Consumerism Fills Imagination Gap

Last night as I attempted my physician-ordered daily hour-long walk (to help speed healing after surgery, but which I should do anyway, of course), I observed two long lines in the middle of Town Center Mall: one spilling out of the Apple store, and then its continuation, beginning at the Starbucks kiosk, not too far away from this fountain. Badge-wearing Apple employees in blue polo shirts manned the lines and kept order among the ranks by chatting and offering pleasant updates on the line's progress. All of this I found out was because of the latest iPhone. Many of the folks in line waiting for the new iPhone passed the time, you guessed it, amusing themselves on their current iPhones, which obviously still worked. Among the people standing in line were a uniformed postman, and a woman on crutches and whose right leg was in a cast. Didn't the mailman have a hard enough day doing his job in over 90 degree heat? He wants to waste his precious evening standing in line in the mall for a phone? And the broken leg lady?  She's going to put herself through standing and hobbling through not one but two long lines just to get a new phone? 

Then in this morning's New York Times appear pictures of a young, healthy New York man, holding up his new iPhone as if it were a trophy, or an archeological find.  Another young man pictured in the paper had painted the word "iPhone" on his face. I found this all rather sad. It's not sad that people want the iPhone; we all want things, and by all accounts, the iPhone is a cleverly designed and useful device. What I find sad is that people want this device so badly that they are standing in these crazy lines, and wasting precious time that a few weeks from now would not need to be expended to buy this same item.  What's sad is that some people feel that the only way that they believe they are somebody is to buy something that, although for a short time, they will be among the few to own.  And yet even this is fallacious if you see how many people are standing in line to become "early adopters." How can they feel that they are unique or special in getting this phone now, as they stand in line with hundreds of others who are doing the same (and thousands of others if they consider other lines in other places)?  My friend's idea was that these people will be the first in their circle of friends to own it, but for how long? A few weeks? A month?  And then when all of their friends have the phone, too, what next will these people have to buy to distinguish themselves, to feel unique?

In place of the imagination that drives people to develop themselves, and become who they want to be or can be, some folks simply buy things.  The iPhone fills the gap created by a lack of  imagination, the imagination that otherwise inspires people to learn languages, play instruments, practice sport, art, science and business, and do many other fulfilling things.  These are things, too, that define one better than possessing a mass-produced device owned and a few years later discarded by millions of other people.  

Of course, the corporations benefit a lot from this state of affairs.  Once one device loses its ability to confer upon its owner a kind of uniqueness, then another device awaits him so that the cycle repeats, ad infinitum. The attention garnered by the early adopter arouses in his or her friends their desire to garner the same, spurring more sales, until the tipping point when so many people own the device that the cachet is now gone and society moves on to the next thing, repeating the process. This is not to say that everyone who buys an iPhone buys it to fill this imaginative void; many people probably simply like the product. It's hard to believe, however, that the people standing in line in Town Center yesterday were not craving something besides just the phone.

Latest Read (in progress): John Murray

I perhaps shouldn't discuss this since I've not yet finished it (this go-around anyway; I read it when I first bought an advance copy for $1 at the Miami Book Fair International in November 2003), but since each story is the length and density of a novella, it seems as if in finishing the first story, "The Hill Station," that I have completed something already.  I am now in the midst of "All the Rivers in the World," which is set oddly in Florida and Maine, the former, my home, and the latter where I spent a bit of time last July, and where my son will be leaving for a month on Sunday. Part of the story is set also in Rwanda (no personal connection there).

If Ethan Canin and Jhumpa Lahiri co-wrote a story, it would sound just like "The Hill Station." The medical knowledge and precision of Canin are here, as is Lahiri's skill at rendering the sights and smells of India through the eyes of a successful American born-daughter of Indian parents, who is reconciling her Indian roots with an American sensibility. It's medical without being clinical, and emotionally restrained without being cold. 

"All the Rivers in the World" finds medicine of diminished importance in the narrative, but the same precision and clarity of information remain, although this time concerning lobster fishing, hardware, and Florida currents; in short, Murray knows a lot about a lot. In this story, too, the central character is emotionally detached, but not so much so that he does not command some empathy from the reader. More soon to come.

Latest Read: Remains of the Day

This is one of those well-regarded, Booker Prize-winning books that I should have read a long time ago. I've owned a copy long enough, and plucking it from the shelf two days ago is part of my end-of-the-month and still-owe-the-music-camp-money poverty. Much is made to clothing accumulators of shopping one's closet these days, but as a book accumulator, I shop instead my bookshelves for books that I own but haven't yet read. 

I should not have waited so long to read this marvelous book and yet, as often happens with book procrastinations, this was possibly the best time in my life for me to read it. A convalescent lethargia offered the ideal mental climate for this slow, quiet narrative, clearly inflected with a very Edwardian-Modernist nostalgia, though not of the romanticized John Betjeman sort, mind you. Something darker, but still sepia-toned (as is appropriately the cover of my copy, printed obviously before the "movie tie-in's" featuring the now young-ish looking Anthony Hopkins and Emma Thompson).  

The most captivating aspect of the book is the way that the narrator, Stevens, reveals himself to the reader long before revealing himself to himself.  Through his words and reminiscences, the reader sees him to be quite a different man than he believes himself to be.  Even by the end, when he glimpses something of the truth, he doesn't seem to let it sink in long enough to do anything with the realization, either because it's too painful to accept, or because he believes it is too late to do anything about it, or both. In any case, there's something delightful from a reader's standpoint in seeing the unfolding of this man's (and his late employer's) true nature, when he himself--in the revelation--fails to see it. This, I believe, is Ishiguro's true accomplishment here. This revelatory non-revelation is extremely subtle, and not in any way the heavy-handed narrative equivalent of someone unknowingly trailing toilet paper from his shoe on his way out of the men's room. This narrator is, actually, somewhat reflective, and, one might say, even self-reflective. But he is so selective about those subjects of reflection, that he clearly has walled off from consciousness--again, until much later in the novel, and then only briefly--those personal qualities and life decisions that have shaped the direction of (and some might even say, ruined) his entire life.  

Despite this book's somber tone and, at times, dark subjects, it uses humor well, and unexpectedly.  Ishiguro finds ways, even in moments of tension or sadness, to insert something funny--which, again, the narrator--although the vehicle of the humor, seems to miss completely (therefore adding another layer of humor).  For example, in one scene near the end of the novel, when the stoic, stolid narrator shows at last some welcome emotion and is offered a handkerchief, Ishiguro undercuts what could have come off as a maudlin moment with humor: "'Oh dear, mate. Here, you want a hankie?  I've got one somewhere.  Here we are. It's fairly clean. Just blew my nose once this morning, that's all. Have a go, mate.'" Oddly enough, just a few lines later follows one of the most earnest monolouges of the entire novel, and rather than taking away from it, this funny bit makes it more genuine than it might have seemed otherwise. 

Part of what makes this character so believable (in addition to the touches of humor, often at the narrator's expense) is the way that he cloaks his emotional laziness (or fear, or both; this novel's simple plot belies psychological complexity) in professional duty, or as Stevens says, "dignity." Signs that things are not as they appear to be (regarding his employer, his father, his colleague Miss Kenton and himself) go completely unreckoned with at the occasions of their emergence, and are considered only superficially, decades later, during this narrative.  Another true-to-life characteristic of Stevens is the way that he gives another of the book's characters, Mrs. Benn (nee, Miss Kenton), advice that he himself should take, and needs.  Does the narrator realize that the advice he is giving is best meant for himself, and find that giving it to another is the only way that he can accept it, or, is Ihsiguro using irony here in having his character unknowingly (and therefore somewhat comically) pass along the knowledge that he most needs?  It's hard to say. Similarly, it is only late in the novel when comments made much earlier, like this one fewer than 50 pages in, reveal their actual object: "At this very moment, no doubt, she is pondering with regret decisions made in the far-off past that have now left her, deep in middle-age, so alone and desolate." Who, indeed, is really "alone" and "desolate?"

This is a beautiful book, which undoubtedly has inspired many people to follow in real life the travel route that Stevens takes through Ishiguro's capably painted English countryside. But it is also a thoughtful book about the consequences of wanting to see people as better than they are, not cutting our losses, the fear of feelings, the way life can lull us into disregarding the significances of things as they happen, and the price we might pay later, if we do.

Celery Seed Warning

Am I the sole person out there who eats out only when invited by friends who are flush enough to pick up the check? The problem is that the most generous and frequent inviter in my life prefers restaurants that I don't like. Too tired to cook, however, last night, too grateful to look a gift horse in the mouth, and too broke to buy groceries, I accepted his invitation to, gulp, dinner at the Boca Ale House on Yamato. Suffice it to say, it's very hard to find something good to eat at this place, and I don't care whose paying: I am not going to waste anyone's $20+ on an "entree" at the Boca Ale House. 

Twice before I ordered the off-menu grilled cheese and tomato sandwich, which is very good, by the way.  Last night, though, I wanted more veggies than that offered, and tried a new item on this menu, an Apple-Walnut salad. The good news is that this is an all-Romaine salad. The bad news is that the dressing is loaded with celery seeds. If you like celery seeds, go for it, but if not, beware.  Truth be told, I asked about the dressing while ordering the salad, and the waitress told me that the servers called it simply, "the apple-walnut dressing," I presumed not because those were its ingredients but because it went with that salad. So, I elected the dressing intended for the salad. Not so good. I can tolerate some celery seed in a cole slaw, but this was just too much.

The salad is good, however, even if the scattering of gorgonzola (and walnuts) was a little stingy. On the flip side, the allotment of dried cranberries was too generous, as the salad dressing and chopped apple trained it toward the sweet anyway. Still, this salad looked much better than the plates of everything else drifting by.  Next month is my birthday, so perhaps I will pick the restaurant then.  In the meantime, I will ferret out the best options on the menus of  the bar-themed, and corporate restaurants that my friend frequents.

Too Many Cars

An odd thing that I've noticed upon moving to Delray is that in my neighborhood people seem to collect cars. I don't mean vintage cars or anything, but rather that when they get a new car, they do not seem to get rid of the old one. My neighbor across the street has 5 cars, only 2 of which are driven.  One is under a tarpaulin, and another sits unmoved next to it, a third is parked in the driveway of the vacant house next door, and the remaining 2 are driven--one everyday, and the other maybe just a few times a month.  One of my next door neighbors, a single guy, has at least 3 vehicles in his driveway--2 trucks and a car, and other people in the neighborhood seem to store cars in various states of repair and disrepair, depending, in backyards, driveways, front yards--anywhere. Not every house is like this, of course, but many are.  I wonder why this happens.  What is gained by having so many cars, especially if they are rarely or never used?  This is a Delray mystery for me to watch unfold and possibly, down the road, (intentional pun--sorry) reveal itself.

Latest Read

My father took to reading my copy of Quantum while he was here, so I read another book in the meantime.  I picked up Summer People by Brian Groh on July 23, 2009 at the Merrimack Public Library book sale in New Hampshire last summer, but didn't feel the urge to read it then. This bit of light summer reading was perfect for this time of fatigue and convalescence.

It was OK.  This quick read, requiring no intelligence or thought whatsoever-- is one of those washover books that is indispensable during times of illness, frequent interruptions, plane rides and such.  So, from that standpoint it was good.  As something more than a time-passer, however, it did not offer me much.Though the novel focuses ostensibly on a beach-side community in Southern Maine, there really is not that much solid description of the area. Had I not carried many images of the place from my own time there to fill in as I read, I'm not certain that the picture would have been very clear.  The characters, too, disappointed.  Is it too old-fashioned to wish for at least one character with whom the reader can sympathize, or at least feel a bit of fondness for?  All of the characters here are unappealing, with the exception perhaps of Eldwin, the hard-drinking, former punk pastor who befriends the novel's--dare I be so harsh?--lazy, self-obsessed, whiny, messy, self-pitying protagonist, even whose drawing skills and interest in graphic novels, are not sufficient to redeem him, at least in this reader's eyes.  If he were horrible and knew it, that would be fine, but he instead is horrible and believes that he is good.  

When he finds out that the job he has accepted for the summer is more than he bargained for, and that was, in fact, was misrepresented to him, he is not strong enough to leave it.  Deciding to stick with it, however, he is also not capable of performing it with any commitment or will; in short, he does a lousy job, and keeps making excuses for the lousy job that he's doing. As an example, the guy has all kinds of free time, but can't seem to trouble himself to pick up the mail each day, causing the woman he's caring for to miss various social occasions to which she's been invited, which wouldn't be so bad if he had other things for her to do, but he's constantly complaining about how bored he is with her TV watching, and the fact that they have nothing to do.  He's simply not a likeable character, but neither is he mean enough to be decidedly unlikeable either, which makes him annoying and boring.  In short, he, like all of the other characters in the book, is completely lackluster.  

All that aside, if you're not feeling well, or need an easy read, this isn't so bad. I've read worse.

A Boca CVS Story

Yesterday my mom happened to be in the vicinity of the CVS at the corner of Powerline and Palmetto Park Road, where she stopped to pick up a pack of cigarettes for my father, and told this story of her time there.

While standing in a long line at the register, she was befriended by a man standing behind her whom she describes as "friendly, distinguished-looking" and "obviously wealthy."  They conversed while inching up toward the register. When her turn at the counter came, she asked the cashier for a pack of Salem cigarettes, and the man said to her, "I wouldn't have been so nice to you if I had known you were buying cigarettes."  Further engaging this fool, she tried to salvage what had been a pleasant exchange by saying that they were not for her. The cashier then chimed in, saying, "But you are an enabler!"

So, is this what it's come to? People who practice habits or buy products that others find objectionable now must expect to be berated by complete strangers?  Even if the disliked action is practiced in private, is perfectly legal, and while unhealthy is not immoral, total strangers believe that it is acceptable not only to object to the activity, but also to withhold kindness from those who do? Is this what has happened? And not only that, but the cashier employed by the business selling the product, the profits from which contribute to her wage and therefore livelihood, also believes that while on the clock, it is appropriate to chastise the customer who is buying that product? What is happening here?

If the cashier had half a brain in her head, she would of course realize that she is more of an enabler than my mother since my mother enables only one smoker, my father, while the cashier--in passing the evil  packs of cigarettes across the counter multiple times per shift--enables hundreds and maybe even thousands of smokers over her months and years of employment. If the cashier truly were opposed to smoking on moral grounds (or any other grounds), she would not consent to work for an enterprise that sells cigarettes. Alas, however, she doesn't care that much, does she? 

And what of the distinguished man in line, who having struck up a conversation with my mom, then informed her that because of the cigarettes, she was no longer worthy of his niceness? He evidently considers his small-talk so valuable that it shall not be conferred upon any human who does not conform to his beliefs and ways of living. A briefer way of describing such a person is: a pompous ass.

I bear responsibility for this event, too.  You see, my dad rolls his own, but often makes a tobacco mess at my house in doing so. Since my folks are visiting only for the weekend, I asked if he could leave his can of tobacco and sheaf of papers behind and just bring some pre-rolled cigarettes instead.  I feel really bad about this now, because of the negative experience my mom had at CVS, although in her characteristically charitable and optimistic way she found it funny, and not annoying as I do. Next visit, I'll welcome the Bugler or Top tobacco mess, break out the vacuum and not say a word about it.

Though I'm not a big CVS shopper anyway, I can now cross this store permanently off my list.  After all, I wouldn't want to be an enabler . . .

What I'm Reading Now

A few nights ago on PBS, I came across (sadly, halfway into it) a BBC documentary about Hugh Everett III, called "Parallel Worlds, Parallel Lives."  Everett's son is a musician and the only surviving family member available to manage Everett's papers and legacy.  Everett is credited with creating the many-worlds interpretation to solve a problem in quantum mechanics, but was not appreciated during the fifties when he wrote this theory. He died shortly after he was beginning to be recognized and appreciated for his work, and never lived to experience the respect he is now accorded by many scientists. 

Anyway, this revived my interest in quantum mechanics which I half began reading about 3 summers ago when I read a Brian Greene book and a book by Amit Goswami called The Conscious Universe.  I was so taken with the spooky quantum effects I learned about, as I was able to understand them in my limited way, and still am interested. So I read the NYT review of Quantum by Manjit Kumar, and with a good friend's BN discount card in  hand, bought the store's only copy last night and began reading.  Right now, I am learning about Max Planck and the blackbody experiment. Stay tuned.

A Good Buy at a Corporate Restaurant

After my doctor-prescribed 1 hour walk last night (in the mall because of the recent heat), my friend and I cast about for a place to eat nearby, and settled on Chang's. Despite the ghost-town feel of the mall and then the empty tables at McCormick's & Alexander's at University Commons, a table at P.F. Chang's we were told would mean a 15-20 minute wait, with no empty seats in either the bar or vestibule, so we turned back to Alexander's. Its dark, wood-toned  interior is not a favorite of mine, nor is the heavy food, but since I wasn't paying, I decided to make the best of it, and with careful menu scrutiny, succeeded.

My complaints with J. Alexander's are these: if you want any protein at all, minus a burger, say, or a chicken sandwich, it's going to be a huge helping and well over $20. No small steaks here, at dinner anyway (until 4 the restaurant offers what it calls "lunch cuts"), and the appetizers last night at least were carb-based. The salads are nice, but I've never been much for these monster salads topped with a pile of sliced chicken or steak.  Salad is salad, and the protein course is the protein course. The restaurant also offers few wines by the glass. I settled on an $8 glass of Santa Ema Merlot, a few bottles of which I've bought before from Total Wine, but which last night seemed much higher in alcohol than I remembered. It was too jammy and too hot last night, but possibly was the wrong wine with my food, turning now at last to the good part of the meal, and my recommendation.

At dinner, you can get a soup and salad for $13 at J. Alexander's, portioned generously enough to create a meal. Two soups were offered last night, a Chicken Pasta (listed on the menu) and the chef's soup of the day, which the server identified. Last night's offering, and my choice,  was Chef's Gumbo, which arrived in a large white bowl topped with a mound of brown rice to stir into the thick, brown, roux-based gumbo.  The gumbo offered small bites of sausage, shrimp, and chicken, along with garlic, green pepper and lots of spicy flavor.  Then followed my salad. For the soup & salad $13 deal, you can order either the house salad, called "Alex's Salad" (mixed greens and, alas, some iceberg; halved cherry tomatoes, bacon, garlic croutons, cucumbers, and shredded cheddar), or the Caesar.  I opted for Alex's and was happy with this choice. The waitress seemed to be pushing the herb vinaigrette, but I ordered the cilantro vinaigrette, and liked it. According to the menu, all of the dressings are made in the restaurant, which is nice. (If I'm going to be served a Sysco salad dressing, what's the point of eating out? I would rather save myself some money and buy a bottle of Kraft or something and eat at home.)  Following this meal of soup and salad, I was satisfied, and felt that at this chain restaurant, I'd had a reasonably healthy meal at, especially considering it was Boca, a great price.

So, if you get stuck at Alexander's and don't feel like a huge steak or burger, and don't feel like spending a lot of dough, go for this $13 soup and salad deal. It's a nice little hidden value buried in a menu of big prices and large servings.

Feeling Better for Real

Last week I felt better between Sunday and Tuesday, and then collapsed in fatigue Wednesday-Friday, so when this latest stretch of feeling better hit, I wasn't sure that it was here for good--but it seems to be that it is--and for that I am so grateful. I'm sure that some couch time still lies ahead, but for now I feel stronger and more energetic than I've felt up to now. I need to walk again today, longer and farther, and figure out how I can best use these alone days. Need to go to the post office and run a few other errands, but won't push it.

Pirate Party

Having spent the last 11 days with my mom gave occasion for some odd exchanges, such as this one.

I told her that my sister and niece were on their way to a retirement party, and my mom said, "Oh, is it a birthday party?" and I said, "No," more emphatically this time, "a retirement party."  Just then, I thought, "what did she think I said?" to which my mom said, as if in reply, without missing a beat, "I thought you said they were going to a pirate party."

"Oh," I said, realizing that if she was having trouble hearing me these days, she was at least making up for it in the mind-reading department.  Ahoy, matey.

Nicholas Payton Quintet

My first outing (not including post-op checkups at the doctor's office) in the past 10 days, was to the always-beautiful Miniachi Performing Arts Center to hear the South Florida Jazz Society's last concert of the year, which featured The Nicholas Payton Quintet. My son is the musician, not me, and I'm not qualified to write a bona fide jazz review, but I did enjoy show. Mr. Payton got right down to work, speaking not a word until just before intermission when he quickly introduced his band, and then announced the "short break," which I'm sure would have been shorter if not for the long line of people waiting to buy bottled water, beer and wine in the lobby. But no matter. We all needed a leg stretch (practically everyone in the audience cleared out for the intermission), and the balmy night felt good, even among the smokers outside.

I was surprised (though glad in a way, as I had no cash on me) that Payton did not bring any cd's to sell as most acts do there. My son has bought, and had autographed, a few cds from our other concert visits. My main regret about this show is that the pieces were not introduced or identified. I would have liked to know who composed them, and even their titles. The penultimate number--which Payton sang--sounded like a Dixieland Jazz standard, but I couldn't be sure. My other small complaint is that the way the stage was set up made it impossible (for us at least, second row center) to see Lawrence Fields' hands on either keyboard or acoustic piano. The placement of the Fender Rhodes keyboard hid his handwork on both instruments. We got clear views, however, of bassist Ben Williams, drummer Corey Fonville (both of whom are really fun to watch) and Daniel Sadownick on percussion. Payton faced the audience from center stage, meaning that we were staring into his trumpet bell as he played, which was a different experience than when we saw, for instance, Randy Brecker, who positioned himself at an angle and off-center so that his finger-work was easy to see.

This is nit-picking, though, you know. The concert was fabulous. These guys play perfectly together-- are always looking at and listening to each other, and because there's not much talking from the stage, we really got our money's worth musically-speaking. Finally, the encore was not gratuitous or throwaway, the way some encores can be--it was possibly the highlight of the show, delivered with energy and power. Kudos to the South Florida Jazz Society for bringing his fine quintet to our hot little corner of the world here. It's going to be a long stretch until November when the next concert series begins again.

Post-Surgery Post

I am starting to feel, for the first time, normal again, although who knows how long this will last, since a few days already this week, I felt well on arising, and then sick later.  I will nevertheless feel grateful for this good/normal-ish feeling for as long as it lasts considering how rotten I was feeling before.

It would be nice if this were my last surgery ever.  I have hospital stories, a few perhaps even funny, but I don't feel like telling them now. The main thing now is that I feel as if I am pulling myself up out of some sticky ooze, seeing daylight and the world around, watching the sludge slip off of my arms, down my fingers and thinking, "OK now, what's the first thing I need to do, and the second?"

Having the help of family and friends was everything, though honestly it was my mom who really did the most (numerous Publix shopping runs, and dishwasher cycles, and laundry loads), mostly in shuttling N. and getting him ready for camp (UPS comes Wednesday to pick up the trunk & suitcase).  And here she's just left and I didn't at all convey to her what I'd hoped to. But I will.  

Out for now.