A Manifesto?

     I am on a flight from Los Angeles to Chicago. I am doing my doing my writing on the plane connected to WiFi that I glad paid an unreasonable $16 for. It is January 7th, and I have written every day this year thus far even though this my fifth post of the year. I am happy with that and committed to continue writing everyday with the cautious optimism of of someone trying to replace a bad habit with a good one.
     I have even written a haiku every day. The only one I kind of like is:

this fresh page, less blank,
full of some kind of thinking
fragrance or reeking?

     We are heading back to a less cold Chicago than we left eight short days ago. The plane will actually land in the very wee hours of Monday, January 8th. No time to rest though. I will be off to Detroit to visit my parents and participate in a business meeting or two. I

     I was set with all all this technology including my slender smaller screen Macbook on the tray table with Wonder Woman playing on the seat back screen just above it. I was pretty comfortable. Then I realized I was at the geometric limit of that comfort when the WWII veteran in the seat in front of me reclined his seat. I can only imagine how comical I now look.

     Despite this rambling preamble, I had a notion to write a manifesto of sorts tonight. I have always wanted to write a manifesto. I like the sound of a manifesto and the idea having my own. It has to be rooted The Communist Manifesto of Karl Marx. It is the only manifesto I really know about.  Growing up in the dregs of the Cold War, I was compelled to read The Communist Manifesto since it was the philosophical cornerstone of our then national enemy. In reading it, I was surprised that it actually made sense to me.  Over time I realized that the USSR had usurped the utopian vision of Marx. Reading it made me want to write a Manifesto even more.

     In the resurrection of this notion to pen a manifesto, I have yet another chance to show how naïve I am and how much more I have to learn.  I, laughingly, hereby admit that I am not exactly sure what a manifesto is and, golly gee whiz, I ought to before ever attempting to write one. 

     So, I turned to the internet. I read a few defintions and liked this one from merriam-webster.com: “a written statement declaring publicly the intentions, motives, or views of its issuer.”

     Thankfully, that is, in fact, what I kind of thought a manifesto was but just never articulated. In a sense, this blog, at times, is a manifesto. Perhaps, I am in the habit of writing it but not quite ready to edit and consolidate it just yet.

     It makes me realize that I need to focus my darling writing by have a clear vision of th book or books I want to write and then preparing outlines that would guide my daily writing.  One of those books is the Manifesto I think is in me.

Disneyland Revisited

jungleis101.blogspot.com

     I recently wrote about spending the day at Disneyland for my grandson’s birthday. While I was thoroughly enjoying myself as Vaughn enjoyed himself, you have to know that I was also looking at the park from an operations perspective. So, I decided to post again on Disneyland from that point of view.
     When Disneyland first opened in 1955, admission for a day was $1 per person. That daily rate, which we paid, is currently $110 per person. Back in 1955, there were 18 attractions or rides. Today, there are over 50 attractions. Business Insider
     The most astounding phenomena I noted was that people pay hundreds of dollars per party to basically spend a lot of time, a disproportional amount of time, waiting in line. As of 4:30 today per laughingplace.com, the waits a selection of attractions or rides were: 

• 80 mins for Matterhorn 
• 80 mins for Space Mountain 
• 75 mins for It’s a Small World 
• 60 mins for Haunted Mansion 
• 35 mins for Mickey’s House and Meet Mickey 
• 30 mins for Dumbo 
• 15 mins for Mad Tea Party 
• 10 mins for King Arthur’s Carousel 

     I guestimated that each each ride lasts an average 12 mins based on a quora.com post that that Pirates of the Caribbean was the longest ride at 15 minutes. I also guessed that people spent an average of 15 minutes between rides (including restroom breaks, eating). A little spreadsheet magic revealed that a party would have to spend 10 hours at the park. (I was amazed that it was exactly 10 hours.)  One would spend 6.4 hours or 64% of that time waiting in line, 2 hours or 20% between rides, and only 1.6 hours or 16% of that time actually on a ride. To me that is crazy, but it proves just how attractive these attractions are. Folks are more than willing to pay hundreds of dollars a day to spend 84% of the time in the park going between attractions or waiting in line for an attraction.
     Of course, very few go to Disneyland to get as many rides in as they can. There is the daily parade down Main Street. There is always a song or dance act in the town square. Each section of the park has its own theater show of some sort. Lastly, there is the daily fireworks display. So, it is not all about the rides. We were there six hours. We saw the parade and went on five rides. The numbers based on my quick study resonate with me. I felt like we were easily in line at least 64% of the time. By the way, we waited in line to park the car, to catch the tram from the garage to the park, and a hour to get our tickets from the will-call window.
     Disneyland is amazing. For the number of people there, it is remarkably clean. Every worker, or cast member as everyone is called, is super friendly and helpful. All the acts are top notch and really engaging. And the attractions or rides? They are all in tip-top condition, very well designed, and super entertaining and fun. Everything is well scripted. Certainly, all the singing and dancing in the parades are scripted but one could tell just watching that every job from running a ride to emptying the trash was scripted to well designed standard operating procedures.
     I would sure love to get a back lot, behind the scenes, operations tour…

Disneyland Birthday

     I actually wrote this weeks earlier, but am just getting around to posting. We were recently at Disneyland day celebrating the the birthday of our grandson Vaughn Alexan, the first born of our daughter Armene and her husband Michael.
     It has been over twenty maybe twenty-five years since visiting a Disney theme park. All told, I have been to Disneyland three times, counting the visit yesterday, and Disney World once. It was the first time for us taking a child or grandchild on their birthday and also the first time being at a Disney park during the Holiday Season.
     The weather was partly sunny in the 70s. What a pleasure to be in shorts and a polo when just a short week ago we were experiencing an arctic blast that is still engulfing Chicago.

      It was just Vaughn and both sets of his grandparents, Ana, Manuk, Judy, and I. How much more special does it get than that? We got to the park just in time for early afternoon parade down Main Street. It was Holiday themed and spectacularly well done. There was a teen marching band from Ontario Canada that had just participated in the Tournament of Roses Parade on New Year’s Day. There were dancers and singers, top notch performers all. There were floats with the Disney characters ranging from the classics of Mickey, Minnie, Donald, Daisy, Goofy, and Pluto, to the casts of Toy Story, Beauty and the Beast, Snow White, and Cinderella. As you might expect, the last float was none other than Santa himself. Through the entire parade, Vaughn sat their either totally mesmerized, in awe, or calling out and waving to the various characters. His pure appreciation and enthusiasm made us all feel like children again.
      As Vaughn is just a few years old, there were a vast number of rides that would have just been too scary, so we basically spent our time on Main Street, Toon Town, and Fantasy Land. The rides? The classics for someone his age: It’s a Small World, Dumbo the Flying Elephant, King Arthur’s Carousel, and Mad Tea Party (the Tea Cup ride). We waited in line for the Story Book Land boat ride, but when Vaughn saw that boats first cruised right into the open mouth of very toothy whale, well… he wanted no part of that. We

ended our time at the park in Toon Town where we visited Mickey’s house where our birthday boy got to meet Mickey himself.
     We took a gazillion photos and videos. The plan is to present him with a photo album so he can see how much fun we had well after the memory of the day has faded. Neither of his grandparents will need such a nudge. We were thankful for having the chance to take him on his special day and a bit grateful that six hours was about the limit of his stamina which is just about how much time our creaky knees and joints were good for.
     We went to the Black Bear Diner in La Habra where Vaughn enjoyed his favorite dish: mac and cheese. We sang happy birthday over ice cream, they oddly had no cake, and then returned home to open some presents. Vaughn fell asleep the moment his head hit the pillow and probably dreamt about his special day. I am certain we grandparents did the same.
     Happy birthday Vaughn!

Congratulations to Ara Topouzian

     It is good having a resolution to write more!
     One of the great things about writing daily is that one is more aware of the news and happenings of friends and family simply because such things provide something to write about. Today was a perfect example of this.
     I learned from Facebook that my good friend Ara Topouzian was named to the Michigan Council for the Arts:

"Governor Rick Snyder recently announced the appointment of Ara Topouzian, President/CEO of the Troy Chamber of Commerce, to the Michigan Council for Arts and Cultural Affairs. 

The 15-member council, housed in the Michigan Economic Development Corporation, helps create an environment of artistic, creative, and cultural activity to support Michigan’s quality of life and economic vitality."  Troy Chamber of Commerce Press Release

     I am so happy for my friend, our dear family friend, and fellow musician. In the past few years, he has expressed a desire to get more involved in the arts on a broader scale either in Metro Detroit or in the State. It is just great to see someone that I know realize what they desired and worked for.
     I know, I know, I am positively writing about Ara and seriously praising and congratulating him. As appropriate as it is, it is out of character because that is not what Ara and I do for each other. We have fun with each other. We make fun of each other. We make fun and take shots at each other with such gusto and vigor that folks will often question whether we actually like each other. We do.
     Simply, on some level, perhaps all levels, we think we are the second coming of The Three Stooges or any other slapstick comedy act. Indeed, I have blogged about him three other times and mentioned him in blogs probably a dozen more times:

• A Documentary on Armenian Music In Detroit
• The Wily Ara Topouzian
• January 2010: New Work & Ara^2

     Just after I read the press release announcing his appointment to the Michigan Council for Arts and Cultural Affairs, I texted him my sincere and heartfelt congratulations. It did not take long for that to unravel into what we usually do. I started pretending I was any number of prima donna Armenian musicians who would be jealous of Ara and scoff at this news and great honor. I could hear him laughing even though I am in Los Angeles and he is in Detroit.
     Ara will be a great asset to the Michigan Council for the Arts and Cultural Affairs. He will participate and get involved with enthusiasm. He will influence the presence of the Arts in Michigan and enhance the output of the Council in positive ways always, looking to help the segments of the population that have not gotten the exposure they deserve.
     I was looking for the right photo to accompany this bloggy bit. It couldn’t be a serious photo that is for sure. But, I also did not want to make the distinguished appointee look too goofy (oh my the restraint I had to use here). So, I settled on a photo we took when we did a concert in Farmington Hills a few years ago. We were backstage in the wood shop before the concert and we thought we would do a little work on our really expensive, hand crafted, instruments.  The look on his face?  Priceless.
     Congratulations Ara… well deserved. Make us all proud.

Resolving to Write More

      On this first day of 2018, I have resolved to resume my daily writing and subsequent blogging in earnest.  Let's see how it works as resolutions, while set with strong intentions, are only meaningful for a scant few days of the new year.  In January 2008, I even blogged about it:  Be it Resolved.
      I was looking for a bloggy bit I thought I had posted here.  I knew the title, Two Popes? No Big Deal.  It was nowhere to be found.  As a borderline elderly gent, I was, of course, worried about senility and other cognitive degenerating ailments.  In this case, I knew I wrote it.  So, I did a general Google search.  Lo and behold, it popped up, not as a blog post but rather in the Armenian Weekly as a Letter to the Editor on March 12, 2013.  OK then.  I did write it.   I just forgot where it was published.  The good thing was that I felt a lot less senile.  To me this seemed like a normal error; the kind I have made with regularity throughout my life.
     I read the letter and I liked what I wrote.  I liked my writing style that combined insight, humor, sarcasm, and the national self-deprecation that the Armenian people need more of.  That is when I realized how much I missed the daily writing and subsequent blogging.   The resolution was almost immediate.  
     I used to write the first thing every morning.  Looking back at the almost fourteen years in which I was actually good at writing every day, I realized that it was when I started writing at the end of the day when the habit began to wane.  I was probably just too tired at the end of the day.  Also, when I began my encore career as a full-time faculty member, I seem to have less time than when I was a corporate executive.  This last observation mystifies me because the only conclusions possible is that I was a much better corporate executive than I am a college professors.  The other conclusion is that I was more willing to shirk my corporate responsibilities to write than I am my professorial duties.  Both conclusions unsettle me for different reasons though both are hits to my self-image and self-worth.  I might consider exploring this subject in a future blog if I didn't find it so danged boring.
     I have made several other resolutions yesterday and today.  The only one that I am making public is the one disclosed here which is to renew and resume my daily writing habit.  Certainly I know that with any resolution made at this time of year and, in fact, anything called a "resolution," the obvious question is whether it can be sustained?  Will it last a day, a week, or even a month, let alone "the rest of my life" timeframe given to almost every resolution.  All I can say is let's see...
     So, I start 2018 with this short prelude and include my Letter to the Editor telling the Catholics not to worry about having two Popes.

---

Dear Editor,

In February, Pope Benedict announced his intention to resign the Papacy. As the month ended, he officially stepped down. The College of Cardinals is convening shortly to choose the next Pope. The intent is to have the new Pontiff in place before Easter, this holiest time in Christendom.

There has been a lot of buzz since Pope Benedict’s announcement. His resignation or retirement or whatever it is called only happened once before, and that was something like 600 years ago. There has been a lot of discussion and speculation about having two living Popes. Who would have the authority? Who would have the greater influence? Would Pope Benedict second-guess the new pontiff’s actions? This is in spite of Pope Benedict’s stated preference to live out his days in prayer as a simple hermit.

This is new and uncharted territory for the Catholic Church. They are not sure how to act and react. The second oldest Christian Church needs the help from the oldest Christian Church in the world: the Armenians.

How could the tiny nation of Armenia and Armenians in the diaspora possibly help the far bigger and far richer Catholic Church? Well, in this one regard, the Armenians have a vast amount of experience. Armenians have had two or more Popes—we call them Catholicoses—for centuries.

Indeed, we are a small nation. Has there been any reason to have two Popes? It is simple; we have a history of being invaded by peoples who did not appreciate our Christianity. We moved the head of our church upon occasion from Etchmiadzin (our Vatican) to different and safer locations. As Armenia is a mountainous place with plenty of isolated places, it was easy to have a Vatican tucked here or there to be used as needed. When they moved the Catholicos back, the vacated temporary Vatican had all this structure of followers, priests, bishops, and monasteries. This infrastructure simply did what human infrastructures do—they assumed they had an independent right to exist. So, they simply elected a brand new Catholicos and, voila, we had two. There were periods of times when we had more than two Popes. We tried a few different numbers and for our really small numbers and dysfunctional collective psyche, two Popes seemed to be the optimal number.

Truth be told, we have a few Patriarchates as well. One is in Istanbul and the other is in Jerusalem. These Patriarchs are like junior Popes. We are small but we are splintered. In this splintering, and through constantly being conquered, we have found our strength and odd arrogance that has sustained us as a people for these many years.

We could tell our Catholic brothers and sisters not to worry. It is no big deal having two Popes. There are problems like families divided by allegiance to one Pope or the other. The factions may not talk to each other for several generations. Yes, there may be excessive facilities since each Pope needs his own church in each community. No big deal, really. There is nothing to make a fuss over. It is actually fun and a source of incessant heated debates and discussions at every holiday. Except for the divided factions that hate each other and never speak, it helps keep families together and feeling righteous. The Catholics have no clue how rich their lives will become with two Popes!

Welcome to the two-Pope club, brothers and sisters.

Sincerely,
Mark Gavoor

June 2017: Derev

     Picking grape leaves is a tradition.
     I grew up with this tradition. It has become something I have been doing for the past several years. My cousin Chris has been doing it for even longer. It is an old Armenian tradition that my grandparents generation brought with them from the yergir or “old country.” Armenians call the leaves derev, which just means, um… duh…. leaf. We also used the Turkish word yaprak which was no more clever than the Armenian and means leaf as well. But when Armenians and Turks say derev or yaprak in the singular, it really means grape leaves.
     We pick them and use them to make sarma, or what the Greeks call dolmades. The leaves are cleaned and blanched. If not used right away, they are either frozen or canned for later use. The stuffing of the stuffed grape leaves, is either a meat based but most often a rice based mix of spices, onions, pignolia nuts, and olvie oil. The mixture is rolled like small cigars in the grape leaves and neatly arranged in a slow cooker. There is art in the picking of the leaves, the making of the stuffing, the rolling of sarma, and even the cooking.
     I really only focus on the picking of the derev.
     Back in the day, the picking of the leaves was mostly women’s work and you used to see mostly older ladies picking leaves along the roadside from the vines that grew wild. They were dressed like they had never left the “old coutnry” even though they had been in the US for thirty years. They were Greek, Arab, Assyrian, and, of course from my perspective, Armenian.
     My mother’s mother, our beloved, enigmatic, and inimitable Grannie, used to do this. She took me, as far as I can recall, just once. I must have been 11 or 12 years old. I remember driving around in her sky blue Ford Falcon. We would drive until she saw some vines and leaves. I presume she had a method or idea where she was going. To me, it just seemed that we were kind of aimlessly in search of the derev. We stopped and picked some here and there. I do recall being that helpful in what as to me at that young age a relatively boring outing.  Obviously, that one trip had an impact on me.
     Even when Armenians of that generation were not hunting for derev, they would loudly exclaim “derev” and point whenever vines were spotted on a car ride. I would look and just a clump of trees and bushes along the roadside. I could not tell which were grape leaves from the density of the flora.
     My how times have changed.
     I riding my bike around the roads and bike paths near my home here in Chicago’s North Shore, I have learned to spot derev. They are everywhere. I think it should be the state vine of Illinois. I spot them when riding my bike and driving my car. I find myself channeling my Grannie’s generation by pointing and saying “derev.” There may be a genetic component to this behavior.
     This is the only remotely agrarian thing I do. My people were farmers two and three generations ago. They grew things and tended animals. They sowed and planted. They harvested and reaped. They tending livestock, lets say chickens and maybe sheep, and slaughtered them. I have never done any of that. To me, the food chain is basically grocery stores and restaurants. Killing and dressing a chicken? Catching and gutting fish? Sure, I know abot such, but only in concept.
     My dad would tell stories of his maternal grandmother, Almas, on the farm they had in Andover, MA. She would go into the yard, catch a chicken, put her foot over the neck, and slice its throat. My father in-law, who ran a grocery store in Waukegan for may year, told me how they would get crates of live chickens. As customers would select one, they would put the head of the chicken in the noose end of rope that was nailed to the table. They would then throw the chicken and break its neck. The would then de-feather, gut, and dress the bird for the customer. As I said, these are concepts to me. I cannot imagine doing any of it unless forced to by what I can only classify as apocolyptic changes in the world around me.
     But, I do pick derev.
     It has become a hobby and passion. It is nothing obsessive. In terms of both hobby and passion, it is minor. I pick a few hundred leaves every year which is the equivalent of two to five bottles of storebought leaves. My cousin Chris in Michigan is much more prolific picking several hundred leaves.
     Back in the days when I had a small aspiration of being a hippie, one of the draws was the concept of returning to the land; living a simpler life and all that. There was a strong message which for some turning into a yearning to grow our own food. Picking grape leaves is the closest I have come to any of that. This is the one, and again I emphasize, very minor thing I do in that regard.
     I did contemplate planting an apple orchard when living in Connecticut. But, it was nothing more than a contemplation. I did, on a whim, buy and plant a strawberry plant. But, since I did not fence it in to protect it from deer and rabbits, the little plant was eaten to the ground the first night I planted it. Sure, I thought of growing vegetables. But that truly required excavating a plot, building a fence, buying and replanting seedlings, fertizlizing, watering, and tending. I was exhausted just thinking about it and confirmed again that I was a much better contemplater than an implementor.

Aram's Black Walnut Tree

     My most successful planting occurred in 1981 when my son was born. I was cutting the lawn and found a black walnut seedling. Instead of mowing it down, I decided to replant it. It was only four inches high. I had no expectation that it would survive the summer let alone the first winter, but it did. It has survived until today when It is a majestic, towering, and nut bearing tree in the backyard of the house we moved from in 1989. I am quite proud of what I call Aram’s tree. I was sad to leave that tree when we moved.
     Not to leave Armené out of it, we decided to plant a tree in her first year. In her case, we bought a golden delicous apple tree. It was hardly a sapling as it was already six feet tall. That tree still thrives in the opposite end of the same backyard. I doubt the current owners of the house realize the significance of those trees. I drive by the old place now and then mostly to see the trees.
     Picking grape leaves appeals to me on a few levels. First and foremost, it involves no tending and preparation on my part. There is no excavating,

Armene's Golden Delicious Apple Tree

rototilling, nurturing of seedlings, fertilizing, insect spraying, or building and maintenane of chicken wire enclosures. As far as this agrarian habit, mother nature does all of the work. The stuff is abundant and grows like weeds around here. I imagine that is what most of my neighbors think they are: weeds.
     Secondly, I do it when I want. Of course, I have to do it in season, All I have to do is be observant and find where the leaves are and when they look ready for picking. As being observant is the first cousin of contemplation, I find this quite natural.
     Thus, I have found my little agrarian niche. For a few moments every year, I have kinda returned to the land, I have sorta become a hunter gatherer… well… at least a gatherer. It makes me feel marginal helpful in bringing home foodstock that did not come from the grocery store. And maybe most importantly, I was in another small way channelling that very special first generation of Armenians and keeping a bit of the “old country,” a place I barely know and certainly have never lived in.

Sidenote: OK… I will admit that the last few paragraphs reek of a load of neo-hippie psychobabble. At least that is what I would say if I was reading this instead of writing it. Of course, I added this observation myself instead of having to hear Ara Topouzian make the observation.

      In doing this for several years, I have learned something unexpected as well. I have experienced a bit of what all farmers, gardeners, and gatherers learned. I have learned about the year to year variation of the crop. This learning appealed to the statistician and quality management part of my education and work experience.  I suppose that maybe some naturalist has written it all down, but I have learned a few things the old fashioned way. I have experienced them. It is a great ancillary benefit of my little hobby and passion.
     The womenfolk, either of my parents’ generation or about my age, would always say that the derev are best picked before Father’s Day or the first day of summer. They believed after that date, the leaves would be too tough and veiny. In making sarma, it is best to have the tenderest, most delicate, and largest leaves possible. Plus, after this date, there is the distinct possibility of bugs eating holes in the leaves making them unusable.
     What is the reality that I have learned? There is certainly some truth to the lore. But, I have also learned that there is always new growth right into August. I look for lighter color leaves that indicate new growth. It does become harder to find good leaves the deeper we are in the summer.
     While the first day of summer might be a decent rule of thumb, I have noticed a fair of year to year variation when the first harvesting of leaves is best. The readiness of the first crop is dependent on rain and temperature. As temperature and rainfall vary, so does the best date for picking leaves.
     Another thing I learned, and really no one had to tell me this, is this: no more matter how perfect the leaves look, if they are too high, amid blooms of poison ivy, or in a thicket that looks like tick heaven… leave them, pun intended, and move on. I am sure our first generation of derev pickers knew this because there are no stories of people breaking bones, dying, or getting seriously ill from picking grape leaves. Since they never articulated this advice, and many were fond of dishing out advice like pilaf, I am guessing they just assumed that none of their descendents would be that stupid.
     There was a lot of lore about that first generation of immigrants not sharing where they found their leaves. They did not want others to find their little nirvana of vines and leaves. “You can help me to pick da derev, but you don’ tell anyvone vere ve go.” Maybe because leaves are so abundant around here, no one really cares to protect their gathering grounds. There is no need. In fact, the opposite is true. A few Armenians have noticed that I do like to pick leaves. They will tell something like the best leaves ever are at some location or another. One auntie told the best leaves ever were behind a church in my town. I checked it out. Nothing, nada, zilch. This leads to the next learning I have experienced.
    Just because the leaves were unbelievable at a particular location one year is no guarentee that the leaves will be anywhere near as good the next year. In 2015, I saw a clump of derev on the way to church in early June. The leaves looked huge. I went back the next day and was amazed. I must have picked 75 perfectly tender leaves that were larger than my hand. The next year, I really looked forward to returning to that same location. There were still leaves growing but they were nothing special. In fact, I did not pick any from that spot. The spring of 2015 was very wet and cool. It made the leaves perfect in that location for that year. I have also noticed that places where leaves were good last year may still have vines this year, but the bugs found and ravaged them.
     I would say that every other time I am out someone will stop and comment or ask what I am doing. The police often will do this. I am guessing they are doing their duty in checking to see why this goofball is picking leaves on the side of a busy road. I tell them what I am up to and they understand. Then, they ask if I would call them when the sarma is made. Just this past week, another cyclist stopped and asked if I was Assyrian. He told me how he used to go out derev picking with his grandmother. Virtually everyone that has done this with their grandmother has fond memories of the experience.
     One lady, who lived across the street from a spot I was picking leaves, came running over when she saw me. Her gait and body language told me she was concerned bordering on the upset. Was I picking leaves from her special location? She asked what I was doing. I said picking grape leaves for stuffed grape leaves. She was immediately relieved. She thought I was picking the gooseberries which were growing around the grape leaves. I did not even notice them nor did I have any idea what to do with them if I picked them. We had a nice chat about our gathering hobbies.
     Hmmm… enough for now. Out to gather up some more leaves.

Viva Kazan!

     On May 5th, I watched Wallace Beery portraying Pancho Villa. It struck me as such an odd casting that I blogged about it:  Vive Cinco de Beery.  While I didn't mention it in my blog, I was thinking that a movie I had seen about Emiliano Zapata was much better.  As luck would have, TMC aired Viva Zapata on Sunday.  I was able to catch the tail end of it.  My memory served me well, it was a much better movie.
     First of all, the movie was written by John Steinbeck and directed by Elia Kazan.  A great writer providing the dialogue and story matched with a great director, a master of black and white films with a wonderful sense of drama and history.  To top it off, Marlon Brando was cast as Zapata and Anthony Quinn as Zapata's brother Eufemio.  Brando was so much more believable as Zapata compared with Wallace Beery's portrayal of Villa.  Alan Reed, an actor who I am not familiar with, played Villa in the Viva Zapata film.  He played a much better Pancho Villa than Beery.
     Steinbeck and Kazan did a masterful job portraying the plight of the poor in Mexico.  They showed the smolder and fervor that was Emiliano Zapata and how he championed their cause.  I would watch this movie again.  The betrayal and death of Zapata was so well done in the film that it one of the most gripping scenes in film in my humble view.  The movie was the first in which Kazan shot on location and strove to use strong local accents for the characters.
     Of course, I was familiar with John Steinbeck.  I read almost every book he wrote beginning in 9th Grade.  And most certainly, I was familiar with the work of Marlon Brando and Anthony Quinn.  It wasn't until the early 2000s, that I paid attention to and began to admire the talents of Elia Kazan.  Well, better late than never.
     My Dad, always spoke highly of Kazan's film, America America.  In in the early 2000s, I got it in my head to finally watch the film and see what he found so intriguing.  Before watching it, I did an internet search and learned that a Greek fellow born in Istanbul in 1909 wrote and directed the film.  Elias Kazantoglu came to America and changed his name to Elia Kazan.  He went to Williams College and Yale.  He started off in New York City as an actor but gravitated to directing.  Beyond the films mentioned here, he directed On the Waterfront and A Street Car Named Desire.  His last film was made in 1976 but he lived on to the age of 94 and passed on in 2003.  
     I learned that he wrote a book that he turned into America America which I bought and read.  I liked the book.  Then I watched the movie.  I appreciated why the movie so impressed my Dad.  America America was the story of how Kazan's family left the waning days of the Ottoman Empire and came to America.  
It is a great movie and definitely one that each Armenian should see.  
     I also learned today that Elia Kazan also wrote an autobiography which is now on my reading list.

Walking by Hanson Hall

     One of the small pleasures about teaching at North Park University is walking past Hanson Hall.  As Hanson Hall is part of our school of music, I can often count on hearing some lovely music wafting out of the practice rooms.  It could as routine as someone just practicing scales.  It might be a soprano voice working on an aria, a violinist practicing a sonata, or a clarinet learning a symphonic piece.  I have heard trombones, trumpets, and oboes.  It is always a treat as our music students are quite talented. As I never think about it until I hear the music, it is always a pleasant surprise.
      I think of it as a culture break in my day.  Most of the time it is just a matter of seconds as I walk by.  Sometimes, when I hear something especially intriguing or lovely, I might stop listen even more. It is part of the campus ambiance.   But it will soon be no more.
     The University is planning a renovation of Hanson Hall that will last from June through the end of the year.  The renovation will include improved climate control, an elevator, and acoustic treatment of all rooms.  When I first heard about, it seemed like a great thing to do.  Then it struck me, acoustic treatment of all rooms means they were soundproofing the place.  After the renovation, I could still walk by but... there would be no more music to be heard.  Oh no.
     Well, the next time I saw Craig Johnson, the Dean of the School of Music.  I brought this up to him.  He confirmed my fears.  Yes, they were sound proofing all the practice rooms and performing spaces.  I would no longer hear beautiful music when I walked by Hanson Hall.  I made my case, tongue in cheek, for why I thought this was not a good idea.  As expected, I was not successful in changing any of the plans for Hanson Hall but he did understand.  Dr. Johnson went on to point out that a student practicing in one room could hear the students practicing in other rooms.  That could be distracting for sure.  He also said that if I could hear the students practicing outside the building, they could hear all the street nows.  Yes, I could see how this could also be distracting to the musicians.  There are a fair number of ambulances, sirens blaring, on Foster Avenue en route to Swedish Covenant Hospital a few blocks away.
     Hmmm... what might be done? What would be a win-win here?
     They should set the rooms up for recording.  Students could then listen to their practice sessions and have a better idea of what to work on to improve.  Given that they would have to mic each room, they could then provide a feed from a random room to a speaker system mounted on the outside of the building to keep the ambience going.
     Seems like a great and not terribly expensive idea to me.

Viva Cinco de Beery!

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Viva_Villa!#Reception

      It is near the end of the semester.  Monday is the last day of classes.  While being a professor is not a terribly stressful job, it is good on a Friday afternoon at this time of the year to come home, kick off my shoes, plop down in the easy chair, feet up, and peruse what might be on the television.  A scotch on ice might be in order, but not today.
     It is amazing how often, even with hundreds of channels, there is nothing on TV.  At this time of day, I tend to favor movies.  I seem to like shoot 'em ups, comedies, and then everything else.  I don't think I have ever watched a musical on purpose.  Today, it didn't really matter what I watched.  There was something therapeutic in the surfing and searching.  As Seinfeld once noted in his eponymic sitcom, I was not really watching TV, I was more interested in what else was on TV. 
      Like some kind of modern prospector, I was looking for some nugget of gold.  Harold and Kumar?  Interesting but not today.  The Road Warrior, the Mel Gibson original?  Almost.  Diary of a Mad Black Woman?  Mmmm... no.  I, Robot... oooh, science fiction with Will Smith.  I made a mental footnote of the channel and kept surfing.  Dr. Strangelove?  Bull Durham?  One of my all time favorites, Groudhog Day.  Nah,  nope, uh uh.  TCM, not surprisingly, was airing a black and white movie. Wallace Beery was starring.  This had possibilities.
     It was movie I was not familiar with.  Besides Treasure Island, how many Wallace Beery movies could I name anyway?  This one was called Viva Villa!  The film is a Hollywood, thus fictionalized, biography of the Mexican revolutionary Franciso "Pancho" Villa (1878 - 1923).  Villa joined the cause of Francisco Madero and helped him to overthrow of Porfirio Diaz.  Pancho Villa is a Mexican hero often being portrayed as being dedicated to bettering the existences of the peasants. 
     Wallace Beery?  Really?  He was a horrible Villa.  It was like he was portraying Wallace Beery pretending to be Pancho Villa.  His tried to speak in a Spanglish accent and, well, he sounded ridiculous.  Too much of his Missouri roots came through in his Mexican accent.  Everyone else in the film had much better accents.  Oddly, he wasn't much different as Long John Silver but was infinitely more believable to me.  It mattered not.  This MGM film was a success back in 1934 when it was made.  It was nominated for a few Academy Award categories but being up against classics like It Happened One Night, The Thin Man, and The Gay Divorcee, it did not win.  It grossed $1.9 million and a profit of $87,000.  These are minimal numbers by today's standards but solid performance the era in which it was made.  The crowds liked the movie and its star, Wallace Beery.
     I suppose TCM showed this film in honor of it being Cinco de Mayo.  Cinco de Mayo honors the Battle of Puebla, May 5, 1862, in which the Mexican army defeated the French.  The holiday is bigger in the US than in Mexico and often confused with Mexican Independence Day here.  Mexican Independence Day is actually September 16.  It kind of all makes sense that TCM would show this caricature of Pancho Villa played by Wallace Beery for a Mexican holiday that we have blown out of proportion.  I was definitely entertained by it all.

February 2017: Anniversary Letter

The lobby of The Dearborn Inn

     It has been 13 years for this letter. Until last two years, I was really good at writing a monthly letter. Let’s atribute it to a dedication to my teaching position that surprised even me… and that is a good thing.

     In 2017, I would really like to get back into the daily writing and monthly letter topic. Yes, you could call it a New Year’s resolution. Wish me luck.
    

     January 7: While this is my February letter, I began writing it on January 7. Here’s why.
     It is 7:40 am. The time doesn’t really matter, except that I may be like many other writers, simply more lucid in the early hours. The time doesn’t matter as much as the place does this morning.
     I am at the Dearbron Inn.
     I am in the lobbly of the Dearborn Inn sitting at the same desk where on July 20, 2002 I sat and wrote my daily page. I had started my daily writing of one page on June 25th of that same year. As written in several previous letters, I had the notion to chronicle my 50th year with insights, humor, and a transformation to a much better physical and mental human. I was 26 days into that regimen. The chronicle, which was to be a best selling book, is, in theory, still pending.
     I remember that morning because up until then, it was the most beautiful location in which I did my daily writing. Perviously, I had written at home, on the train to Manhattan, or in a coffee shop in Manhattan. Being in the lovely lobby of the Dearborn Inn that morning led me to want to write in beautiful lobbies of classic hotels. Sitting here today has me thinking the same thoughts. 

Desk in the lobby of The Dearborn Inn

     While I was handwriting my page that morning in July 2002, I remember thinking that I should always write in the lobby of a grand hotel when I could. At that time, I was travelling a lot for Colgate. I also travelled throughout Latin America, often stayin in Inter-Continental Hotels which fit the bill nicely. When I was not traveling, I was in Manhattan. Well… there were certainly grand hotels there including the Waldorf Astoria right across from my office and an Inter-Continental just two blocks away. It was a grand idea to write my life changing great books in the lobbies of great hotels.
     I never got the same feeling that I felt in the Dearborn Inn that July morning in 2002. Perhaps, it was the location in the heart of the Ford country. I mean Henry Ford was sternly gazing over my shoulder from his portrait that was above the fireplace. Maybe it was, a mere stone’s throw from Body and Electric Engineering where I had my first grown-up job.
     Alas… it really only brought me to this reflection. It is, however, a good reflection. It really matters not where one writes, it is the routine and relative comfort in the location. I love my home library. It s a great place to write. The coffee is probably even tastier and most certainly cheapter at home. The ambient noise, early in the morning, is more controllable at home. There was a lady vacuuming here when I first began. I hate vacuum cleaner noise if I am trying to write. Actually, I hate vacuum cleaner noise if I am doing anything other than doing the vacuuming myself.
     The desk? Well, the desk here at the Dearborn Inn is a lovely cherry Hepplewhite partner’s desk. It is an antique while my desk at home is nice, it is Bombay not antique. The biggest difference at home is that I, sadly, let the desk and workspace get cluttered. I have a resolution to prevent that from happening moving forward, let’s see how that resolution works. Here the desk only had a lamp on it. It was a pleasure to sit down, pull out my laptop, put on my reading glasses, and get to writing.
     What brought me to the Dearborn Inn that July Saturday morning in 2002?
     I was here, then, visiting my parents, as I was living in Connecticut. The AYF Junior Olympics was that weekend at Dearborn High School. I had arranged to meet my old and dear friend Bob Jones at the Inn for breakfast. He loved having what he called a “fat breakfast” at the Ten Eyck Room in the Dearborn Inn. I got up early and arrived an hour early for our 8 am breakfast. It was a sunny Detroit summer morning. I arrived early with the intent of writing, just as I am doing this morning. I found this desk by the window in the front of the hotel. I really enjoyed writing in the lobby of the Dearborn Inn. It is a beautiful lobby in a grand hotel.
     Knowing that the Dearborn Inn, now a Marriott hotel, underwent a major renovation, I was wondering if the lobby would look the same and if the desk would still be here. As the Inn is a classic hotel, Marriott updated things that needed updating, no doubt behind the scenes and in the rooms, but kept the essential spirit of the place the same. I was delighted to see the desk in the same location that I recalled. I was even more delighted to experience the same feel as I did fifteen years earlier. In fact given the passage of time, it was no mere feel, it was a magic I felt in that place and at that desk.
     What brings me here today?
     We are here for a wedding. Haig Berberian and Melanie Topouzian. Haig is from Boston and Melanie is from Detroit. It is really cold, like single digit lows. They are having their wedding on the same day as Melanie’s parents twenty something years ago. We are delighted to be here and be part of the festivities. It is the first time staying at the Dearborn Inn.
     It was a true nostalgic pleasure writing at that desk again.

     Robert K. Jones (August 29, 1937 – August 26, 2015): Beyond the Ford history of the Dearborn

Robert K. Jones

Inn and surroundings, I think it was more the memory of my friend, Bob Jones. He was on my mind that morning back in 2002. That is not a big revelation as I was meeting him for breakfast. Bob, or RK, as he was also called, was often on my mind. Thinking about him made for the magical feel of writing in that pleasant space back in 2002 and even more so now.     He was my best friend from my few years at Ford. We stayed in touch after I left Ford and even after I left the Detroit area. We did not call or write enough but truly Bob was often on my mind. When back in Detroit with some free time, I would try to get together with Bob. That Saturday in July 2002 was one of those few times.
      I met RK in the fall of 1976. I was working in the Warranty Analysis Department, my first full time grownup job, for only a few months. One morning my supervisor, Carlos Dominguez, came and told me that an engineer, Bob, was transferring into our department and the Carlos thought he was someone I should get to know and be friends with. I asked why he thought that. I was simply curious as to what was behind his suggestion. Carlos said it was because we were both smart, personable, and well-read.
     Carlos could not have been more correct. RK was the right person at the right time to help me develop a more balanced and worldly view. He embraced life and learning in a most charming, almost innocent yet deadly serious, way. He wrote, painted, thought, and was involved. He lived in and was dedicated to the City of Detroit. He never moved even though he could have. Bob loved his alma mater Wayne State University.
     Bob was a classic fellow. He always dressed Brooks Brothers both formally and what we now call business casual. He loved to write letters and always used a fine fountain pen and Crane stationary. Under his signature, which was always RK Jones, he always sketched a pair of wire rim glasses with round lenses. These were the only kind he ever wore.
     We had drifted apart, probably since 2010. By we, I mean I drifted apart. Bob became a lot more conservative in both politics and religion. He would genuinely contest my centrist bloggy bits on both fronts pointing out the flaws he saw in my logic and premises. I did not react well to such, I must admit. For some reason, I can handle criticism from just about anybody else. I could not handle it from RK. He used to challenge my thoughts and views more from the left. I think I was just confused by the shift in his change in perspective.
     He sent me a letter in August of 2015, just before he passed. I did not get that it was a good-bye letter. Because he did not specifically say it was. I did not respond. I only learned that he passed away in a Christmas card from a mutual friend. I felt horrible, an odd mix of stupid, sad, and empty.
     I know the lesson here. Keep in touch with those you value even if the context of the relation or friendship has changed a bit or maybe even a lot. It is a bitter lesson to learn once. I have been relearning this lesson a few times in the past few years. It is more important as I am at an age where people that I know, love, and value will be passing on with greater frequency.
     Writing most of this letter at The Dearborn Inn was even more special. I did have a “fat breakfast” in the Ten Eyck Room. I wished I could have had just one more with RK.

     George Orwell: In my anniversary letters, I often will quote another, generally someone from the pantheon of great writers. Thanks to the January 14th Wall Street Journal for providing this passage from George Orwell in a somewhat regular column, Notable and Quotable, in the Opinion pages. I am not sure how much of this applies to my beyond the first phrase, but Orwell could write.

All writers are vain, selfish, and lazy, and at the very bottom of their motives there lies a mystery. Writing a book is a horrible, exhausting struggle, like a long bout of some painful illness. One would never undertake such a thing if one were not driven on by some demon whom one can neither resist nor understand. For all one knows that demon is simply the same instinct that makes a baby squall for attention. And yet it is also true that one can write nothing readable unless one constantly struggles to efface one’s own personality. Good prose is like a windowpane. I cannot say with certainty which of my motives are the strongest, but I know which of them deserve to be followed.

      It has been a pleasure writing these letters and the blog that grew out of it. I look forward to doing it more.
     Thanks to one and all for the great support and encouragement over these 13 years.