Aloha! Now my wife and I can say we have been to Hawaii. We spent Thanksgiving and several more days with friends on the Big Island.
We flew Hawaiian Airlines, and in the waiting lounge at the San Diego airport, every announcement from the desk ended with "Mahalo." Ending every routine message with this word gave it special meaning, an urgency, in my mind. I decided it meant, "Don't crash." I liked that and adopted it into other contexts. The waiter said, "Mahalo," it meant, "Don't choke." The checkout clerk said "Mahalo," it meant, "Don't drop your groceries."
I discovered the Hawaiian language is 95 percent vowels. It dates back to the first king of Hawaii, a Polynesian on one of the canoes which followed the birds from the eastern Pacific and ran into Hawaii. The Polynesian language was ALL vowels, and the king's name was AAA'A'AA'AAAA'AA'A'A, because the A vowel was more beautiful in its pronunciation than the E, I, O, or U, and he was the king. When they colonized Hawaii, the king decreed that the language would follow the rule of three A's for every other vowel. Eventually Captain Cook arrived and bargained for a few consonants, in the interest of making global trade easier. He was successful in establishing K, L, M and P. Centuries later, "Wheel of Fortune" was established on these Hawaiian agreements.
I had wanted to try poi, which is a paste made from the taro root. Wherever we went, no poi was available. The macademias, though, were dynamite. The Hawaiian music was also beautiful, a Nashville beat with slide guitar, high full-throated voices, and many vowels. They had a Costco in Kona. The checkout clerk said, "Mahalo," which meant, "Don't rupture yourself getting your purchases back to the car."
And so, now, I say to you, "Mahalo," which means "Don't hit the wrong button logging off and uninstall your entire Office suite." Don't laugh. It happened to me several weeks ago, before I knew "Mahalo."
December 13, 2013
May 30, 2013
The Great Gulliver
Gulliver could sit in my cupped hands when he came to Alta Mira in the summer of 1998. He was a black fuzzball with a huge white ruff and a white blaze on his face.
But he had the stout forelegs typical of male Shelties and his feet were big. Hence, "Gulliver."
He was not a nipper or a chewer. He gave the expression of waiting for something to happen. The black undercoat gave way to the sable color typical of Shelties and their larger Collie cousins. It may have been his size, or the size he was growing into, that gave an impression of awkwardness, resembling a teenage male human in a growth spurt.
But he matured into a boulevard dog. Gulliver by age four belonged at the end of a diamond leash on Park Avenue. A coat of pure, radiant silk. Huge white ruff thrown like an ermine stole over his shoulders and neck. The white blaze, the perfectly flopped ears, the carriage, the assertive strut which male Shelties display. He was a Gatsby dog. I guarantee, sooner or later, if he had lived in New York, his picture would have been in The New York Times.
Instead, Gully passed his years here with us at Alta Mira. Never in the spotlight, he still maintained an indifferent, celebrity, air. He didn't much let his intelligence show. He was a solid C student. He didn't need the grades; he was beautiful. When something happened, he was ready. Barkeley, his female running mate, was the provocateur. But when the chase began, she was halfway out to the patio while Gully was still turning around.
For the last few days, I have been watching Gully. He is the faded Gatsby now, head and ears still erect, the gait still suggestive but now slow and unsure, the ermine stole still there but looking worn, the gray muzzle dulling the electricity of the white blaze. His vision is suspect, his eyes watery. His hearing is either very poor, or he has decided to ignore us entirely. He is the herding dog, but now we are herding him. A couple of days ago, he managed to get three feet – not all at the same time – into his water bowl.
Next month, Gully would be 105 years old. Fifteen, in human years. "The Gully-Man," as Karen croons to him. Tomorrow the circle closes anew: when you decide to love, you agree to grieve. When Gulliver leaves at midday, tears will be copious, tomorrow afternoon, at Alta Mira.
But he had the stout forelegs typical of male Shelties and his feet were big. Hence, "Gulliver."
He was not a nipper or a chewer. He gave the expression of waiting for something to happen. The black undercoat gave way to the sable color typical of Shelties and their larger Collie cousins. It may have been his size, or the size he was growing into, that gave an impression of awkwardness, resembling a teenage male human in a growth spurt.
But he matured into a boulevard dog. Gulliver by age four belonged at the end of a diamond leash on Park Avenue. A coat of pure, radiant silk. Huge white ruff thrown like an ermine stole over his shoulders and neck. The white blaze, the perfectly flopped ears, the carriage, the assertive strut which male Shelties display. He was a Gatsby dog. I guarantee, sooner or later, if he had lived in New York, his picture would have been in The New York Times.
Instead, Gully passed his years here with us at Alta Mira. Never in the spotlight, he still maintained an indifferent, celebrity, air. He didn't much let his intelligence show. He was a solid C student. He didn't need the grades; he was beautiful. When something happened, he was ready. Barkeley, his female running mate, was the provocateur. But when the chase began, she was halfway out to the patio while Gully was still turning around.
For the last few days, I have been watching Gully. He is the faded Gatsby now, head and ears still erect, the gait still suggestive but now slow and unsure, the ermine stole still there but looking worn, the gray muzzle dulling the electricity of the white blaze. His vision is suspect, his eyes watery. His hearing is either very poor, or he has decided to ignore us entirely. He is the herding dog, but now we are herding him. A couple of days ago, he managed to get three feet – not all at the same time – into his water bowl.
Next month, Gully would be 105 years old. Fifteen, in human years. "The Gully-Man," as Karen croons to him. Tomorrow the circle closes anew: when you decide to love, you agree to grieve. When Gulliver leaves at midday, tears will be copious, tomorrow afternoon, at Alta Mira.
March 26, 2013
A hand for the Inverted Pyramid, please
I am so proud for my old friend and partner, the Inverted Pyramid. Thanks to him I and others in my profession have been able, for more than a hundred years, to construct news stories that let readers become their own editors. The whole story may be 100 paragraphs long, but with the Inverted Pyramid, readers can stop after the fifth or sixth paragraph, and know they have the most important information in the story.
The I.P. never got a dime for his work. He has been open-source technology from the beginning, in the 1850s. But today, he showed his worth. Yahoo bought an app called Summly for a reported $30 million.
Right away, Summly will be coming to your mobile device with short summaries of stories you may not have otherwise wanted to read on the small screen. If the summaries feel familiar to you, it's probably because it's the same self-editing you've been doing all these years with the I.P., who never got any credit for it.
He should now receive credit. I suggest a smidgen of the $30 million be used to fund a display at the Newseum, celebrating the I.P.'s power, since 1850, to summarize the lengthiest stories in five paragraphs.
That's all. The app's creator, announcing the Yahoo deal on his Website today, began: "In true Summly fashion, I will keep this short and sweet." That's the spirit.
The I.P. never got a dime for his work. He has been open-source technology from the beginning, in the 1850s. But today, he showed his worth. Yahoo bought an app called Summly for a reported $30 million.
Right away, Summly will be coming to your mobile device with short summaries of stories you may not have otherwise wanted to read on the small screen. If the summaries feel familiar to you, it's probably because it's the same self-editing you've been doing all these years with the I.P., who never got any credit for it.
He should now receive credit. I suggest a smidgen of the $30 million be used to fund a display at the Newseum, celebrating the I.P.'s power, since 1850, to summarize the lengthiest stories in five paragraphs.
That's all. The app's creator, announcing the Yahoo deal on his Website today, began: "In true Summly fashion, I will keep this short and sweet." That's the spirit.
March 11, 2013
Coming to your city soon: "The Big One"
We had an ominous earthquake here this morning, at 9:55 (I checked my watch by habit). A bookcase to my left creaked suddenly, and the floor rolled very gently beneath my chair for about five seconds.
The epicenter popped up almost immediately on the USGS Earthquake Hazards Program Website, which is bookmarked by many Southern Californians. It showed the epicenter to be 12 miles east-southeast of Anza, a high-plateau hamlet 65 miles northeast of San Diego, where we live. There were numerous aftershocks.
Authorities said the activity was on the San Jacinto Fault, "one of the most active faults in California, and often called the western branch of perhaps the most well-known fault in the United States, the San Andreas."
In fact the San Andreas is only a few miles east of the epicenter. This is the kind of quake which would occur in the first five minutes of an end-of-the-world movie about what we in California call "The Big One."
Toward the middle of the movie – scripted to be three or four days from now – The Big One will hit, most likely an 8.5 or 9. When it does, a monstrous fissure will open up the spine of California, from the Mexican border through the Salton Sea and Palm Springs north into the San Joaquin Valley and central and northern California.
We in San Diego will get a hell of a shaking. Almost immediately thereafter, all of the United States east of the fissure will break off and slide into the Atlantic. You guys should go ahead and prepare.
The epicenter popped up almost immediately on the USGS Earthquake Hazards Program Website, which is bookmarked by many Southern Californians. It showed the epicenter to be 12 miles east-southeast of Anza, a high-plateau hamlet 65 miles northeast of San Diego, where we live. There were numerous aftershocks.
Authorities said the activity was on the San Jacinto Fault, "one of the most active faults in California, and often called the western branch of perhaps the most well-known fault in the United States, the San Andreas."
In fact the San Andreas is only a few miles east of the epicenter. This is the kind of quake which would occur in the first five minutes of an end-of-the-world movie about what we in California call "The Big One."
Toward the middle of the movie – scripted to be three or four days from now – The Big One will hit, most likely an 8.5 or 9. When it does, a monstrous fissure will open up the spine of California, from the Mexican border through the Salton Sea and Palm Springs north into the San Joaquin Valley and central and northern California.
We in San Diego will get a hell of a shaking. Almost immediately thereafter, all of the United States east of the fissure will break off and slide into the Atlantic. You guys should go ahead and prepare.
March 10, 2013
The truth about journalism and change
I must have entered a zone where untruths about my profession pop up before me and demand correcting. Here's the first paragraph from a review in this week's New York Times Book Review:
"A novelist once told me that he had given up writing journalism on the side because 'in journalism they only let you tell one story: Something Has Changed.'"
That is not true. In writing journalism, they let you tell two stories:
1. Something Has Changed.
2. There is a Threat that Something Will Change.
Take politics. Late last Nov. 6, something changed. A presidential candidate was elected. Many "change" stories were written about the event. They would have filled a couple of scrapbooks.
At least as far back as January, 2011, stories were already appearing regularly that something would change. A president would be elected in November, 2012. Those threat stories would fill a couple of thousand scrapbooks and, by and large, were more closely read, for meaning and for hints at resolution.
Take sports. Sports is a multi-billion-dollar industry based on the question, who will win? For the Super Bowl, the premier event in American sports, journalists had two weeks to write the threat stories, and a day or two to write the change stories. Which do you suppose would fill up more scrapbooks?
Take weather. What will the weather be? Every newspaper has a weather page, every local broadcast station has two or more reporters, and national television has celebrity reporters and at least one 24-hour channel, covering something that hasn't happened yet.
Take the pope. Global television showed the installation of the plain metal chimney being installed on the Sistine Chapel roof, which millions of people will be watching daily for the white smoke signaling change, as they read hundreds of stories about who the new pope might be.
Take Congress. There is no threat of any change there in the foreseeable future. But don't we wish there was, and we could read about it?
"A novelist once told me that he had given up writing journalism on the side because 'in journalism they only let you tell one story: Something Has Changed.'"
That is not true. In writing journalism, they let you tell two stories:
1. Something Has Changed.
2. There is a Threat that Something Will Change.
Take politics. Late last Nov. 6, something changed. A presidential candidate was elected. Many "change" stories were written about the event. They would have filled a couple of scrapbooks.
At least as far back as January, 2011, stories were already appearing regularly that something would change. A president would be elected in November, 2012. Those threat stories would fill a couple of thousand scrapbooks and, by and large, were more closely read, for meaning and for hints at resolution.
Take sports. Sports is a multi-billion-dollar industry based on the question, who will win? For the Super Bowl, the premier event in American sports, journalists had two weeks to write the threat stories, and a day or two to write the change stories. Which do you suppose would fill up more scrapbooks?
Take weather. What will the weather be? Every newspaper has a weather page, every local broadcast station has two or more reporters, and national television has celebrity reporters and at least one 24-hour channel, covering something that hasn't happened yet.
Take the pope. Global television showed the installation of the plain metal chimney being installed on the Sistine Chapel roof, which millions of people will be watching daily for the white smoke signaling change, as they read hundreds of stories about who the new pope might be.
Take Congress. There is no threat of any change there in the foreseeable future. But don't we wish there was, and we could read about it?
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