How long has it been since those cute little aluminum scooters with the very small wheels were all the rage? I remember my grandsons having them, and unless my memory is totally corroded, it was at least ten years ago. I don’t spend a lot of time around local schoolyards, so I have no idea if there are kids still using them. My immediate sense is that they were long ago replaced by skate boards. But, skate boards are noisy and you can do tricks like trying to kill yourself riding along a railing.
I know they’re still being used because, flouting the local law (or at least the condominium law) I hear the unmistakable sounds of them being ridden on the tile plaza in front of our building.
Gone? I thought so. But in Paris they are ubiquitous. Every kid, even the smallest, seems to have one. Adults have them. I see ordinarily dignified young matrons tearing along the sidewalk in them. They are a lot more people-friendly than the skate boards, which seem to part of juvenile mayhem. I know, I’m idealizing, because the kids in Paris are probably no different from the kids in Toronto or Timmins or Calgary. If you have kids or know kids who are still using those scooters, I’d enjoy knowing.
Now, at the risk of bottoming out again with my reflections on tourists – an observation from the sidewalk in front of the restaurant “Petit Chatelet” which is on the quay across from Notre Dame. It has no stars, Michelin or otherwise. What it does have though. Is a menu that seems to scare off potential customers? I do it. Everyone does it. We scan menu in front of restaurants. We pretend that we are checking out the selection. In fact, most of us are checking the prices, often turning away looking for greener (or less green in another sense) fields.
Perhaps the prime visitor destination is the area around Notre Dame and the beginning of Boulevard St. Michel. There are huge restaurants, most of them designed for people-watching. The word “brasserie” seems to be the most attractive. (I always wonder how many people know that “brasserie” means brewery.) The food is usually acceptable and the prices are, by Paris standards, pretty acceptable.
The night before, we went to a heart-stopping performance Chopin. Tonight it was to be Beethoven and Chopin by the same young pianist Jean-Christopher Millot, We stopped for dinner. Everything was jammed, except for Le Petit Chatelet. It seems to be deserted. There were a few people inside and no one on the sidewalk. It was raining, but there was plenty of shelter under a spacious awning. Because part of the pleasure (as with any sidewalk eatery) is people-watching, we sat outside. Our host was a charming man who seemed to be enthusiastic about every choice we made – from the wine, a quite surprisingly good Bordeaux, to the plats, a filet for me and veal for Shirley. I asked if the steak came with frites. He tried not to seem offended when he said “No, only Dauphinoise.” (And one other which I don’t remember.) Both our meals, although they were not Michelin star-worthy, we really very good. But the interesting part was to watch the travelers (notice the avoidance of the other “T” word?”) look behind us and check out the menu, mutter to each other, and depart. I suspect it had to do with the prices, a little bit higher than the crowded brasserie down the street.
I have a travel axiom: if you visit a place that is a “hot” destination – don’t expect bargains. Don’t; plan a trip to Paris (or New York) unless you are prepared to spend money. Besides, it always ruins a vacation where you have spent thousands already paying for air fare and hotel, to start skimping on dinner.
In fact, the entire meal, including the bottle of wine, came to just over 100 Euro. Remember, the price is “service compris” so whatever you add is a nominal amount and only if the service has been especially good. In Paris we find that service is unpredictable. In this case it was quick and cordial. Just yesterday we stopped for brunch at a large café in our arrondissment, called:"Indiana" (is it to make Americans feel at home?) After 15 minutes of being ignored, we went next door to "Del Papa" and had a splendid Italian lunch with impeccable service.
Shirley and I remember George S. Kaufman, whose impatience with waiters was; legendary. (How wonderful those round table get-togethers at the Algonquin must have been – with Kaufman, Benchley, Parker and all the rest of those literary heroes.) I remember Kaufman’s famous obituary for a waiter. On the tombstone was, according to Kaufman, an inscription that read “God finally caught his eye.”
The best was yet to come. Our newfound friend concert; producer Bernard Carrier had
Invited us to be his guests at a concert the preceding night. It was so good we came back again (paying this time) for another wonderful evening with Jean Christophe Millot.
Because I do love music, and love, musicians even more, I was delighted to have a chance to chat with Jean Christophe. Apologizing for my lack of words and hoping I could make myself understood, I gave him my reactions. Because he speaks virtually no English, I had to use French, which is difficult if you want to get into the more abstract. I struggled. He understood. I said (in French) “Last knight was marvelous. Tonight was even better.” He nodded appreciatively. There was no sense that I had appointed myself critic and was making gratuitous comments. “Tonight you were much more confident. Your technique was smooth. You treated Beethoven like the romantic that he was. You; played the three sonatas as if they had been written by, or at least played by Mendelssohn.’ He smiled and bobbed hi head up and down. He told me I was exactly right. He knew it. He knew that he was very tired from traveling the previous night. There was no sense that this young man was at all offended. He may have known that I was standing in the front row calling out “Bravo.”
This week, although I am not usually a big fan of vocal music, we go a concert entitled “Pavarotti.” A young tenor will sing many of the master’s famous arias. After the concert we will take Bernard for dinner and have more conversation about music,
The secret reason is that I have been hunting everywhere for a; place to practice that is close to where we stay. A virtuoso I am not, but when you pay for weekly lessons, it is foolish to allow yourself to get rusty. I am “rusty” enough as it is.
Wednesday, May 12, 2010
Monday, May 10, 2010
LETTER FROM PARIS #17 Another fad? And more...
How long has it been since those cute little aluminum scooters with the very small wheels were all the rage? I remember my grandsons having them, and unless my memory is totally corroded, it was at least ten years ago. I don’t spend a lot of time around local schoolyards, so I have no idea if there are kids still using them. My immediate sense is that they were long ago replaced by skate boards. But, skate boards are noisy and you can do tricks like trying to kill yourself riding along a railing.
I know they’re still being used because, flouting the local law (or at least the condominium law) I hear the unmistakable sounds of them being ridden on the tile plaza in front of our building.
Gone? I thought so. But in Paris they are ubiquitous. Every kid, even the smallest, seems to have one. Adults have them. I see dignified young matrons tearing along the sidewalk in them. They are a lot more people-friendly than the skate boards, which seem to part of juvenile mayhem. I know, I’m idealizing, because the kids in Paris are probably no different from the kids in Toronto or Timmins or Calgary. If you have kids or know kids who are still using those scooters, I’d enjoy knowing.
Now, at the risk of bottoming out again with my reflections on tourists – an observation from the sidewalk in front of the restaurant “Petit Chatelet” which is on the quay across from Notre Dame. It has no stars, Michelin or otherwise. What it does have though is a menu that seems to scare off potential customers? Everyone does it. I do it. We scan menu in front of restaurants. We pretend that we are checking out the selection. In fact, most of us are checking the prices, often turning away looking for greener (or less green in another sense) fields.
Perhaps the prime visitor destination for people who want to "party" is the area around Notre Dame and the beginning of Boulevard St. Michel. There are huge restaurants, most of them designed for people-watching. The word “brasserie” seems to be the most attractive. (I always wonder how many people know that “brasserie” means brewery.) The food is usually acceptable and the prices are, by Paris standards, pretty acceptable.
Last night we went to a heart-stopping performance of Chopin. Tonight it was to be Beethoven and Chopin by the same young pianist Jean-Christopher Millot, We stopped for dinner. Everything was jammed, except for Le Petit Chatelet. It seems to be deserted. There were a few people inside and no one on the sidewalk. It was raining, but there was plenty of shelter under a spacious awning. Because part of the pleasure (as with any sidewalk eatery) is people-watching, we sat outside. Our host was a charming man who seemed to be enthusiastic about every choice we made – from the wine, a quite surprisingly good Bordeaux, to the plats, a filet for me and veal for Shirley. I asked if the steak came with frites. He tried not to seem offended when he said “No, only Dauphinoise.” (And one other which I don’t remember.) Both our meals, although they were not Michelin star-worthy, we really very good. But the interesting part was to watch the travelers (notice the avoidance of the other “T” word?”) look behind us and check out the menu, mutter to each other, and depart. I suspect it had to do with the prices, a little bit higher than the crowded brasseries down the street.
I have a travel axiom: if you visit a place that is a “hot” destination – don’t expect bargains. Don’t plan a trip to Paris (or New York) unless you are prepared to spend money. Besides, it always ruins a vacation where you have spent thousands already paying for air fare and hotel, to start skimping on dinner.
In fact, the entire meal, including the bottle of wine, came to just over 100 Euro. Remember, the price is “service compris” so whatever you add is a nominal amount and only if the service has been especially good. In Paris we find that service is unpredictable. In this case it was quick and cordial. Just yesterday we stopped for brunch at a large café in our arrondissment, called:"Indiana" (is it to make Americans feel at home?) After 15 minutes of being ignored, we went next door to "Del Papa" and had a splendid Italian lunch with impeccable service.
Shirley and I remembered George S. Kaufman, whose impatience with waiters was; legendary. (How wonderful those round table get-togethers at the Algonquin must have been – with Kaufman, Benchley, Parker and all the rest of those literary heroes.) I remember Kaufman’s famous obituary for a waiter. On the tombstone was, according to Kaufman, an inscription that read “God finally caught his eye.”
The best was yet to come. Our newfound friend concert producer Bernard Carrier had
Invited us to be his guests at a concert the preceding night. It was so good we came back again (paying this time) for another wonderful evening with Jean Christophe Millot.
Because I do love music, and love, musicians even more, I was delighted to have a chance to chat with Jean Christophe. Apologizing for my lack of words and hoping I could make myself understood, I gave him my reactions. Because he speaks virtually no English, I had to use French, which is difficult if you want to get into the more abstract. I struggled. He understood. I said (in French) “Last knight was marvelous. Tonight was even better.” He nodded appreciatively. There was no sense that I had appointed myself critic and was making gratuitous comments. “Tonight you were much more confident. Your technique was smooth. You treated Beethoven like the romantic that he was. You; played the three sonatas as if they had been written by, or at least played by Mendelssohn.’ He smiled and bobbed hi head up and down. He told me I was exactly right. He knew it. He knew that he was very tired from traveling the previous night. There was no sense that this young man was at all offended. He may have known that I was standing in the front row calling out “Bravo.”
(Detour for an explanation. Shirley and I spend at least a week every summer at the Festival of The Sound in Parry Sound. My greatest plesure is to check in to the Bayside inn where many iof the musicians stay. How often do you get a chance to chatr over breakfest with people like the pianist Andre :LaPlante or horn player James Somerville or flutist Suzanne Shulman.)
This week, although I am not usually a big fan of vocal music, we go a concert entitled “Homage to Pavarotti.” A young tenor will sing many of the master’s famous arias. After the concert we will take Bernard for dinner and have more conversation about music,
The secret reason is that I have been hunting everywhere for a; place to practice that is close to where we stay. A virtuoso I am not, but when you pay for weekly lessons, it is foolish to allow yourself to get rusty. I am rusting away as it is!
I know they’re still being used because, flouting the local law (or at least the condominium law) I hear the unmistakable sounds of them being ridden on the tile plaza in front of our building.
Gone? I thought so. But in Paris they are ubiquitous. Every kid, even the smallest, seems to have one. Adults have them. I see dignified young matrons tearing along the sidewalk in them. They are a lot more people-friendly than the skate boards, which seem to part of juvenile mayhem. I know, I’m idealizing, because the kids in Paris are probably no different from the kids in Toronto or Timmins or Calgary. If you have kids or know kids who are still using those scooters, I’d enjoy knowing.
Now, at the risk of bottoming out again with my reflections on tourists – an observation from the sidewalk in front of the restaurant “Petit Chatelet” which is on the quay across from Notre Dame. It has no stars, Michelin or otherwise. What it does have though is a menu that seems to scare off potential customers? Everyone does it. I do it. We scan menu in front of restaurants. We pretend that we are checking out the selection. In fact, most of us are checking the prices, often turning away looking for greener (or less green in another sense) fields.
Perhaps the prime visitor destination for people who want to "party" is the area around Notre Dame and the beginning of Boulevard St. Michel. There are huge restaurants, most of them designed for people-watching. The word “brasserie” seems to be the most attractive. (I always wonder how many people know that “brasserie” means brewery.) The food is usually acceptable and the prices are, by Paris standards, pretty acceptable.
Last night we went to a heart-stopping performance of Chopin. Tonight it was to be Beethoven and Chopin by the same young pianist Jean-Christopher Millot, We stopped for dinner. Everything was jammed, except for Le Petit Chatelet. It seems to be deserted. There were a few people inside and no one on the sidewalk. It was raining, but there was plenty of shelter under a spacious awning. Because part of the pleasure (as with any sidewalk eatery) is people-watching, we sat outside. Our host was a charming man who seemed to be enthusiastic about every choice we made – from the wine, a quite surprisingly good Bordeaux, to the plats, a filet for me and veal for Shirley. I asked if the steak came with frites. He tried not to seem offended when he said “No, only Dauphinoise.” (And one other which I don’t remember.) Both our meals, although they were not Michelin star-worthy, we really very good. But the interesting part was to watch the travelers (notice the avoidance of the other “T” word?”) look behind us and check out the menu, mutter to each other, and depart. I suspect it had to do with the prices, a little bit higher than the crowded brasseries down the street.
I have a travel axiom: if you visit a place that is a “hot” destination – don’t expect bargains. Don’t plan a trip to Paris (or New York) unless you are prepared to spend money. Besides, it always ruins a vacation where you have spent thousands already paying for air fare and hotel, to start skimping on dinner.
In fact, the entire meal, including the bottle of wine, came to just over 100 Euro. Remember, the price is “service compris” so whatever you add is a nominal amount and only if the service has been especially good. In Paris we find that service is unpredictable. In this case it was quick and cordial. Just yesterday we stopped for brunch at a large café in our arrondissment, called:"Indiana" (is it to make Americans feel at home?) After 15 minutes of being ignored, we went next door to "Del Papa" and had a splendid Italian lunch with impeccable service.
Shirley and I remembered George S. Kaufman, whose impatience with waiters was; legendary. (How wonderful those round table get-togethers at the Algonquin must have been – with Kaufman, Benchley, Parker and all the rest of those literary heroes.) I remember Kaufman’s famous obituary for a waiter. On the tombstone was, according to Kaufman, an inscription that read “God finally caught his eye.”
The best was yet to come. Our newfound friend concert producer Bernard Carrier had
Invited us to be his guests at a concert the preceding night. It was so good we came back again (paying this time) for another wonderful evening with Jean Christophe Millot.
Because I do love music, and love, musicians even more, I was delighted to have a chance to chat with Jean Christophe. Apologizing for my lack of words and hoping I could make myself understood, I gave him my reactions. Because he speaks virtually no English, I had to use French, which is difficult if you want to get into the more abstract. I struggled. He understood. I said (in French) “Last knight was marvelous. Tonight was even better.” He nodded appreciatively. There was no sense that I had appointed myself critic and was making gratuitous comments. “Tonight you were much more confident. Your technique was smooth. You treated Beethoven like the romantic that he was. You; played the three sonatas as if they had been written by, or at least played by Mendelssohn.’ He smiled and bobbed hi head up and down. He told me I was exactly right. He knew it. He knew that he was very tired from traveling the previous night. There was no sense that this young man was at all offended. He may have known that I was standing in the front row calling out “Bravo.”
(Detour for an explanation. Shirley and I spend at least a week every summer at the Festival of The Sound in Parry Sound. My greatest plesure is to check in to the Bayside inn where many iof the musicians stay. How often do you get a chance to chatr over breakfest with people like the pianist Andre :LaPlante or horn player James Somerville or flutist Suzanne Shulman.)
This week, although I am not usually a big fan of vocal music, we go a concert entitled “Homage to Pavarotti.” A young tenor will sing many of the master’s famous arias. After the concert we will take Bernard for dinner and have more conversation about music,
The secret reason is that I have been hunting everywhere for a; place to practice that is close to where we stay. A virtuoso I am not, but when you pay for weekly lessons, it is foolish to allow yourself to get rusty. I am rusting away as it is!
Thursday, May 6, 2010
A bientot
Taking a rest from "letters" for a few days. Thanks to Adrienne for her note on "serendipity." Can't be translated.
Meanwhile, keep your comments coming.
Meanwhile, keep your comments coming.
Tuesday, March 9, 2010
I'M NO PSYCHOLOGIST BUT...
It is axiomatic among psychologists and psychiatrists that often the behaviour people hate most is the one they hate most in themselves. I believe they call it “projection.”
This is not, because I am not an authority, a lesson in undergraduate pop psychology,
Just a reflection on a couple of the most recent interesting revelations. Sarah Palin hates the idea of “socialized” medicine, health care with “Death Panels” and rationing of care. Now it revealed, she revealed it herself,that when they lived in Skagway, Alaska they would take the ferry to Whitehorse for health care. How she arranged to get it without a health care card I can’t imagine. If she did it fraudulently, then the deed is even darker.
Today I read that a California State senator, conservative Republican Roy Ashburn, an ardent foe of Gay Rights has “come out.” He was tracked down in a gay bar and confessed. And wasn’t there another conservative lawmaker who was caught last year doing unspeakable things in a men’s public lavatory?
My favourite of these self-haters has to be J. Edgar Hoover. Back in the 70s I interviewed a Washington journalist who wrote an exhaustive study of the F.B.I. I remember being startled by what I read. I asked him “Is Hoover a homosexual?” His reply: “Of course!” That was many years before all the post mortem disclosures about Hoover. Clive Tolson, his number two man,was probably also his lover. Stories surfaced about Hoover’s obsession with cross-dressing. Yet here was the man who targeted the gay community with utter ferocity. He raided gay bathhouses; he allied with Roy Cohn, the McCarthy lawyer and homosexual subject of the play “Angels in America.” Hoover never married and it was said that his favourite person was Shirley Temple.
“Projection” may not always have negative results. Perhaps someone who is secretly a bigot and hates himself for it, will present himself as a fighter for human rights, and will actually work hard at it. It becomes a kind of self-cleansing. But I’m now in way over my head. I apologize to the professionals for my dabbling.
The Sarah Palin story and the California state senator “coming out” were just too good to ignore. Roy Ashburn, a conservative Republican,
This is not, because I am not an authority, a lesson in undergraduate pop psychology,
Just a reflection on a couple of the most recent interesting revelations. Sarah Palin hates the idea of “socialized” medicine, health care with “Death Panels” and rationing of care. Now it revealed, she revealed it herself,that when they lived in Skagway, Alaska they would take the ferry to Whitehorse for health care. How she arranged to get it without a health care card I can’t imagine. If she did it fraudulently, then the deed is even darker.
Today I read that a California State senator, conservative Republican Roy Ashburn, an ardent foe of Gay Rights has “come out.” He was tracked down in a gay bar and confessed. And wasn’t there another conservative lawmaker who was caught last year doing unspeakable things in a men’s public lavatory?
My favourite of these self-haters has to be J. Edgar Hoover. Back in the 70s I interviewed a Washington journalist who wrote an exhaustive study of the F.B.I. I remember being startled by what I read. I asked him “Is Hoover a homosexual?” His reply: “Of course!” That was many years before all the post mortem disclosures about Hoover. Clive Tolson, his number two man,was probably also his lover. Stories surfaced about Hoover’s obsession with cross-dressing. Yet here was the man who targeted the gay community with utter ferocity. He raided gay bathhouses; he allied with Roy Cohn, the McCarthy lawyer and homosexual subject of the play “Angels in America.” Hoover never married and it was said that his favourite person was Shirley Temple.
“Projection” may not always have negative results. Perhaps someone who is secretly a bigot and hates himself for it, will present himself as a fighter for human rights, and will actually work hard at it. It becomes a kind of self-cleansing. But I’m now in way over my head. I apologize to the professionals for my dabbling.
The Sarah Palin story and the California state senator “coming out” were just too good to ignore. Roy Ashburn, a conservative Republican,
Sunday, March 7, 2010
LOVING WHERE YOU LIVE
Recently I watched a man come out of his shop, cross the street, and pick up a bundle of paper that was blowing in the wind; blowing in the wind in our pretty little downtown park. I congratulated him. “Someone’s got to do it,” he responded.
In a nutshell, that’s what caring about the city you live in is all about.
Our Toronto Star has announced a program to attract citizens to tell them what they would like to do or have done make our city better. They cite a woman who, all on her own initiative started a program of tree planting. They have recruited a number of bloggers to write about how to return our city to its once-widely heralded slogan as “the city that works.” (They didn’t invite me and my blog.)
What I say is about the city I live in: Toronto. It can be said about almost any city anywhere and the responsibility of its citizens to make it a better place.
There is not one big thing that will remake any city. The big projects, like the Olympics in Vancouver, do help, but when those mega-things have been done, with the passing of time. We lose interest.
Toronto used to be known everywhere as a very clean city. That was about all we had to offer since our restaurants were abysmal and our architecture stuffy and our local politicians grounded in old-fashioned values. I remember the fight mayor Phil Givens had when he wanted to put a Henry Moore sculpture in front of City Hall. The council was outraged. The piece, like everything of Henry Moore, was abstract. The price was $100,000. Citizens and council gasped and recoiled. Phil went ahead and through private subscription, bought the piece “The Archer’ and installed it in our city hall square. Visitors from everywhere take pictures of it. In fact, it was Phil’s intervention that led to our AGO being given probably the world’s largest collection of Henry Moore sculpture, most of it the plasters he used to make his final bronzes. In fact, if you know the city, the Henry Moore gallery was created especially to house the collection, and the gallery was left untouched when the Frank Gehry renovation happened. The fitting finale was that Phil was remembered for his audacity and was not re-elected.
But that was then and this is now. That was when, with unwarranted grandiosity, Toronto kept referring to itself as a “world-class city.” We stopped doing that because you can only get so much mileage out of the world’s (used to be) tallest free-standing structure, and the clamshell architectural beauty of Revell’s City Hall. We sort of stood still. Our subway system moldered away after its brilliant beginning. (But remember, Toronto has the third largest urban transit system in North America.)
I have also written at length about how Torontonians, led by the chattering classes of the print media, are forever reminding us, incorrectly, of how Chicago has created a waterfront and we have simply put in condos and a gruesome looking elevated expressway.
But to return to where I began: caring about the city. If I were running for office (my wife would leave me) I would campaign on a platform that included a very high priority for cleaning up our streets of their litter careless unfeeling people lave behind. Coffee cups everywhere. Newspapers flying in the wind. Cigarette buts by the hundred on the sidewalks. It would be small things but it would matter.
Finally, I find myself thinking about what we all could do. Making a city great is not about what the political bosses want to put into it, buildings, attractions, street fairs etc. but what every citizen want to do. Of course, I could borrow from John Kennedy’s epic statement and say: “Ask not what your city can do for you, ask what you can do for your city.”
In a nutshell, that’s what caring about the city you live in is all about.
Our Toronto Star has announced a program to attract citizens to tell them what they would like to do or have done make our city better. They cite a woman who, all on her own initiative started a program of tree planting. They have recruited a number of bloggers to write about how to return our city to its once-widely heralded slogan as “the city that works.” (They didn’t invite me and my blog.)
What I say is about the city I live in: Toronto. It can be said about almost any city anywhere and the responsibility of its citizens to make it a better place.
There is not one big thing that will remake any city. The big projects, like the Olympics in Vancouver, do help, but when those mega-things have been done, with the passing of time. We lose interest.
Toronto used to be known everywhere as a very clean city. That was about all we had to offer since our restaurants were abysmal and our architecture stuffy and our local politicians grounded in old-fashioned values. I remember the fight mayor Phil Givens had when he wanted to put a Henry Moore sculpture in front of City Hall. The council was outraged. The piece, like everything of Henry Moore, was abstract. The price was $100,000. Citizens and council gasped and recoiled. Phil went ahead and through private subscription, bought the piece “The Archer’ and installed it in our city hall square. Visitors from everywhere take pictures of it. In fact, it was Phil’s intervention that led to our AGO being given probably the world’s largest collection of Henry Moore sculpture, most of it the plasters he used to make his final bronzes. In fact, if you know the city, the Henry Moore gallery was created especially to house the collection, and the gallery was left untouched when the Frank Gehry renovation happened. The fitting finale was that Phil was remembered for his audacity and was not re-elected.
But that was then and this is now. That was when, with unwarranted grandiosity, Toronto kept referring to itself as a “world-class city.” We stopped doing that because you can only get so much mileage out of the world’s (used to be) tallest free-standing structure, and the clamshell architectural beauty of Revell’s City Hall. We sort of stood still. Our subway system moldered away after its brilliant beginning. (But remember, Toronto has the third largest urban transit system in North America.)
I have also written at length about how Torontonians, led by the chattering classes of the print media, are forever reminding us, incorrectly, of how Chicago has created a waterfront and we have simply put in condos and a gruesome looking elevated expressway.
But to return to where I began: caring about the city. If I were running for office (my wife would leave me) I would campaign on a platform that included a very high priority for cleaning up our streets of their litter careless unfeeling people lave behind. Coffee cups everywhere. Newspapers flying in the wind. Cigarette buts by the hundred on the sidewalks. It would be small things but it would matter.
Finally, I find myself thinking about what we all could do. Making a city great is not about what the political bosses want to put into it, buildings, attractions, street fairs etc. but what every citizen want to do. Of course, I could borrow from John Kennedy’s epic statement and say: “Ask not what your city can do for you, ask what you can do for your city.”
Wednesday, March 3, 2010
does any-1 care enny-mor?
I am the world's biggest pest about language. I totally detest the "new shorthand" that has made illiterates out of millions of people. My own son argues with me that it doesn't really matter - communication is what it's all about. "The language," he argues, "continues to evolve. You can't stop\ progress."
Nuts and rubbish! "evolution" implies improvement - not vulgarization. Language is like music. It can sound like a traffic accident, or it can sound like it should. Where do you draw the lines on so-called "evolution"? Is "I should of went" acceptable? How about "I don't know nothing?"
Caution. I post these ideas at much greater length on "looking Ahead Larry Solway." Google the title and join my club.
Nuts and rubbish! "evolution" implies improvement - not vulgarization. Language is like music. It can sound like a traffic accident, or it can sound like it should. Where do you draw the lines on so-called "evolution"? Is "I should of went" acceptable? How about "I don't know nothing?"
Caution. I post these ideas at much greater length on "looking Ahead Larry Solway." Google the title and join my club.
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