oh, that's rich...part II: the pompasity of prosperity
For whatever reason, there are a lot of wealthy people who like to be around beautiful things. They like to own beautiful things. I don't find this odd, I enjoy being around beautiful things as well. Most beautiful things, however, are out of the realm of being owned by the likes of myself, and the vast majority of the rest of the planet. Perhaps it falls to the wealthy to be protectors of beauty, of art, of magnificent architecture. I wonder if wealthy people understand this as one of their many responsibilities.
Along with the innocence of wealth, as I described in my previous post, I'd like to present another vision of the wealthy that many have. Many wealthy don't understand this image...perhaps it's their innocence showing through again, or their naivete. It's a strange sense of entitlement, or of perceived recognition. The sense that they will be known for their own wealth, and their own collections of beauty, and accorded all the rights that go along with that notoriety.
When I was the box office manager for the art museum in Fort Worth, TX. I had the following experience. It was between exhibitions, we had the museum's permanent collection filling the halls. The Caravaggio collection was out, the one Rembrandt was up, Fra Angelico, Matisse, Goya, and Mondrian paintings were all up as well. The ancient Egyptian and Pre-Columbian sculpture was viewable. The well known Asian collection was in it's regular display hall as well. All was free for the public to view.
As I sat there at the information desk, having no employees that day to supervise I had the distinct feeling that I was the cities highest paid information desk attendant that day. There weren't many people in the downstairs gallery, where the information desk was, that day, when I noticed two suited and dark sunglass'd men walk in the door and look around. A few seconds later, a white haired man walked in and looked around. He said, to no one in particular, that I could tell, "Hello, I'm {insert name of very wealthy and well known Fort Worth person here}." There was silence. He looked around. Unsure about what to do, he walked up to me and repeated what he'd said to the air. I introduced myself and shook his hand. "Is there something I can do for you sir?" I inquired.
"Is there anything I need to do?"
"I'm not sure, is there something you'd like to do?"
"Well, I'd like to see the collection."
I then explained to him where everything was, and gave him a brochure. He seemed confused. I wasn't sure why. About this time, someone from the main office came rushing out to my information desk and introduced themselves to the man, and walked off with him talking rapidly and immediately embarked on a private guided tour of the entire collection. I was still a bit confused.
"When he walks in, we're supposed to notify the office." came a voice. It was one of the security guards. The guards had apparently informed the main office, via radio, that he was in the museum.
"Why?"
"We just do."
"Does he own any of our paintings?" I asked. I knew full well that some of the artwork was on loan from wealthy families.
"No." they said "But he's a large benefactor."
Ah yes, I thought, the benefactor. I immediately thought of the days when an artist would have a benefactor, a person who would simply support them monetarily while they did their art and generally lived out their bohemian existence. I wondered if I could ever have a benefactor, I still wonder that some days. The days of individuals having benefactors, or patrons, must be over, I always assume.
But the wealthy can't keep it to themselves forever, can they? They could become benefactors of the world, patrons of the planet. Having money is a big responsibility. I wonder how many wealthy people understand this?Labels: richie rich
oh, that's rich...part I: the innocence of wealth
I was once the manager of the ticket box office at two different museums in Fort Worth, TX (at different times, you understand). The first job was at a science museum, the second was at an art museum. They were both fun jobs, although tedious. It was while engaged in these jobs that I discovered that I really wasn't cut out to interact with the general public on a regular basis. Whenever there was some sort of problem or dispute, I would always just cave in and give away tickets for free, because, well, I'm easy like that.
The job afforded me the opportunity, however, to be the manager of over forty or so employees who were in vastly different stages in their lives. At the science museum, I managed high school and college aged kids, at the art museum, it was mostly retired folks who just wanted something easy to do to supplement their fixed incomes.
This post isn't really about that, however, that's just the background. The seed of this post is from a discussion I had with an acquaintance regarding rich people. Yes, that's right, rich people. I expressed to this person that another friend might not like them because they were wealthy. Wealthy people are sometimes disliked by those of us with fewer means. How does this relate to being a box office manager? Interestingly enough, it does, in a round about sort of way.
You see, when I was managing at the science museum, I hired a few high school kids who came from decidedly wealthy families. Old money families, we called them in Fort Worth. Families who'd been in the area since the late 1800s and had built up so much wealth that they were quite separate from the rest of the city, yet owned large parcels of the city. These two kids were interesting to have around, and interesting to try and manage. They were nice kids though. Their parents wanted them to get "jobs" so they could see what it was like to "work" for their money. Admirable enough, I think, so I just went with it. The little sister of the duo who worked for me was quite interesting (and here's where I relate a little story about her that I find fun). One weeknight evening, when there were very few customers, and the only people working the box office was this "rich kid" and myself, I decided that the time had come to vacuum the box office. The girl said "ooh! can I do it?"
"Uh.. sure" I replied. "Why are you so gung-ho to vacuum?"
"I've never done it before!" she said.
"What?" I said, with some skepticism. "How old are you again?"
"Seventeen."
"You're seventeen and you've never vacuumed a day in your life? Who vacuums your house, your mom?"
"HA!! No no no.. we have maids." she said over her laughter.
"I see." I said, finally understanding. "So you're figuring this is your big chance to learn how to use a vacuum cleaner, right?"
"Yeah! I can't wait! How does it work?"
So, that evening, I taught a seventeen year old debutante how to use a vacuum cleaner. I wondered to myself in silence what it must be like to not know how to do such common place things like this. We talked more into the evening, after her successful cleaning of the box office area, about what her life was really like. Her world was so incredibly different than mine, we discovered. I told her how I grew up, that in the town I grew up in, we were considered wealthy because our house was made of brick. Hers was a world of debutante balls and travel and parties.
I remember asking about what she thought of when she saw homeless people. She really didn't have an answer. She just generally said she was confused about how someone could become homeless. It was an interesting evening. I remember some time after this, my wife and I met the rich kid duo's parents in downtown Fort Worth at a beer/Oktoberfest type festival. They were friendly, and thanked me for being their manager at the museum. They even gave me several free beer tasting tokens.
I don't know what has become of this young lady, she'd be almost thirty by now. I wonder if she's married money and is happy. I hope she is. But what I really hope is that she vacuums her own house.
In my next post, I rub shoulders with the "big boss" of Fort Worth, TX.Labels: richie rich
coming clean...thing about me number.. whatever...
I have to come clean folks. There's something about me that has to change. I read this today regarding my height to weight ratio:
Ideal weight range is 160 - 176 lbs. (72.7 - 80 kg.).
You are overweight by 59 lbs. (27 kg.).
You may wish to consult with your physician for medical help.
I don't trust every website out there regarding these measurements, but, to be sure, I do need to lose weight. What this website doesn't ask is for me to evaluate why I have allowed this to happen, what percentage of this is genetic, and what mental processes I need to reverse in order to overcome my incessant need to feed. However, boiling it all down, I've come to the following conclusion. I am fat. My BMI, according to several online resources both dubious and less dubious, is in the "dangerous" range. If you haven't done the math above, I'll come clean and do it for you. I am five foot nine inches tall (give or take..I er on the tall side) and I currently weigh more than I ever have in my life...weighing in at 235pounds or so (that's 16.8 stone for my English readers).
My weight has been growing on my mind (and indeed, my mid and aft sections) for a few years now. I've a few false starts in losing it, but invariably, I lose track, get side tracked, or get too busy, to make it to the gym after a few months. Most recently, I developed plantar fasciitis in my left foot after four months of good exercising, causing me to stop for a time. Before I stopped, I'd lost about ten pounds. Previous to this foot problem, about a year prior, I was swimming regularly. This helped me to increase my endurance and lose about fifteen pounds. But, life being as it is...I wasn't able to keep it up because, well, I'm lame that way.
Also, to clarify, I'm not looking to lose weight so I'll look "hot," or whatever that means. Losing weight, for me, is about not dying. That's all. If I look "hot" after I lose the weight, well, that's just a perk, I suppose.
So there it is, long story short and out in the wide internet open, I am fat. I shouldn't be fat, but I am. I am taking full responsibility for my own enormity, starting today.
Hello, my name is Toadman, and I have a problem.
Do you?
Photo from TrekNatureLabels: bloated toad
siblings...
Did you know that I've only been in one physical fight in my entire life? It was in junior high, I think. We were on a school bus and some kid, I forget his name, said something that made me mad, and I got up to deck him, and was held back. So nope, I've never punched another person in my life. Ah well...I suppose that's life being the youngest of four, naive, protected and sheltered from the bad stuff out there that's bent on "getting" me.
I didn't even have my brother around to punch for very long, but he did do stuff to make me cry when he was home, before he moved out in around 1980, that is. I don't even remember what kind of stuff it was that he did to me that set me to blubbering, but I do remember him shoving my face in the pillows on his bed and saying "SHUT UP! MOM'S GOING TO HEAR YOU!!" and other stuff like "I'm going to tell all your first grade friends that you're a crybaby." Ah.. brotherly love, right?
We have three boys now. What can I expect from this trinity of masculine hormones when they're all teenagers? I don't really know what to expect. I'll have to lean on my wife's experiences, I suppose. She says her older brothers drug her across the carpet by her hair and told her she was ugly when she was a teenager. Maybe this is why she is stronger than me when it comes to sibling rivalry. I just don't get it, I suppose. I'm often at a loss as to what to do when my oldest comes in saying "He punched me in the face!" I often say "Why?" This never works.
So, I hope they don't fight each other too much, as they age. I hope it's just the normal sibling rivalry, and not something epic or disproportional to reality (you know, like my older siblings say about me "He got all the breaks!!!" This isn't true, I just got to enjoy the good years...you got the lean years. It's not my fault I'm spoiled!! HA!).
Oh well, wish us luck I guess!Labels: attempted humor
lost at sea...
Every year, in early December, he comes here. South from London to Portsmouth, then on to Fishbourne via ferry, then footpaths to Niton. Over the years the changes on the island haven't moved him. More shops, more tourists, more concerts and young people. In December, however, it's quieter than in the summer, and this fits his mood.
When these trips first began, he was a much younger man. Now, age and illness have taken their toll. Unsure of how many more times he'll be able to make this trip, he continues on through the cold winter mist and rain. He must do this, he cannot forget to do this. This is all that he has left.
At the cliff overlooking the sea, St. Catherin's behind him, the rain is even harder. He can hear the storm surf crashing below as he looks out into the gray as far as he can, searching, probing. He sits down, cross-legged on the ground, as he's done every year, rain or shine, leaning back on his backpack.
He waits, but, like so many years before, the boat never arrives. That fishing boat, lost so many years before, still lost.
"I miss you son." he says, as he's done every year. He tells his lost son all about the past year, like so many times before. His only son was a fisherman, like him, like his father before him, and his grandfather before him. But the sea took him, and the sea never gives up the lost.
Rising, he turns away from the sea, and walks back up to Niton, and goes to the same pub he has for years. The old men great him as he enters, knowing his story already they ask no questions. They buy him a drink, and gather around to talk of times gone by.Labels: character study
summer solstice...
Tomorrow is the longest day of the year. The summer solstice. The sun will rise in the northeast here in Spokane at 4:51am, and finally set in the northwest at 8:51pm. It will be warm, sunny, and beautiful. The forecast of 79 degrees is a good temperature for the first day of summer, I think.
But I'm strange, you see. I think about strange things in the midst of all the warmth and sunshine. When I see our kids running around in the 9pm twilight outside, I remember in winter when it got dark at 4pm. As I walk our newborn around the garden in the evenings, I remember when the garden was under two, sometimes three or six inches of snow.
These things don't depress, they only highlight that I live in an area that has four distinct seasons. Each season looks and feels different from the other. I like that. It breaks up the monotony of life, and provides me something interesting to look forward to toward the latter part of each season.
Maybe we should think about that more often. Each year is a season of our lives, each year has a look and feel of it's own, distinct and special. But things will and can change from one year to the next. The only difference is, we're in control of the change in our lives, mother nature is in control of hers.
on being a father...
I wanted to write a post about Father's day, but I didn't know what to say. So many people out there have lost touch either emotionally, or physically, with their fathers, that I didn't know where to start. Over the years I've found that I'm one of the lucky few who had a father who was present and accounted for during my entire childhood, and adult life. My father is alive still to this day.
I always tell people I have no idea how to be a good father, but I suppose that's not entirely true. I learned a lot from my own dad. Starting with the foundation he gave me, is as good a starting place as any. He was quiet and stern, silly and slightly aloof sometimes, but he was there. I feel sorry for people I know who are fatherless, whether their fathers are alive or dead.
Still, how to be a good dad isn't something I'd ever count myself an expert at. I don't think anyone can claim to be the world's best dad. I'm not perfect, and all to often I feel that I am a bit of a failure in some aspect or another. I try not to be emotionally distant, try to be understanding and not demanding, but regrettably, I feel like a fail at these sometimes. I sometimes think I raise my voice too much, or expect too much compliance, or too little.
I suppose I'm just doing what comes natural to me, if being a father can be called 'natural' at all. I don't know if just doing what comes natural is right or wrong, but it's the best I can do, I think. It's too bad that what "comes natural" to many men is being away and not being a part of their children's lives. Perhaps it's fear...no, I'm sure it is. Being a father, or a parent at all, for that matter, is the scariest thing I've ever done. Shaping the personality and emotional state of another human being is by no means an easy task, and not one to be taken lightly. It's weighty, scary, and very intimidating. "What if I screw something up?" I ask myself, "What if I say something wrong and that sticks with them for the rest of their lives and they resent me, or society, in the future?"
The task of child rearing is terrifying. Perhaps that's why so many men run away from it so readily. Perhaps they're not ready to make the self-sacrifice it takes. Perhaps they're afraid they'll screw something up. Maybe they're just selfish.
I don't know. What I do know is, I'm just doing the best I can. I hope that's enough.
disconnected...
Paris Hilton is secured in a prison, and we watch closely the drama of her little life. We watch to see who's going to be the next top singer, the next survivor, the next top chef.
Throw it all away
Lets lose ourselves
Cause theres no one left for us to blame
Its a shame we're all dying
And do you think you deserve your freedom?
Thirty-one dead in Virginia in one day, one thousand nine hundred and forty four civilians dead in Iraq in May 2007. Which number is new to you?
How could you send us all far away from home
When you know damn well that this is wrong
I would still lay down my life for you.
Are we blinded? Is the fog of war too much for our sensibilities? Must we continue to endure death after death after death, satiating ourselves with Pirates, superheros, celebrity adoptions, marriages, divorces and sex lives? Do we really need to carry on with our addiction to our invented realities on television, or shall we finally vote reality television off this island we're floating on that is in such trouble?
I believe there is a place for everything in this world, including entertainment. However, I wonder at our priorities when I can turn on the television and hear hour after hour of analysis and deconstruction of the mental state of one, solitary, selfish little rich girl, while our forgotten men walk into the brown mist of an ever deepening and unsure future.
Labels: war
fiacre...
Here at Toadmaison, things are slowly coming together in the back garden. Mulch is down, pumpkins planted, marigolds standing vigil against invaders. Hidden life lies below the ground still, but its gestation should be quick. Life also returns to the rambling rose bush (an arbor, someday.. someday..), and the pink rose (we don't know the names here at Toadmaison, we just enjoy them as they are.).
All around the house, the garden is alive and growing. Lupine, Poppy, and Digitalis stands in front of the yet to bloom Hollyhock on the side bed. Gnigel the gnome, who is in the front flower bed now, is being covered by a red leafed plant who's name escapes me. The Hosta is thrusting buds out beyond it's leafy body, and the lilies are glowing purple in the evening light.
In the evenings, I carry our youngest through the garden, after his last feeding. We talk to Francis and Fiacre in their elements as we stroll around the front, between the garages, over the mulch path through the vegetable garden, and finally by the rock garden where the pink rock cress, almost through blooming, spills out over the stone on to the lower level like a soft, green and pink waterfall frozen in it's descent.
We are left with the soft music of the sunset, the haunting sound of a doudouk it seems, as we return to the front yard. My feet are cool and moist in the lush green, and the soft cooing in my ear of a warm and content child mingles with the sounds of the wind, and the music in my head.
artist, album, song:
Andreas Vollenweider, Cosmopoly, Hush, My Heart, Be Still...
powered by ODEOLabels: garden
vespers...
It's the tolling of the bell that makes me look up. St. Charles is calling the faithful again this evening. I turn and stand, dirt and grime on my clothes and hands from setting plants in the vegetable garden, and look out of the garage where I've just returned my tools and other implements.
There is a golden light flowing down the quiet street as the bell chimes, the wind seems to gently respond to the sound waves and stirs the foxgloves from their upright vigil. Ever so slightly, they sway in time to the continued chimes, four chimes now, two more to go.
Laughter in the back yard, the swing set is being used by the boys. They've been running through the green grass, shoe-less, having sword battles with the wooden stakes I was using.
This is why. This is why this is home. It's the sounds I hear, the people I'm with, the golden sun in the sky, refracting orange on to the clouds as the sun deepens toward evening. We slowly quiet. We drift into dinner, baths, and bedtime, all as the sun continues to set. The sun is almost loath to go down, and when it finally does, it's glow lingers even longer.
This is why I love it here. This is why this is home.Labels: spokane
hair today, gone tomorrow?
It has been put to me that some men with long hair are, well, wusses. I've been told that we can't hack the long hair'd life. It has been said that we whine about tangles, about our hair falling into our faces and into our mouths when we eat. We've been heard to complain about our hair once it reaches a certain length. I put it back to you that it is not the hair that we are upset about, it is us being inconvenienced.
Many men, you see, like to be frugal with their time. Often this is seen as being "lazy." While I concede that many men are, indeed, moochers, lechers, and lazy lobs, we are also, masters of doing as much as possible, without lifting a finger. You see, for many of us, our motto is "It's not the amount you do, but the amount you don't do to do it." Poor grammar, true, but accurate statement.
I have, as you can see from the picture to the left, longish hair. Oh, to be honest, it's longer now than it's ever been. It's even longer now than it was many years ago when I grew a good crop of thick black hair for Locks of Love. My hair now, however, is too riddled with gray to be accepted by them, I think (but I'm not sure).
Still, I'm not quite ready to throw in the hairy towel just yet. I am challenging myself to overcome my own wussiness with regard to my hairiness. I have been wearing my hair down for the better part of each day this week, and have done quite well so far. I will prove that men do have what it takes to have long hair, I will! I have only eaten a small amount of my lengthy locks during meals so far, and have yet to hack up a hairball, so I think I'm doing well on that front as well.
Wish me luck!
oh by the way, which one's Pink?
So, so you think you can tell
Heaven from Hell,
blue skies from pain.
Can you tell a green field
from a cold steel rail?
A smile from a veil?
Do you think you can tell?
Sometimes one will resonate more than the others, for longer, it seems. Some will linger in your mind better. With some, the flavor of the ear candy presented never becomes tiresome or old, but always fresh. It's not true with all, at least for me, but with some, it is very true.
And did they get you trade your heroes for ghosts?
Hot ashes for trees? Hot air for a cool breeze?
Cold comfort for change? And did you exchange
a walk on part in the war for a lead role in a cage?
Sometimes, though the meanings are vague, the images stir deeper. For me, this is what makes something timeless. This is what makes something last, endure. Over time, some images fade, some stanzas become over used and typical. But not this one. For me, this is one of the best, one of the classics, one of those that will remain. This is one of the ones during which, I do not mumble, but let fly from my vocal chords with confidence. This is one of the ones that I know by heart.
How I wish, how I wish you were here.
We're just two lost souls swimming in a fish bowl,
year after year,
running over the same old ground. What have we found?
The same old fears,
wish you were here.Labels: music
coronach...
Grey the mist --- cold the dawn;
Cruel the sea and stern the shore.
Brave the man who sets his course
For Albion.
Over the hill and away into the distance, they fly. White robed and ancient standing stones in the morning mist, they stand looking out over the sea spray, white cliffs at their feet. History beneath the roots of the climbing rose that clamors over the garden wall, ancient guard tower crumbling under the strain of ivy. The sky so blue it glows with clear radiance over yellow rolling fields, the bulging roundness of elderly oak forests in the distance wherein hides fanciful faerie worlds and dragons.
Sweet the rose --- sharp the thorn;
Meek the soil and proud the corn.
Blessed the lamb that would be born
Within this green and pleasant land.
Hi-o-ran-i-o
Hi-o-ran-i-o
Talk and laughter inside darkened pubs under thatch, hearty meals after long days of simple work. Simple rough calloused hands clasping in greeting, talking at the old post office of births, deaths, weather and crops.
With the wind from the east
Came the first of those who tread
Upon this stone, this stone of kings;
This realm, this new Jerusalem.
Hi-o-ran-i-o
Hi-o-ran-i-o
These proud people, these green lands, these lofty mountains and cold lochs, these homely hearths and sweeping histories. These are the things that draw me in, invest themselves in my mind and rule my imaginations of this place that I've never been.
This royal throne of kings, this scepter'd isle,
This earth of majesty, this seat of Mars,
This other Eden, demi-paradise,
This fortress built by Nature for herself
This happy breed of men, this little world,
This precious stone set in the silver sea,
This blessed plot, this earth, this realm, this England...
Photo courtesy Marmitetoasty
Lyrics: Jethro Tull - Coronach
Poetry: Shakespear, Richard IILabels: anglophile
