Tuesday, August 25, 2009

A Note about a Hero

My coworker and compartriot, Clams Cosino, is a hero.

See, Clams went above and beyond the call of reason recently, and while that's not unusual, he did so on my behalf. On Saturday night, Jeggy and I were invited to Soldier Field to see the Bears play the Giants (in what I am told was a preseason game) by a generous coworker of hers. It was my first time visiting that venerable stadium with a funny hat, and I was not aware that I would be patted down by security prior to entrance. Naturally, I was carrying a good-sized pocket knife. Apprised of this fact, Jeggs suggested I divest myself of all such menacing objects and deposit my knife in the nearest trash can.

"Nay," said I.

Instead, I chose to hide it under a bush and creep back to it after the game. I do creep, on occasion.

So it went and so we went and the game was a success for the hometown team and everyone involved was very pleased, except, I expect, the hapless Giants. We had startlingly good seats--16 rows up between the 30 and 40 yard lines--and I ate an Italian beef sandwich and drank a domestic beer. Not so bad an August evening.

When we left the ol' gridiron (as I am told it is called), however, there was an unexpected obstacle to my reunion with my old knife. A security guard. Standing, more or less, atop the very bush where it was located. I had my own misgivings, but Jessica had more.

"You're not," she said, "going to crawl about at that man's feet and come up with a knife."

". . .Nay," said I, sadly.

The next day, as I related this story to one Clams Cosino, I could see him hatching something noble under his pale and dimpled scalp.

"I am going on a knife quest," he announced with the quiet dignity inherent to his being. "I am going to recover the lost knife!"

This struck me as overly generous, given especially my penchant for punching Clams in the kidneys, but I drew the fellow a map and promised him a wealth of Dr. Pepper for his success.

And he was. A success. A trifle bit rusty and with a dashing dirt patina, my pocket knife was back in my pocket.

Hats off to you, Clams!

Friday, August 21, 2009

My Dad in his new cycling jersey


Happy birthday, little Dad!

Monday, August 10, 2009

From the new NEA chairman

In American politics generally, Landesman added: “The arts are a little bit of a target. The subtext is that it is elitist, left wing, maybe even a little gay.”

Sunday, August 09, 2009

Book Review: Three Works by Jakov Lind

I gave a brief overview of Jakov Lind's recent and forthcoming reprints in The Quarterly Conversation.

Brief.

Tuesday, August 04, 2009

An Excerpt from THE GAIETY OF HENRY JAMES by Norman Lock

Henry traipses through Central Park in search of wood nymphs, such is the overheated condition of his fancy. He would not mind in the least being ravaged by a mythological being, so long as she alludes, at least in part, to a woman. He finds no wood nymphs, alas. Instead, he discovers Lord Baden-Powell artfully concealed in a shrubbery.

“I am Lord Baden-Powell, Companion, Order of the Bath; Grand Commander of the Order of Christ; Grand Commander of the Order of the Redeemer; Commander of the Order of the Oaken Crown; Storkos of the Order of Dannebrog; Commander of the Legion of Honor, Knight of Grace of St. John of Jerusalem; Knight Grand Cross of the Order of St. Michael and St. George; Knight Grand Cross of Alfonso XII of Spain; Knight of the Order of Polonia Restituta, and also of Amanullah, the Red Cross of Estonia, the White Lion, the Grand Cross of the Order of the Sword, and the Grand Cross of the Order of the Three Stars.”

He salutes the novelist, smartly, the blade of his hand disappearing under the wheeling brim of his campaign hat. Henry lifts his top hat in answer.

“I am Henry James, author of The American, Daisy Miller, The Portrait of a Lady, The Bostonians, The Princess Casamassima, The Tragic Muse, What Maisie Knew, Spoils of Poynton, The Turn of the Screw, The Sacred Fount, The Wings of the Dove, The Ambassadors, The Golden Bowl and – to be left unfinished at my death – The Ivory Tower and The Sense of the Past. What brings you, sir, to Central Park?”

“I am in search of boys for the international Boy Scout movement, which I fathered.”

“I myself am in search of nymphs. I long for La belle époque.”

CASABLANCA by Elizabeth Bishop

Love's the boy stood on the burning deck
Trying to recite "The boy stood on
The burning deck." Love's the son

Stood stammering elocution

While the poor ship in flames went down.

Love's the obstinate boy, the ship,
Even the swimming sailors, who
Would like a school platform, too,

Or an excuse to stay

On deck. And love's the burning boy.