Goody Goody
Meeting a colleague in a few minutes at Goody Goody, one of those institutions that are badges of honor to a particular place and time. It's in a part of St. Louis, Goodfellow and Natural Bridge, that most (white) St. Louisans regard as totally off bounds, part industrial, part ghetto.
It is a clean, amiable restaurant, decades in St. Louis in the same place. Diner food, a little southern, white ownership but mostly African American clientele and staff. Also police and politicians.
I will be having mashed potatoes and gravy, among other things, which ever since my rounds with Mr. C has been a staple. Without putting too dramatic a point on it, I think this is a place where they know about healing and redemption.
I don't think this is patronizing or slumming but I guess that's in the eye of the beholder. I know it's good food, a welcoming place, and a revelation to most of my friends I take there.
This could be the world, damn it.
Tuesday, May 24, 2011
Friday, May 20, 2011
Thursday, May 19, 2011
Homage forte
A quick detour into near-pedantry.
A peeve of mine, pet or no, has been the quasi-educated use of the term "homage" with a French accent. Omazh, with the accent on the second syllable.
It's an English term, feudal origin, from Middle English, probably earlier from Old French, originally meaning the acknowledgement of fealty by a vassal to his lord. It is pronounced with the accent on the first syllable, and a hard "j" sound, not a "zh". With or without a silent "h". It isn't, as far as I can tell, a French word - I have two French dictionaries in the office and "homage" isn't in either one.
Anyway, it's an interesting animal - an English term that looks kind of Frenchy and therefore the semi-literates use a French accent. Unique?
Non. Take forte, which my father always insisted on pronouncing like the thing with a moat around it. He was right. Dad's forte - his strong suit - was, indeed, the English language.
But time and the same predilections have caused the plebes to pronounce it for-tay, accent second syllable. Which makes no sense. It's a noun, for goodness' sake. Why make it sound like it has an accent aigu? (OK, it may not be misplaced French. It may be Italian - the forte you see in music. Where the "e" is, of course pronounced. But I think not. I think it's more wannabe Francophilia.)
Anyway, the sad part is that the dictionaries seem to have folded, and for-tay is now an OK second pronunciation. As will probably happen with omazh. Lordy, can the apocalypse be far behind?
A quick detour into near-pedantry.
A peeve of mine, pet or no, has been the quasi-educated use of the term "homage" with a French accent. Omazh, with the accent on the second syllable.
It's an English term, feudal origin, from Middle English, probably earlier from Old French, originally meaning the acknowledgement of fealty by a vassal to his lord. It is pronounced with the accent on the first syllable, and a hard "j" sound, not a "zh". With or without a silent "h". It isn't, as far as I can tell, a French word - I have two French dictionaries in the office and "homage" isn't in either one.
Anyway, it's an interesting animal - an English term that looks kind of Frenchy and therefore the semi-literates use a French accent. Unique?
Non. Take forte, which my father always insisted on pronouncing like the thing with a moat around it. He was right. Dad's forte - his strong suit - was, indeed, the English language.
But time and the same predilections have caused the plebes to pronounce it for-tay, accent second syllable. Which makes no sense. It's a noun, for goodness' sake. Why make it sound like it has an accent aigu? (OK, it may not be misplaced French. It may be Italian - the forte you see in music. Where the "e" is, of course pronounced. But I think not. I think it's more wannabe Francophilia.)
Anyway, the sad part is that the dictionaries seem to have folded, and for-tay is now an OK second pronunciation. As will probably happen with omazh. Lordy, can the apocalypse be far behind?
Sunday, May 15, 2011
Betrayal
Odd that there seems to be no single noun in English for the betrayed one. "Dupe"? "Victim"? "Sucker"? "Mark"? None of these, necessarily. And unless it's a man and it's about sex, not the nasty-sounding "Cuckold." Nothing that means, solely, the betrayee, which isn't a word.
The perps get, at least, "betrayer" and "traitor". But those on the receiving end appear to have no single, dignified name.
You can be an avenger. You can, I am given to understand, be a forgiver. And you can move on.
*******************************************************************
And so we play on... with abstractions, words that are only the skins of meaning, ellipses, the coding of the emotions below. That play and coding are what this typing - and shit, that really is all it is - is about.
Odd that there seems to be no single noun in English for the betrayed one. "Dupe"? "Victim"? "Sucker"? "Mark"? None of these, necessarily. And unless it's a man and it's about sex, not the nasty-sounding "Cuckold." Nothing that means, solely, the betrayee, which isn't a word.
The perps get, at least, "betrayer" and "traitor". But those on the receiving end appear to have no single, dignified name.
You can be an avenger. You can, I am given to understand, be a forgiver. And you can move on.
*******************************************************************
And so we play on... with abstractions, words that are only the skins of meaning, ellipses, the coding of the emotions below. That play and coding are what this typing - and shit, that really is all it is - is about.
Thursday, May 12, 2011
Back to Cahokia Mounds
Driving downtown, every so often, I just blow off the last exit in Missouri and keep going across the river, towards Horseshoe Lake and Cahokia Mounds. The area just beats with history, what for America is old history. A lake made out of one the bends that the Mississippi abandoned ages ago. Humans living in the area for 10,000 years. At the mounds, the site of what was once, long before Columbus, the largest city in North America.
I keep looking for simplicity (and still mistrust it). Here at Monks' Mound, for some reason, I find it and sign on.
Driving downtown, every so often, I just blow off the last exit in Missouri and keep going across the river, towards Horseshoe Lake and Cahokia Mounds. The area just beats with history, what for America is old history. A lake made out of one the bends that the Mississippi abandoned ages ago. Humans living in the area for 10,000 years. At the mounds, the site of what was once, long before Columbus, the largest city in North America.
I keep looking for simplicity (and still mistrust it). Here at Monks' Mound, for some reason, I find it and sign on.
Saturday, May 07, 2011
Hubris-O-Rama
Can't help noting that I wrote this about a year ago, re Afghanistan.
I would focus on how to climb down from this war and make a graceful exit. Just as we can tolerate no new 9/11, we cannot ever be in a position of evacuating our embassy on short notice and leaving supporters behind to be slaughtered, as we did in Saigon in 1975. Avoidance of that should be the objective in Afghanistan.
How? We find a reason to declare Al-Qaeda crushed and declare victory. How that? Well, finally killing Bin Laden or finding his remains would be nice. And if not that, I bet there is something else the Pashtuns and/or the Pakis could serve up if they were offered the right mixture of money and guns (in their hands, at their heads, or both). Whatever it is, we follow it up with a nice parade through Kabul, us and our allies, and we're gone. With visas and a great evacuation plan for our local friends, who I'm sure will make fine Americans.
Not exactly a prediction, but it does seem to kind of resonate today. Killing Bin Laden could make a good pretext for exiting a bad war. Hmm... There is a conspiracy theory in there somewhere.
I heard once about a woman who used to write to her husband who was at the front during WWII. Her predictions were so insightful that the FBI paid her a call to make sure she wasn't a spy. Who knows if true, but I always liked the idea that you could just read the papers, apply your brain, and be a kind of soothsayer.
But you can't predict Black Swans, almost by definition. If the next big thing is a Black Swan all we can hope is to be nimble. And maybe stock some soup and water in the basement,
Can't help noting that I wrote this about a year ago, re Afghanistan.
I would focus on how to climb down from this war and make a graceful exit. Just as we can tolerate no new 9/11, we cannot ever be in a position of evacuating our embassy on short notice and leaving supporters behind to be slaughtered, as we did in Saigon in 1975. Avoidance of that should be the objective in Afghanistan.
How? We find a reason to declare Al-Qaeda crushed and declare victory. How that? Well, finally killing Bin Laden or finding his remains would be nice. And if not that, I bet there is something else the Pashtuns and/or the Pakis could serve up if they were offered the right mixture of money and guns (in their hands, at their heads, or both). Whatever it is, we follow it up with a nice parade through Kabul, us and our allies, and we're gone. With visas and a great evacuation plan for our local friends, who I'm sure will make fine Americans.
Not exactly a prediction, but it does seem to kind of resonate today. Killing Bin Laden could make a good pretext for exiting a bad war. Hmm... There is a conspiracy theory in there somewhere.
I heard once about a woman who used to write to her husband who was at the front during WWII. Her predictions were so insightful that the FBI paid her a call to make sure she wasn't a spy. Who knows if true, but I always liked the idea that you could just read the papers, apply your brain, and be a kind of soothsayer.
But you can't predict Black Swans, almost by definition. If the next big thing is a Black Swan all we can hope is to be nimble. And maybe stock some soup and water in the basement,
Thursday, May 05, 2011
Valerie At Sunset
They come into our lives, these dogs, and become our best friends, and then they leave. They are killed, or they run away, or are stolen, or have to be given away. Or, most painfully, they give their lives to you and then you get to the place where their happy lives are over, and you have to put them down.
Valerie would say it's been well worth it, and when I've recovered I will agree. She and I had many great times together, many times just we two, her treeing a squirrel and me cheering her on, driving for days together every summer, people saying what a great dog at the stops on the highway, exploring parks where neither of us had ever been, me taking the risk of letting her off the lead, she always, always, sooner or later, coming back.
Today's the day she goes and doesn't come back.
She loved and was loved by family and many of our friends. (Other dogs, not so much.) She was dignified and graceful and fine, and when not outside scouting she slept at my feet. When I was home in recovery from cancer she never left my side. She was ours for thirteen Christmases, with her own stocking.
Farewell old girl. Now I can only promise to remember you. I promise.
They come into our lives, these dogs, and become our best friends, and then they leave. They are killed, or they run away, or are stolen, or have to be given away. Or, most painfully, they give their lives to you and then you get to the place where their happy lives are over, and you have to put them down.
Valerie would say it's been well worth it, and when I've recovered I will agree. She and I had many great times together, many times just we two, her treeing a squirrel and me cheering her on, driving for days together every summer, people saying what a great dog at the stops on the highway, exploring parks where neither of us had ever been, me taking the risk of letting her off the lead, she always, always, sooner or later, coming back.
Today's the day she goes and doesn't come back.
She loved and was loved by family and many of our friends. (Other dogs, not so much.) She was dignified and graceful and fine, and when not outside scouting she slept at my feet. When I was home in recovery from cancer she never left my side. She was ours for thirteen Christmases, with her own stocking.
Farewell old girl. Now I can only promise to remember you. I promise.
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