I’ve been giving a lot of thought to the body. Not in a Golden Globe kind of way, though. As in how fabulous Jane Fonda looks or get a load of Angelina Jolie’s bone-thin arms; the supermarket tabs really do have it right, she must be starving herself, the camera cutaway to hubbie Brad, train-seal clapping at his waste-away woman.
No, the body as vessel. Something that you think you know, but is more than likely a stranger to you. It is most common to just go along doing the same things to our bodies and they, of course, do what comes naturally: adding a pound or two each year after twenty-five so that a 120-pound woman at a quarter-century is a normal-enough-looking 155-pound woman at a half-century. BMI (Body Mass Index not fab, but not obese either .¤.¤.)
Running for Your Life: Key West Beat
Back from Key West, the Conch Republic, where the captains who run the sunset sails thrill their predominantly Boomer fare with the knee-slapper, “Welcome to North Cuba!”, upon return in the darkness because for most of us land lubbers it’s more than a little disorienting out there, for an hour out of the sandbank and mangrove low-water keys, the Gulf Stream visible the night we see the sun sink into the horizon and the captain blows the conch so that his face glows purple in contrast to the blood-orange of the sunset, all aboard the AppleBone, as poet Billy Collins dubbed it, because it was a literary cruise, not like the Disney one, a floating theme park that moored near our oceanfront balcony, ESPN Sports Center on a giant screen topside blaring into the otherwise romantic night; shallow draught Caribbean port bruisers these beasts; how they get into the slips with water deep as elderly knickers is anybody’s guess, and a frightening thought that the town fathers have been considering allowing 10,000-passenger monsters into port (although the Italian cruise disaster may put an end to that . . .), which if that doesn’t kill whatever charm north to central Duval Street has left then I’m a monkey’s uncle, not to mention the safety of the cruise ships themselves, don’t begin to think that the capsizing of the Costa Concordia is an anomaly, the physics of these boats leaving no margin for error, turn away if you see the chalkboard math on the probability of it happening again, and especially in a place like Key West, where you do have to ask the question, “Well, how many people can drown in two feet of water?”
Running for Your Life: Quietude and Plenitude
My hero Bessie Doenges didn’t live long enough to witness the cultural sanctification of Steve Jobs, the wizard god of gadgets (See previous post, “Running for Your Life: Jobs, Revisited”). The sole misgiving of that fact being that she didn’t weigh in on Jobs’ contribution to the affairs of women. And, baby, when it came to weighing cultural contributions, Bessie delivered the goods.
Bessie Doenges penned Bessie Writes. Well, actually, no. Bessie typed on an ancient manual Olympia her 250-word Bessie Writes columns that she then mailed (with a stamp and envelope that she bought with her writer’s wages, $20 per column) to me, her editor at The Westsider and Chelsea Clinton News, two Manhattan-based weekly newspapers that I ran in the early to mid-1990s. Here’s a sample. Not a column, but a letter to me, typed on that Olympia. I keep it in a place of honor at my desk:
Dear Larry: 10/17/94
These true stories of mine are 400 words, not 200 which you seem to prefer. I got my guts in them. I don’t write easily. I hope you’ll give them space. In our Senior Center they will be on a bulletin board with my picture next week. I love you.
Bessie
P.S. I managed to get it on one page after all.
Bessie Doenges penned Bessie Writes. Well, actually, no. Bessie typed on an ancient manual Olympia her 250-word Bessie Writes columns that she then mailed (with a stamp and envelope that she bought with her writer’s wages, $20 per column) to me, her editor at The Westsider and Chelsea Clinton News, two Manhattan-based weekly newspapers that I ran in the early to mid-1990s. Here’s a sample. Not a column, but a letter to me, typed on that Olympia. I keep it in a place of honor at my desk:
Dear Larry: 10/17/94
These true stories of mine are 400 words, not 200 which you seem to prefer. I got my guts in them. I don’t write easily. I hope you’ll give them space. In our Senior Center they will be on a bulletin board with my picture next week. I love you.
Bessie
P.S. I managed to get it on one page after all.
Running for Your Life: Jobs, Revisited
In the clear light of 2012, let’s return to the Jobs Front. Steve Jobs, that is. Where even today, almost three months since he died on Oct. 5 (my birthday), he is making headlines. As in, the next big buzz-busting day in the Apple universe, rumored to be Feb. 24th (he would’ve been 57 that day), the firm (today at 2:15 p.m. [Jan. 3], the first trading day in 2012, up 1.4 percent, $410.76 a share) will launch its iPad 3.
Perhaps it’s time for sober rethinking about just what the tao of Jobs has wrought. There have been pockets of other voices. Consider, the London Review of Books, “Amazing or Shit,” a piece by Mattathias Schwartz on “Steve Jobs” by Walter Isaacson http://bit.ly/tkQcQE. In the sea of panegyrics, it is a welcome correction:
“A talented hustler, he (Jobs as a young man) marked up junked components and impersonated a manufacturer over the phone to get free parts.”
“He tried to deny paternity of the daughter he fathered at the age of 23, and was careful to settle with her mother before Apple’s IPO.”
And in conclusion, drawing upon a comparison between Apple products and Zen gardens: “In 2020, making a video call on an iPad will feel about as sublime as booting up an Apple II does now, while a walk through the gardens of Kyoto will feel much as it did in 1920, 1820 and 1720. Jobs’s achievement was to make ephemeral machines and make them seem permanent.”
Not to mention, addictive – as the following post-holiday gift link from BuzzFeed makes abundantly (and distressingly obnoxiously) clear: http://bit.ly/vdX2w4
Perhaps it’s time for sober rethinking about just what the tao of Jobs has wrought. There have been pockets of other voices. Consider, the London Review of Books, “Amazing or Shit,” a piece by Mattathias Schwartz on “Steve Jobs” by Walter Isaacson http://bit.ly/tkQcQE. In the sea of panegyrics, it is a welcome correction:
“A talented hustler, he (Jobs as a young man) marked up junked components and impersonated a manufacturer over the phone to get free parts.”
“He tried to deny paternity of the daughter he fathered at the age of 23, and was careful to settle with her mother before Apple’s IPO.”
And in conclusion, drawing upon a comparison between Apple products and Zen gardens: “In 2020, making a video call on an iPad will feel about as sublime as booting up an Apple II does now, while a walk through the gardens of Kyoto will feel much as it did in 1920, 1820 and 1720. Jobs’s achievement was to make ephemeral machines and make them seem permanent.”
Not to mention, addictive – as the following post-holiday gift link from BuzzFeed makes abundantly (and distressingly obnoxiously) clear: http://bit.ly/vdX2w4
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