing along something that had once belonged to her, something now belonging to the sun, rainbows and flowers of the temperate zone.
Our strange winter holiday began without any creature comforts. There were no skiing vacations, dancing or winter games. Only nights with sudden power cuts, cockroaches in the bookcase, and an old kerosene stove. All this seen through the eyes of a girl born in Tokyo.
Akiko became engrossed in learning how to cook bun moc and bun Hue, Vietnamese soups. She even bought books on Vietnamese cuisine and tried to cook the dishes on her own. She was so proud when I told her that her cooking was delicious.
When I was away from home, Akiko chatted with the maid. She asked about my childhood, the girls who had come through my life. Eventually she learned many of my life stories.
In the evening when I returned home, Akiko often waited for me in the studio on a round cushion amid my sketches. She wore a silk kimono. She would sit me down and take off my shoes while I caressed her hair.
"Akiko, do people still live this way in Japan?"
"No longer, dear. It only existed in my grandparents' time."
"So why do you spoil me this way?"
"You're my small Lord. I've given you this title myself."
Oh, Akiko! A silent winter in a land without winter!
Happiness. Happiness was not still life, not human beings, not landscapes. I would never be able to paint it. I painted in haste, constantly, as I was afraid that the holiday would end and Akiko would take it all away with her, leaving me alone, with an empty bottle and the lonely glass.
One afternoon when I returned, I found that the maid was not at home. Akiko was kneeling on the wood floor, scrubbing with a rag. Sweat was pouring down her face.
"Akiko, what are you doing?"
Helping her stand up, I hurried to get my handkerchief and wipe away the sweat.
"The maid is old now. If she goes, who else but me will do these things for you?"
I embraced her and looked deep into her eyes. I found only chastity, transparency and sincerity. It seemed that she had thought for a long time now that this house would forever be associated with her life.
"What did you say? Akiko?"
"I'm graduating, only one year to go. My dear Vu, do you know that I've already asked permission to marry you?"
I was so moved, stunned into silence.
"Do you... you really want to be with me forever? Have you thought it over, Akiko?"
Akiko nodded her head with affection.
"What's there to think about? Right from the beginning I knew you were my fate."
"But Akiko, you have thought about the fact that I will never be able to leave this place. If I could live far away, I would have left a long time ago."
"I did think about it and I do understand quite well'"
Akiko pressed her fingers to my lips.
"I will live here with you. I will go to work and during my spare time, I will help you mix colours."
Akiko stared at me fixedly. She was surprised when I remained silent.
"What? It's not what you want?"
"Oh, Akiko, it's impossible!"
From somewhere deep inside me the words burst out. She looked at me in great bewilderment.
"Why? Why? You've told me so many times that you'll be miserable when I leave'"
"You don't remember how many times I told you that we shouldn't get so close."
"When did you say that? I don't remember!"
Akiko took a few steps away from me, and then collapsed on the wooden floor.
How could I say anything to her now?
"You want to live here for the rest of your life? With the kerosene stoves? The cockroaches? With the bottles of alcohol, my sick liver, with my strands of grey hair?"
"Yes, yes, with all of those things. I know them and I love them all. Except for the alcohol, it's damaged your body and I hate it."
"No use now, Akiko. I can't live without alcohol. I've been empty for so many years before you came. During those years, sometimes I wanted to destroy myself."
"What about now? Now that I'm here?"
Akiko cried, her eyes were riveted on me.
"It's too late now. You can't teach an old dog new tricks. I have become helpless and worse. Marriage? It's too great a happiness for me to carry!"
"So what's been the use of all of this? Is our love only a dream?"
Akiko moaned, I could see she was in pain. I wanted to help her up, to console her and for her to console me too. She suddenly became sulky, sceptical. I understood that she had no longer believed in me...
I didn't sleep a wink that night. The deep silence of the night let me hear Akiko's tossing and turning. I silently opened the door of her room. Her face was buried in a pillow.
"Akiko..." I called to her and sat by her side.
Akiko looked up at me. I caressed her hair. The moon was shining through the window and its light was spreading all over her body. I cupped her face in my hands.
"Akiko, you know, here in Viet Nam there are a lot of legends, and I want to tell you one of them. There was once a princess and a fisherman-artist..."
I told her the story of Truong Chi that I had heard when I was a little boy. Akiko lay in silence and listened.
"Akiko, can you see that our situation is almost the same as the characters in the story? It is an insurmountable situation. Our passion is limitless, but there is a limit to reality."
"Frivolous. It's impossible that we are this story. For me, it's as simple as I love you. That is the only thing that means anything to me. In your paintings, there are no limits at all, no helplessness, no'"
Akiko's voice sounded so sad and cold.
She turned to me, and in the moonlight, I saw that her eyes had become pale and wild. How could I explain to her that all the things in the paintings, all the moments between her and me, belonged to different worlds. It was divinity, and divinity must be held aloft in worship and not be touched, because if you touch it, it disappears into nothingness!
Akiko! What if she had appeared in my life much earlier, say ten or fifteen years? But now, now all the strength of my life has gone into the shoreless world of paintings. Maybe one day she would realise that she only found the dry skin of an orange lying abandoned in the garden, not its succulent fruit.
I embraced Akiko and kissed her face. Her skin reminded me of a lotus petal or the silk and down of a bird.
"Akiko, you've come to me, filling my paintings, but I haven't painted you yet. Tomorrow I'll paint your portrait."
Akiko shook her head.
"Tomorrow I'll go back to the hotel' Those white walls are terrible but I will feel better there than here. You want to paint me? Why not tonight, while I'm still here."
I stood up and grabbed the easel. Akiko also stood up. The unbuttoned kimono revealed her gorgeous feminine physique in the moonlight.
I sat before the easel and after a while, I began painting.
I painted Akiko's portrait with a lotus in her hand. The portrait was finished early in the morning and we were both so exhausted that we fell asleep. When I woke up, Akiko was gone. The suitcase was on the floor, right in the middle. I heard a clanking and then glass being broken.
I rushed downstairs. Akiko was smashing my bottles of alcohol. Alcohol was flowing all over the kitchen. Pieces of glass were flying all over the place, scratching her face. Blood was oozing from small cuts.
"Akiko, are you crazy?"
I held her tight but she struggled against me.
"Vu, I'm going now since you don't need me anymore, but I beg you not to drink. I don't want to see you to die from it. I want to know from far away that you're in good health and will never die!"
Akiko suddenly loosened her grip.
"Oh, dear Vu, how will I live without you?"
Her last words were said in Japanese, as though she was having a conversation with herself, with fate. I wanted to embrace her but I couldn't because if I did, I would hold her forever...
I stayed silent. Akiko walked out of the house, taking with her the portrait. After that, my world returned to the past. I hung the picture of the empty bottle and the fallen glass back above my bed. I never did a self-portrait because that empty bottle was my face, my fate.
Still, I felt Akiko everywhere. In the bedroom. On the roof. In the moonlight. In every piece of furniture. Everywhere she appeared I saw that round face. Because of this, I began painting that face on the table, the door, the bookshelf, the armchair. Everywhere Akiko was present, but none of the paintings ever brought me the completeness, the smoothness of the silk, the lotus and the down.
I kept all the broken pieces of bottles on an iron shelf in the kitchen. Since that day I only drank light wine. If I touched any brandy, the image of a furious Akiko would return... I had given up my bad habit after fifteen years. If that was a miracle, it was a miracle that bore her name.
However, for ten years now, my health has been getting worse and worse. I became ever thinner. My hair got whiter. Yes, it was loneliness that quickened the ageing. A week ago a newspaper reporter came to see me, enquiring if I had used a "three colour medicine" that had sickened hundreds of young people who had used it.
I said nothing to the reporter. I couldn't understand why strong young people had used this poisonous medicine, even if it was a trend. As far as I was concerned, each time I took the colourful pills I had the feeling I was gulping down a centipede. Yes, I looked fatter and my cheeks filled out. No one could tell my liver was breaking down. No miraculous drug could help. The tourism season was about to begin. Who could say Akiko wouldn't come back' She would be happy to see me unchanged and fit! How could she know I had given up one type of poisonous medicine for another?
Would she ever come back? The question rang in my head whenever Akiko appeared in those pieces of furniture! For a long time my phone hadn't rung with her voice. Was it that when she left me, it was forever? It was possible that in her country, she was looking for another fate and she buried those colourful memories of our time deep inside.
Is this true, Akiko? Each time that question pops into my head, I vaguely imagine that from far away, as if from those clouds high above, a voice echoes:
"No, no, as long as I live, I will never forget you!"
The same goes for me. As long as I live, I will wait for her. Even though she's gone I can still imagine she'll return again, and I will live once more in the world of colours. It was the colour of white roses. It was the deep blue in the eyes of kissing couples. It was the deep purple of happy nights. These expectations had smouldered inside me like burning ashes, ashes that would keep burning until completely white.
Akiko! Even if its only once, please come back to me! Please come home to me from the land of cranes' wings.
Dog Training
Tue, 20 Jun 2006 12:08:12 +0200
It would have been a comic journey had we not been going to the home of a dying man. All three of us, walking in a single file, were pushing our bikes along, hardly speaking to each other, our shoes covered in thick mud and shirts clinging to sweating torsos.
When we finally reached there, we were secretly disappointed to find that the old man had still not breathed his last.
The Potohar plateau is a beautiful prison. The settlements are small and scattered, the terrain almost impossible to negotiate for any mechanized transport and the people are nearly as desperate as the original sin. This puts the upper tracts of Potohar plateau on the horns of a dilemma: There is not enough population concentrated in a single place to justify setting up a decent medical facility and there is no way to connect all these ill conceived and miserable villages by road to the town below.
The dying old man was trapped in this beautiful prison, waiting for the merciful touch of the angel of death.
Everyone was blaming the grandsons of the old man. There was unanimous opinion that they should have carried the old man on a litter to the nearest road 'C a walk of about 14 hours 'C and from there to flag a passing truck to drive him to the district hospital. Now it was too late: the old man was at the verge of death, too frail for bumps and jerks of the litter and too far gone for any doctor to do any good to him.
People were also annoyed at the quack who was spoon feeding a dark brown concoction to the old man. The people believed that because of the medicine the old man was neither dying nor getting better.
When we reached the compound of the dying man's house, there were many people, sitting or standing in small knots under the shade of the wall or the thick branches of trees.
Their faces were distinctly their own but they looked so much alike. It was probably because of the unstructured anger that had given their faces a uniform look.
They were born there and they were to die there. Scanty rainfall, no artificial irrigation system, no education other than a primary school, no medical facilities, no job opportunities, no entertainment and no escape from the comprehensive hell. Carrying water from the stream and going back to the same stream to attend to the call of the nature is not a very fine way of curing your anger.
It was the collective look of anguish, helplessness, resignation. They were condemned people.
Their faces were etched with ancient anger, almost a part of the genetic map.
It was the anger that had seen its better days and now it was just there because it had nowhere else to go. The formless anger and those people were cursed to live together forever.
Once in a while this anger takes a definite shape and the region spews out a poet, a revolutionary or a general. But mostly it is just there, serving no useful purpose.
* * *
Noor Baba was sewing a shirt for me and I was playing nearby.
The little mechanical car had stopped moving. No matter how hard I wound the knob, the car refused to move an inch. With the anger of a spoiled child, I smashed the car to the floor, sending dozens of tiny parts in every direction.
Without looking up from his sewing machine, Noor Baba said, 'Anger is devil's weapon.'
* * *
The cross dresser was unbelievably pretty. Except for the artlessly applied lipstick, there was no indication to suggest that it was not a girl, a most beautiful girl.
He, no, She, singled me out from the thinly spread crowd at the beach. The pungent, cheap perfume she was wearing raced into my nostrils although she was still more than three meters away.
She came to my table, pulled the white plastic chair, sat down and picked my pack of cigarettes without as much as a glance in my direction. After pulling out a cigarette, she tried unsuccessfully several times to light it. The problem was that she was cupping her hands in the wrong direction and the flame was not strong enough to survive the powerful sea breeze.
'Light it for me,' she said, removing the cigarette from her painted lips.
'Learn to light your own cigarettes,' I said angrily.
I was not really angry. It was just a confused response to a situation that was so new and sudden to me.
'Teach me,' she said simply.
There was something in her voice that touched my heart. It was the uncertain voice of a child that had been beaten for no fault of her own. It was the voice of a vulnerable person, too tired to shed any more tears and too proud to resign to her lot. It was the cry of a lost soul, wanting to come out of the wilderness.
I said, 'Cup your hands so that your palms face the wind, then light the match and quickly put it in the middle of your cupped palms. This would create a blind spot where wind speed would be nearly zero. This would keep the flame long enough for your to light the cigarette. Try it now.'
She did, and it worked, and her face broke into a genuine smile, proud of her little success.
We kept dragging at our cigarettes for a few minutes without saying anything. There was a sense of comradeship in the silence between us.
'Why,' I asked finally.
'It is a long story,' she said defensively.
'I will listen, I will not judge,' I said.
Her story, as it came out in gradually intensifying sentences, was one of rape, injustice, shame, anger, revenge and monumental courage.
He was a boy of 14 when four policemen accused him of 'loitering with the intention of a crime', took him to the police station and sodomized him. It was a small town near Lahore and the policemen were fond of bragging of their exploits.
'I was already bleeding when the third policeman mounted me,' she said in an almost whisper, wiping away a slowly rolling tear.
As if the pain, the humiliation, the sense of being defiled, the feeling of being tainted were not enough, the people made him a butt of jokes and some of them proposed regular sexual liaison with him.
'I was ashamed. I was feeling very, very dirty and I was ashamed,' she said.
The shame gave birth to anger.
When shame leads to anger, it is really one massive anger. Be very afraid of someone who is carrying such anger.
He was delicately built, more like a girl, and no match for the bullies who made his life miserable or the policemen who raped him.
He had a powerful mind and absolutely great reserve of courage. These were the tool he decided to use.
He went to Lahore and joined the cross-dresser community 'C locally called Hijras, the men or eunuchs who dress as women and make their living by dancing and singing at weddings and celebrations. They are also sex workers.
The Hijra community accepted him with open arms. As is the custom of the community, they gave him a female name. He became Shehzadi 'C literally, Princess.
They fed him a sour drink, heavy in tamarind to retard the growth of male hormones and they taught him to sing and dance.
He was now Shehzadi 'C a real princess. In less than year, she was in great demand at weddings and there was no dearth of lovers who were willing to pay any price for her favours.
She didn't reject money but she was looking for someone who would go for revenge on her behalf.
In a world where crime and money chase each other perpetually, she found a strong man who was eager to please her.
She promised to become his faithful lover for two years if he could punish the policemen who violated her.
'No problems, I will kill them,' he offered.
'No, I don't want you to kill them. Just teach them a good lesson,' she said.
The man lost no time in finding and punishing the policemen. He arranged to stab one of them in the leg so many times that the leg had to be amputated, sent a hit man to the other to break both of his arms, staged a dog attack on the third and paid a petty thug to cut the nose of the fourth.
She kept her word. Every minute of every day, she hated herself while outwardly catering to every whim and desire of her lover with a cheerful face.
On completion of her promised period, she left him.
'I wish I could have come to terms with this kind of life. He really loved me. He wanted me to say but he didn't force me when I wanted to leave,' she said with a sigh.
She had enough brains and courage to structure her anger. Now that the anger had run its course, there was vast emptiness before her.
Dog Training
When we finally reached there, we were secretly disappointed to find that the old man had still not breathed his last.
The Potohar plateau is a beautiful prison. The settlements are small and scattered, the terrain almost impossible to negotiate for any mechanized transport and the people are nearly as desperate as the original sin. This puts the upper tracts of Potohar plateau on the horns of a dilemma: There is not enough population concentrated in a single place to justify setting up a decent medical facility and there is no way to connect all these ill conceived and miserable villages by road to the town below.
The dying old man was trapped in this beautiful prison, waiting for the merciful touch of the angel of death.
Everyone was blaming the grandsons of the old man. There was unanimous opinion that they should have carried the old man on a litter to the nearest road 'C a walk of about 14 hours 'C and from there to flag a passing truck to drive him to the district hospital. Now it was too late: the old man was at the verge of death, too frail for bumps and jerks of the litter and too far gone for any doctor to do any good to him.
People were also annoyed at the quack who was spoon feeding a dark brown concoction to the old man. The people believed that because of the medicine the old man was neither dying nor getting better.
When we reached the compound of the dying man's house, there were many people, sitting or standing in small knots under the shade of the wall or the thick branches of trees.
Their faces were distinctly their own but they looked so much alike. It was probably because of the unstructured anger that had given their faces a uniform look.
They were born there and they were to die there. Scanty rainfall, no artificial irrigation system, no education other than a primary school, no medical facilities, no job opportunities, no entertainment and no escape from the comprehensive hell. Carrying water from the stream and going back to the same stream to attend to the call of the nature is not a very fine way of curing your anger.
It was the collective look of anguish, helplessness, resignation. They were condemned people.
Their faces were etched with ancient anger, almost a part of the genetic map.
It was the anger that had seen its better days and now it was just there because it had nowhere else to go. The formless anger and those people were cursed to live together forever.
Once in a while this anger takes a definite shape and the region spews out a poet, a revolutionary or a general. But mostly it is just there, serving no useful purpose.
* * *
Noor Baba was sewing a shirt for me and I was playing nearby.
The little mechanical car had stopped moving. No matter how hard I wound the knob, the car refused to move an inch. With the anger of a spoiled child, I smashed the car to the floor, sending dozens of tiny parts in every direction.
Without looking up from his sewing machine, Noor Baba said, 'Anger is devil's weapon.'
* * *
The cross dresser was unbelievably pretty. Except for the artlessly applied lipstick, there was no indication to suggest that it was not a girl, a most beautiful girl.
He, no, She, singled me out from the thinly spread crowd at the beach. The pungent, cheap perfume she was wearing raced into my nostrils although she was still more than three meters away.
She came to my table, pulled the white plastic chair, sat down and picked my pack of cigarettes without as much as a glance in my direction. After pulling out a cigarette, she tried unsuccessfully several times to light it. The problem was that she was cupping her hands in the wrong direction and the flame was not strong enough to survive the powerful sea breeze.
'Light it for me,' she said, removing the cigarette from her painted lips.
'Learn to light your own cigarettes,' I said angrily.
I was not really angry. It was just a confused response to a situation that was so new and sudden to me.
'Teach me,' she said simply.
There was something in her voice that touched my heart. It was the uncertain voice of a child that had been beaten for no fault of her own. It was the voice of a vulnerable person, too tired to shed any more tears and too proud to resign to her lot. It was the cry of a lost soul, wanting to come out of the wilderness.
I said, 'Cup your hands so that your palms face the wind, then light the match and quickly put it in the middle of your cupped palms. This would create a blind spot where wind speed would be nearly zero. This would keep the flame long enough for your to light the cigarette. Try it now.'
She did, and it worked, and her face broke into a genuine smile, proud of her little success.
We kept dragging at our cigarettes for a few minutes without saying anything. There was a sense of comradeship in the silence between us.
'Why,' I asked finally.
'It is a long story,' she said defensively.
'I will listen, I will not judge,' I said.
Her story, as it came out in gradually intensifying sentences, was one of rape, injustice, shame, anger, revenge and monumental courage.
He was a boy of 14 when four policemen accused him of 'loitering with the intention of a crime', took him to the police station and sodomized him. It was a small town near Lahore and the policemen were fond of bragging of their exploits.
'I was already bleeding when the third policeman mounted me,' she said in an almost whisper, wiping away a slowly rolling tear.
As if the pain, the humiliation, the sense of being defiled, the feeling of being tainted were not enough, the people made him a butt of jokes and some of them proposed regular sexual liaison with him.
'I was ashamed. I was feeling very, very dirty and I was ashamed,' she said.
The shame gave birth to anger.
When shame leads to anger, it is really one massive anger. Be very afraid of someone who is carrying such anger.
He was delicately built, more like a girl, and no match for the bullies who made his life miserable or the policemen who raped him.
He had a powerful mind and absolutely great reserve of courage. These were the tool he decided to use.
He went to Lahore and joined the cross-dresser community 'C locally called Hijras, the men or eunuchs who dress as women and make their living by dancing and singing at weddings and celebrations. They are also sex workers.
The Hijra community accepted him with open arms. As is the custom of the community, they gave him a female name. He became Shehzadi 'C literally, Princess.
They fed him a sour drink, heavy in tamarind to retard the growth of male hormones and they taught him to sing and dance.
He was now Shehzadi 'C a real princess. In less than year, she was in great demand at weddings and there was no dearth of lovers who were willing to pay any price for her favours.
She didn't reject money but she was looking for someone who would go for revenge on her behalf.
In a world where crime and money chase each other perpetually, she found a strong man who was eager to please her.
She promised to become his faithful lover for two years if he could punish the policemen who violated her.
'No problems, I will kill them,' he offered.
'No, I don't want you to kill them. Just teach them a good lesson,' she said.
The man lost no time in finding and punishing the policemen. He arranged to stab one of them in the leg so many times that the leg had to be amputated, sent a hit man to the other to break both of his arms, staged a dog attack on the third and paid a petty thug to cut the nose of the fourth.
She kept her word. Every minute of every day, she hated herself while outwardly catering to every whim and desire of her lover with a cheerful face.
On completion of her promised period, she left him.
'I wish I could have come to terms with this kind of life. He really loved me. He wanted me to say but he didn't force me when I wanted to leave,' she said with a sigh.
She had enough brains and courage to structure her anger. Now that the anger had run its course, there was vast emptiness before her.
Dog Training
Mon, 12 Jun 2006 08:53:06 +0200