What? The Copa Mundial, the World Cup, is over?
It must mean the end of the world is not far behind.
Soccer, not very popular in America, is nevertheless the world’s sport. I imagine it was invented by a mom, the world’s first soccer mom, living long ago in the cradle of civilization, trying to work with kids under her feet. She wound reeds into a ball, threw it outside, and said, “Go play.”
The kids were gone for hours. The game has hardly changed at all. All you need is a ball or, if you are a solo, a ball and a wall. Scoring would not have come along until the dawn of the socio-political era, when it became important that somebody win. Still the kids were gone for hours, because it was hard to kick a ball into a goal through a crowd of kids using only your feet. And mom said, “No hands!” She knew a good thing when she saw it.
Soccer is also the world’s natural sport. It follows, even derives from, the pace of the universe. On the seventh day, God rested, and dreamed up soccer as the earthly symbol for a divine design in which things happen slowly. The universe is 12 billion years old now, and still expanding. It has taken human beings millions of years of evolving to become smart enough to know they have been evolving for millions of years. God is not in a hurry, and neither is soccer.
Millions of Americans love soccer; for awhile, in the 1600s and 1700s, it must have been the only sport in town. But Americans developed a natural impatience, with a tyrannical government to overthrow, a Constitution to get up and running, and a continent to conquer. Europeans, Africans, Asians, have had centuries to settle in; Americans for the last 200 years have been damned busy, and it has made us impatient. We want results. We want scoring.
Scoring is inevitable – witness the “survival of the fittest” evidence – but too much scoring is unnatural. That is not an American failure; cricket is a revered, old-world game in which scoring goes into the hundreds. That is clearly unnatural. In soccer, meanwhile, scoring more than a goal a week starts to strain the ancient, natural cause and effect balance, and most of the world’s population understands that. Points are not scored in soccer; they evolve, like the first mutation in a salamander’s gill from which buds an air sac, leading to a couple of brain cell changes indicating to the salamander that life on land might not be so bad, and then vestigial leg and arm buds follow, the first micro-inch of tail disappears, atoms clump into molecules forming a hair follicle, and so on, until finally Italy takes a shot on goal.
Americans are too impatient for that, unaware that in turning their backs, they are ignoring their own history. And, yet . . . . Watching Italy and France in the championship game – was it only three days ago? – there was the strongest desire, in our living room, to let them play on. They had played for 90 minutes, then 30 minutes of overtime, plus minutes lost to penalties, injuries, etc., and there was a nobility of purpose, and a divinity in the design, that begged to be honored, asking them to play on until the last man standing toed in a goal with his last breath, and God applauded.
Instead, they decided it in 10 minutes, on penalty kicks. Americans like to say that a tie is like “kissing your sister.” To soccer fans, penalty kicks must be like getting Sophia Loren into bed, and then her father walks in.
July 11, 2006
July 03, 2006
A flair for brunch
For the brunch of a lifetime, go to JRDN’s with Patricia and Rod Wright.
JRDN’s, which is coolchic for “Jordan’s,” is a stylish angular dining cave facing the San Diego oceanfront that has in a short time developed a reputation for ambience (ambience always comes first these days), food, and an inside-outside bar. It is the ground floor of the Tower 23 Hotel, in the beach community of Pacific Beach, and the rooms feature the same angular, sunlight-fueled austerity as the restaurant.
Patricia and Rod invited us there for brunch. JRDN’s gave us a nice outside table, and Patricia brought the flair. JRDN’s possesses some flair – I ordered a Bloody Martini and they didn’t bat an eye – but it isn’t in their DNA, whereas Patricia was born with it.
Our waiter was tall, slender, all in black, sunglasses pushed up on his wavy hair, and he moved with busy intent, very cheery. Between his physical presence and his brain, there existed a vast carnival of private sights and sounds through which he romped for 20-odd minutes between our asking for drinks and receiving them, except for a quick appearance to drop off pancakes at the next table. We had also asked for coffee and water, and cream, and those arrived 10 minutes after the drinks.
It was during those 10 minutes that Patricia’s flair DNA started to wiggle. She left the table for a few minutes and then returned. Right behind her came a busboy with the coffee and the water, the coffee in slender, stylish cups), and right behind him, our carnival man appeared with one of those same cups with about three-quarters of an inch of cream in the bottom. Patricia’s second bellini remained back up the trail somewhere.
It was that, and the eyedropper of cream, that touched off Patricia’s deeper flair artistry. She rose once again and left the table. Several minutes later, she returned with a white plastic grocery bag in hand. From these she withdrew a bottle of Cordoniu champagne, and a quart container of half and half, and sat them on the table. The next table had turned over, so the new guests missed the context, but put two-and-two together easily enough, and smiled.
“The best champagne they had was only $7,” Patricia said, disappointed. She had walked over to a Smart & Final a block away. I told her that Cordoniu was a perfectly acceptable Spanish champagne, and at that moment our food arrived, with Patricia’s second bellini. Our waiter did not acknowledge the towering white-and-yellow container of half and half in the middle of the table, but said of the bottle of Cordoniu, “Would you like me to open that, and put it on ice for you?”
She smiled at him across a distance of her own and said, “A little later, perhaps.”
The food was good. I had a seafood cobb salad, Karen and Patricia had crab cakes benedict with a light, subtle citrus hollandaise, and Rod had an omelet. We opened the champagne and drank it along with our food. When we were finished, about a inch was left in the bottle. Our waiter appeared with a trendy, sculpted aluminum bottle cooler that sat on the table at an angle. He swooped up the inch of champagne and placed the bottle in the cooler and asked if we had any requests. “Just the check,” Rod said.
Patricia said it’s fun to go the JRDN’s after work and watch the coolchic crowd and sit and nibble at the bar. “They have a fried lobster roll to die for,” she said, “that they don’t serve on weekends for some reason.” I do love a fried lobster roll, even if I know it is going to be anticlimactic.
JRDN’s, which is coolchic for “Jordan’s,” is a stylish angular dining cave facing the San Diego oceanfront that has in a short time developed a reputation for ambience (ambience always comes first these days), food, and an inside-outside bar. It is the ground floor of the Tower 23 Hotel, in the beach community of Pacific Beach, and the rooms feature the same angular, sunlight-fueled austerity as the restaurant.
Patricia and Rod invited us there for brunch. JRDN’s gave us a nice outside table, and Patricia brought the flair. JRDN’s possesses some flair – I ordered a Bloody Martini and they didn’t bat an eye – but it isn’t in their DNA, whereas Patricia was born with it.
Our waiter was tall, slender, all in black, sunglasses pushed up on his wavy hair, and he moved with busy intent, very cheery. Between his physical presence and his brain, there existed a vast carnival of private sights and sounds through which he romped for 20-odd minutes between our asking for drinks and receiving them, except for a quick appearance to drop off pancakes at the next table. We had also asked for coffee and water, and cream, and those arrived 10 minutes after the drinks.
It was during those 10 minutes that Patricia’s flair DNA started to wiggle. She left the table for a few minutes and then returned. Right behind her came a busboy with the coffee and the water, the coffee in slender, stylish cups), and right behind him, our carnival man appeared with one of those same cups with about three-quarters of an inch of cream in the bottom. Patricia’s second bellini remained back up the trail somewhere.
It was that, and the eyedropper of cream, that touched off Patricia’s deeper flair artistry. She rose once again and left the table. Several minutes later, she returned with a white plastic grocery bag in hand. From these she withdrew a bottle of Cordoniu champagne, and a quart container of half and half, and sat them on the table. The next table had turned over, so the new guests missed the context, but put two-and-two together easily enough, and smiled.
“The best champagne they had was only $7,” Patricia said, disappointed. She had walked over to a Smart & Final a block away. I told her that Cordoniu was a perfectly acceptable Spanish champagne, and at that moment our food arrived, with Patricia’s second bellini. Our waiter did not acknowledge the towering white-and-yellow container of half and half in the middle of the table, but said of the bottle of Cordoniu, “Would you like me to open that, and put it on ice for you?”
She smiled at him across a distance of her own and said, “A little later, perhaps.”
The food was good. I had a seafood cobb salad, Karen and Patricia had crab cakes benedict with a light, subtle citrus hollandaise, and Rod had an omelet. We opened the champagne and drank it along with our food. When we were finished, about a inch was left in the bottle. Our waiter appeared with a trendy, sculpted aluminum bottle cooler that sat on the table at an angle. He swooped up the inch of champagne and placed the bottle in the cooler and asked if we had any requests. “Just the check,” Rod said.
Patricia said it’s fun to go the JRDN’s after work and watch the coolchic crowd and sit and nibble at the bar. “They have a fried lobster roll to die for,” she said, “that they don’t serve on weekends for some reason.” I do love a fried lobster roll, even if I know it is going to be anticlimactic.
June 27, 2006
Disgrace and irresponsibility
Last Friday, The New York Times led the way in publishing information about a secret government program “to investigate and track terrorists that relies on a vast international database that includes Americans’ banking transactions.”
On Monday, in Washington, President Bush said the disclosure was “disgraceful.”
Saying such a thing is, of course, irresponsible. It is not a heinous irresponsibility, though Mr. Bush has proven himself capable of that level of irresponsibility (“Brownie, you’re doing a heck of a job.”) There never was a president who didn’t seek to politicize the media, when it suited that president’s agenda and political needs. Labeling the press as irresponsible is a way of life in the government-media relationship. It’s the same as saying to the cop who is giving you the speeding ticket, “Don’t you have criminals to chase?”
It doesn’t hurt, though, to point out this mild presidential irresponsibility, when it happens. Like a bad writer with a metaphor, President Bush will beat a media disgrace to death, with a certain constituency latching on to the irrelevance like bulldogs, as Ann Coulter’s rise this week to the top of the best-seller list proves.
Presidents when they say these sorts of things are being irresponsible to the basic fabric of the republic. Thomas Jefferson, a president of the United States, had disagreeable things to say about the media, but he also understood the reality.
“The basis of our government being the opinion of the people,” he wrote, in 1787, “the very first object should be to keep that right; and were it left to me to decide whether we should have a government without newspapers, or newspapers without a government, I should not hesitate a moment to prefer the latter.”
Interesting that Jefferson wrote this in January, 1787, several months before the convening of the Constitutional Convention in Philadelphia. It illuminates a basic truth about freedom of the press in America, that would become spelled out so clearly in the First Amendment to the Constitution.
Abbreviated to the business at hand, the First Amendment reads, “Congress shall make no law abridging the freedom of the press.” The key word in the amendment is “abridging,” which means “to reduce in scope; to shorten in duration or extent.”
Its presence in the First Amendment meant the founding fathers must have understood that freedom of the press already existed in America. Freedom of the press predated the Constitution, which simply confirmed its eminence as a cornerstone in a free society.
That is awesome power, and yes, the power has been abused, and the abuses have been met with correction, both in the courts and in the court of public opinion. The basic power remains unchanged, and as eminent a cornerstone of American society as was confirmed in 1787 and 1789.
The failure of a president of the United States to acknowledge that power, and its role in the society and its governance, is irresponsible. Mundanely so, perhaps, but always worth noting. Mr. Bush, particularly, would serve himself well to embrace that reality, instead of looking for paths around it. There are no paths around the role of the American press. If he understood that, he would know that a program the size of tracking international financial transactions would not remain a secret for long, and he could plan accordingly, on the basis of our government being an opinion of the people.
On Monday, in Washington, President Bush said the disclosure was “disgraceful.”
Saying such a thing is, of course, irresponsible. It is not a heinous irresponsibility, though Mr. Bush has proven himself capable of that level of irresponsibility (“Brownie, you’re doing a heck of a job.”) There never was a president who didn’t seek to politicize the media, when it suited that president’s agenda and political needs. Labeling the press as irresponsible is a way of life in the government-media relationship. It’s the same as saying to the cop who is giving you the speeding ticket, “Don’t you have criminals to chase?”
It doesn’t hurt, though, to point out this mild presidential irresponsibility, when it happens. Like a bad writer with a metaphor, President Bush will beat a media disgrace to death, with a certain constituency latching on to the irrelevance like bulldogs, as Ann Coulter’s rise this week to the top of the best-seller list proves.
Presidents when they say these sorts of things are being irresponsible to the basic fabric of the republic. Thomas Jefferson, a president of the United States, had disagreeable things to say about the media, but he also understood the reality.
“The basis of our government being the opinion of the people,” he wrote, in 1787, “the very first object should be to keep that right; and were it left to me to decide whether we should have a government without newspapers, or newspapers without a government, I should not hesitate a moment to prefer the latter.”
Interesting that Jefferson wrote this in January, 1787, several months before the convening of the Constitutional Convention in Philadelphia. It illuminates a basic truth about freedom of the press in America, that would become spelled out so clearly in the First Amendment to the Constitution.
Abbreviated to the business at hand, the First Amendment reads, “Congress shall make no law abridging the freedom of the press.” The key word in the amendment is “abridging,” which means “to reduce in scope; to shorten in duration or extent.”
Its presence in the First Amendment meant the founding fathers must have understood that freedom of the press already existed in America. Freedom of the press predated the Constitution, which simply confirmed its eminence as a cornerstone in a free society.
That is awesome power, and yes, the power has been abused, and the abuses have been met with correction, both in the courts and in the court of public opinion. The basic power remains unchanged, and as eminent a cornerstone of American society as was confirmed in 1787 and 1789.
The failure of a president of the United States to acknowledge that power, and its role in the society and its governance, is irresponsible. Mundanely so, perhaps, but always worth noting. Mr. Bush, particularly, would serve himself well to embrace that reality, instead of looking for paths around it. There are no paths around the role of the American press. If he understood that, he would know that a program the size of tracking international financial transactions would not remain a secret for long, and he could plan accordingly, on the basis of our government being an opinion of the people.
June 25, 2006
A wind from - where?
In San Diego yesterday, we were fortunate to have the cloud cover. Excessive heat had been forecast for the afternoon, temperatures reaching as high as 100 in our foothills neighborhood, about 13 miles from the coast.
But the clouds kept the heat down. They were created by tropical moisture, called “monsoon” moisture locally, siphoned up from the south by the same features – high pressure centers – that were creating the heat. The clouds even brought a couple of morning showers – most unusual for June – in a couple of places in San Diego County.
At our house, the clouds did nothing more than moderate the heat, with the tradeoff of a slight humid mugginess that is not uncommon in July and August, but yesterday felt strange, and the house felt dark and moody, the way I remember houses feeling in Texas when storms were building.
We had the windows and French doors open, and the little bit of breeze floating through kept us reasonably cool. At about 3, I went from the living room back to the study to check email. The clouds had dissipated some, and hazy sunshine filtered through half-closed shutters. Then something happened. Outside there was a roar, and in the study a feeling of decompression. I looked up and saw everything green outside shaking furiously.
It was a wind, not rising, but bursting: not present one instant, roaring the next, unnatural, without transition. From the other end of the house I heard Karen’s voice, yelling above the roar: “Michael!” I started toward her through the hall between the front and back of the house, which was no longer a conduit of breeze, but a wind tunnel. The living room gives a panoramic view through floor to ceiling windows to the south and west and beyond the shaking foliage I saw in the middle and far distance a strange, dense haze that had not been there minutes before.
We stepped through the west-facing French doors onto the patio. A patio umbrella and several plants in pots were already blown over. There were clouds to the south, and more out over the ocean, but above us it was relatively clear, except for the sudden haze, which I realized was dust, shaken loose from every leaf and surface for miles in every direction.
I couldn’t sense a direction from the wind, or a cause for it. The only winds without cause I had ever seen were all in the movies, and all strange, either biblical or supernatural. In San Diego a few months ago, people experienced a series of strange booms and tremors, like an earthquake, for which a cause has yet to be determined. This wind felt like that.
It persisted for 10 or more minutes; I became busy during that time, holding erect a mature, staked rose tree, whose stake the wind had snapped, until Karen could locate and bring material for repairs. Eventually, by 3:30, the wind had subsided to floating breeze level again. Since that hour, I have periodically checked local weather and media sites; no mention at all in the media, and this morning the National Weather Service site only mentioned a few reports of brief downburst winds, but only in association with showers or thunderstorms.
That may have been our experience, even under a sunny sky that, over us, was only partly cloudy at best. And, yet. I have been in countless winds created by thunderstorms, and this wind did not feel like that. This wind felt like it had been parked in space, waiting until we literally ran into it, which, for some reason, we did, suddenly, and very, very strangely.
The clouds are back today, thankfully, to keep the heat down, maybe even bring a shower. I am certain, though, we won’t again have a wind like yesterday’s; it possesses its own meaning now, like the booms from months ago.
But the clouds kept the heat down. They were created by tropical moisture, called “monsoon” moisture locally, siphoned up from the south by the same features – high pressure centers – that were creating the heat. The clouds even brought a couple of morning showers – most unusual for June – in a couple of places in San Diego County.
At our house, the clouds did nothing more than moderate the heat, with the tradeoff of a slight humid mugginess that is not uncommon in July and August, but yesterday felt strange, and the house felt dark and moody, the way I remember houses feeling in Texas when storms were building.
We had the windows and French doors open, and the little bit of breeze floating through kept us reasonably cool. At about 3, I went from the living room back to the study to check email. The clouds had dissipated some, and hazy sunshine filtered through half-closed shutters. Then something happened. Outside there was a roar, and in the study a feeling of decompression. I looked up and saw everything green outside shaking furiously.
It was a wind, not rising, but bursting: not present one instant, roaring the next, unnatural, without transition. From the other end of the house I heard Karen’s voice, yelling above the roar: “Michael!” I started toward her through the hall between the front and back of the house, which was no longer a conduit of breeze, but a wind tunnel. The living room gives a panoramic view through floor to ceiling windows to the south and west and beyond the shaking foliage I saw in the middle and far distance a strange, dense haze that had not been there minutes before.
We stepped through the west-facing French doors onto the patio. A patio umbrella and several plants in pots were already blown over. There were clouds to the south, and more out over the ocean, but above us it was relatively clear, except for the sudden haze, which I realized was dust, shaken loose from every leaf and surface for miles in every direction.
I couldn’t sense a direction from the wind, or a cause for it. The only winds without cause I had ever seen were all in the movies, and all strange, either biblical or supernatural. In San Diego a few months ago, people experienced a series of strange booms and tremors, like an earthquake, for which a cause has yet to be determined. This wind felt like that.
It persisted for 10 or more minutes; I became busy during that time, holding erect a mature, staked rose tree, whose stake the wind had snapped, until Karen could locate and bring material for repairs. Eventually, by 3:30, the wind had subsided to floating breeze level again. Since that hour, I have periodically checked local weather and media sites; no mention at all in the media, and this morning the National Weather Service site only mentioned a few reports of brief downburst winds, but only in association with showers or thunderstorms.
That may have been our experience, even under a sunny sky that, over us, was only partly cloudy at best. And, yet. I have been in countless winds created by thunderstorms, and this wind did not feel like that. This wind felt like it had been parked in space, waiting until we literally ran into it, which, for some reason, we did, suddenly, and very, very strangely.
The clouds are back today, thankfully, to keep the heat down, maybe even bring a shower. I am certain, though, we won’t again have a wind like yesterday’s; it possesses its own meaning now, like the booms from months ago.
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