Dirty Laundry (1982) Don Henley Predicts the Future

Dirty Laundry: Don Henley Predicts the Future on 1982 Solo Album, "I can't stand still" (released 10/12/1982)

(Houston) I've written about Texas artists before, but one of the largest stars in Texas music history is Don Henley, who wrote a prescient piece for his first solo album in 1982 about TV news: "Dirty Laundry," appearing on I Can't Stand Still. Henley comments on the nature of the news "infotainment" industry before that was even a word; before the internet, reality TV, or social media.

Similar themes run through much of his work with the Eagles, or on his own, as an activist singer/songwriter: loss of innocence, the cost of being in the public spotlight, naivete of victims' perspectives, perils of fame, exploitation of tragedy, illusion versus reality, in-authenticity, corruption in news media, and the reality of #FakeNews (before much of this was part of today's lexicon).

When did Don Henley first read The Catcher in the Rye? 

Was it in 1961 or 1962 at the height of Kennedy’s "Camelot" presidency, during his first or second year of high school? How did young Don Henley relate to young Holden Caufield?

Did Don Henley learn to drown out the cacophony of oppressive “fakery” permeating the world, through music? 

Did music give him the bridge to his own authentic voice, like J. D. Salinger’s writing? 

Ten years after the book was written, Salinger appeared on the cover of TIME magazine in 1961, and Don Henley may have found his calling as a musician when he read in The Catcher in the Rye (quote): “a woman's body is like a violin and all; and that it takes a terrific musician to play it right.” The ladies’ man begins his journey in a band (in North Texas) with Salinger’s words deeply embedded in his mind.

In 1982, at 35-years old, Don Henley still felt like he was living in a time of great mistrust, a feeling that one-nation undivided, was rapidly disappearing. Henley saw even then, the prevalence of lawyers, and the everyone-for-themselves ethos of modern culture, where men and women sue each other regularly, "it's a very insidious thing," Henley said.

"Writing songs is therapeutic for me. It's a way of trying to make sense of a world that often doesn't make sense at all," he said. "It keeps me off the shrink's couch, keeps me from climbing a tower with a rifle (a reference to the UT/Austin mass-shooting of 1966, when Henley was 19?)." "Creating is a spiritual act, as well as a kind of meditation." (end quote)

Written for a LP which contained an interesting juxtaposition of dark themes; the song was developed as part of his first solo album in an atmosphere of excitement and productivity. Although Henley always thought there's room for social commentary in music, one of the basic principles of folk, singer/songwriters; "you can't hit people over the head with it." Henley believes, "you can comment, but you can't preach." 

In "Dirty Laundry," humor and satire protect against heavy, or preachy themes; but producing a song completely applicable as social commentary 35-years after it was written, is truly remarkable.  Like The Catcher in the Rye, I realize it sounds a little Holden Caulfield-esque calling everyone in TV news a phony, but Henley really did think everyone in that business was a phony.

"I got divorced and my personal life fell apart. I don't know if you feel this way, but when you're depressed, it's really easy to see everything that is fake about other people and life, and I just started seeing all that. How phony celebrity was, how phony everything is. You channel your inner-Holden Caulfield, you know?"--Ethan Hawke (writer, producer, director, actor)

I've taken the liberty to update the lyrics to apply to 2017 times, but the spirit of the song has been left unedited. I hope you like my adaption, and the song is common enough to your memory that you will sing along! 

Writer's Digest Story Contest #83 -- Writing Prompt w/ max of 700 words

Short story writing prompt:

"A man is surprised to find himself feeling both pleased and liberated by the news that he will soon die."

700 Words Maximum:

Rick felt a gut-churning fear he’d fought all his life, ever since he got called to the principal’s office, or when his girlfriend told him she was pregnant. Riding a tumultuous, entrepreneurial roller-coaster put him in frequent high-pressure meetings in the clouds of downtown, called to dark-paneled conference rooms, where fate, future, and fortune hung in the balance. But coming to this specialist panicked him, and the fact that the doctor was so young (and female) twisted the knife in his stomach.

She’d spent half her life studying cancer, but the look on her face reminded him of bankers staring him down at a lender conference. Methodically reviewing testing procedures conducted at the world’s finest cancer facility in Houston, the sincerity with which she explained Stage 4 kidney cancer touched him deeply. It must be hard for any doctor, even one daily waging war against cancer to tell a man there isn’t much hope for a “successful outcome,” she said, as stiff as her starched lab coat.

“Are you talking years or months, Doctor,” urging more than asking.

“I’m afraid my best guess is months, Rick, I’m sorry to say.”

After swallowing the personal premise of pending death, he gulped again and sheepishly, in a childish way asked, “So, this treatment regimen is unbelievably hard, without any real hope of recovery? Am I just going to make an exit looking like a zombie?”

She responded earnestly, with piercing eyes, “We can prolong your life a significant amount of time if the tactics work well.” “But it will be extremely painful toward the end, depending how long your body can take what we drag it through.”

Raw, and emotionally spent, he left the Texas Medical Center disoriented. By the time he sat by his pool at home with his Labrador licking the sweat off of his calf and his hand wet from the chilled highball he held tightly, Rick considered mortality and the feelings of fear and hopelessness crowding his mind.

In business, he consumed numbers ravenously, and it seemed that a guy with only 1.5% left on his battery—maybe 8,000 hours of existence remaining, would be tossing around a dozen emotions; grabbing each one, tasting whether bitter or sweet? He’d lived a long time and lost many of life’s pillars: his wife through divorce, parents, a brother, jobs, houses, even a Cadillac repossessed in the eighties.

However, a strange calm came from the two emotions dominating his thinking: he was both pleased and liberated by the thought of leaving this world. His situation wasn’t preferable but these two tracks didn’t intersect or conflict as he pondered imminent death.

Whether enlightened or unshackled, contentment surprised Rick, heated by the sizzling sun and the hot concrete surrounding the pool. As odd and unusual as he felt, the reaction positioned him unexpectedly to be open to death and consider his life against what he thought he believed of the other side.

He studied the Bible growing up, and took his kids to an Episcopal Church in River Oaks because it was close to his home, but it was probably the hatred for Baylor athletics that skewed his religion to the left. He satisfied his liberal arts love for adventure by reading Revelation like sci-fi literature.

Rick dimly pictured the Lord, white-headed with flowing hair and robes, seated at the head table of a gargantuan banquet, where Rick’s anticipated mourning, crying, and pain passed away. He longed to see the amazing city called the New Jerusalem. Released from gravity, he gazed heavenward and contemplated the brilliance of his future home, as well as he could. Liberation and contentment came from a believer’s travel plans.

Three gates side-by-side, welcomed each named entrant to a wall of the square city, roughly the size of all of North America; each gate made out of a single pearl 2,200 kilometers high. Gold paved streets, translucent and clean, wove throughout a destination where nightfall never came. God illuminated every hour of eternal, joyous days; and in the middle of the biggest boulevard in the city flowed a crystal clear river. Rick planned on walking peacefully near its banks. ##

©Mark H. Pillsbury

Contest entered July 10, 2017

Failed in London, Tried Hongkong: 

The tale of British expats abroad in Hong Kong, Lawyers in Love

Book Review: Jane Gardam Trilogy:

Lovers of English literature will enjoy the trilogy of books by Jane Gardam written in 2004, 2009, and 2013. These @EuropaEditions were recommended by @DeepVellumBooks which is a Dallas (non-profit) bookseller and publisher, from whom I purchased Vol. 1 for $20.00.

As we currently observe the political divide between nationalism and globalism, these books unfold with a backdrop of the historiography of the (declining) post-war British Empire, including a unique view of the colonialism, imperialism, mercantilism, and the legal-economic culture of expat lawyers abroad.

Author Jane Gardam takes the story of a love “triangle” of sorts, to Hong Kong and back to the "Donheads" of Southwest England, near Dorset. The trilogy’s emotional landscape plays out between two rivals and one eccentric woman, but Gardam’s immense talent as a writer fully illustrates and explicates many other quirky English characters from the Queen, all the way to the crazy town mail carrier.

The opening saga is entitled “Old Filth” about an English lawyer who, “Failed in London, Tried Hongkong,” or FILTH, as an acronym. “Last Friends” ties up the cast and their inter-woven lives in book 3, including 70 years of complicated friendships; however, as successful and dominant as these uppercrust Brits appear, like the British Empire, they often took wrong turns by making foolish decisions.

The second and third novels in the sequence are not so much sequels or “prequels” to the first, as they are augmentations, or different POVs. As the trilogy advances, the supporting characters from Old Filth emerge with their own life histories, altering, and occasionally exploding the first understanding of what occurred in the opening book FILTH. But to quote Gardam, there are “no minor characters” in life nor in these books.

Surprisingly easy to read despite my lack of knowledge of this particular niche of English culture, still I constantly looked up the meanings to “Brit” words, and sometimes didn’t understand their profession despite my own legal training. Empathetic writing kept my interest, sometimes relating to the characters, often feeling sorry for them,  but any anglophile would give these books ***** out of 5-stars!

Remember the Alamo: The Endgame in Chess and Life

The Endgame in Chess and Life:

Placing a big priority on learning Chess endgames positions is futile if the player makes too many mistakes before the endgame even arrives. Most major mistakes made in a typical chess match likely come a long time before the endgame, and are far costlier than being able to execute a KRP vs. KR endgame appropriately. Said another way, short-term tactics employed prevent the long-term strategic theory of endgames, which comes in handy when there are only a few pieces left on the board. Or shortly, you dig your own grave long before you are killed.

A current “international chess champion” believes that:

“This (Endgame) is one of the most important phases in chess, because while it’s possible to make a comeback from mistakes made in the openings and middle game, it’s almost impossible to make a comeback from mistakes made in the endgame – as they are usually the last mistake made in the game. It’s also an area where one can score a lot of points, as it’s usually one of the phases less studied by opponents.” (end quote)

It makes sense. Victory hangs in the balance.

So what happens when you are in a position where every move you could make causes you to lose the game (or at least significantly worsen the position).The German word for this predicament is called “Zugzwang”. Is this the way Custer felt at Little Big Horn, or the band playing on the Titanic deck? Like what’s called a “Hobson’s Choice” (which is not a choice at all, b/c the “choice” is taking what is available or nothing at all), or being struck between a rock, and a hard place? As pressure dissolves all good strategies, tactics end up dominating the game execution. I think back poignantly to the mind-numbing, paralyzing horror of the patriots stuck during the Siege of the Alamo. Full disclosure, I'm a native Texan so forgive me for starting from the Texas perspective:

• Bowie and Travis led about 200 “Texicans” in the defense of the Alamo for 13 days but eventually the invading Mexican army overwhelmed them. This happened near San Antonio TX. All good 7th grade Texans learn this in public school history. But what was it like to be there, and know the odds of defense against an insurmountable force? Did “strategy” ever enter the frantic war-room discussions or was this a suicide mission? Did the enemy “surrounded” the Fort before they knew it? At what chilling moment in this Endgame did their fate become frighteningly clear?

• On March 5, 1836, after fierce fighting, Mexican artillery stopped shelling the fort. Their defensive positions weakened so, President General Antonio López de Santa Anna planned an all-out ground attack on the garrison just before dawn on March 6, 1836. Mexican soldiers would go over the walls in waves, risking hand-to-hand combat to fully and finally kill the rebellion called the Alamo.

The Queen is lost, painted warriors appear on the ridge, bullets fly, the band plays on…

Realizing the end is near, how feeble, exposed, and out-of-control one must feel? Dread rises as a fever, slowly strangling life out of the victim. A knotted gut, sweating brow, but most of all an overriding “confusion” seeps under the door like drifting fog. How is this actually happening? Looking at the Chess board, gulping, blinking, realizing there aren’t many moves left, you have found yourself in the astonishing “Endgame”. Keep up the fight, but don’t lie to yourself looking out over the precipice at a “Check-mate” on the board; it will not go away without one. more. move. ##

©Mark H. Pillsbury

Heartbeat

Heartbeat

Beating in the womb,

Waiting to appear, to bloom.

Will it fulfill its dreams, like music in tune.

Faithfully, over and over it beats,

Were it syncopal you'd fall over in the heat.

As hands circle the clock,

Decades flash by, it never stops.

Keeping life's rhythm:

Rushing, resting, hurting, telling,

It echoes slowly, emotion swelling.

Who can divine the human heart?

How many beats in a day: 100,000

How many equal a life: the work begins when it starts.

Bearing up under strife, holding more blood than stress.

Volume, velocity, endurance, the machine's mystery is that it performs best:

Inflamed, impassioned, straining to the point of breaking

Full of love, filled to the top, henceforth it will come to a stop.

Pushing out one last beat, no more pumping remains.

Until then keep moving your feet,

The heartbeat keeps tune to a lonely refrain.

©Mark H. Pillsbury

*Note: I like to pin a #YouTube video to my writing and this time it is from the group: Hammock (I could hear the water, or can you hear the heartbeat?)

https://youtu.be/mncgetsmhD0

WORLD PETROLEUM COUNCIL PICKS HOUSTON TO HOST CONGRESS IN 2020:

YOU THINK Super Bowl LI® IS A BIG DEAL?

With the economic, logistical, and cultural impact of a giant meteor, looming over the City of Houston on the eve of Super Bowl LI, February 05, 2017, there was another December announcement given to the city like a beautiful Christmas present, by the World Petroleum Council [“WPC”]. They bestowed on us the privilege of hosting another Petroleum Congress for the world audience to once-again come to Houston in 2020.

The WPC was established in 1933, based in London, with the intent to promote the management of the world's petroleum resources for the benefit of mankind, because energy is the lifeblood of economic and social development.

WPC facilitates dialogue among internal and external stakeholders in the petroleum industry on key technical, social, environmental, and operations management issues. One of the primary goals is to accomplish solutions to these issues in a neutral, and non-political way.

As more oil and gas is discovered unconventionally, it is clear that we have entered an era of hydrocarbon abundance. Although exploration and development projects executed in the next 20 years will become more complex, more difficult to execute, and more expensive, many of the leaders of the profession are leaving the field or are near retirement.

So during this time of massive change, following one of the longest downturns in the economics of oil and gas in history; the interchange of ideas and the upbringing of a new generation of energy professionals is as important a goal as when the WPC started in 1933.

The need for abundant fuel is just as acute in 2017 (e.g., more than one billion people lack access to electricity and modern cooking fuels, and 75 million new cars are sold each year, globally). There is an incredibly strong correlation between the use of fossil fuels and life expectancy, and between fossil fuel use and income; one can observe the recent history of China and India as examples. Human “flourishing” requires resources, and abundant energy (points made by Alex J. Epstein in his book “The Moral Case for Fossil Fuels,” 2014).

https://books.google.com/books?id=_ld9AwAAQBAJ&lpg=PP1&dq=Alex%20Epstein&pg=PP1#v=onepage&q=Alex%20Epstein&f=false

The First Congress, London, 1933

The First Petroleum Congress opened on July 19, 1933 at the Kensington Science Museum, led by its President, Thomas Dewhurst, and 830 delegates from 35 countries. There had been  massive developments in the oil industry since the last scientific oil conference, held in 1907, so presentations were given on the large numbers of reports on the geology of specific fields all over the world and techniques used in exploration and development. Topics included: knock-rating in motor and aviation gasoline, the development of special fuels for high-speed compression engines, recent developments in lubricating oil and viscosity, hydrogenation and the testing of bituminous emulsions.

Houston Congress, 1987

The 12^th Congress was held in Houston from April 26—May 1, 1987 and coincided with the massive Offshore Technology Conference (“OTC”). Close association and joint promotion resulted in higher attendance at both events. Then Vice President George H.W. Bush supported the US bid to host the Twelfth Congress, while the US Secretary of Energy, John S. Herrington, took part in the Opening Ceremony.

At the Houston Congress 2,286 participants from 72 countries presented 104 papers. During the conference, the most serious accident in the nuclear power industry to date occurred at the Chernobyl nuclear reactor, in the Soviet Union. Again, this accident raised serious doubts about the expansion of nuclear electricity generation.

The 23^rd Congress, to be held in Houston, 2020

WPC bestowed another honor, long overdue, on Houston, by choosing it to host the 23^rd Congress in 3 years (2020). Again, thousands of industry leaders will meet here in the world’s energy capital to present papers and carry on the tradition of discussing, learning, and promoting better management of the world’s petroleum resources. The economic impact during December 2020, typically a slow period for tourism, will be significant; most likely as impactful as any OTC of previous years.

Though not as dynamic as 2017’s Super Bowl LI, the WPC is known as the “Olympics” of the oil and gas sector, attracting over 6,000 delegates, 500 Ministers and CEOs, with an expected total of over 25,000 visitors to our city. Shortly after the mess is cleaned up from the massive invasion of professional football fans, the city can start gearing up for the 23^rd World Petroleum Congress. Merry Christmas, 2020! 

##

©Mark H. Pillsbury

Art Musings: What’s the Best Kind of Art?

The universal language of jazz, with healing in every riff.

One listens, absorbs, worships; contemplating life’s what-ifs.

A globule of oil, smudged or smeared, shaped into a lily,

Subtle strokes, airy blue hues, I wonder at such reality.

Translucent watercolor bleeds slightly over a boundary of pencil,

Underpinning the delicate pigment, lines serve as stencil.

Gelatin-silver, contrasting black & white images reflect off of shiny puddles, dotted with raindrops,

The suit, jumping shadows, almost purple-black, at one moment the shutter stops.

Rusting iron soldered at incongruent joints, splayed upon St. Augustine fields, baking in the sun.

Industrial art coexists with the elements, size and shape imbalanced, abstract, gargantuan.

Splattered, sprayed, sprinkled paint, explodes over a gigantic canvas,

Pollock expressed his colors wildly, understood by few of us.

Cerise mud, spun, fired, glowing in the furnace, glazed, painted, and shaped, still copper-red like the earth, The potter’s hands held the clay for what seemed a generation, gently letting it whirl away like a child growing up.

Words can seem scrambled, but go higher and deeper than any of the art you see or I saw,

I’ve read twice the number for pleasure, than I ever studied at law.

They spark with creativity, discussing many forms of art,

These media mentioned move me, but don’t go as deep into my heart.

Words bless, or harm, inform, enlighten with a mysterious power; but they can’t be taken back,

Sharp as a cutlass, pointed as a sword, plunged into flesh whether launched from defense or attack.

Comprehension or translation are lost on a wispy breath of the wind:

“Certains l'aiment chaud” they say, or
“I don’t know what you’re talking about?” 

Can you tell me that again?

Formed together in poetry, words escape the prison of definition;

Sometimes they flutter and sparkle in the dark, fireflies of cognition.

Do they bounce, echo, drift like shadow, lying through their teeth,

Poetry flows to the ocean of truth by the river of deceit.

Visual art as described above, takes the mavens to different places,

Fascination, imitation, contemplation; you can see it in their faces.

Reading a paragraph so skillfully crafted, its contention ringing true in my ears,

“Listen to this,” I’ll say, reading it aloud, truth’s reverberation bringing me to tears.

Pages layered into plot as rings inside a tree, hardened bark covers the story;

A book opens a thousand doorways, using myth, truth, and allegory.

“I am an invisible man, called Eustace Clarence Scrubb, and it was the worst of times,”

These snippets remind me of some of literature’s best opening lines.

Active, alive, and useful as a lamp unto my feet, the Bible.

I smell it like warm bread, knowing there is nourishment when I eat.

That place in my heart where the stockings are hung.

Warm, encouraging words are there; reading it I feel accepted, some call it “home.”

Opening this ancient text is, “Sursum Corda” meaning to uplift,

Dr. Luke's words tell of Christmas, and the most important gift.

Expounding more is wasting time, the art speaks for itself;

I will always look to get mine, from the dusty book shelf.

##

 Poetry 2016©Mark H. Pillsbury

Blogging... Five years in... The Sailboat...

(Dear Reader:)

Keeping a digital diary is very modern, but five years ago, in 2011 I started blogging just to try it out. Not thinking anyone would read my posts, it provided a channel for me to practice writing and find a voice for deeper expression. Also, as the supervisor of school communications, it was an experiment in social media: the Head of School thought Twitter was the coolest thing going, but wouldn't know a "weblog" if it rolled in front of his shiny grey Camry. The New Rostra was my own, and my impression is that many artists don’t create for their audiences until much later in their journey. Blogging allows the writer an intersection of their thoughts and lives; sometimes in juxtaposition, like my partner does here with her art and a diagnosis of breast cancer:

www.theartofcancerblog.wordpress.com

Origins
As I finish 5 and ½ years of blogging and this 142nd post, looking back, I see the same kinds of topics initially placed on the Blogspot® “Profile”: fiction, politics, religion, sports, culture, books, movies, wine, and basic “lifetime” story-telling which has attracted almost 46,000 site visits. Even in today’s fast paced social media society, some of my longest posts are the most clicked; nevertheless I am still surprised when a stranger takes the time to read and comment on what I’ve written. It's fun hitting the “Publish” key after spending time and effort writing a post; however, it is also rewarding to think that a reader out there relates to what you’ve written (agree, disagree, like, dislike, but just read it). This is not a Writer's Manifesto or a Declaration of Blogging Independence, but I'm sure that nowhere else can you sear ideas onto a page like a weblog. Twitter's 140 character limit is a ceiling, a natural filter, so it is on the New Rostra where I explore in depth those thoughts most captivating. 

Building the Machine
Through blogging I’m encouraged to write more, even attempting chapters which might someday be cobbled into a book. There’s a lot of fiction stirring around in my brain if I can ever find time to put it down in short chunks. As I’ve read two (well-known) best-selling authors' latest novels this month, it occurred to me that books are written one chapter at a time, like building a brick wall, brick-by-brick. There’s no magic to it—work is required, and continuity, flow, and character development must be consistent throughout; but a story is made like our lives unfold, one-day-at-a-time. These simple truths do not break any ground to anyone who writes, but blogging reinforces this reality.

Talking w/ Charlie Rose on 11/23/2016, Jon Stewart said about the challenge of developing his long-running Daily Show, which I'm comparing to the art of blogging:

“Would we be able to develop a process, within the inherent juxtaposition of a creative pursuit; which is to say, can we build a machine that is redundant enough, and rigid enough that it can sustain inspiration, improvisation, and creativity?” (end quote)

Dark Doubt
Like a dark enveloping cloud of dense fog, doubt seeps into a writer’s brain, and we tell ourselves there is just no use! No one will read this crap. Who has the time to go to your blog? Aren’t you glad you don’t feed your family doing this? Why would anyone believe anything you put down in writing, who do you think you are?… And so on. Since I’m not trying to leverage my website into advertising income, I don't fight the anxiety of caring (or needing to care) if anyone really visits. If writing posts is my "business", then I’ve lost the love of the work, giving up amateur-status (from Latin amator ‘lover,’ from amare ‘to love.’). Blogging is in some ways about Love. Without being critical of professionals, amateur-status for me, is like the force that makes the sailboat move across the ocean. From tracking site statistics, it is apparent that the more one writes, the more people visit, and the more passionate the topic, the more clicks the post receives. The love of the work, the frequency and passion with which it is done are important, and data has proven this at the New Rostra.

Obstacles
Allow me to admit that sometimes I don't know whether I'm lost or found; I lose the power to write, adrift without creativity (but this is not a investigation into the paradox of "writer's block"). So many topics and issues are on my mind, often I can't sort them out - the cup overflows. With the freedom to sail anywhere across the vast ocean, the writer must not veer off course; but instead, making tacks and turns throughout the plot, one must chart a course and find their destination. Along the way the cutter loses power, “in-irons” as the "doldrums" are called out on the sea. These doldrums, where doubt steals the usefulness of the sails, can only last awhile; soon the writer is back on her way, inspired and moving along with the winds, as if catching one’s breath. As in life, writing is a process, a task, a habit, which must be supported and practiced on a regular basis or it gets atrophied, slow, or even stilled. Doldrums can mean the loss of momentum: even though this blog is a priority, sometimes I can't summon the passion or motivation to write. It's OK to wait, and let curiosity build.

Tomorrow's Sunset
So, as the sun sets on another year of blogging, I'm looking forward to what next year brings?! I'm counting on numerous topics to power the canvas sails. Thank you to the reader, and a salute to all bloggers who think, feel, and post. Keep up the good work... Sail on!

Keeping my tradition of posting a music video to accompany my blog post:

Ben Rector -- "Sailboat"  https://youtu.be/rRyXY4oo21A

This song illustrates the writer's plight, we often feel like a sailboat... 

benrectormusic.com

The New Rostra©Mark H. Pillsbury

(Celebration, Florida) The Town Walt Built. Property Poetry.

In 11-square miles, with pastel-colored condos and warmly hued-homes,

Like the Magic Kingdom nearby, there opened a master-planned community.

Walt himself dreamed of a Disney-themed town that the company owned,

Named “Celebration” with housing, shopping, and public space in proximity.

Now 20 years later, the company sold the center of the city,

The condo owners have filed suit asking for repairs.

The legal claim about the condition is more than whether they’re pretty,

But the new owners, Lexin Capital, claim the fault is not theirs.

Even if this new urbanism seemed like the perfect plan,

Walt isn’t here to take care of the citizens.

This was the early vision of the man,

Yet property management and maintenance takes discipline.

Disney provided vision, money, and development of aesthetics,

At the beginning, it hired architects, builders, and planners.

“Now, we’re slapping on whitewash, or lipstick on a pig,” a board member said it’s pathetic.

Neighbors treat each other well; however, even Democrats show Republicans good manners.

Repair, replacement, and maintenance could cost over 15 million dollars,

A Utopian population of about 10 thousand, worry about resale value of property.

Disney sold its interest over 8-years ago, and now claims they only control exterior paint colors,

The name “Celebration” in its current condition, they say, turns Walt's vision into mockery.

(end)

Adapted from an article I read by @LauraKusisto

http://www.wsj.com/articles/leaks-and-mold-are-ruining-the-disney-magic-in-celebration-florida-1479249246

Poetry ©Mark H. Pillsbury (2016)

The Most Important Venn Diagram in Politics

Venn Diagram in Presidential Politics: 2016

I wrote previously about arbitrage (02/22/2013):  http://rostranovum.blogspot.com/2013/02/beginning-with-letter-arbitrage.html

Arbitrage is the method of finding a trading advantage because of some sort of unknown inequality. I’m fascinated by finding the angle or the area of analysis no one else is looking for?

There’s always a hinge-issue, a decision-point, a key deciding group that swings elections, and finding that group keeps political scientists busy every four years between major elections.

With so much of this cycle focused on the personalities and idiosyncrasies of the top candidates, feeding the cult of personality the salacious purple Kool-Aid of the 24-hour news cycle has dominated the thinking of the professional political class.

But I don’t care about the pundits; I’m interested in a large chunk of US citizens otherwise forgotten in our society. These voters are disaffected, disengaged, and outcast.

In the 2012, 58% percent of registered voters turned out for the very close election between President Obama and Mitt Romney; however, 93 million registered voters did not vote.

Currently, the federal agency which tracks employment, the Labor Department's Bureau of Labor Statistics, said 94.6 million working adults were no longer participating in the workforce—they aren’t employed and they no longer are seeking employment.

A Venn diagram is a diagram that uses circles to illustrate the relationships among sets, and in this case the two sets are as follows: Set A is the large block of registered adults who did not exercise their voting rights in the last Presidential election. Set B is the large group of adults that are of working age and cannot find a job, to the point that they are a group no longer even looking to find a job.

In a Venn diagram, the region in both A and B, where the two sets overlap, is called the intersection of A and B, and it is the area of critical importance in my current thinking regarding Tuesday’s Presidential election. It is the area where the non-voters and the unemployed intersect, a powerful voting block of motivated citizens (hypothetically).

It is at this intersection, where sincere political analysis raises a number of questions:

• How big is the overlap of Set A (non-voters) and Set B (non-workers)?
• Are the the millions in the overlap region motivated enough to decide to vote this Presidential election, as opposed to not voting last time?
• If these people do actually vote, for whom will that voting block cast their ballot?
• Is this voting group big enough to swing the election either way?
• How do these folks think about the direction of our country, or the quality of the nominees?

Wouldn’t this be a great group to track over the next 48-hours…

©Mark H. Pillsbury

Endless Summer: no one wants to read about endings...

Who Writes about Winter:

My Thoughts on the Close of Summer

Endings are hard. They’re even harder to write about. Discussing writing with my young journalist daughter this week, I told her that the hardest thing about writing for her paper is you have to write something that the reader will stay with, that’s why the lead is so important. But you can’t know what interests the reader; you have to write about what’s interesting.

That’s why endings are frequently the topic of discussion, but rarely enough to hold the reader’s attention in this fast-paced media environment. The writer only gets a few seconds nowadays, either grab them or lose them. Closing a chapter, or the end of an era usually holds significance to those whom were there. For me thinking about a high-school buddy who died too early, or the end of a season is interesting, but not to one who believes the rest of their life is like a long stretch of road melting into an orange horizon.

Often the road takes a sudden turn, or the tires go flat. Until you’ve been caught by circumstance without a Plan B, a startling conclusion to best laid plans is not a realistic alternative. When you’re young, it always happens to the other dude. I graduated from college almost thirty years ago, but at the time it seemed the fun would last forever.

And so here we are at the end of another summer. Summer always offers mystery and adventure, warm weather, warmer memories, time to explore and go through the schedule on a relaxed pace. All the years of summer vacation affect the nostalgic way we view the balmy months of June, July, and August. The unique bookend holidays at each side of summer accent its special place in the cultural calendar, and of course I previously wrote about the special holiday in the middle (see July 4, 2016—e pluribus unum).

Looking back today, on Labor Day, my regrets about this summer do exist on a personal level: I now know that there is no “endless summer” and at the end of the road I often regret that I didn’t pack more into the opportunity. I’m happy that the rest of the family enjoyed some adventures and vacation, but my summer involved mostly work and some back pain. OK, no one wants to read about that, but a path without obstacles has no destination.

So the universal thoughts of this season turn to the weather, food, books, travels, smells, and the long evenings with friends and companions bleeding the last bit of light out of a long, wonderful day. You remember those days? We look back on summer for its freedom, the whimsy of celebrations, the adventure of the journey, but most of all for the warmth and fullness of being alive. 

Spring is glorious for how we wait for its colorful eruption, the resurrection from the dead. Spring is the morning of the year. Fall is self-absorbed, organized, and determined to achieve what we've planned. Fall is less about fun, and more about keeping score. Winter is the dull hibernation, the killing of one year and the re-birth of another. Winter is the end. Not much creative writing about winter. ##

©Mark H. Pillsbury

Finally, let me recommend some brilliant writing about this summer which inspired this blog post:

Thank you, Bob Greene for saying it with such class, may my thoughts merely echo yours…

He said so eloquently that the real gift of summer is that there will be another one next year!

http://www.wsj.com/articles/summers-greatest-gift-is-that-next-year-there-will-be-another-1472769683

Looking at Saturn: the Macro versus the Micro Focus

Looking at Saturn: the Macro versus the Micro Focus

On my wife’s birthday last night, we sat by a pool with a very talented host who is both a great cook, and an amateur astronomer. So when the sky got darker later in the evening, he pulled out his handy telescope and searched the summer sky. The kids were playing in the water and mesmerized by their HD hand-held mobile devices; each holding ironically enough computer power to rival any Apollo moon-mission of the 60s or 70s. It made me think of the “micro” self-centered focus of youth; versus the “macro” focus provided by a small little lens through which a squinting eye could see millions of miles away.

Saturn is twice as far away from the sun as is Jupiter and smaller in size, therefore it appears as a reduced image and less bright in the telescope but surrounded by barely visible moons. Just seeing “rings” gives such a jolt of excitement peering that far out into the solar system, and at the same time, Jupiter had two moons clearly hanging out closely to the big red planet. Amazing to see.

The earth’s moon on the other hand, only 240,000 miles from where we stood, is so detailed you can almost see what our neighbors are doing up there on their gray beach, compared to the tiny jewel of Saturn at 880mil. miles out in the dark. We looked at both, and were struck by the splendor of the heavens.  The kids lined up for their view but were quickly more immersed in the tiny red spot of Pokémon than the majestic planets of our solar system.

Maybe it’s the magic of boys and girls together during summertime, the orbiting spheres in the night sky held not the same wonder as the celestial bodies reflected in the clear but murky waters of the dimly lit pool. The time it takes for the reflection of light from Saturn to travel back to earth is about 90 minutes travelling at light-speed. The size, scale, and distance is mind-boggling. If it took the spacecraft Pioneer 11, six and a half years to arrive at Saturn, then it would have consumed half of one of the young boy’s lifetimes in route. That may account for some of the youthful indifference.

But when we can zoom out to the macro perspective it sometimes helps us face our nearer battles. Turning from the navel to the night sky can widen the aperture of our mind; forcing us to crack open the space in our psyche which allows bigger thinking, even eternal contemplation. It was humbling to see so far down the street that it hurt my brain, strained my eyes, and shook my consciousness; comparing the small orbit of my life to that of Saturn, which revolves around the sun once every 29.4 Earth years. How many more trips will I take around our sun? It was fortunate to slow down the speed of life enough to enjoy the heavens and look at life a little closer to home. I'm grateful for every new morning, whatever it holds.

Happy birthday Carrie!

©Mark H. Pillsbury

Fourth of July -- “e plu·ri·bus u·num”  

E pluribus unum (out of many, one)

How can one measure the breadth of our nation’s story? It’s too big, goes on too long, and the family tree spreads from shore to shore. The USA's greatness is freedom of opportunity which it offers to anyone who can make it here and work hard. Also, the abundance of natural resources is on an unprecedented scale, except for places like Russia and China; and their governmental systems are inferior. Our structure of a constitutional republic with separate branches of government continues to outperform competing systems; however it is the irascible spirit of the citizens from all generations that continually refreshes the fount of liberty, keeping the nation’s independence alive.

Maybe the sheer size and diversity of the 50 states insures such economic and cultural disruption that we constantly re-invent the American experiment. My fear is that like a large extended family, it has become disorganized, dysfunctional. The family budget over-extended, leadership unfocused, core principals attacked, I’m afraid the grace of freedom, purchased at a high price by the blood of patriots, has been cheapened by the citizenry enjoying the fruits of the land, but without protecting it as a yeoman does his fields. With the election season almost upon us, I'm anxious, worrying about the choice before us. On this holiday, I pray that the country will find the wisdom, and in God’s providence, we’ll be protected once again from a wrong turn. Jefferson said that lethargy was the forerunner of death to public liberty, so may my words here be a call to thought and action to all who read it; may this season awaken us to what we can do to change our course.

It is the extraordinary power of freedom to change lives from which this nation’s power comes. We have freedom of economic choice, the ability to associate and speak out against any organization or idea, as well as the freedom to worship whatever God we want to believe in without repercussions. Today, as we celebrate our independence on July 4, 2016, my mind goes back to what I saw on the top of the Davis Mountains in west Texas, last summer. I saw a universe that I did not even fathom was as large as it is; and today, I’m putting the 240 years of our country’s existence in perspective with that of the galaxies. Novus ordo seclorum was put on our seal, meaning the USA is a “new order of the ages” and our little star shines bright among the heavens.

I learned that the star we call Thuban, or historically, Alpha Draconis, was considered the “north” pole star until about 1,900 BC. Having gradually drifted away from the pole over the last 4,800 years, Thuban is now seen dimly in the night sky. In the future, after moving nearly 47 degrees off the pole by 10,000 AD, Thuban will gradually move back toward the north celestial pole. Astronomers believe that in 20,346 AD, it will again be the “north” pole star. I didn’t know that our present pole star was a new one, and that eventually Thuban would come back into being on-point. I didn’t know what I didn’t know.

By thinking of the time & space continuum in such a simple way: just finding what I always knew was the North Pole by drawing a straight sight line through the two outer stars of the bowl of the Big Dipper, pointing to Polaris, I can go along with the normal thinking, and do what I always do. But in the context of today’s political environment, at this time, neither party is pointing the same direction they’ve always pointed. We’ve had a shift that is global in nature, especially by Britain leaving the EU. True north isn’t true anymore. Not so long ago, when writing here about the Texas primary, I didn’t imagine the GOP in the position it’s in now; about to run a candidate that most Republicans don’t want. I’m positive that I didn’t imagine the weakened, divided state of the Democratic Party?! We’re in the twilight zone…

So I’m tempted to focus on true north again; once it comes back around to what it’s supposed to be. Our land is vast and plentiful. We have abundant natural resources of oil, gas, wind, water, crops, livestock, metals, and human intelligence. The USA is blessed with innovative citizens, sacrificial servants willing to fight and protect freedoms here and abroad; and enough room to spread out and do whatever activities we want to do, with whom we want to do them. This is still the country everyone in the world dreams about coming to and “making-it” big.

Current poll results: "Only 52 percent of U.S. adults say they are “extremely proud” to be Americans in the latest Gallup poll, representing a new low in the question’s 16-year trend."

The creative output and intellectual property of our various technological industries, such as hi-tech or media, still leads the world and is as “cutting edge” as one can get. Our energy and medical sectors still produce more innovation than the rest of the world combined: other countries must clone-and-go in order to compete by producing the same goods cheaply. Slowly but surely, the society is more giving, tolerant, and peaceful, and this is evident by every measure, it just doesn’t make the six o’clock news; and I’m not sure the two major candidates for President represent this reality? Despite the data shown above made possible by the Gallup organization, most Americans would love to travel abroad, but they always are glad to return to this sacred soil.

As with any family, there are those outstanding members who represent and pull 80% of the weight; and there are those 20% slackers who always show up for a family feast but conveniently forget to bring a bottle of wine. We have the fringe, the leftists and the right-wingers, we have the greatest generation, and the millennials; they’re spread out all over the 50 states and they all have their own precious agendas. That’s in fact the way we celebrate July 4^th! We don’t have a collective parade of the military, or one in which the most prominent guests are politicians; they may be lucky to get a seat in one of the last cars this year. Our parades are individualistic: decorate a bike if it’s all you got, or when I was growing up some dude decorated a tank (which ended-up damaging the streets. #Merica). We party in each other’s backyards, not in the city square. This still is a country which supports individualism; it’s very unique and important to keep this a priority.

On Memorial Day we remember the fallen heroes, on Labor Day we celebrate the broad shoulders of the working majority who built this country, and maintain it; but on the mighty #Fourth, we celebrate Ideas: that all Men, and Women of all kinds are created equal, they are endowed by their creator God with certain inalienable rights (they cannot be taken from us); that among these, are life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness (however you define that to be), under the rule of law. We also remember that the tree of liberty must be refreshed from time to time with the blood of patriots and tyrants. So as ABC13's Marvin Zindler used to call out at the end of the newscast, “good golf, good tennis, or whatever makes you happy!”

e plu·ri·bus u·num (out of many, one). Happy Fourth.

©Mark H. Pillsbury

P.S.: In my tradition of adding a youtube video to illustrate: https://youtu.be/C3oKZOmBReM
(Frank Sinatra on what God really looks like... enjoy #Merica)

Rhino Ranch: final book in the Thalia TX series, 

Starting with The Last Picture Show (1966)

(Book Review)

Like Duane Moore, I’ve walked through 5 books in what began as the Thalia Trilogy and evolved into a series of novels by Larry McMurtry:  The Last Picture Show [“LPS”] (1966), Texasville (1987), Duane’s Depressed [“DD”] (1999), When the Light Goes [“WTLG”] (2007), and finally, Rhino Ranch [“RR”] (2009). That totals approximately 1,760 pages, dating back to 1966 when Duane and the gang were allegedly in high school, placing the beginning circa 1952. The final two books provide some hilarity and probably could have been combined into one longer episode, because they were published within two-years of each other (2007, 2009).

I will always picture Jacy played by the beautiful Cybil Shepherd; but Duane seems hard to characterize, because he is in many ways the Texas “everyman.” McMurtry wrote into Duane the “id” of every Texas male growing up and aging in small town Texas; the unorganized part of his personality structure that contains Duane's basic, instinctual drives is essentially the first-person narrator throughout the entire series. Duane wants to know and (maybe) be known. Duane tries to understand women, sex, his family, the oil business, how a small town runs, his doctors, and most of all the crazy inbred, narrow-minded characters inhabiting Thalia TX. The ranching era is gone, replaced by the era of the picture show and abundant oil, but McMurtry's strength in the series isn't just his historical description of the small town changing into the modern era, but also his deep understanding of the minds and emotions of all the people living and changing along with the times.

Occasionally, the narrative ran off in the ditch, but over the process of reading 5 long novels McMurtry shows that that is life in a little town with one blinking traffic light. Even Karla wove a little out of her lane, or stopped paying attention for a few seconds; and it got her smack-dab in the middle of the front grill of a huge milk truck. It’s easy to get side-tracked in Duane’s wanderings and wondering, but the pace just keeps slowly walking forward through his interesting life; the reader dumbly walking beside him like “Double Aught”, the big black creature in RR. During the LPS and for a small portion of  the book Texasville; the reader thinks that the series is about Sonny Crawford, but he leaves the scene in the middle of the 5 books, somewhere in DD; unhealthy, bitter, and alone—never really over his annulled marriage to Jacy at the end of high school.

There are strong women in the series: Jacy, Genevieve, Jacy’s mother Lois, Karla, Ruth, Jenny, Honor, Annie, K.K., Casey, Dal, and Nattie. Duane consistently struggles with how to communicate and relate to these antagonists, although he remains consistently attractive to women at all stages in his life, even marrying someone much younger, when in his 60s, he couples with the rich dilettante, Annie Cameron, from Marin County, California.

At times the prevalence of sex in these novels is overpowering, but the casual interplay of sexual relationships is a big part of small town living. (R-rating throughout) In the 70's oil boomtown Thalia, sex was just what was going on, as common and unimaginative as their fine-dining choices.

Seeing Duane’s worldview as he contemplates aging, fatherhood, the nature of his striving, his work, and the tension between his person-hood and his performance, made him one of the most relatable characters in Texas fiction. Like Mississippi's Walker Percy, Willie Morris, or William Faulkner, Larry McMurtry is one of this state's greatest writers.

"In his most powerful scenes, especially encounters between Ruth Popper, the wife of Thalia football coach, and Sonny Crawford, the high school student at the center of the novel, the intensity builds not so much through events as through McMurtry's preternaturally precise rendering of what each character is experiencing. Thoughts and feelings culminate in actions or spoken words that then ripple outward, provoking new joys, fears, hesitancies, hopes, longings." (quote by author/critic Gregory Curtis)

I especially understood his desire for true "presence" in his relationships, and distrust of those who merely used him for his money, power, reputation, good looks, or youth. As Duane finally went to a psychiatrist to treat his depression, we all got to watch the peeling back of his psychic “onion” to the point where he finally inspected what made him tick. Although his complex relationship with Honor (his psychiatrist) evolved, at first the counseling sessions rang especially true.

Surely Texan songwriter Don Henley read these books, and in 1989, after LPS and Texasville were separated by 21-years, he wrote “Heart of the Matter”, w/ maybe the long story of Duane’s love life and his personal struggles in his mind:

“There are people in your life who've come and gone,
They let you down, and hurt your pride,
Better put it all behind you; life goes on.
You keep carrin' that anger, it'll eat you up inside” (Don Henley--1989)

When it comes down to it, the heart of these novels and the conclusion of Duane’s story is all about forgiveness. Duane had to forgive his own mother, his best friends, Sam the Lion, Sonny, Jacy, Karla and his kids, as well as all the women he’d loved who let him down. He forgave the little town of Thalia, but most of all, he learned to forgive himself. In order to begin this process, Duane had to quit striving, park his pick-up, and step off of the carousel. Along with intense counseling and long introspective walks, it was also a major heart attack which brought him to a new place of self-awareness. At a point in DD he decides that he’s passed too much of life driving around in his pick-up and so he parks it and begins walking everywhere. His closest friends, family, even the everyday citizen of Thalia thought he had gone crazy, but in fact he’d stepped off the conveyor belt of life, and the cardiovascular benefits of all that walking probably saved his life when the heart attack struck him later.

Rhino Ranch (copyright©2009 by Simon & Schuster, New York) completed the series of novels in the same way an old man’s thoughts jump around in clipped, staccato speech patterns. Was it deliberately written to be indicative of the weakened brain of an elderly person? The short chapters often humored me, yet much of it was sad; it was good to see Duane reach a point of peace with many of the ghosts of his past. 

The long history of Thalia, which survived on gossip, personified by its most memorable citizen, comes to an end with this book. Powerfully connecting with a literary character on such a personal level is the sign of good writing. Wanting to see him grow and succeed, missing him every day before you are compelled to return to the story before bedtime: this is why I strongly recommend the investment it takes to read these novels. Mr. McMurtry has my sincere admiration for giving me a new friend; but was I predisposed to relate to Duane because I’ve also walked a similar path over many decades? I don’t think so. 

With a wide array of characters and worldviews expressed during the stories, McMurtry gives any reader a chance to see through another’s eyes, and none of the characters are especially evil or troublesome—just very human; interconnecting like only a small town can do. The final two volumes play out as sweetly and poignantly as the long, full life of Duane Moore, with many people stepping on and off his stage, living and dying and touching his life in some unique way. It was brought to a realistic, respectful conclusion and even though I will probably never return to this series; I'll never forget little Thalia. (5-***** for all five books) 

copyright©2016 by Mark H. Pillsbury

Chicken Parm-Stuffed Spaghetti Squash

We cooked this using #YouTube and watching #MarchMadness

Switched to "Broil" on the second oven session w/ Mozzarella and Parmesan.

This was cooked w/ love at the end of #springbreak as "comfort food."

Q: (So how's your job going, Mark?)  A: (can I answer like a writer?)

I saw this excerpt in a book about writing by Annie Dillard. It's a story told about an old man living on a small, rustic island on the Northwest corner of Oregon near an inlet with a strong current... Here's where we pick up the story:

"One evening," the man (Paul) told me, "Ferrar saw a log floating out in the channel. It looked yellow, like Alaska cedar; he hoped it was Alaska cedar. He rowed out to see it."

Everyone on the island scavenged the valuable logs, for building. If the logs did not wash up on the beach, it took a motorboat go get them in; they were heavy in the water.

"It was high tide, slack.  Ferrar saw the log, launched his little skiff at Fishery Point, and rowed out in the channel. Sure enough, it was that beautiful Alaska cedar, that pale yellow wood, just a short log, about eight feet, or he never would have tried it without a motor. I guess he thought he could row it in while the tide was still slack.

"He tied onto the log" (such logs often have a big iron staple hammered into one end) "and started rowing back home with it. He had about twenty feet of line on it. He started rowing home, and the tide caught him."

(From Paul's window, I could look north up the beach and see Fishery Point. One of Ferrar's sons still used that old rowboat-a little eight-foot pram, now painted yellow and blue. Paul's blue eyes caught mine again)

"The tide started going out, and it caught that log and dragged it south. Ferrar kept rowing back north toward his house. The tide pulled him south down the strait here" (Paul indicated the long sweep of salt water in front of his house) "from one end to the other. Ferrar kept rowing toward Fishery Point. He might as well have tied onto a whale. He was rowing to the north and moving fast to the south. He traveled stern first. He wanted to be going home, so toward home he kept pulling.”

“When the sun set, at about nine o'clock (late for northern latitude), he'd swept south the length of this beach, rowing north all the way. When the moon rose a few hours later-he told us-he saw he'd swept south past the island altogether and out into the channel between here and Stuart Island. He had been rowing through those dark hours. He continued to row away from Stuart Island and yet continued to see it get closer.”

"Then he felt the tide go slack, and then he felt it coming in again. The current had reversed.

"Ferrar kept rowing in the half moonlight. The tide poured in from the south. He kept rowing north for home; only now the log was with him. He and his log were both floating on the current, and the current was bearing them up and carrying them like platters. It started getting light at about three o'clock that morning, and he rowed back past this island's southern tip.  The sun came up, and he rowed all the length of this beach. The tide brought him back on home. His wife, June, saw him coming; she'd been curious about him all night."

Paul had a wide, loose smile. He shifted in his chair. He raised his coffee cup, as if to say, Cheers!

"He pulled up on his own beach. They got the log rolled beyond the tideline. I saw him a few days later. Everybody on the island knew he’d been carried out almost to Stuart Island, trying to bring in a log.”

“Everybody knew he just kept rowing in the same direction. I asked him about it. He said he had a little backache, but I didn't see the palms of his hands."

Paul looked into his empty coffee cup, pleased, and then looked through the window, still smiling. I started to carry my coffee cup to the sink, but he motioned me down (sit down!). He wasn't finished.

"So that's how my work is going," he said. What?

"You asked how my work is going," he said.

"That's how it's going. The current's got me. Feels like I'm about in the middle of the channel now. I just keep at it. I just keep hoping the tide will turn, and bring me in." ##

[portions excerpted from The Writing Life, ©Annie Dillard
(1989 Harper & Row, Publishers, Inc.)]