El Burro Volador

Arturo Gatti was, perhaps more than any other boxer I’ve ever seen, built to create exciting fights.  Although he wasn’t entirely devoid of technical proficiency, he made a career out of fighting more sophisticated boxers, so he was often at a perceived disadvantage.  He possessed two great equalizers, however, in his dangerous left hook and enormous fighting spirit.  Even though he was often behind on the scorecards in some of his most memorable fights, there was always the feeling that if he could land a big punch, or land enough hard punches, he could come back and win.  In fact, he often did win, because he fought his heart out every time.

Once it was established that Gatti was a thrilling comeback fighter, it became almost normal to see him lose a few rounds, then begin to rally back.  Just when this risked becoming a mundane occurrence, however, a new element was introduced into the mix – the element of human frailty.  Arturo was always something of a “bleeder”, and as scar tissue built up around his often-cut eyes, they cut easier and easier.  There was always the question of whether or not he would be able to stage a comeback before the fight was stopped, as it was against Angel Manfredy.  Likewise, late in his career he twice broke one of his hands during a fight, but rallied back to win on both occasions.

The high drama of an Arturo Gatti fight was one of the finest things in boxing for many years.  In a sport where long-anticipated matchups fizzle as often as they pay off, Arturo was a gold standard – if you paid to see him fight, you would get one helluva show, every time.  This reputation became more valuable than an undefeated record or a title belt – Gatti was a true “people’s champion” beloved by the fans.  He was also well liked by most who knew him in the boxing community, and now that his life has been cut short far too soon, he will be missed by many, many people.

I have been on something of a tear lately, reading-wise.  After finishing Welcome to the Monkeyhouse, I thought I’d head back to fantasy, to keep myself “steeped in the milieu” as I like to put it, for purposes of my Dungeon-Mastering gigs – I am lining up my second weekly gig – it won’t pay what the first one does, but it will be via the magic of the interweb, so it should be low-hassle, and, if we come to terms on price, I’ll have a steady income of about $500 a month from roleplaying games, which is pretty sweet.

Anyhow, I like to read what I describe, somewhat uncharitably, as “pulp” fantasy to charge my DMing batteries – if I read the really good stuff, I am always tempted to emulate it, so I’m always on the lookout for mediocre fantasy, as strange as that may seem.  I ransacked my shelves for a good candidate (I am as avid a book buyer as I am a book reader, and buying them is quicker and easier, so I have shelves of unread books), and turned up what looked like a real winner.  It was a novel called The Thran, and it bore the logo of the Magic: The Gathering card game – exploiting a game license is nearly always a strong indicator of mediocrity.  Also, the author, J. Robert King, was someone I’d never heard of.

It turned out to be a fun read, certainly very good mediocre fiction.  A well-realized villain always does a great deal for a fantasy novel, and this one in particular was about the villain ascendant, which is really difficult to pull off – how does one walk that fine line between hope and despair, having the villain “win” and yet still be to some extent thwarted by the heroes.  Many people consider The Empire Strikes Back to be the strongest of the Star Wars film franchise, likely because it pulls off this same daunting task.

Anyhow, since then I’ve returned to my List and read the next prescribed book, Frederick Forsyth’s The Day of the Jackal.  A landmark in the thriller genre, it follows a methodical assassin hired to kill the President of France.  It was widely praised for its authentic grounding in 1960s France, and indeed, I had no idea that the country had been as interesting as this book makes it seem at any point in the 20th century.  It also steadily ratchets up the pacing and suspense until the ending just flies by.

Today I’m starting Morgan Llywelyn’s Finn Mac Cool, one of her trademark “historical” novels of Ireland, this time centered on one of the Emerald Isle’s mythic heroes.  It should tide me over until I can get my hands on the next list book, Albert Camus’ The Plague.

This is a phrase that leapt out at me from the page of a magazine recently, inducing a cringe in yours truly.  The magazine was one my darling wife Rebekah had left lying open on a shelf.  The quote itself was pull-out text, that lovely layout technique where they take a phrase from the main body of the text, blow it up, and place it in some prominent spot on the page to attract the reader’s attention.

Now, I do not particularly enjoy my attention being directed to anything having to do with sphincters.  It is not that I am attempting to vilify or denigrate them, I realize that they perform important functions in the body, and for that I am grateful.  I even had the dubious privilege of knowing St. Jon the Dissembler, himself a sort of faulty sphincter between our world and a vile plane of filth and wretchedness, where seas of excrement lap barbarous shores beneath flatulent skies, and the cretinous natives enact horrifying scenes of depravity and villainy that leak through, for instance, whenever St. Jon opens his mouth.  But I digress.

Despite their commendable utility, I can’t help but include sphincters in that category of things about which I’d rather not think, like the origins of a hot dog I am about to eat, or the living conditions of the children who make my clothes.

Anyhow, it inevitably occurred to me that Rebekah had left the magazine open to that particular page on purpose, sort of like setting a bear trap and then walking away…

Today Rebekah and I celebrated our fifth wedding anniversary.  Apparently this is known as the “wood” or “wooden” anniversary, which seems like a fairly prosaic substance with which to honor something as tumultuous and vibrant and precious as these last five years, but I guess the anniversary commemoration divinities have to pace themselves, what with ever-increasing life-expectancies.

We both took the day off from work, and originally had big plans, but since I have been stricken with a nasty little virus since returning from the big retreat, we did not wind up getting into much trouble after all.  Yesterday, Rebekah began to show early symptoms of the illness as well, but more or less managed to stare it down, and has been fine since.  I think I may well shrug it off by Sunday, so maybe we can make that a more memorable day.  The rumor is that we will be seeing some of our favorite people Sunday morning, so we’re already off to a good start.

Something I’m reflecting on in the aftermath of my DMing gig at the retreat is how beautiful the surroundings were.  We were at a place called Glen Eyrie, this, well, campus is almost a good word for it set among the trees and rocks in a part of Colorado called “garden of the gods” (Whenever I say or write that phrase I hear the beginning of Led Zeppelin’s “Immigrant Song”, with “hammer” replaced by “garden”).  There is a castle-like main building surrounded by a sprawling array of cabins.  All kinds of wildlife were present, though probably the coolest thing I saw was a couple of wild turkeys.  Last year, apparently, the place was just lousy with big horn sheep.

In addition to the simple pleasures afforded by the natural beauty of the place, I was able to enjoy a more civilized and less innocent delicacy: irony.  You see, Glen Eyrie is owned by Christians, and consecrated by them as a place of spiritual retreat for the faithful – although the group I was working for was there with the understanding that it was a secular organization, its family focus, combined with possibly a boatload of money (30 pieces of silver?) and/or the foreknowledge that many of these children may be in the rocket command someday seems to have opened the doors.

In any case, while my own spiritual leanings are at the very least harmonious with Christianity, I am unlikely to ever be part of a church retreat.  In addition, my vocation for the weekend was teaching children to play Dungeons & Dragons, which not so long ago was reviled by most of Christendom as a sort of “gateway drug” leading to witchcraft and Satanism.  An unlikely steed on which to storm the ramparts of this particular bastion of the faith, to be sure.

Got back exhausted last night from my weekend DMing gig down in the Springs.  There might be a lot to say about that, but it might take another day or two to decompress.  One thing I will say is that many of the kids I DMed for were from out of state, but I may have a couple leads working, so keep your fingers crossed for me…

Also, it is the Dalai Lama’s birthday today.  His Holiness began this most recent incarnation 74 years ago…

I finished Welcome to the Monkey House last night, and am thoroughly confirmed as a fan of Kurt Vonnegut.  Despite the dark nature of his humor, his underlying sensibility is clearly not empty cynicism but a true respect for humanity and morality, and it is this that sets him apart from mere “wits” and makes him a satirist – among the best I’ve ever read.  This retrospective of his 50’s and 60’s short fiction contains everything from love stories originally published in Ladies’ Home Journal to speculative science fiction, and it is generally quite good reading.

The other day I had the privilege of watching Le Cercle Rouge, a seminal French heist movie that has apparently inspired many of the directors I admire.  Perhaps the most notable feature of the movie, for the contemporary American viewer, is the low incidence of dialogue.  Many sustained sequences follow characters performing some action, whether mundane or dramatic, in more or less total silence.  While this is most arresting during the famous half-hour heist sequence itself, it occurs throughout the film.

A character driving his car takes a turnoff into a pasture.  Drives across the bumpy, rutted ground.  Stops the car, shuts off the engine.  Gets out, walks to a nearby stump.  Sits down.  Takes out a cigarette.  Lights it.  Begins to smoke.  Each action occurs slowly, deliberately, and is allowed to be completed without any jump cuts, just a long, sustained shot.  And all this time not a word is said.

I can’t help but feel that in a Hollywood film made today he would have been talking on a cell phone, perhaps advancing the plot, or, more likely, would not have been alone to begin with, having a funny sidekick along to add noise to such a scene.  Or perhaps it would have been edited into a montage.  Regardless, sustained intervals of silence are generally avoided like jury duty in “commercial” films these days, and I think it is a shame.  I’m not saying that every film needs to be like Gerry, but I do enjoy the occasional piece of understimulation amidst the constant multimedia bombardment that is the “typical” American lifestyle.  It is nice to have space for your mind to work, to have to guess and extrapolate to build meaning instead of having a surfeit of message blared at you.  I guess that is why many of the films that I enjoy are described by reviewers as “cerebral”; I really do like having to use that creepy-looking glob of stuff inside my thick skull.

Yes, we now know that the disappearance of strawberries from our garden was caused not by disease but by a certain garden pest.  Rebekah has caught the little blighter in action, and should have some photographic evidence soon…

In unrelated news, my blogging has become erratic because of:

1) My addiction to free (or mostly free) online games Weewar and My Brute.  These things tend to beckon to me when I’m sitting in front of my computer, so they are fairly direct competitors to this endeavor -I’m trying to shake it off.

2) Employment/scheduling shakeups.  I am continuing to line up increasing amounts of work outside the sulfur mines, and simultaneously working out a piecework arrangement so that I can get away from the hourly-rate drudgery.  I want to work there in short, hard bursts and then leave so that I am available to run my burgeoning roleplaying/tutoring/mentoring business – which is set to bring in hundreds of bucks this week – I guess it may take off into something that more or less frees me from the onerous part of my current “day job”.

Rebekah and I have a lovely little strawberry plant in our back yard.  In the summertime, it can usually be counted on to produce a few beautiful little berries every so often.  Though they are small, they are such an arrestingly deep red, and so much more flavorful than the strawberries one gets at the supermarket, that I treasure each handful that ‘Bekah brings in for us to share.

That is why it has been particularly worrisome to me to see that some mysterious botanical ailment has afflicted our strawberry plant.  I am baffled, which is hardly surprising considering my more or less total ignorance of the finer points of gardening, but Rebek possesses an impressive amount of the green lore, and the symptoms puzzle her as well.  I am turning to my reader(s?) for help, so I shall describe for you the outward signs of the ailment in brief:

Berries appear to be forming normally, beginning as small green buds that gradually grow larger and blush toward that deep red color they will attain when ripe.  Then, just as they approach ripeness, Rebekah will venture out into the garden one morning and find a pulpy red stump where once the nascent berry dangled.  It is almost as if the berries have burst or something, though there is seldom any trace of exploded berry upon the ground.  Has any such thing been heard of in the annals of botanical science?  Are we the proud owners of the first exploding strawberry plant?

Yesterday was Father’s Day, of course – a day which has come to possess an increased significance for me in recent years.  I have been blessed with a pair of excellent fathers, which makes no karmic sense, considering my utter lack of involvement with the countless spawn I have likely left scattered around the continent as a result of my youthful…wanderings.  I do think about them some on Father’s Day…