High heels are rarely seen on the streets of Manhattan nowadays. Everybody is wearing flats. They may be designer flats, but flats they are.
Paranoid to the last, I see this one more reason to distrust the bull market that began in March.
When I spot a woman teetering along on Sex in the City-era artifacts, it just looks so wrong.
Color, another sign of the times, indicates a certain schizophrenic analysis of the economy that gibes with my own sense of the market. The clothing in the boutiques along Madison Avenue is generally black, but there are violent bursts of color. I saw a purple overcoat in the men's section of Saks today, and the shock brought me back to the endless fakeouts of the last six months.
Who would wear such a coat? Someone who had just squeezed the last short out of his position, of course.
Saturday, September 12, 2009
Horrid Phrase of the Day
Any doubts I ever had as to the fundamentally evil character of Human Resources departments were erased today in a lunch conversation with an old friend, an executive at a certain large corporation. My friend manages a group of employees.
"My boss told me to Manage Them Out," my friend said.
"What does that mean?"
"Get rid of them."
My friend's boss had rejected performance evaluations of these employees and asked my friend to write more negative ones that would lay the groundwork their eventual firing.
I've seen this process at work in more than one corporation, and it's sickening. An employee receives great performance evaluations and raises over a period of years, a new boss comes in and wants to make a mark, and the once-respected employee suddenly finds himself on the "to-go" list.
The worst part of the process is that nobody ever tells the employee of the writing on the wall.
"Managing them out" is part of the general cynicism and soullessness embodied in the phrase "Human Resources." There are material resources, information resources ... and human resources. The phrase puts people on the same level as property and in fact reflects an estimation of employees as slaves, human property.
It takes a certain sort of egotist to be part of such an evil structure.
"My boss told me to Manage Them Out," my friend said.
"What does that mean?"
"Get rid of them."
My friend's boss had rejected performance evaluations of these employees and asked my friend to write more negative ones that would lay the groundwork their eventual firing.
I've seen this process at work in more than one corporation, and it's sickening. An employee receives great performance evaluations and raises over a period of years, a new boss comes in and wants to make a mark, and the once-respected employee suddenly finds himself on the "to-go" list.
The worst part of the process is that nobody ever tells the employee of the writing on the wall.
"Managing them out" is part of the general cynicism and soullessness embodied in the phrase "Human Resources." There are material resources, information resources ... and human resources. The phrase puts people on the same level as property and in fact reflects an estimation of employees as slaves, human property.
It takes a certain sort of egotist to be part of such an evil structure.
Sunday, September 6, 2009
Great Little Books
Great writing isn't measured by length. Brevity is a virtue. Don't use nine words when one will do.
That's not the message kids receive in school. (Are college term papers still graded by weight?)
Most long essays and books are blowhards at the dinner table. Few are worth the effort. Victor Hugo and Rabelais make the cut. Thomas Pynchon does, too, as I discovered when a copy of the 784-page "Gravity's Rainbow" turned up in the back seat during the long desert crossing from Colorado home to California one summer. The New Mexico sky was a perfect backdrop to the tale of Hilter's secret rocketry program.
When a master does decide to run long, he has his reasons. Forced to choose, I would take Bach's B minor mass over the Inventions, Beethoven's Eroica over the Bagatelles.
Even then, length doesn't necessarily equate with depth. Les Cing Doigts, Stravinsky's collection of eight very, very short pieces for piano, is for me among the most haunting works in all of music. I'd take those over The Rite of Spring.
Because I admire them so, I have a special place on my shelf for great little books. Here are five:
Tom Wolfe, From Bauhaus to Our House. The great author of Bonfire of the Vanities explains why all those boxy buildings went up, and why we rightfully hate them. 111 pages.
Albert Jay Nock, Our Enemy, the State. The primary intention of the state, Nock writes, is "to enable the economic exploitation of one class by another." Published in 1935 book, Our Enemy distills the argument for political liberality even better than Hayek's The Road to Serfdom, itself a great and highly influential little work. 109 pages.
Igor Stravinsky, The Poetics of Music. Delivered as a series of lectures in Harvard in 1939-40 by the giant of 20th-century music. 160 pages.
Genevieve Antoine Dariaux, A Guide to Elegance: For Every Woman Who Wants to be Well and Properly Dressed on All Occasions. An entrepreneurial Frenchwoman who became directress of the Nina Ricci salons, Mme. Dariaux's 1964 A-Z of fashion is a little dated, but still is worth more than all the back issues of Vogue and Bazaar together. 222 pages.
Thomas Pynchon, The Crying of Lot 49. I skimmed this 1965 Pynchon bagatelle after reading "Gravity's Rainbow" many years ago, and had forgotten it so completely that I couldn't remember what the title signified. I revisited it this summer after the having my socks blown off by Pynchon's newest, Inherent Vice, a masterpiece in Los Angeles noir style set at the peak of hippie optimism. I'm listening now to the Audiobooks version of Against the Day, a 1,085-pager. Lot 49 is 152 pages.
Bonus: The best short story I read this year was "Broadway Financier," part of the "Guys and Dolls and Other Writings" collection of Damon Runyon. I'll bet the insights of the chorus girl Silk outdo 90 percent of the counsel available at any high-net-worth investment house or private bank.
That's not the message kids receive in school. (Are college term papers still graded by weight?)
Most long essays and books are blowhards at the dinner table. Few are worth the effort. Victor Hugo and Rabelais make the cut. Thomas Pynchon does, too, as I discovered when a copy of the 784-page "Gravity's Rainbow" turned up in the back seat during the long desert crossing from Colorado home to California one summer. The New Mexico sky was a perfect backdrop to the tale of Hilter's secret rocketry program.
When a master does decide to run long, he has his reasons. Forced to choose, I would take Bach's B minor mass over the Inventions, Beethoven's Eroica over the Bagatelles.
Even then, length doesn't necessarily equate with depth. Les Cing Doigts, Stravinsky's collection of eight very, very short pieces for piano, is for me among the most haunting works in all of music. I'd take those over The Rite of Spring.
Because I admire them so, I have a special place on my shelf for great little books. Here are five:
Tom Wolfe, From Bauhaus to Our House. The great author of Bonfire of the Vanities explains why all those boxy buildings went up, and why we rightfully hate them. 111 pages.
Albert Jay Nock, Our Enemy, the State. The primary intention of the state, Nock writes, is "to enable the economic exploitation of one class by another." Published in 1935 book, Our Enemy distills the argument for political liberality even better than Hayek's The Road to Serfdom, itself a great and highly influential little work. 109 pages.
Igor Stravinsky, The Poetics of Music. Delivered as a series of lectures in Harvard in 1939-40 by the giant of 20th-century music. 160 pages.
Genevieve Antoine Dariaux, A Guide to Elegance: For Every Woman Who Wants to be Well and Properly Dressed on All Occasions. An entrepreneurial Frenchwoman who became directress of the Nina Ricci salons, Mme. Dariaux's 1964 A-Z of fashion is a little dated, but still is worth more than all the back issues of Vogue and Bazaar together. 222 pages.
Thomas Pynchon, The Crying of Lot 49. I skimmed this 1965 Pynchon bagatelle after reading "Gravity's Rainbow" many years ago, and had forgotten it so completely that I couldn't remember what the title signified. I revisited it this summer after the having my socks blown off by Pynchon's newest, Inherent Vice, a masterpiece in Los Angeles noir style set at the peak of hippie optimism. I'm listening now to the Audiobooks version of Against the Day, a 1,085-pager. Lot 49 is 152 pages.
Bonus: The best short story I read this year was "Broadway Financier," part of the "Guys and Dolls and Other Writings" collection of Damon Runyon. I'll bet the insights of the chorus girl Silk outdo 90 percent of the counsel available at any high-net-worth investment house or private bank.
Hula Hoop
On a long ship journey, I wandered up to the top deck to read one night and found a fellow passenger serenely whirling a hula hoop. She went on for half an hour, then pulled her hoop into pieces and put them in a bag.
"This is my exercise," she explained.
She had a great figure and was a happy character. I was fascinated, and when I returned home I decided to take up hooping.
I tried the hoops sold at kids' stores, and was embarrassed to fail. Finally I went online to find one like the one my travelling companion had.
I found one at http://www.sports-hoop.com/ and it's great. These adult hoops are heavier then kid hoops, so if you've been having trouble, you can stop worrying about incipient decay.
It's easy to put together. Just lock each section with a little twist. You'll need to find a good bit of space to do your hula, because it swings a wide swathe.
"This is my exercise," she explained.
She had a great figure and was a happy character. I was fascinated, and when I returned home I decided to take up hooping.
I tried the hoops sold at kids' stores, and was embarrassed to fail. Finally I went online to find one like the one my travelling companion had.
I found one at http://www.sports-hoop.com/ and it's great. These adult hoops are heavier then kid hoops, so if you've been having trouble, you can stop worrying about incipient decay.
It's easy to put together. Just lock each section with a little twist. You'll need to find a good bit of space to do your hula, because it swings a wide swathe.
Horrid Word of the Day
Certain words dear to the modern culture are worthy of a cringe. "Unit" in place of a describe noun. Consumer" to describe a person.
The Horrid Word of the Day is "Concession," for the high-bidding or highly connected businesses allowed to mar the pristine nature of government-operated enterprises like airports and state parks.
What is a concession a concession to?
People. The human desire to rest and enjoy a bite to eat in charming surroundings.
In trying to give each according to his need, the bureaucrats went beyond their ability.
The Horrid Word of the Day is "Concession," for the high-bidding or highly connected businesses allowed to mar the pristine nature of government-operated enterprises like airports and state parks.
What is a concession a concession to?
People. The human desire to rest and enjoy a bite to eat in charming surroundings.
In trying to give each according to his need, the bureaucrats went beyond their ability.
A Californian Takes on New York City's Beaches
Of course there are beaches in New York City, people tell me. Why, there's Jones Beach. That's very nice, and not too far away. And then there are the beach clubs in Brooklyn where you rent a place in the sun, a locker, even a cabana if you like. And Coney Island is accessible to subway.
Reality check: Jones and Brooklyn are really, really far away to those with no car and limited time. It took me 14 years of Manhattan living to make it over to Jones Beach (more on that later). Getting to the Brooklyn beach clubs involved a harrowing ride through a scary urban area with an Arab-speaking driver who subscribed one of the more extreme forms of religious contempt for women. And Coney Island, whatever its past glories, is, let's be frank, in a ghetto.
But I miss the beach. I spent most of my life in California in places where I could walk to the beach. The beach provided fresh air, exercise, tranquility, a place to chat with the neighbors, a safe haven for even the youngest kids. Why do kids love throwing sand? Because it's so nice to feel it go through your fingers, and it's so much fun to watch it fly.
The beach was a place for watching clouds, making sandcastles, swimming, surfing, having picnics with the family, experiencing the thrill of a nighttime swim, feeling the deep contentment of letting the sun warm your back, gazing at sunsets and stars, rolling your feet in the sand, running along the shore, learning to see the beauty of the natural world in the way light reflects in and on the water. It was a place to observe currents and tides and tidepools and the animals that live there. It was a place to smell smells and listen to the waves and gulls, and watch the endless subtleties of light, and observe the passing of the day, and dig for sandcrabs and see how sand collapses if you make a pyramid of it.
I hear the Hawaiians have 52 words for wave. I can think of thousands of applications of the idea of waves in science, music, art, life, markets. And what better way to learn about waves than by touching them, feeling them move, letting them propel you, watching them come and go, being tossed around by them?
To summarize, the beach is scientific laboratory, mathematical classroom, natural philosophy instructor, a soother of the spirit, a gatherer of friends, a creator of community, a sanctuary from the electronic world.
Yeah, the beach means a lot to me. Always will.
"New York" magazine ran an article on nearby beaches this summer, so, I decided to give the beach thing another chance.
The likeliest prospect was a little island off Greenwich in Connecticut, recently opened to the public. All that was needed was a $5 ferry pass from one of two civic centers. A phone call revealed a little catch in the democratization process: The civic center open on weekends happened to be quite a good distance from both train and ferry. A Saturday on the beach would involve either a lot of taxi time or a preliminary visit to Greenwich.
This was sounding like an Arctic expedition.
Choice No. 2 was Manhattan Beach, a small public beach described as quiet, clean and kid-friendly by "New York." It was supposedly accessible by subway (ha ha, let's try that walk down the subway stairs with a sleeping 3-year-old, a stroller and two bags loaded with changes of clothing, diapers, sand toys, drinks and snacks.)
The ride over to Manhattan Beach was fine -- just about 35 minutes. We picked a spot. I picked up some trash around it and put it in the can. We settled in, played in the sand. and I souched over to the water to test the temperature. How very interesting. The water was glistening with thousands of mica-like particles that caught the sun. Could that be heavy metal? I noticed an Asian teen digging a deep hole near the shore. The sand she was scooping up was dark and sludgy.
Well, I grew up wiping beach tar off my feet with turpentine. I could survive a little Brooklyn sludge.
Then I noticed a surprising amount of trash along the shore. Plastic bags. Yecchhh, a latex glove. As I stepped out into the shallow water, I saw more plastic bags floating.
I returned to the sand and watched a lady wade into the water. She picked up some of the plastic bags and brought them to the trash.
I backed into the water again, keeping an eagle eye on my 3-year-old, and emulated her fine example by picking up more bags to take back to shore. My father got up at six every morning to take the dogs for a walk on the beach. He would pick up trash as he went along. Part of a philosophy he had of leaving things better than he found them.
After awhile, time the good citizen lady and I had pretty well cleaned up the water. I noticed that most of the trash was by the rock jetty. The water was shallow and calm, perfect for a child, so I figured I'd take my little guy in a ways down.
When my boy realized that he could play in this particularly ocean water without getting in over his head or being pounded by a wave, he began to sing and wave his arms and generally explode with joy. What a beach is all about.
The next day, I gave Jones Beach a try. It was the last weekend of summer, and I had sorely missed the water.
The drive took an hour and a half, not the estimated 45 minutes. Again, there's a nice shallow area for kids to play in. an attendant keeps the restrooms clean . But Jones Beach looks like the big state beach it is. Next to the California beauties of Corona del Mar, Laguna, Hermosa, Carmel, it's just deadly grim.
What I need is for the old days to come back, when the guy sent his family to the seashore for the summer and stayed in the city to work. Hey, we'll miss ya, honey.
Reality check: Jones and Brooklyn are really, really far away to those with no car and limited time. It took me 14 years of Manhattan living to make it over to Jones Beach (more on that later). Getting to the Brooklyn beach clubs involved a harrowing ride through a scary urban area with an Arab-speaking driver who subscribed one of the more extreme forms of religious contempt for women. And Coney Island, whatever its past glories, is, let's be frank, in a ghetto.
But I miss the beach. I spent most of my life in California in places where I could walk to the beach. The beach provided fresh air, exercise, tranquility, a place to chat with the neighbors, a safe haven for even the youngest kids. Why do kids love throwing sand? Because it's so nice to feel it go through your fingers, and it's so much fun to watch it fly.
The beach was a place for watching clouds, making sandcastles, swimming, surfing, having picnics with the family, experiencing the thrill of a nighttime swim, feeling the deep contentment of letting the sun warm your back, gazing at sunsets and stars, rolling your feet in the sand, running along the shore, learning to see the beauty of the natural world in the way light reflects in and on the water. It was a place to observe currents and tides and tidepools and the animals that live there. It was a place to smell smells and listen to the waves and gulls, and watch the endless subtleties of light, and observe the passing of the day, and dig for sandcrabs and see how sand collapses if you make a pyramid of it.
I hear the Hawaiians have 52 words for wave. I can think of thousands of applications of the idea of waves in science, music, art, life, markets. And what better way to learn about waves than by touching them, feeling them move, letting them propel you, watching them come and go, being tossed around by them?
To summarize, the beach is scientific laboratory, mathematical classroom, natural philosophy instructor, a soother of the spirit, a gatherer of friends, a creator of community, a sanctuary from the electronic world.
Yeah, the beach means a lot to me. Always will.
"New York" magazine ran an article on nearby beaches this summer, so, I decided to give the beach thing another chance.
The likeliest prospect was a little island off Greenwich in Connecticut, recently opened to the public. All that was needed was a $5 ferry pass from one of two civic centers. A phone call revealed a little catch in the democratization process: The civic center open on weekends happened to be quite a good distance from both train and ferry. A Saturday on the beach would involve either a lot of taxi time or a preliminary visit to Greenwich.
This was sounding like an Arctic expedition.
Choice No. 2 was Manhattan Beach, a small public beach described as quiet, clean and kid-friendly by "New York." It was supposedly accessible by subway (ha ha, let's try that walk down the subway stairs with a sleeping 3-year-old, a stroller and two bags loaded with changes of clothing, diapers, sand toys, drinks and snacks.)
The ride over to Manhattan Beach was fine -- just about 35 minutes. We picked a spot. I picked up some trash around it and put it in the can. We settled in, played in the sand. and I souched over to the water to test the temperature. How very interesting. The water was glistening with thousands of mica-like particles that caught the sun. Could that be heavy metal? I noticed an Asian teen digging a deep hole near the shore. The sand she was scooping up was dark and sludgy.
Well, I grew up wiping beach tar off my feet with turpentine. I could survive a little Brooklyn sludge.
Then I noticed a surprising amount of trash along the shore. Plastic bags. Yecchhh, a latex glove. As I stepped out into the shallow water, I saw more plastic bags floating.
I returned to the sand and watched a lady wade into the water. She picked up some of the plastic bags and brought them to the trash.
I backed into the water again, keeping an eagle eye on my 3-year-old, and emulated her fine example by picking up more bags to take back to shore. My father got up at six every morning to take the dogs for a walk on the beach. He would pick up trash as he went along. Part of a philosophy he had of leaving things better than he found them.
After awhile, time the good citizen lady and I had pretty well cleaned up the water. I noticed that most of the trash was by the rock jetty. The water was shallow and calm, perfect for a child, so I figured I'd take my little guy in a ways down.
When my boy realized that he could play in this particularly ocean water without getting in over his head or being pounded by a wave, he began to sing and wave his arms and generally explode with joy. What a beach is all about.
The next day, I gave Jones Beach a try. It was the last weekend of summer, and I had sorely missed the water.
The drive took an hour and a half, not the estimated 45 minutes. Again, there's a nice shallow area for kids to play in. an attendant keeps the restrooms clean . But Jones Beach looks like the big state beach it is. Next to the California beauties of Corona del Mar, Laguna, Hermosa, Carmel, it's just deadly grim.
What I need is for the old days to come back, when the guy sent his family to the seashore for the summer and stayed in the city to work. Hey, we'll miss ya, honey.
Saturday, September 5, 2009
Selling the Family Jewels
To sell the family silver and jewels always sounds like the ultimate fallback when the economy is vanishing, the income stream dries up and the beggar on the street sends chills up the spine.
The question that never gets asked when the beloved buys baubles is, "Can I dump these at more that a fraction of the price if he dumps me, and if so, where?"
I've learned a little about the process lately, and thought I'd pass a few cautions along.
You might think the jeweler where you got them in the first place would be a reasonable place to start. Uh-uh. Chances are, they won't touch that. They have a near-religious taboo against having the same piece reappear in their display cases.
If you bought from a big-name bling house, they might take it on consignment on a no-fee basis, but at a shockingly lower price than sticker. That $180,000 piece might net you $8,000, if it ever sells.
Your friendly retailer might suggest a buyer in the Gold District. This very knowledgeable fellow will get out his magnifying loop. He will look over your treasures. He will ask you what price you had in mind for the lot. You will name a price you think ridiculously accommodative, given what was paid, what it was appraised for, what similar pieces sell for now.
He'll shake his head and protest that he can't possibly insult you by quoting you the price he would actually pay. You will press him. He will name a price, and you will feel your knees grow weak.
Unless your bling bears a really fancy name -- Tiffany, Buccellati -- chances are high that the buyer will actually turn down your treasures. "Far East stuff," he might say, pointing at a sapphire bracelet for which your formerly beloved paid a sum equivalent to a year's salary for the average doorman. "Lots of carbon," he will shrug at your diamond necklace.
A seller determined to press on should get a couple of quotes. There is nothing, after all, like competition.
If selling through a reputable auction house seems like a better option (excuse me while I pick myself up from whence I fell on the floor after writing "reputable"), think twice. Or, better, stop thinking about it. If your stuff doesn't sell, you'll still be liable for, oh, insurance, advertising in the glossy brochure, storage, transport, reserves -- on and on and on, and not only will you have not recouped any of your investment, you'll have lost money. Unless, of course, you're a celebrity, in which case your trash is cash.
The question that never gets asked when the beloved buys baubles is, "Can I dump these at more that a fraction of the price if he dumps me, and if so, where?"
I've learned a little about the process lately, and thought I'd pass a few cautions along.
You might think the jeweler where you got them in the first place would be a reasonable place to start. Uh-uh. Chances are, they won't touch that. They have a near-religious taboo against having the same piece reappear in their display cases.
If you bought from a big-name bling house, they might take it on consignment on a no-fee basis, but at a shockingly lower price than sticker. That $180,000 piece might net you $8,000, if it ever sells.
Your friendly retailer might suggest a buyer in the Gold District. This very knowledgeable fellow will get out his magnifying loop. He will look over your treasures. He will ask you what price you had in mind for the lot. You will name a price you think ridiculously accommodative, given what was paid, what it was appraised for, what similar pieces sell for now.
He'll shake his head and protest that he can't possibly insult you by quoting you the price he would actually pay. You will press him. He will name a price, and you will feel your knees grow weak.
Unless your bling bears a really fancy name -- Tiffany, Buccellati -- chances are high that the buyer will actually turn down your treasures. "Far East stuff," he might say, pointing at a sapphire bracelet for which your formerly beloved paid a sum equivalent to a year's salary for the average doorman. "Lots of carbon," he will shrug at your diamond necklace.
A seller determined to press on should get a couple of quotes. There is nothing, after all, like competition.
If selling through a reputable auction house seems like a better option (excuse me while I pick myself up from whence I fell on the floor after writing "reputable"), think twice. Or, better, stop thinking about it. If your stuff doesn't sell, you'll still be liable for, oh, insurance, advertising in the glossy brochure, storage, transport, reserves -- on and on and on, and not only will you have not recouped any of your investment, you'll have lost money. Unless, of course, you're a celebrity, in which case your trash is cash.
La Befana: The Italians Have It Right
In our Western world, old ladies are the most unequal of all.
Things are better than in the 1900s, when physicians defined middle age for woman as a disease to be treated with (oops, cancer-causing) estrogen and psychologists viewed it as psychosis.
But as even science provides more accurate ideas about old ladies, science is presenting old ladies with the same troubling old question, more insistent than ever. If the genes rule everything, why do we need old ladies? Old men, fine. They find a young girl and can father a child. But old ladies?
Evolutionarily speaking, is an old lady like a castrato, without the saving grace of the operatic voice?
The question goes beyond the usefulness (or uselessness) of old ladies.
Is anything not directly involved in physically passing on genes and ensuring their survival until the next round of reproduction of any use, evolutionarily speaking?
At heart, this is the basic post-religion question. It arose 150 years ago when Charles Darwin published "The Origin of Species," and people are struggling with it. That's why the religionists fight so hard against teaching children about the amazingly broad revolution in scientific thought going on day by day.
Sometimes I put The Question to myself this way: "Do people have souls? If they don't, what does Bach's B Minor Mass signify? Why does it move me so much? Why is it regarded as one of the greatest masterpieces of all time? How did Bach know I would love it? He is supposed to have written his music for the glory of God, so was he really writing for nothing?"
And sometimes, I put it this way: "Is there any scientific basis for what we think of as "good" character? What does being "good" mean? Is it to be selfish, as Ayn Rand insists? Does it mean to switch men at will like Dagny Taggert does in "Atlas Shrugged?"
Thomas Pynchon asked The Question at the end of "The Cyring of Lot 49," which is on my list of Great Short Books (more on that in a later post). Is there, as he puts it, "some fraction of the truth's numinous beauty" in songs, "or only a power spectrum?"
Daniel C. Dennett promises to answer The Question in a book I'm reading: "Darwin's Dangerous Idea: Evolution and the Meanings of Life." The book begins with a children's song:
Tell me why the stars do shine.
Tell me why the ivy twines.
Tell me why the sky is blue.
Then I will tell you just why I love you.
Because God made the stars to shine.
Because God made the ivy twine.
Because God made the sky so blue.
Because God made you, that's why I love you.
"And then along comes Darwin," Dennett writes, "and spoils the picnic. Or does he?"
I'm willing to read 521 pages of small print to find out, and I'll post my conclusions.
Meanwhile, I'll observe that the Italians, who know so much more than the rest of us about food, hospitality, constructing a language that can be spelled by non-specialists, dolce far niente and so much else, have figured out the old-lady problem. Instead of viewing old ladies as evil, petty, obstinate, burdensome, tiresome witches, they have a special place in their popular culture for a figure called "La Befana," who comes at the conclusion of the Christmas celebrations on Jan. 6. That date marks the 12th day of Christmas, and depending on where you live, it's called Epiphany or the Feast of the Three Wise Men.
La Befana brings gifts, and she's so well loved in Italy that she has her own celebration. The lady holds a broomstick, but that's because she likes to clean house.
She is also wrinkled and clearly aged. But she smiles. That is a world away from both from the sinister witch-woman and the even more nightmarish old ladies who try to pretend they are still young in dress and demeanor. I will never forget a grotesque sight I once witnessed in a beautiful Caribbean setting. A lady and her gentleman friend -- I somehow cannot believe he was her husband -- were together in a rowboat. She must have been in her seventies, but she wore a pink-and-white bikini. She was not fat, but her poor skin was not favored by being so exposed. She simpered at her elderly swain, who gazed back at her adoringly. I know when the eyes lie, and the expressions on this pair were so far out of line they gave me the shivers.
The wonderful book "Elegance," a must-read for women of all ages, counsels woman above 40 against showing their knees in public. Let's not even talk about the midriff.
Greek and Roman myths have the wonderful habit of evolving into multiple stories. I doubt that this process follows an algorithm so commandingly elegant as that of natural selection, but it's charming and useful nonetheless. I especially like the version in which La Befana had a son who died, went slightly out of her head, heard about the infant Jesus and, convinced he was her son, brought him gifts to make him happy. Jesus, bless him, was delighted and in return made her the mother of all the children in Italy.
I don't know what I'm going to learn from Dennett, but I think everything I need to know I learned in that lovely story about La Befana.
But I'm in question mode these days, because my 3-year-old has started asking "Why?"
Things are better than in the 1900s, when physicians defined middle age for woman as a disease to be treated with (oops, cancer-causing) estrogen and psychologists viewed it as psychosis.
But as even science provides more accurate ideas about old ladies, science is presenting old ladies with the same troubling old question, more insistent than ever. If the genes rule everything, why do we need old ladies? Old men, fine. They find a young girl and can father a child. But old ladies?
Evolutionarily speaking, is an old lady like a castrato, without the saving grace of the operatic voice?
The question goes beyond the usefulness (or uselessness) of old ladies.
Is anything not directly involved in physically passing on genes and ensuring their survival until the next round of reproduction of any use, evolutionarily speaking?
At heart, this is the basic post-religion question. It arose 150 years ago when Charles Darwin published "The Origin of Species," and people are struggling with it. That's why the religionists fight so hard against teaching children about the amazingly broad revolution in scientific thought going on day by day.
Sometimes I put The Question to myself this way: "Do people have souls? If they don't, what does Bach's B Minor Mass signify? Why does it move me so much? Why is it regarded as one of the greatest masterpieces of all time? How did Bach know I would love it? He is supposed to have written his music for the glory of God, so was he really writing for nothing?"
And sometimes, I put it this way: "Is there any scientific basis for what we think of as "good" character? What does being "good" mean? Is it to be selfish, as Ayn Rand insists? Does it mean to switch men at will like Dagny Taggert does in "Atlas Shrugged?"
Thomas Pynchon asked The Question at the end of "The Cyring of Lot 49," which is on my list of Great Short Books (more on that in a later post). Is there, as he puts it, "some fraction of the truth's numinous beauty" in songs, "or only a power spectrum?"
Daniel C. Dennett promises to answer The Question in a book I'm reading: "Darwin's Dangerous Idea: Evolution and the Meanings of Life." The book begins with a children's song:
Tell me why the stars do shine.
Tell me why the ivy twines.
Tell me why the sky is blue.
Then I will tell you just why I love you.
Because God made the stars to shine.
Because God made the ivy twine.
Because God made the sky so blue.
Because God made you, that's why I love you.
"And then along comes Darwin," Dennett writes, "and spoils the picnic. Or does he?"
I'm willing to read 521 pages of small print to find out, and I'll post my conclusions.
Meanwhile, I'll observe that the Italians, who know so much more than the rest of us about food, hospitality, constructing a language that can be spelled by non-specialists, dolce far niente and so much else, have figured out the old-lady problem. Instead of viewing old ladies as evil, petty, obstinate, burdensome, tiresome witches, they have a special place in their popular culture for a figure called "La Befana," who comes at the conclusion of the Christmas celebrations on Jan. 6. That date marks the 12th day of Christmas, and depending on where you live, it's called Epiphany or the Feast of the Three Wise Men.
La Befana brings gifts, and she's so well loved in Italy that she has her own celebration. The lady holds a broomstick, but that's because she likes to clean house.
She is also wrinkled and clearly aged. But she smiles. That is a world away from both from the sinister witch-woman and the even more nightmarish old ladies who try to pretend they are still young in dress and demeanor. I will never forget a grotesque sight I once witnessed in a beautiful Caribbean setting. A lady and her gentleman friend -- I somehow cannot believe he was her husband -- were together in a rowboat. She must have been in her seventies, but she wore a pink-and-white bikini. She was not fat, but her poor skin was not favored by being so exposed. She simpered at her elderly swain, who gazed back at her adoringly. I know when the eyes lie, and the expressions on this pair were so far out of line they gave me the shivers.
The wonderful book "Elegance," a must-read for women of all ages, counsels woman above 40 against showing their knees in public. Let's not even talk about the midriff.
Greek and Roman myths have the wonderful habit of evolving into multiple stories. I doubt that this process follows an algorithm so commandingly elegant as that of natural selection, but it's charming and useful nonetheless. I especially like the version in which La Befana had a son who died, went slightly out of her head, heard about the infant Jesus and, convinced he was her son, brought him gifts to make him happy. Jesus, bless him, was delighted and in return made her the mother of all the children in Italy.
I don't know what I'm going to learn from Dennett, but I think everything I need to know I learned in that lovely story about La Befana.
But I'm in question mode these days, because my 3-year-old has started asking "Why?"
I haven't been able to sleep between the hours of 3 a.m. to 5 a.m. for the last month. I fall asleep at 11 p.m., something wakes me around 3 a.m., and I start scrambling around for a position that will send me back to dreams or oblivion. Around dawn, merciful sleep comes.
Last night brought the same wakefulness, but there was a difference: ideas flooded into my head. I fought the idea of getting up to execute them, because I don't want to flip my clock. The ideas kept coming. Finally I struggled out of bed, found a legal pad and began recording them so as to remember them the next day. When I was done, I had written down ten. I went back to bed, got up again to note two more I had forgotten, and finally fell asleep as usual at dawn.
I don't believe in taking drugs to sleep, wake, perk up, even out, have fun or any other purpose related to altering the brain's function. Much as I longed for sleep last night, I wouldn't have taken a sleeping pill even had one been in the house. Maybe I should accept my new "hours" and report for work.
Last night brought the same wakefulness, but there was a difference: ideas flooded into my head. I fought the idea of getting up to execute them, because I don't want to flip my clock. The ideas kept coming. Finally I struggled out of bed, found a legal pad and began recording them so as to remember them the next day. When I was done, I had written down ten. I went back to bed, got up again to note two more I had forgotten, and finally fell asleep as usual at dawn.
I don't believe in taking drugs to sleep, wake, perk up, even out, have fun or any other purpose related to altering the brain's function. Much as I longed for sleep last night, I wouldn't have taken a sleeping pill even had one been in the house. Maybe I should accept my new "hours" and report for work.
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