Tuesday, August 04, 2009

Alcibiades on a bike?

I didn't blog about this year's Tour de France at all.

Writing that surprises me. I've blogged the Tour every year I've been doing this, from the tainted 2006 Tour of Floyd Landis to the 2007 Tour with all the drama of the expulsion of Rasmussen, the heroism and then the shame of Vinokourov, and the arrival of Alberto Contador and the departure of Team Discovery to 2008 and the Year of Little Carlos.

I enjoy pro cycling the way other men enjoy porn; seeing the flaws and the fakery and the seamy byplay of it all but enjoying the resultant pleasures - and mortification - of the flesh, nevertheless. In this case, the flesh, bone and muscle it takes to get on a bicycle and ride over a thousand kilometers in three weeks. Through little towns and great cities, fields of flowers and industrial wastelands. Up to the summits of the great mountains of history, through the passes where Charles Martel and Napoleon's soldiers marched. It's just a great sport.

But not this year. I'm not sure why. Caution, perhaps. So many of the riders have been caught doping, it's always a chancy thing now to predict or celebrate a great ride.But the other reason was, I think, that I sensed the possibility of a really ugly Tour with the return of Lance Armstrong. I've discussed before why I think LA's return to the sport isn't an unalloyed benefice. And, sure enough, the Armstrong Show had an immense impact on, and I think a very mixed impact on, this year's Tour.

The is no question that the presence of Armstrong raises the awareness of the Tour in this country. When LA is not riding the conversation I hear about the race is pretty much confined to the real hard-cores, the genuine cycling fanatics (of which we have more than a few here in Portland...)

Once you get away from the Bike Gallery or the Portland Wheelmen the level of interest drops to...well, pretty much zero. I doubt that 90% of the Portlanders you see sporting a Livestrong yellow bracelet could pick Frank Schleck or Mark Cavendish out of a crowd if you put a gun to their heads. But add our Texas boy back in, and...well, you know the answer.

In fact, the Versus people counted on the Armstrong Effect this year. In a small but telling gesture they added a tiny Astana jersey to the usual lineup of category leaders' jerseys at the bottom of the screen that tells you where the leaders are at any point in the day's stage.

So you knew not only where the GC, points, mountains and young rider leaders were...but where the uncrowned King of Cycling was. I know this seems trivial, but did they do this for Sastre, the defending champion? Had they done this for ANYone before Armstrong? I mean, great champion or not, this is a 38-year-old coming off four years of retirement and a broken collarbone. Why should we have any expectations of him other than that he would try and do his best to win, as he always does?

Oh, yeah, right. He's LANCE ARMSTRONG!

So. The Tour was it's usual wonderful mix of vicious politics, brute force, gasp-inducing skill and grinding endurance. Those of us who watched got to enjoy the usual sights of the color and power of the peleton, great breakaways, monster climbs and frightening descents (including Jen's Voigt's horrific crash descending the Col de Petit San Bernard shown here - warning, not for the faint of heart). The story, as always, was who would cross the finish line in Paris in yellow, and Alberto Contador was that man.But I have to think that winning his second Tour was extraordinarily difficult for Alberto, and not because of the heat, the wind, the climbs - and the Spaniard climbs like a goddamn elevator - or the crashes. It was because of all the attention paid to his teammate Armstrong.

Johan Bruyneel is a very bright man and a great maker of cycling teams. If this Tour is any indication of his personality, however, he is also a poor man-manager and something of a jerk. Signing Armstrong to a team that already had a GC monster as leader showed that he either 1) had lost confidence in his man Contador, 2) was so in love with Armstrong that he was willing to risk an all-out fight between him and the Spaniard rather than see LA sign with another team, or 3) thought so much of himself that he thought he could ride both these tigers to a podium sweep in Paris.

Well, the expected occurred. Contador and Armstrong are predators, egotistic men who live to win. The veneer of politeness wore thinner and thinner as the tour went on, until finally Contador attacked on the slopes of the Col de Verbier, taking the yellow jersey.

He did the same again three days later, to the public ire of his team director and his teammate Armstrong (who, by then, was by tradition and financial caution rendered unable to attack a yellow jersey held his own team) for dropping his teammate Andreas Kloden out of contention for a GC podium. With his immense climbing strength and the dramatic mountaintop finish on Mont Ventoux the penultimate stage the outcome was pretty much decided. Only the ill feelings persisted.Of course, there were other stories - there always are, that's the glory of the Tour - such as the Schleck brothers riding for the glory of Luxembourg (has Luxembourg EVER had any glory?), or the incredible speed of Mark Cavendish who yet managed to get schooled by the flying fox, Thor Hushovd, in how to win a points jersey without blinding speed.The race ran its three-week course of victory and defeat, of pain, hard work, desire, the thrones and dominations and all the splendor thereof. Not to mention the silliness, indignity and fatuousness, which is pretty much what you'd expect for any great human endeavour...So as much as I enjoyed this year's Tour, I came away feeling a little sadness for Contador, the young man whose second victory will always be tainted by the anger and frustration he must feel at his own team, its manager and his "teammate" Armstrong. And that brought me back to the man from Plano and what our obsession with him says about him, and about us.

I don't know anything about Armstrong the man. The notion that we can "know" people we have never met is a curious development of the electronic media and its saturation with the lives of the famous (although these are often known only for a sort of circular fame that rests on their simply being well known; modern celebrity seems to require neither exceptional wisdom nor particular skills but merely a complete lack of privacy). I can only guess by what is reported of his actions.

He is, obviously, a very driven man, personally and professionally. A man of great ego, and self-absorption; one has to be, to be a great athlete. Of his continuing battle after his cancer we are told of his indomitable will and his zeal for life. Of his personal tastes, he seems to be a bit...simple. We've learned so much else about him, but not that he writes poetry, plays the koto, knows how to swing dance or enjoys the films of Harold Ramis. He seems, well, a bit of an athlete: uncomplicated (a synonym for "kinda crude") and direct. Hard to say...

His politics appear to be a bit of a mystery; he is a personal friend of perhaps the worst U.S. President since James Buchanan, George W. Bush, but is quoted as saying that he "disagrees" with the idiot son of George and Barbara.

I respect the man's strength and courage. But it's telling how small things affect how we feel about other people we don't really know; Armstrong lost the ability to touch me more deeply with his cutting treatment of his former fiancee'.

To publicly claim that he broke off the engagement because he "didn't want more children" only months ahead of his impregnation of his new squeeze?

Cruel, Lance. Very cruel.

Here's the thing, though.

Armstrong was publicly discussed as a political candidate back in 2005/2006. He himself talked about a possible run for governor of Texas (but scrapped these plans when - I suspect - it became obvious to LA that as GOP governor of Texas he would have to make decisions to please his party that would cut off a lot of his Livestrong donations). But he was considered by some, and still is in some places, as a viable political candidate.

On earth - why?

We don't really KNOW the man. What we do know - especially in light of his treatment of Sheryl Crow - suggests that he is, for all his virtues, also a ruthless egotist with a side of cruel.

(For those of you who don't recognize her, this is the FIRST Mrs. Armstrong, Kristin, whom he dumped for Sheryl Crow. Who may have been the first to get the real feeling for how ruthless the man can be when he wants something.)

But he's famous! How can he be ruthless, callous or mean? Don't we know him? Don't we LIKE him?

People have always been entertained, or even obsessed, by the rich and "well-born". The extravagance and public display of royalty and nobility constituted perhaps the only public benefit of monarchy prior to the electronic age. But it is since the arrival of the mass print media, newspapers, television and movies that real Celebrity Culture has launched. We are bombarded, saturated, with the doings of the rich, the highly places, or the merely "famous". In the Seventies Rula Lenska

was a sensation because she became well known for...being well known. She was a novelty, a curiousity, a freak. Today she would barely qualify as a footnote. Our public fascination for celebrities like Rula and Lance Armstrong has become almost inescapable.

So what?

Well, the "what" is that we have begun to - in the words of P.J. O'Rourke - "impute unlikely virtues to the cute." The damn cult of celebrity has left the entertainment page and the moviehouse to wander over into politics and the public square. Where once we elected generals (as if U.S. Grant hadn't warned us about the foolishness of THAT form of hero-worship...) we now elect actors. Ronald Reagan. Arnold Schwartzenegger.

Sonny Fucking Bono.

It seems like any idiot with an Equity card can get elected, at least as a Republican (tho with Al Franken we may have the Democratic equivalent). So why not Lance Armstrong? Despite the evidence of the man's professional sporting life as well as hints from his personal life that many of the attributes valuable in a public figure: thoughtfulness, self-criticism, empathy, humility (to go with the more common decisiveness, confidence and intelligence) are lacking or severely stunted in him, he certainly wouldn't be the worst well-known person we've ever elected to power here in the United States.

A democracy's deepest vulnerability is to demagoguery. Would be autocrats may attempt to conquer it, wealthy malefactors to purchase it, bureaucratic moguls to subvert it. But nothing can destroy a democracy so thoroughly and so permanently as the foolishness and greed of its people. "A democracy cannot exist as a permanent form of government. It can only exist until the majority discovers it can vote itself largess out of the public treasury." (interestingly, I have always thought that this quote is from de Toqueville - I see that it is not. Regardless, it is well put, and the longer version of the famous Dick Cheney statement: "Deficits don't matter".)

Add to foolishness and greed the public's willingness to promote to public office someone whose primary quality is that people have seen them on television in a uniform, or in costume. For any polity to choose its leaders based on how they look or what they do is often a mistake. For a democracy, where trust between leaders and led is so crucial, electing incompetent boobs because of their scripted sound bites sound good coming out of a familiar and pretty talking head...well...

In the early 400s BC Athens, then the leader of one faction fighting the Peloponnesian War, debated the next campaign against Sparta. One of the Athenian politicians was a very handsome and gifted young orator named Alcibiades.Of this man, Thucydides says: "Alcibiades, son of Clinias, who wished to thwart Nicias both as his political opponent and also because of the attack he had made upon him in his speech, and who was, besides, exceedingly ambitious of a command by which he hoped to reduce Sicily and Carthage, and personally to gain in wealth and reputation by means of his successes."

Alcibiades helped talk the Athenians into one of the most disastrous campaigns in military history - the Sicilian Expedition. His oratory, and the citizen's greed for power and loot, combined to begin the end of the great Greek democracy.I don't know if Lance the politician has the potential to be our Alcibiades. None of us does - in fact, we don't really know the man at all. The problem is that our celebrity-infatuation makes us feel like we do. So we keep electing our Lances. And Reagans. And Schwartzeneggers. And Sonny Fucking Bonos.

After all, they're celebrities. We hear about them and see them and know all about their lives. They're so strong, and so pretty, and it's like they're our friends because we know them so well.How could they possibly ever betray us..?

Random Thoughts, Sticks and Stones

Slow day at work today, so my mind has wandered a little amongst the CAD drawings.

Is it just me, or were the late 1940s through the early 1960s really terrific for the look of women's fashion. And yes, I understand about the tyranny of the patriarchy and the discomfort of foundation garments, pumps and crinolines. But the Dior "New Look" of 1947, or the trim look and clean lines of the women's dresses of the late Fifties and early Sixties are, to me, stunning.

It helped to be Audrey Hepburn, sure. But I've seen the pictures of women in the street scenes of the time and the styles were tremendously flattering on the average Jane, too. I like jeans for the comfot but, really, you've got to have one of those legendary walnut-cracking butts to make a pair of jeans look anything but baggy.

Just sayin'. And speaking of good-looking, I had to throw this in just because:

1. Ava Gardner was a gorgeous woman and a hell of an actress,

2. The Little Hut is a fun bit of silly fluff worth catching for watching her, David Niven and Stewart Granger at the top of their game, and

3. EVERYthing in the movies during the height of the Studio System was "designed" by someone. Ava's grass skirt here is "designed" by Christian Dior.

Ummm. Yeah.

What was the deal with navels, though? Look at where Ava's grass skirt is hiked up to - would YOU want your waistline up under your short ribs? I didn't think so. So I'm assuming that the point of that portion of the outfit is to hide Ava's tummy and that naughty navel.

Wierd what gets people - and censors - worked up...

Anyway, this was taken while out at a CO/CM job this week. I was watching the contractor's guy run the roller while perching on the T-handle of my footing probe. It's a quick way to get off your feet, sort of like one of those folding seat-stick things. Not stylish, but comfortable.I perch this way enough that I didn't think anything about it until my kid looked at the picture and asked: "Dad, why is that stick thing up your butt?"

Ummm...I...errr...I don't really have a stick up my butt...do I?

Yipe!

Monday, August 03, 2009

7:05 from Scarsdale

We had a hella busy weekend

But this is the only photographic evidence: Little Miss using her chauffeured ride back home from WinCo to browse through one of the lighter works of popular fiction.

She is growing up so fast - yes, yes, that's a vile cliche', I know - and that's the reason I enjoy this snapshot so much. Just for a moment you get a glimpse, perhaps, through a windshield darkly, of the young woman she might grow into, sitting on the bus downtown reading through Jane Eyre (I could hope...or perhaps a pornographic manga. Whatever, so long as she loves to read).

I have little hope to live to see her grown to her full adulthood - as my parents have me, looking back from their eighties at me in my fifties - so I treasure these little glimpses of the young woman my littler girl may become.

Saturday, August 01, 2009

Breathless

It's 3am, a close August night and I'm up because I ate too much spicy pizza and beer before bed.

The Peeper is sleeping on the couch, a huge treat for him that he covets, begs for and gets to do ever couple of weeks or so. He gorges on kidvid and juice and the random sugary treat and has a good time feeling grown up and daring. Good times.

Mojo is swaddled in our big sleigh bed, probably in a pink rayon chrysalis formed from our third-favorite sheets (very cool and sleek but impossible to keep from sliding off and that ted to pill up like sonsofbitches. She's had a long, hard week, and feels a little run-after, and run-down.

Maxine is crouched in her big girl bed having thrown all her covers OFF, as usual - the girl has something against blankets besides being one of Nature's most athletic sleepers. We're watching her carefully because she had a terrible nosebleed today; shocking the daycare staff and sending both of her parents careering across Portland to get to her. She's fine, her usual happy self, but her cleft makes these nosebleeds a potential health issue. We'll be watching her carefully over the weekend.

We're in the midst of a lawn-and-garden project in the northeast corner of the front yard that was put in time-out by the appalling heat of the past week but looks to be a go for the coming weekend. The dryer seems to have finally given up, so that's an expense we're going to have to make. I like to think of it as doing our little bit to help the people at Goldman Sachs get their...sorry, our...economy ck up and running again. Lucky fucking us.

My work is still dire. Slow isn't the word for it, it's practically stopped. Hopefully we'll see something start to pick up soon. Otherwise...brrr.

We're creeping towards Mojo's 43rd birthday this Labor Day, and our second Family Day with Maxine in September. My in-laws are coming for a week-long visit next Saturday. The heat, hopefully, will have abated by then. Big Peeper starts first grade in a month. He's had a trying summer, what with an increasingly cute and demanding sister all over him, and no school friends to help pass the time faster. Poor little guy is very weepy these days; yesterday he told me, in tears, that he'd "had a hard day", for all the world like a little burnt-out Mamet adman wearing a Transformers T-shirt.

Why am I meandering around all this stuff?

Because I'm treading water. Between work and family and friends and home and whatever my blogging has suffered. I note with some sour displeasure that my post count for July was 11. Eleven. Eleven fucking posts is probably the lowest monthly total since, hell, since probably some time in 2006.

I have some posts I'd like to write. I want to talk about the Boring Lavas, Portland's own urban volcanoes. This year's Tour de France got me thinking about our culture of celebrity and what it's doing to us and our worldview. And, of course, there's always fun, oddball stuff like chicken fried bacon...

But I just don't seem to have the time and, when I do there always seems to be something more pressing. Or inescapable. Or desirable,like playing with sweet, giggly little girls or exciting, imaginative little boys. Or winsomely, sweet, desirable wives.

So I'm going to try and make some time for us here. Because I value our little on-line community, and the only way for us to stay part of each other's lives is to keep meeting here.

But right now, I've gotta get some sleep.

G'night.

Tuesday, July 28, 2009

Too Darn Hot

At 104 the only people dressed appropriately for work today are the baristas at Sadie's Hot Spot, the sexpresso place up the road on McLoughlin.

It's just too damn hot to work. It's almost too hot to think. I feel like an old dog who just wants to lie in the shade and pant.

We have about two or three of these heat waves a summer. We all know they're going to happen, we all suffer and sweat and hate them every time they do. And yet, we always make a big deal out of them, like somehow they're a nasty surprise we didn't expect. Go figure.

Lisa asks if we don't cool down in the evening, and we usually do. But when these big summer high pressures build up they trap the heat and humidity and smog over the valley. This morning at 5:30 the air had that hot, breathless feeling that means it didn't really cool down overnight. And tomorrow is supposed to be worse.

Since I've posted the cheesecake, I should be fair and expose myself too. Here's how I had to go to work this morning (less the steel-toed boots, which were just too miserable to wear in past the door):And here's how I looked within about 10 seconds after getting back to the shop this afternoon:Now you see why I work in the soils engineering business.

I just don't have the legs to make it as a runway model.

Hard to believe, I know. But it's true.

Jesus wept, it's fucking hot.

Thursday, July 23, 2009

Safe abed, fucking-A right, and how about another go then, eh, Sally?

This is sort of...no, this is really fascinating.

That somewhere in England, now just a crabbed line in some cracked vellum muster roll written over 600 years ago, lived a man with my name and, perhaps, a bit of my face.Yep, "John Lawes" is my right name. And his. Our birthdays some 540 years apart.

Was this a great-great-great-great-etc.-grandfather? I'd sure like to think so.

And I note smugly, as an old soldier who knows that there are old soldiers and bold soldiers but few old, bold soldiers, that the crafty old bastard knew better than to enjoy an all-expense paid trip to France in 1399 to enjoy the 14th Century cooties, trench foot, bad food and irascible natives. I'll bet the shrewd old sod knew exactly where he wanted to be on Crispin Crispian's Day and that wasn't goddam rainy marching on some painful field with a happy fucking few.

Sod that for a game of soldiers.

Fascinating. (h/t to Robert Farley over at LG&M)

Wednesday, July 22, 2009

Canary, meet Coal Mine

Somewhat lost in the federal health care/war funding/global warming/wise Latina raree show was the sad little, noxious little budget deal worked out in California this Monday.It has to say something about who we Americans are and what we're becoming that the best idea that the Golden State's best and brightest (okay, we'll exempt Da Governator from that, but, still, We the People of California elected his Austrian ass) could come up with to "balance" the state budget was to rob their own counties and municipalites blind, to kick the poor and sick in the crotch, and to cut nonessentials like teachers, garbagemen, cops, paramedics and highway maintenence workers (in the state that practically invented Car Culture, no less...).

You can read all about it in the linked LA Times editorial, but even that supposedly liberal news organ seems to have developed collective amnesia about a couple of salient points.

1. The "we're broke, we just don't have any money, we HAVE to cut your food stamps (AFDC, Head Start, fill-in-the-blank...) or die, you silly Negroes..." meme goes all the way back to the toxic little property tax time-bomb the California GOP wired up in 1978, Proposition 13. We here in Oregon then devised our own little suicide pact, Measure 5, clearly on the conviction that if California was going to be Tom Fool and lead the best plan for us was to be Jack Fool and follow.

The direct result of this was to save Ma and Pa Goober a couple of hundred dollars a year on their rancho deluxe out there near McMinnville while giving Pacific Gas and Electric, Flav-R-Pac, and Megacorp Development an immense windfall of untaxable largesse, which, of course, they immediately rushed out to donate to the widows, orphans, disabled, and mentally ill that the now-tax-strapped state government had to chuck off the welfare rolls and out of the state institutions, colleges and job training programs they could no longer fund, so that the poor devils didn't have to beg for change at the top of the on-ramps of the roads the state could no longer maintain.

Not.

2. California compounded their own stupidity by then crafting a 2/3rds supermajority rule for passing legislative revenue measures, which has effectively prevented the state from passing any NEW revenue measures since 1996.

I love this little cartoon because of what it says about the mindset of the people who are fond of this situation. The cartoonist wants us to see that the Republican elephant is a simple but wise old soul, doing his math like a good householder and making his expenditures meet his income, and the Democratic donkey is a maddened policy wonk, all goofy for taxing everything moving to fund kooky-spooky crunchy granola frills.

But the cute little exercise fails when you realize that Jumbo's "a = b" is a logical fallacy. "a" isn't "a", it's "x", and "b" is "y". The animals in the legislature can - unlike the prudent household - change their income and outlays to meet their needs. So, in a sense, it's the donkey's frantic figuring that represents what a real government has to do: try and figure out what it needs versus what it wants, and then what it can take in versus what it would like to take in. The elephant isn't being simply honest; he's being simpleminded, he's using an axe to craft a budget rather than a woodcarving tool. Which explains a LOT about how Republican "governance" has gotten us here.

And so, here we are.

Imagine a nation in which a small handful of wealthy people live a First World lifestyle.

Their homes are nicely maintained, their roads well paved, their neighborhoods patrolled by polite, competent, professional police officers. They and their neighbors get First World medical care in daintily appointed medical clinics, shop at the best locations, dine, party, work and generally live as well as any human society in the 21st Century can arrange.

Then imagine that the bulk of the nation lives in precarious, decaying cities, towns and countrysides, prey to the collapsing, badly maintained public roads, buildings and utilities around them. Their lives are made more random by the capricious nature of their public "servants": seldom present and, when appearing, typically bribeable or even worse, merely indifferent. A fraying middle class lives squeezed between the wealthy, who despise them and the poor, who envy and hate them. Their political power is notional, their involvement in their own government negligible, they are useful only as fodder for the wealthy.

But you don't have to imagine this. All you have to do is travel south, east or west, to find dozens of impoverished Third World nations where this condition is the standard. Every craptacular little dictatorship or oligarchy the U.S. Army helped me vacation in, from Panama to Egypt and points between, featured this vast disparity between the rulers and the ruled. This wasn't a bug; it was a feature.Democracy cannot exist in a feudal society. It dies, or is killed, by the desperation, foolishness and ignorance of the peasants and the greed, venality and indifference of the nobles.

California has now chosen, rather than to even mildly discommode the wealthy, to disadvantage the disadvantaged. Rather than even attempt to close the gap between the rulers and the ruled, it chooses to allow the public weal to fall victim to private wealth.

There is a name for this sort of system.

But "republican", it's not.

Ever since the Elevation of Saint Ronnie, our public discourse has been dominated by the idea that "taxes are bad". In this sense, the conservatives that lost the Battle of Watergate won the larger war. They wanted to concentrate power in the nation's elite, and, largely, they have. They wanted to move the nation's laws - if they could not move the nation's people - to the right and, largely, they have.Well, California has reached the conservative state of grace; the state, and those in the care of the state, now exist to serve the needs of the wealthy. We shall see if the result is beneficial for the state and her people as a whole. We shall see.

(crossposted at MilPub)