By far the favorite bus song for our daily ride to Chaminade High School (Bill O'Reilly's alma mater) was Jewish. Picture a bus full of Irish, Italian, German and Greek Catholic kids thundering down Old Country Road to the tune of Hava Nagilia, led by Richie Segal, grandson of a Jewish Cantor (musician who leads the congregation in songful prayer).
And believe me, if Richie could have figured out a way to climb on the roof of the bus to lead the choir, he would have.
Sunday, December 29, 2013
Monday, November 11, 2013
Partly Cloudy On a Planet You Don't Live On
My 11-year-old daughter and I were trying to understand a science article for Arizona's amazing Large Binocular Telescope. The story was about Arizona scientists looking at a planet a bazillion miles away: Non-equilibrium Chemistry Patch Clouds Model. What does that mean she asks. Before I could answer (as if I could) she said: "I get it! Partly cloudy today on a planet you don't live on...with a chance of rain!"
"Directly Imaged L-T Transition Exoplanets in the Mid-Infrared"
http://arxiv.org/pdf/1311.2085
H8799 b, c, d, e
"Directly Imaged L-T Transition Exoplanets in the Mid-Infrared"
http://arxiv.org/pdf/1311.2085
H8799 b, c, d, e
Saturday, November 2, 2013
Even Marx Believed in Hell
We went to Ireland on our honeymoon. Everyone was very pleasant and helpful during the trip. Even the poor old Irish nun who sat next to us on the plane ride over and asked my wife "Why are you visiting Ireland, you don't look Irish?" said it in the most innocent well intentioned way.
My grandmother Honoragh would say "The road to hell is paved with good intentions." This expression is sometimes attributed to Marx. Although she was very fond of the TV show "You Bet Your Life", she certainly never read Das Capital where the quip appears. Maybe she picked it up from her brother Ned, the IRA captain who joined the Wobblies after the British released him from prison and he came to America. "The Road to Hell" probably originated with St. Bernard of Clairvaux who preached the Second Crusade and was gravely saddened by its failure and the great loss of life. No doubt Marx had some regrets, too. Interesting to think that even Marx believed in Hell.
* * * * * *
Grandma Honoragh's favorite TV shows:
You Bet Your Life -- Groucho Marx
Life is Worth Living -- Bishop Fulton J. Sheen
The Liberace Show -- Liberace
The Lawrence Welk Show -- Lawrence Welk
* * * * * *
Grandma Honoragh's favorite TV shows:
You Bet Your Life -- Groucho Marx
Life is Worth Living -- Bishop Fulton J. Sheen
The Liberace Show -- Liberace
The Lawrence Welk Show -- Lawrence Welk
Saturday, October 26, 2013
How I became Hispanic.
Some years ago I was working at home and a knocking came at the door. When I opened the door there was a young woman.
How can I help you, says I.
I am here to take the census.
This gave pause as it was 1995. You are very early or very late, says I.
Oh, we're taking a special census. We think we've missed some of the Hispanics in the last census and the city can get more money from the federal government if we find them.
I'd be glad to help you find the lost Hispanics. How can I help?
I just have two questions you need to answer.
Go ahead, says I.
What is your race?
Scientifically there is no such thing as race, young lady.
(since this was the government, I demurred on my "we're all one in Christ bit")
She didn't miss a beat and checked off race = smart aleck.
Do you have any Hispanic ancestry. (the infinitely powerful word any)
What do you mean by any.
Any ancestor from any country on this list.
And she handed me a very long list. I turned it over to the other side and found a match.
Yes, says I.
She smiled, elated that she had found one of the lost Hispanics, said thanks and was off without another word, not bothering to ask about my ancestor the Spanish Armada sailor shipwrecked on the Irish coast.
---------------------------
The identity we know as Hispanic today is a result of the marriage of Celtic Iberia and the Roman Republic, whose forces under Scipio Africanus allied with Spain's Celts to defeat Hannibal of Carthage during the Punic wars.
"Livy tells the story of the capture of a beautiful woman by his troops, who offered her to Scipio as a prize of war. Scipio was astonished by her beauty, but discovered that the woman was betrothed to a Celtiberian chieftain named Allucius. He returned her to her fiancé, along with the money that had been offered by her parents to ransom her. While Scipio was long known for his great chivalry, Scipio doubtless also realized that the [Roman] Senate's first priority was the war in Italy, and in the midst of the Carthaginian base in Hispania, he was to be outnumbered without much hope of reinforcement. It was paramount therefore that Scipio cooperate with local chieftains to both supply and reinforce his small army. The woman's fiance, who soon married her, naturally brought over his tribe to support the Roman armies"
-- Livy, Ab urbe condita
How can I help you, says I.
I am here to take the census.
This gave pause as it was 1995. You are very early or very late, says I.
Oh, we're taking a special census. We think we've missed some of the Hispanics in the last census and the city can get more money from the federal government if we find them.
I'd be glad to help you find the lost Hispanics. How can I help?
I just have two questions you need to answer.
Go ahead, says I.
What is your race?
Scientifically there is no such thing as race, young lady.
(since this was the government, I demurred on my "we're all one in Christ bit")
She didn't miss a beat and checked off race = smart aleck.
Do you have any Hispanic ancestry. (the infinitely powerful word any)
What do you mean by any.
Any ancestor from any country on this list.
And she handed me a very long list. I turned it over to the other side and found a match.
Yes, says I.
She smiled, elated that she had found one of the lost Hispanics, said thanks and was off without another word, not bothering to ask about my ancestor the Spanish Armada sailor shipwrecked on the Irish coast.
---------------------------
The identity we know as Hispanic today is a result of the marriage of Celtic Iberia and the Roman Republic, whose forces under Scipio Africanus allied with Spain's Celts to defeat Hannibal of Carthage during the Punic wars.
"Livy tells the story of the capture of a beautiful woman by his troops, who offered her to Scipio as a prize of war. Scipio was astonished by her beauty, but discovered that the woman was betrothed to a Celtiberian chieftain named Allucius. He returned her to her fiancé, along with the money that had been offered by her parents to ransom her. While Scipio was long known for his great chivalry, Scipio doubtless also realized that the [Roman] Senate's first priority was the war in Italy, and in the midst of the Carthaginian base in Hispania, he was to be outnumbered without much hope of reinforcement. It was paramount therefore that Scipio cooperate with local chieftains to both supply and reinforce his small army. The woman's fiance, who soon married her, naturally brought over his tribe to support the Roman armies"
-- Livy, Ab urbe condita
Monday, October 21, 2013
The Way of the Dragon
My young brother was out shopping one fine Topeka day and as he approached the Walmart entrance he came upon a young couple being accosted by several skinheads. It was a nasty pushing and shoving, profanity laced, intimidating altercation. Tim walks up and shouts at the skinheads to stop. Which they do and immediately start screaming and threatening my brother. Tim's response is to shout. I'm FBI and if you guys don't beat it, I'm taking you all in. (Tim's credibility on this was helped by the fact that he is 6' 3'' and looks like his great-grandfather, one of the NYPD's 40 Immortals). The skinheads head for the Flint Hills.
Relieved of this trouble Tim proceeds into the Walmart where he encounters the young couple. The young woman is in tears. Her husband has his arms wrapped around her and turns his head to my brother. "Thank you so much for stopping them. Are you really FBI?" "Yes that's true," says my brother with a smile. "Full Blooded Irishman." Quick on his feet, too.
Friday, October 18, 2013
The Quiet Man
When the Irish students at Holy Cross discovered that Clarence Thomas and Ted Wells had formed a Black Students Union, they felt left out. The British were long gone from County Clare, the civil rights movement in Northern Ireland was still just a twinkle in Bernadette Devlin's eye, and the Bloody Sunday Bogside Massacre was four years off. The Catholic Church had done it's darnedest to drill into us "Render unto Caesar what is Caesar's, and unto God what is God's." But we were all reeling from the assassinations: Kennedy, King, Kennedy. The Vietnam war was a bad dream that wouldn't go away (and still is), spoiling what was left of our little honeymoon at Holy Cross before getting on with life.
Little IRA signs started appearing around the campus. They should have read Sinn Fein, but with the Jesuits more interested in teaching Latin and Greek and, with few Gaelic speakers among the students, few would have gotten the message.
Not long after, a bunch of freshmen marched on Mulledy Hall, the junior and senior residence, rumored to be the headquarters of the Holy Cross chapter of the Irish Republican Army. IRA! IRA! IRA! They chanted. We cowered at the windows, watching them, looking at each other, wondering what would happen next. A large fellow, a tackle on the football team who didn't say much, appeared and asked what the commotion was. "They think this is IRA headquarters and won't leave." He thought about this for a moment and said, "Okay, I'll take care of it."
He went outside and invited the demonstrators in.
"Thank you for coming, Lads."
"Please take a seat on the floor and I will share with you our plans."
"Ireland is yet not free!"
"Brits out of Ireland!"
"HOOORAY!!!!!" shouted the freshmen
"We oppose tyranny and oppression wherever it may be!"
"HOOORAY!!!!!" shouted the freshman
"We are behind the blacks students 100 percent in their fight against tyranny and oppression!"
"HOOORAY!!!!!" shouted the freshmen
"When they take over the ROTC building, we'll take over the greenhouse!"
"HOOORAY!!!!!" shouted the freshmen
"We are a secret society. Here's what I need you to do."
"HOOORAY!!!!!" shouted the freshmen
"Go back to your rooms and don't say a word about our meeting to anyone. Not even your confessor."
"HOOORAY!!!!!" shouted the freshmen
"We are never to be seen talking together in public again."
"When I need you, I will call on you."
"HOOORAY!!!!!" shouted the freshmen
"Now leave by different doors, by one's and two's."
"Be careful you're not followed. There are informers among us."
The freshman drifted off into the night.
The Usual Suspects
Appearances can be deceiving,
but the Madison #1 Wildcats are doing algebra homework.
Who's afraid of Keyser Soze?
Is fearr Gaeilge briste, ná Béarla clíste.
¿Quién tiene miedo de Keyser Soze?
Quem tem medo de Keyser Soze?
Hvem er bange for Keyser Soze?
Is fearr Gaeilge briste, ná Béarla clíste.
Tuesday, October 15, 2013
Night at the Museum
Las chicas sólo quieren divertirse!
Garotas só querem divertir!
Le ragazze vogliono solo divertirsi!
Piger vil bare have det sjovt!
Girls just want to have fun!
Is folamh fuar e teach gan bean
Is folamh fuar e teach gan bean
Saturday, October 12, 2013
Friday, September 27, 2013
8 Mile
Not quite. The hills in the distance were gray shadows you could make out through the mist and the rain of Prince William Sound. From a fishing boat you look up from your work and all around you see where sky and water meet. Even on a clear day you can't see anything else but mountain tops farther out than 8 mile. On the run out of Homer there'd been plenty to fill your eyes. The glaciers in Kachemak Bay, fingers of ice holding onto the ridge on the south shore in July. Augustine Island: the smoking volcano, the solidary sentinel standing guard at the entrance to Cook Inlet.
The boat's not fast so there's plenty of time for dolphins to find us and keep company. Up north the dolphins are black and white, like little killer whales. They put on quite a performance doing twists and somersaults in the boat's bow wake. Then they're gone. Time for lunch? Or just fickle like young women.
Whales can be curious. They sneak up on you and announce they're here with a belch of air and water. Then they slide alongside, disappear in the water ahead and pop head high in the air to get a better look at you.
A local looked at me after I arrived. This is pretty hard work. He was trying to intimidate me. You think you can cut it? Do the fish shoot back (contemplating the 200 raids I'd survived during the war)? Nope, he said with a puzzled look. I'll be fine.
You work from dawn till dusk, in July in Prince William Sound that means 3 or 4 hours sleep. When the salmon are running, you do nothing but work. No one wants to hear that you're tired, sick or hurt. Just work.
And at the end of the day and the beginning, you'll have another job. On a small seiner, the deckhand doubles as the cook. My specialties were beer pancakes for breakfast and fresh caught salmon for dinner. The crew, the philistines, never wanted salmon: give us steak or burgers. I tried chicken and dumplings once. The dumplings ended up being just soggy dough. I blamed it on the diesel drip stove that took forever to heat up, but it was probably not having any milk on the fishing grounds, so I substituted beer for milk in the recipe. It worked for the pancakes, so why not for dumplings.
Before long a deckhand's hands become so tough you can't open them all the way. Cut yourself with a knife, you don't bleed.
Grab the end of the big seine net you forgot to secure and you'll get whipped across the deck faster than you can say Jack Robinson. Pray you let go of the net before it pulls you in the water. If you go in, the cold water blows the air right out of your lungs. Don't get your boots off before they fill with water, you sink. Get tangled in the net you're probably a goner, too.
Almost freezing in July your fishing gear keeps you warm while the net races off the stern and into the water, its floats clopping on the end of the deck as they go over the side. The freezing rain hits your face like an amphetamine, a rush carrying you through the job of hauling in the big net. When you're heaving it in, it feels like it will pull the muscles right off your bones.
Three miles off shore in the driving rain with the engine cut off because there's a net with 2,000 salmon alongside. The wind was driving us on the rocks and not another boat anywhere to be seen. We should have cut the fish loose. Even in the summer the cold waters of the Sound will kill you quick. 2,000 salmon was too big a payday, we were young, reckless, rolled the dice and bagged the fish. As I looked up after bringing the last fish abroad, a wave broke over the rocks that were almost close enough to touch. The engine started and we pulled away.
The boat's not fast so there's plenty of time for dolphins to find us and keep company. Up north the dolphins are black and white, like little killer whales. They put on quite a performance doing twists and somersaults in the boat's bow wake. Then they're gone. Time for lunch? Or just fickle like young women.
Whales can be curious. They sneak up on you and announce they're here with a belch of air and water. Then they slide alongside, disappear in the water ahead and pop head high in the air to get a better look at you.
A local looked at me after I arrived. This is pretty hard work. He was trying to intimidate me. You think you can cut it? Do the fish shoot back (contemplating the 200 raids I'd survived during the war)? Nope, he said with a puzzled look. I'll be fine.
You work from dawn till dusk, in July in Prince William Sound that means 3 or 4 hours sleep. When the salmon are running, you do nothing but work. No one wants to hear that you're tired, sick or hurt. Just work.
And at the end of the day and the beginning, you'll have another job. On a small seiner, the deckhand doubles as the cook. My specialties were beer pancakes for breakfast and fresh caught salmon for dinner. The crew, the philistines, never wanted salmon: give us steak or burgers. I tried chicken and dumplings once. The dumplings ended up being just soggy dough. I blamed it on the diesel drip stove that took forever to heat up, but it was probably not having any milk on the fishing grounds, so I substituted beer for milk in the recipe. It worked for the pancakes, so why not for dumplings.
Before long a deckhand's hands become so tough you can't open them all the way. Cut yourself with a knife, you don't bleed.
Grab the end of the big seine net you forgot to secure and you'll get whipped across the deck faster than you can say Jack Robinson. Pray you let go of the net before it pulls you in the water. If you go in, the cold water blows the air right out of your lungs. Don't get your boots off before they fill with water, you sink. Get tangled in the net you're probably a goner, too.
Almost freezing in July your fishing gear keeps you warm while the net races off the stern and into the water, its floats clopping on the end of the deck as they go over the side. The freezing rain hits your face like an amphetamine, a rush carrying you through the job of hauling in the big net. When you're heaving it in, it feels like it will pull the muscles right off your bones.
Three miles off shore in the driving rain with the engine cut off because there's a net with 2,000 salmon alongside. The wind was driving us on the rocks and not another boat anywhere to be seen. We should have cut the fish loose. Even in the summer the cold waters of the Sound will kill you quick. 2,000 salmon was too big a payday, we were young, reckless, rolled the dice and bagged the fish. As I looked up after bringing the last fish abroad, a wave broke over the rocks that were almost close enough to touch. The engine started and we pulled away.
Thursday, September 12, 2013
The Last Hurrah
St. Patrick's Day, Topeka, KS, many years ago. Al is smiling, but inside he is sad. Someone's just told him: we're glad to have you march in the parade, but no "Al for President" signs. No politics in the parade. We all looked younger then. I don't know why he was worried about the signs. There wasn't a single person in town who didn't know who he was and why he was there.
Courtesy the Topeka Taxi Service
Saturday, August 3, 2013
Thursday, July 11, 2013
Young and Black in Arizona
One of the most entertaining parts of life in Arizona is driving my son and his friends around. To the movies, the pool, to spring training baseball games. They get caught up in a frenzy of animated story telling. Their middle school adventures are retold like they happened yesterday, even some that happened years ago. They repeat themselves a lot. How they tricked this or that teacher. Their schoolyard fights and football games. The time they got detention for defacing somebody's social studies poster about racism and anti-Semitism with "Hitler and the KKK are gay" graffiti. Trying to interject that they shouldn't fight or say bad things about gay people only gets the response (if any) that we're never backing down and what do the teachers expect when they let people put up posters with Hitler and the KKK in a room with black, Catholic and Jewish kids.
Even when the stories turn dark there's still great revelry in their telling. After the basketball game at Maryvale in central Phoenix when the other team's cheerleaders followed them to the bus shouting profanities and throwing rocks at our team's bus as it left the parking lot. The baseball game when our black pitcher was winding up and a Latino parent cheering for the other side shouted to the batter "wait until he throws you another watermelon!"
The most troubling story was about a cousin getting suspended for slamming a schoolmate's head into a door and opening up a cut that required stitches. I asked why in Heaven's Name would he have done that. His cousin sitting in the back seat matter-of-factly replied: "This Mexican kid was following him around all day calling him the N word. So my cousin got fed up and clobbered him. Then the kid's parents got after us and said they'd shoot us if we ever walked by their house. So after that my cousin and I always had to take the long way home from the Sunnyslope community center, cause they sounded like they really meant it."
Even when the stories turn dark there's still great revelry in their telling. After the basketball game at Maryvale in central Phoenix when the other team's cheerleaders followed them to the bus shouting profanities and throwing rocks at our team's bus as it left the parking lot. The baseball game when our black pitcher was winding up and a Latino parent cheering for the other side shouted to the batter "wait until he throws you another watermelon!"
The most troubling story was about a cousin getting suspended for slamming a schoolmate's head into a door and opening up a cut that required stitches. I asked why in Heaven's Name would he have done that. His cousin sitting in the back seat matter-of-factly replied: "This Mexican kid was following him around all day calling him the N word. So my cousin got fed up and clobbered him. Then the kid's parents got after us and said they'd shoot us if we ever walked by their house. So after that my cousin and I always had to take the long way home from the Sunnyslope community center, cause they sounded like they really meant it."
Monday, April 29, 2013
Monday, April 22, 2013
Enter the Dragon
It was late Sunday afternoon at the downtown Phoenix dining hall run by the Catholics for the homeless, a nasty neighborhood. Outside the temperature was over 110. Inside the swamp coolers and thick concrete walls of the crumbling old gray building weren't keeping it much cooler. Shouts came from the dining hall. I ran out from the kitchen to see what was going on. In the middle of the room where 200 people were eating, not one raised his eyes to see what was happening. Six black men were stomping another black man lying on the ground. The young Notre Dame graduate who ran the place was standing on the periphery not knowing what quite to do. I pushed him out of the way, elbowed past the attackers and straddled the man on the ground. The man facing me shouted "I'm going to kill you Mother F..ker!" I wanted to drive my fist through his face, and in my younger days would have let him have it in an instant, but now I was older and wiser. Instead of starting a riot with me in the middle of the fight, outnumbered, I shouted back: "this is God's house! Stop and get out or you'll never eat here again!" I watched for a knife, trying not to break eye contact. My testicles were trying to hide behind my spine. The victim scooted away and out the door while his attackers were distracted. Then they all just stopped and without a word drifted out the door, too.
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