Tuesday, September 30, 2003
Oh, please.
There's a lot of nay-sayers who diss these movies. To them I say, if you don't like the movies, fine..... it is not a personal attack by Jackson against your mind's creations. If the lot of you are such paragons of literary virtue, please band together and create your own movie series. It's always telling when the self-styled critics don't take the time to check their grammar, syntax and spelling in their bile-spewing "reviews". As if Peter Jackson and crew exist to please them. Same for all the people who complain OR praise that the hobbits are gay because they're loving and friendly. Again - get a life! Same for those professional critics who refuse to praise this film too highly because after all, it is ONLY fantasy. What elitism!
As if Peter Jackson and crew exist to please you. One of you whined about his "unhindered arrogance." Check yourself in the mirror, please!
Sure, I had disappointments. But not in the first movie: The extended edition (EE) of Fellowship was, I thought, a perfect movie. Nothing wrong. Simply took it's time in establishing all these wonderfully-drawn characters.
My overall compliant is in the casting: I know what Tokien wrote was a masculine, whitebread affair, but I have to wonder what reasons Jackson gave for turning away all non-white actors at the door. I hasten to add that despite the obvious prejudices of his tome, I think it is the greatest ever written. Jackson’s film, by contrast and comparison, is the greatest sci-fi/fantasy film ever produced. And one of the best movies ever.
The biggest letdowns were in Two Towers; I mean as soon as Aragon asked Legolas what his "elf-eyes" saw I knew something was wrong. What, Legolas need to be reminded he's an elf? Glimli was mere comic relief. It was dawn in the forest and Osgiliath while night raged on at Helm's Deep. And those Ents and trees were mightily unaware of things transpiring in their own forest, but once made aware moved frighteningly fast. Eomer's forces multiplied quickly - and at that, how many men were left in Theodon's kingdom, anyway, if Eomer took away so many? The Fellowship needs the Riders to tell them that a large funeral pyre is burning directly behind them. The Fellowship is again surprised that Merry and Pippin retreated to Fangorn; Glimi even wonders aloud why on earth they went in. Call me glib, Glimli, but maybe it was war and imminent demise? How did the Elves get through the Orc defenses? And why on earth did Frodo reveal the ring to the Wraith and suffer no repercussions? Doesn't that defeat the narrative of the rest of the film? How would Sauron then think that Pippin has the ring?
Many of these changes work - not better or worse than the movie, just different. And others lack narrative sense - just Jackson uping the dramatic tension bereft of logical cohesion. Directors do that.
But ROTK atones for most of these puzzzlers. I know the EE will provide more for us diehards. Most everything worked - and I have only seven minor complaints:
(1) Of course, Merry may have only believed that Sauron thought Pippin had the ring. But still, how did that help Frodo and Gondor? Shouldn't have Sauron's attack been larger and more immediate?
(2) Sauron IS the eye? It looked silly portrayed as a searchlight, then as a helpless orb casting about wildly for a means of escape as it toppled.
(3) The Army of the Dead looked like casting extras from "Pirates of the Caribbean". Something a little less Disney would have been in order. Their dialogue was Disney-esque too.
(4) Aragon never seemed to have that “king-making” moment; he seemed less to aspire to greatness than have greatness thrust upon him. I know this may merely be a cinematic difference from the book, but kings are supposed to inspire others to follow. Aragon did that in TT. Then again, maybe that was Jackson’s purpose: reveal this aspect of Aragon’s character in TT so he could deal with so many other things in ROTK.
(5) Boy, Elrond moved fast, didn't he? You'd think that if the elves could move as fast as they did in these films, and since they apparently didn't deal with Sauron in their realms as Tolkien described, they'd have been able to defeat Sauron in Mordor themselves.
(6) The Witch-King was easily defeated, huh? Makes you wonder if a battalion of women could have leveled the whole fortress. Then again, maybe women elves.
(7) Bilbo is replaced by an obvious fleet-footed, skinny double in the final scene. With a bad rubber wig, to boot.
None of these take away from my enjoyment of this movie.
Key scenes were missing, but again I hope they will be in the EE. These malcontents who complain loudly thought that the rest of the world would gladly sit through a four or five hour movie, and are dead wrong. If Jackson did that, his movies would not have made the money they did and would have died a quick death after the Fellowship, if having been green-lighted at all.
I heard many - including friends - who complained about the multiple farewells, but I think a film series of this magnitude needed them. Sigh - if only The Scouring of the Shire were filmed for the EE.
Fellowship was a character- and plot-driven movie. Two Towers action-orientated. Return of the King integrated these two elements seamlessly.
Peter Jackson made one for the ages, and I for one am deeply grateful for the wondrous effort. At least if the whiners had made a similar effort, I could then thank them for that. But instead they're content to damn others whose talent and ambition far outshine their own. Let them go back to their Internet role-playing games; I'm sure a lifetime of complaining about Jackson and whomever else they set in their crosshairs will make their lives very full, indeed.
Myself, I can't wait to watch the whole series in quick succession - again. Viewed as a whole, this series is peerless. And holds together exceptionally well. What, a long, strange trip it's been!
My deepest, deepest thanks to the cast and crew of The Lord of the Rings - and to the world, which made this triumphant vision such a success.
-Mark C. Still
posted by mark 9:13 PM
Monday, September 29, 2003
It’s hard to describe the loss you feel at a friend who’s been there for you every step of the way. Through tears cried from pain and rapture, through teeth clenched at the ignorance of others and the stupidity of oneself, Johnny Cash was this to me. I knew he was ailing and I knew he would go, but when a three-word news link on my mail server made me aware that it had indeed happened, my pulse stopped. With crushing finality, I knew the world had lost one of its most sympathetic and comforting presences – and that for me, the daily search for reason which life demands became a little harder.
Johnny’s was the first voice I heard outside my family raised in steely pride for the common man, the repentant outcast, the habitual sinner – often all the same person. His was the tongue of everyman and woman, the voice of humanity. There was no sorrow he couldn’t understand, no soul he couldn’t penetrate, no joy he hoarded. He personified the Human Quest as the sagacious prophet who knew the Answer as well as a few hundred reasons to ignore it. And I was confident he’d run off with me at a moment’s notice to find a few more. His was the most human voice to ever grace, effortlessly, vinyl or disc. It was my voice, even when – especially when – I didn’t know what to say or how to say it. So it will ever remain.
There are a good number of musicians and songwriters who express the kind of unabashed sentiment that was Cash’s stock-in-trade. His pen is potent and legendary, having authored well over 500 alternately haunting and soothing tunes. Yet in point of fact many of the songs he made his own were written by others, especially in his later years… “The Ballad of Ira Hayes,” “A Boy Named Sue,” “Highwayman,” “Ghost Riders in the Sky,” “Spiritual,” “One,” “Down There by the Train,” “Hurt,” etc, etc….. But it didn’t matter who wrote them, it mattered who laid them into your brains, embedded them into your souls. No one else sold them home with the kind of authority he delivered. He made you feel every word because every word was offered with utter conviction. Perhaps only Jimmy Rodgers and Hank Williams ever did the same…which is why their legions of fans have iconified, even deified, the two men. Cash belongs on that same plateau… as well as with Lennon and Marley. But none of them had that voice.
That voice…. Gift of the angels yet torn from the devil’s grasp. Cash made me know it was alright to make mistakes… even the big ones… as long as I didn’t allow those mistakes to take control of my life. Always fight, always help the ones who need it (‘cause they’re making a slew of their own mistakes), never compromise, never sell out, never give less than everything. I could hear it all in every syllable. What could be more rock ‘n roll, more unrepentantly independent?
Two of his best songs – “25 Minutes to Go” and “Mercy Seat” – are about the precious last few minutes of condemned men on Death Row…… horrifying ruminations. Cash immerses you in every bead of sweat as it carves a deep groove into their horrified faces. In the first, sung near age 30, he ends up swinging from the gallows, filled with rage and dread; in the second, sung near 70 years, his temperment is resigned and coolly defiant. At first. Or listen to “Hurt”… the song everybody’s currently talking about. Every note, every gesture, is filled with every second of Cash’s life. How anyone could sing, let alone record, songs like these is more than I can imagine.
His heart was big enough to take in all the ills of the world. His soul vacuous enough to indulge in all the ills of the world – and create a few of his own along the way. The Man in Black taught me about life… after my parents, this guy graced my soul with a resonance that I will take to my grave.
Nick Cave said it best: “God isn’t making any more” people like Johnny Cash. Williams, Rodgers, Lennon and Marley all left long ago. Cash was the last of the breed. Believe it – the world will never be the same. Kris Kristoferson once named him “the father of our Country,” and later solidified the Rushmore imagery by comparing him to “Lincoln with a wild streak”. Myself, I recall a line from “Desperadoes Waiting for a Train,” a melody he uplifted along with Kristoferson in the musical supergroup The Highwaymen. It was about a hero-worshiping lad who becomes a wizened cowpoke’s sidekick. Over the decades that follow he watches him age until at last he knows Death is rapping at the door. “To me he was one of the heroes of this county/ So why is he dressed up like those old men?”
The Man in Black’s face and voice betrayed his every thought and second thought, his every breath, his every heartbeat, his every tear and peal of laughter. They aged with him, towards the end at a startling rate. The body and all those physical trappings grew old, yes, but heroes never die. This desperado’s train finally arrived, and he rode it to all the glory he deserves. I just wish I wasn’t standing here on this platform watching it go. May we all aspire to be just a little bit like the Cash.
posted by mark 9:14 PM
Sunday, September 07, 2003
Life is funny, ain't it?
I didn't make the Burn this year, but I feel more connected to it than ever. It's not an exaggeration to claim that the Burn itself is indirectly responsible for my current situation: married, with family, in the Poland's capital city. Everywhere I go, every way I turn, I try to reconnect with the antediluvian energy that I discovered in such abundance upon the Playa in the blistering summer heat of 2001.
Witness this past July. I with my very pregnant wife, Gosia, returned to my small, blue-collar New Jersey hometown to bathe within the enduring warmth of family. I knew I would have been sorely remiss if I didn't look up some East Coast Burners to toast old memories and forge new bonds. I had been in communication with Taco Boy (who wore a Mexican fundamental upon his Grecian parts - and nothing else but a goofy grin) via e-mail since before the 2001 Burn, but we had never hooked up. TB, aka Ken, is the New Jersey regional rep, and he lives in a Victorian-era two-story which he restored himself. Fact is, after years of slaving over the high-sales insurance pitch and slowly nursing an inevitable stroke, he ditched it all (literally) for refuge on the Playa. He never looked back. He now finds and helps to restore homes fulltime for his Freehold hometown (a guy named Sprigsteen hails from there).
Ken didn't pause for an instant in treating the two of us as old friends. He brought the wine, we brought the food, we hit a local concert, and then he showed us around his stunning house - complet with player piano, a cylinder-phonograph, and much more. To top it off, our carrot-topped pal is more than a little Polski himself, who has been to the motherland and is probably the only Burner who will take me up on my standing invitation to come visit.
Then Gosia and I hit the shore points, did some other family touristy stuff, flew back to P-land, and wouldn't you know it? Last Tuesday the 27th, just as the latest Burn was gearing up full-throttle, had a baby boy! Little Zbyszek (ZBI-jek) Royal Still. Never have I been happier; man, I just LOVE being a daddy! It was the Burn that brought me out through Nevada and then, by linear extension, to Lake Tahoe, where I bumped into my Polish Queen - and the rest, as they say is history.
My life changed that summer of 2001. Profoundly, irrevocably. A reborn man made new friends, plumbed new depths, scaled new heights, and eventually found a new family and homeland. For a moment not too long ago I wished that we could had been there with you. But I realize I'm tickled pink being just where I am. Come on over and I'll pour you a glass of local vodka - then we can toast old memories and forge new bonds. Burn on, effendi!
posted by mark 12:37 AM
Monday, June 30, 2003
The following is an article I wrote for a local publication out in these parts. It is exactly 1200 words......
The sun radiated warmth that atoned for the previous week of clouds and rain. It's one thing when the weather forces you to retreat inside with a damp umbrella and soggy shoes, but it's quite another when it endangers your person. Micha³ had known what awaited him the moment he’d decided to be a bike messenger. Cycling was in his blood, and today's brilliance more than redressed the preceding days of somber hues. He rose high on his pedals and pumped hard down Marsza³kowska, basking in the sheer joy of it all.
That's when the diminutive "Mr. Bean" Fiat in front of him stopped for no apparent reason; Micha³ veered for the curbside but he was too far out to reach it. Besides, this curb near Plac. Zbawaciela was fenced. He rear-ended the Fiat and somersaulted with his bike completely over it. But the bike gods were smiling that day and he walked away, dazed and peeved at Warsaw’s infrastructure....
To say that Polish roads and highways are nasty is to miss the point; they’re loathsome. Waves of tar and dead Mafioso undulate along the edges and potholes are epidemic. Sidewalks are worse, their tiny blocks jagged and pointing every which way. Bike paths swarm with pedestrians, mothers with baby strollers, bladers and parked cars. For many, the streets are the only option.
Navigating the pockmarked byways would be relatively easy if it weren't for the legions of morally destitute motorists stalking them. Consider Adam Paskowski: "Taxis U-turn without notice or cut you off when they're hailed. Buses cut me off all the time.” Even pedestrians casually stroll from the curbside across his path, without notice or heed. "Once I hit a gentleman who was so big nothing happened to him – I wasn’t so lucky... I've had 15 accidents in the past 6 months." He has the scars to prove it.
********************
"Froggie" always wore a helmet. That's what saved his life. One fine day in Centrum he hit a pothole and heard something snap. At the exact second he chanced a peek behind to check, the luxury car in front of him squealed to a stop. Froggy catapulted through the rear windshield and landed in the back seat amid a shower of shattered glass. Froggy survived with abrasions and a z³. 2000 bill for the windshield.
You win some, you lose some. Another cyclist, Maciek, was jaunting up Przycz?³kowa in Wilanov when a car ran the cross-street red light, slammed into Maciek, and kept on running. The driver remains at large while Maciek remains covered in plaster from his waist to his neck... Speed-demons fly at cyclists with spacecraft velocity when they go to pass the slower drivers content to maintain the speed limit. They’ll whiz by, only inches away, or come at cyclists head-on - depending on what direction they’re passing from. Even other cyclists can be treacherous, jumping out from the curbside in front of other riders or weaving wildly through pedestrians on the sidewalks.
Recently a police car cut this author off at an intersection though the author had the right-of-way. “I love to ride,” says Daniel Heinst, “But it’s too crazy here. I saw a bus force a bicyclist to the curbside and then to literally jump off his bike to keep from getting crushed.”
Bedy is a singular bike messenger, bedecked in dreadlocks and oozing charisma, and well knows what bus-drivers are like. “We call them teachers – they want to teach us (a lesson).” Once one dogged Bedy's rear as he crossed Rondo Waszyngtona. "I know bus-drivers, I know what's going on," he asserted confidentially. "So (at the next station) I asked him: 'Excuse me – what’s the problem with bus-drivers, pushing bikes to the curb and cutting us off? The driver (growled) back, 'If you'd been slower you would’ve died.' Oh yeah, he wanted to kill me."
Marta W³odarska is a casual cyclist who mostly confines her excursions to a park near Milan?wek, south of the Big City. "I don't like to ride in Warsaw anymore... too crowded and people don’t respect the bike paths." She was riding there one balmy Saturday when a dog abruptly darted in front of her. Marta went flying, coloring the ground with blood and bits of skin. The dog-owner colored the air with loud invectives against Marta for endangering her pup.
Yet amidst the mayhem there are amusing stories to inspire the most darkened soul. Messenger Bedy frequently races with his friends in the city, and one night a taxi driver impulsively decided to challenge them. Bedy broke out in front of the pack and when both were forced to stop at a busy intersection the cabby got out and grabbed Bedy by the shoulders.... Bedy's friends were close behind, all 15 of them. "What, " Bedy posed, "Are you going to fight us all? The taxi driver stomped back to his cab, yelling,. 'I smash you next time!' ” Then he continued his race with them but soon was left behind. "You should have seen him! Vroom! Eeech!," Bedy pantomimed while working an imaginary clutch. "No contest."
Kuba Baj is a former messenger who was challenged by a carload of hooligans shouting obscenities as they passed, then they stopped to pick a fight when Kuba shouted back. Though outnumbered four to one, Kuba was carrying his heavy Kryptonite bike chain and wasn't afraid to wield it, teeth grit and eyes blazing. The hooligans left. A colleague was once forced faced-down onto the sidewalk at Al. Jerozolimskie, alongside Marriott, by a grinning bus driver - only to bounce back up and obligingly remove two of the driver's front teeth. "He was a good driver after that... very polite."
Kuba, Bedy and more gather at Pl. Zamkowy the last Friday every month for the Critical Mass rally, which is a cry for much-needed respect from the citizens and government of Poland. The June rally saw no less than 1200 participants! The first thing the government should do is arrest and fine all those who put their need for speed above others' lives, and then use the money generated to fix the roads for all of us….. Hey, we're not saints. Many of us have run red lights and dashed between cars. So have most motorists. There's the tiny infractions we’re all guilty of at one time or another, and then there are the actions we take that endanger ourselves and others.
I wanted to interview some of the elderly folk I've seen tooling around the country - Babjis on their way to visit grandchildren, or indigent stiffs commuting to their z³. 5 per hour part-time job - forced to utilize the traffic lanes when even the most rudimentary dirt paths disappear. But as cyclist Arek Syrokomski says, “none of them are left 'cause they've all been run over.” He kids of course, but I would’ve liked to interview the old fieldhand I saw crawling down Route 801, gripping a long-handled hoe while eighteen-wheelers barreled past. When I pointed it out to the old man standing next to me at the roadside sklep, he shrugged as if to say that's life as it's always been.
Hopefully not for much longer.
posted by mark 2:42 PM
Monday, May 26, 2003
OK guys, this one's important to me. On June 7th and 8th the Polish voters are invited to descend upon the polling booths en masse and vote on whether or not they want to join the European Union. Let's not mince words here: we need this. But mere days away from the big event, there are still a whole lot of citizens who believe anything but. For those of you who are avid, unapologetic readers (Hi, Mom!), you know what I think of Poles: Honest, straightforward people, they are terrific friends, comprised of grit and integrity. But lacking a bit in the ol' "pull-yourselves-up-by-your-bootstraps" department. More willing to walk away and give up on whatever idea they have when they encounter an obstacle than to actually try to surmount it. So when I hear talk that the EU will be Poland's salvation, I tend to scoff. Many folks in these here parts are waiting... waiting for EU ascension, the next generation, the next crop of politicians, for time and somebody to make it right. Pinning all their hopes on the Magical World of Brussels is a fool's errand, unless they are willing to contribute heartily to the solution of everything that ails this fine country.
But ignoring the EU is more than foolish, it is perilous. Put simply, Poland will fall into the Middle Ages if they don't join the Family. It would be inevitable. The EU rivals the States in terms of political clout, culture, and standard of living. On the economic front, the Euro has gained mightily on the dollar and picking up speed every day. To the west of Poland lies the seemingly horizon-less EU Zone, to the east lay lands that are hopelessly enmeshed in the quagmire of Communism. Sure, the Wall fell, but Belarus and Ukraine authorities actually woe that fateful day. They want the old order back, and trudging uphill in this damnable vacuum has left them bereft of bread (the edible kind), bread (the convertible kind), will, law, and common sense.
After these two, what else is there? Moldova? Russia??? Please! No doubt Russia would like to have Poland as a willing ally (for once); Poland’s geographical position in Europe renders it as the Israel of Europe, which is why so many nations had invaded over the centuries. But Russia is no shape to provide assistance, to be a stable friend to anyone. What I'm saying is Russia is not trustworthy. Now Poles say that about... well, everyone, actually. But Russia and its enigmatic leader, Vladimir Putin, remain forever shrouded in mystery and unknown motivations. Yes, their economy is recovering. When you've hit rock bottom, there's nowhere to go but up. But they could lose it all again tomorrow.
Interestingly enough, there's a large vocal enclave of Poles who think the same about Germany: That they are not trustworthy. And that they are the big power in the EU, masterminding a Fourth Reich which will dominate Poland anew without firing a shot. The enclave thinks even less of the French, but... well, they think even less of the French. That France's position in the EU is deteriorating, and Germany is coming into ascendancy. That France is openly bickering with just about everybody in Europe right now, to them only proves their point.
These Chicken Littles not only sound like crabby old men (they often are, though they have enlisted an alarming number of crabby young men to their ranks), they're dangerous. No one country will dominate the EU in setting policy for all member nations, no matter how much France may bellow, and certainly the European Parliament will not allow any member state to control another. (Not to oversimplify in this short essay, but does Texas rule the States? Is New Jersey or Nevada indentured to California?)
The state of the state here in Poland is rather dismal, no matter what the optimists and the apologists may say. Nobody trusts the established guard, nobody. Nobody likes our current crop of leaders, precious few trust the political establishment - and Brussels, my friends, is simply another political establishment. A vote against Brussels is, in many minds, a vote against our President Aleksander Kwas’niewski (Kvash-Neyh-skee) and Prime Minister Lesyck (LE-shik) Miller and the whole of Parliament. Worse, since so many of our politicos are lobbying heavily for EU ascension, a vote against the EU is a vote for the common man - or so the thinking goes.
But the common man will inexorably be crushed by the wheels of the 21st Century if they let this opportunity slip them by. The European Community is a juggernaut; Poland, as I have so elegantly put it many times on this page, is desperately poor. Sometimes I wonder what the common folk are waiting for to start the revolution? We need the influx of money the EU will provide, we need powerful friends in high places. Simply put, we cannot go it alone. At best, we would wither into nothing, a marginal country best ignored and avoided by everyone. At worst and far more likely, we will lay ourselves open once again to invasion - be it economically, culturally, or militarily (yeah sure, we're a peaceful "Global Village" now). We will lose whatever power we are gaining and we will fade into the history books.
Some argue that we should join NAFTA, strengthen our ties with the U.S. Certainly our government is doing just that. What with our commitment to troops to Iraq and our purchase of a fleet of American F-16 fighter planes. The windfalls of fat corporate contracts both here and in Iraq for Polish enterprises has commanded respect. But I emphasize that Poland is part of Europe, and one of the most strategic pieces of land in the Northern Hemisphere. An ally so many thousands of miles across the ocean, even a strong one, will leave us open to vicious attacks of all sorts from all sides. To extend my Israel metaphor, we will never gain the prestige Israel enjoys with American administrations and we will forever be marginalized. Nothing more than a pawn, ragged and threadbare, for the rest of the Powers.
The EU has money. Poland does not. The EU has physical and political infrastructure. Poland does not. The EU has intelligentsia, I'm very sorry but Poland does not. The EU has ballsy politicians (even the female ones) and is willing to risk and grow, Poland does and is not. The demagogues here like the right-of-right orthodox catholic priest Taduesz Rydzyk (Ta-DOOSH RID-shik) and SDL opposition party leader Andrzej Lepper (AAN-jay LE-per) are promising chaos, domination, homosexuality, abortion, and every other vice know to man if we join. Opinion polls list EU support near 80% but one polling agency admitted that only 5% of those they call even want to talk to the pollsters, and many in Poland's vast outback of poorer-than-poor villages aren't even being asked. As American ex-pat's Preston Smith's Poland Monthly puts it, a two day referendum may backfire on our elite. Those with no jobs and nothing better to do now have two days to make the two or four or ten mile trek to the polling booths. All to make a protest vote against the Establishment, whatever they deem the Establishment to be.
Look, I've gone on too long already. If Poles let this one slip us by, we will regret it for a very long time. Forever, in fact. 50% of Poles have to vote one way or the other in order for this to have any meaning, and if less than 50% vote the question of EU ascension will be kicked into Parliament. Then our ascension is assured. But with two days to do this thing, nobody is going to trust the "Political Elite" to do the right thing. Poles will come out in record numbers. They will vote.
And what they might vote for terrifies me.
posted by mark 5:24 PM
Wednesday, May 07, 2003
Another Long Weekend has passed. This is the confluence of May 1, or International Workers' Day (the European version of Labor Day) and May 3 - Constitution Day, the commemoration of the 1791 signing of the Polish Constitution. Warsaw practically empties as everyone who longs to escape from the city's baleful grasp does, and I was faced with the rising urge to stay put in this lovely town for the duration. After all, aren't holidays about getting away from it all? How is it a welcome break from the same-old-same-old if "it all" comes with you? Just like Summer weekends back in Jersey, when I stared slacked-jawed at the onslaught of bumper-to-bumper traffic that issued from Philly just to "get away from it all." I scoffed aloud, every time.
I was wrong.
We left Warsaw a day later than most so we avoided the crowds; I came to the Polish countryside relaxed and ready to boogie. We spent our days on the outskirts of the Mazury Highland in the northeast corner of the country. Specifically we journeyed to Augustov, again managing to avoid the bulk of the Warsiavians since Mazury's fame is founded mostly on its large aquatic expanse ever westward. But the Augustov region is gorgeous, with deeper lakes and (I heard) clearer. We kayaked the lower third of the Czarna Hancia River, reputedly the prettiest in P-Land. It's narrow and insanely winding and blockaded by numerous fallen trees and dead Russians but more than a little pretty.
I’d been expecting wide, wild waters and sheer cliff walls but I can't say why. Anything "sheer" or granite-like in Poland lies southward, but still I marveled that the "spectacular" river my Lonely Planet guidebook promised measured all of 5 meters from bank to bank. But the subtle hues of the wide farmlands, cascading stalks of weedgrass, and the enormous Augustov Forest finally overwhelmed both Gosia and me. It was magnificent - subtly understated. The kind of country one could blink and miss with scarce memory to refer to in later days, the kind of country that demands pause and reflection.
From southeast on the Czarna we looped west into the Augustov Canal and an endless series of tolled locks until we again approached the city. After the second lock we set camp upon a lush idyllic point. It was everything two weary urbanites longing for the restful excitement of the country could desire. Except.... I was less than prepared. Y'see, I had brought along my one-man tent, no more than a wind tunnel really, because I was fairly convinced I would never have convinced Gosia to camp in this, the coldest region of Poland. The polar bears roam all year, and Gosia had worn a jacket all day to foil their razor-sharp cuspids. The nights, even in May, often approach or reach the freezing mark. But camp she did - which meant I was regulated to the campfire, which I kept ablaze all through the long night. I had no sleeping bag, no mattress, just my second skin. But I was so delighted that she wanted to camp and camp willingly I would have done anything to assure her a night of warm, uninterrupted bliss.
The next day, after two hours of sleep for yours truly, grabbed in somnolent handfuls, it poured. But a pair of young kayakers up from the University of Krakow befriended us and offered us several large, thick bright blue garbage bags to cover our large, swollen blue selves and kayak. The moral of this story is despite the bucketing rain and the lack of sleep, I was in Heaven. Take me home, country roads...
That night and the next day were spent with relaxing walks and relaxing meals. Even the trip back to Warsaw couldn’t ruin my mood. 120 of us headed back for the Big City that Sunday afternoon, and when the state-owned PKP train pulled in it was already full from points further north. In its unassailable wisdom, PKP sent a train that was exactly three cars long - and the first one was the engine. We crammed in toe-to-toe. Later 50 more hardbitten types crowded in and we were butt-to-butt. 50 more and we were elbow-to-kneecap. Two hours later we changed trains and basked in relative luxury. Sure that one was SRO, too. But we beat most of the crowds, tucked in our shoulders, and slid ourselves onto what passes for plush comfort out in these parts.
And here we are. You know, many fleeing Warsiavians’ idea of a vacation is changing the venue of where they chose to get drunk, and certainly the people who shared the guesthouse with us in Augustov were no exception. But many more go to enjoy the natural joys of this country… Poland is sublime, filled with delights to satiate the soul and drive off the demons of despair. Let the train company bureaucracy rot in hell, me and my wife are just fine.
posted by mark 8:14 PM
Tuesday, April 01, 2003
The American military invaded the wrong country. They shoulda come to Poland.
Iraq has its problems, true. Maniacal power-hungry dictators are great fodder for the War on Terrorism propaganda machine. And Saddam and his two jolly sons, Odai and Qusai, just aren’t nice people. They’ve vaulted themselves into the international arena as the Global Three Stooges, only even more violent than the originals and without the laugh track. They torture the players of their national soccer team when they loose, for crying out loud! How’s that for group motivation? But let’s face it, these three are primitive apes whose ends will surely one day come. They’re not endemic of a system, they are the system. Get rid of them and watch the dust settle.
But the Polish bureaucracy? Ah, now there’s a camel of a different color.
In all my years of envisioning literary scenarios and watching tons of Hollywood shoot-‘em-ups pitting the redoubtable laconic hero against a Hopelessly Archaic and Corrupt System (you’ve seen that movie, haven’t you?), I had never imagined a cultural morass as self-contradictory, as maddingly inefficient, as homicidally dull and uncomprehending as The System here in this country I now call home.
Do I really need to relate any stories to make my point? We’ve all been there... The process of extending my tourist visa involved waiting in long lines with my then-fiancee’ at the Immigration Office to discover what documents I would need, then scampering around to acquire those documents and finally waiting in longer lines to present them. Only to be told - you can see this coming, can’t you? - we had the wrong information and the wrong documents and had to start over. Naturally, we were assured that nobody in Immigration could have misinformed any of Poland’s exemplary visitors and that the error was ours.
When we applied for permission to marry, we were informed it’d take 6 to 8 weeks for the paperwork to come through. It took 4 months. Now I’m applying for my temporary residency and I’m dredging hitherto untouched levels of despair. First I was apprised to register my address in Bydgoszcz since my wife hails from there (what are we, a newly post-nuptial Joseph and Mary? Is this Herod’s country?), then after I did and we later stood again in that same wonderful Immigration line, I was informed that I wasted my time in Bydgoszcz; I gotta do this all over again in Warsaw. And get this - the government wants me to submit a document that grants me permission to live in this country. So in the end I can get a document that grants me permission to live in this country.
In the meantime I can’t get a job, open a bank account, donate blood to the Red Cross, or presumably, spit or breathe within the national borders. That is, without the proper paperwork and infinite patience.
But I’d be remiss if I led you into believing it ends there with the suits (okay, not “suits” exactly; our government servants won’t ever make anyone’s Best Dressed list). This damnable mentality of the immutable, unfathomable Rules of Conduct has permeated a great deal of society. The Idea mobile phone company will only allow me to change my service plan on the monthly anniversary of my sign-up date. I already missed the first anniversary for the annoying inconvenience (to them) of my wedding day. And I recently spent a week wrestling with their service reps over what turned out to be an innate conflict between my phone’s internal answering machine and its voice mail. So why include both options on my phone?
The walls here in my new flat are paper-thin, so that I can hear every conversation around me. My upstairs neighbor, a petite elderly charmer, despite protestations to the contrary, is running an iron smelt in her living room, where it churns and booms! every five minutes day and night. All my neighbors swear the walls are thick and that the little charmer lifts nothing heavier than a tea kettle each day; And I recently embarked on a search for an RCA audio cable. The music store I went to told me to try the computer shop in Europlex. The computer shop pointed me toward the television establishment down the street. And the TV shop advised me to try the same computer store. Uh-huh.
In the meantime where are the bigwig Parliamentary politicos and head honchos of the corporate boardrooms? In various stages of resigning, threatening to resign, scoffing at others’ resignations, fielding death threats, inventing death threats, praying for EU intervention, beating the anti-EU drums, luxirating with their hands deep in the pockets of Big Media (or is that the other way around?) and deriding the French. Sometime all of the above at once.
Let’s face it: the soldiers should’ve landed in Prague and the beauteous Swedish isle of Bornholm, above Gda½sk (Germany would have been just horrible PR) for a two-pronged attack. The Czechs would be glad for the chance to knock Warsaw off the political landscape for awhile, and the Danes are always eager to welcome foreign tourists to their beauteous shore-scapes. That they would be wearing fatigues and lugging AK-47s is a trifle.
And then the American-led coalition (you have to wonder if their only allies would be Blair and the Brits) could do some real good. Take out the bureaucrats and the supercilious CEOs with their legions of mindless drones and try them all with that most heinous of war crimes: conducting a numbing war of attrition against their own. Then lock ‘em all up somewhere in a remote corner of Belarus, give them each a half-dozen eraserless pencils and two ruled tablets, and maybe fifty ancient typewriters for the lot of them and tell them all to rely on each other for whatever services they may require until the end of their days.
Or better yet, exile them to Bagdad. That’d topple Saddam’s regime without firing a shot.
posted by mark 11:56 PM
Thursday, March 27, 2003
THE FOLLOWING IS A WORK IN PROGRESS
I’m assuming by now you know about the war.
Do I think it’s a good thing? Do I think it’s justified? Well, let me turn this around by asking you the same questions. Maybe I’m just a notch in the Bush administration’s loaded pistol of anti-Saddam propaganda, but I don't like Saddam. But I don’t like Bush that much either. He's more than a little arrogant. Waging a war while sweeping aside the concerns of the rest of the world, seems like absurdly high stakes to raise to settle what many view as a personal conflict between two macho grandstanders. What is most disturbing about the American position is how we pick and choose where to get involved in this big blue orb and why - and by “why” I mean reasons both stated and clandestine.
Living in Central Europe as I do and having recently visited Egypt, I can tell you that from my vantage point, the world seems rather solidly united against American incursions. Central Europe has not erupted in protests and political one-upmanship the way the western countries have, but polls make it clearly known that America doesn’t have very many allies on this issue. Sure, the Polish Prez, Aleksander Kwasniewski, has pledged his unqualified support of the American-led coalition in Iraq (in the form of 200 “non-combative” troops), but this Prez speaks for a mere 30 percent of the populace. And Egypt? Well, Egypt is a different case altogether.
I can say that because I honeymooned in Egypt. The Amphoras Holiday Inn in the lovely town of Sharm el Sheikh, to be exact, with a protracted excursion into Cairo and a few whistlestops along the way. Yes, it was only a week but surely I could learn in one week if Islam is hostile or not to the rest of the world. Now, don't laugh. That's exactly what many Americans believe, and it certainly seems that's exactly the message the Bush administration is trying to put across. But there's nothing to fear, guys. Shoot, I'd like to move to Egypt.
Sure, Egyptian Muslims aren't Iraqi Muslims, but it's good to define our friends and enemies before we go much further. We all know there are Islamics such as the American marine who attacked his mates while all were camped in Kuwait, but it’s crucial to note that he no more represents the whole than Bin Laden does. Islam is not at war with Christianity and/or Bush and/or America.
When I first arrived in Sharm el Sheikh, one of my group's Egyptian guides advised me to adopt a faux northern European accent and disavow my national origins. He said it with a smile and he sincerely seemed concerned for my safety. But he also said it with a but of a sneer, as if American safety really wasn't in his job description. After all, I was with a Polish tour group. I gave what he proposed a little thought and quickly decided against such a course - to my ever-lasting satisfaction.
Egyptians are big-hearted people... which is exactly what one of many newfound acquaintances told me a few days into my trip, and it’s easy to see he was right. Many were obliged to express their feelings on Bush and a few (as in two or three) did not even want to socialize with me since I was from "Bush’s America". But most wore big smiles and proffered generous spirits. I swear to Allah, I was the only American in the whole blamed country, but I was greeted most enthusiastically by many, many Egyptian citizens. Many, in fact, were downright overjoyed to see an American tourist on their streets. It’s about time, they all seemed to say, somebody ignored the American State Department's dire warnings to tourist abroad in Muslim countries. (Which is not to say I wasn't a little scared myself to head to Egypt in these tumultuous times, but thank God I listened to the more reasonable voice echoing in my ears: my wife's.)
I took it upon myself to act as unofficial Ambassador of Good Will, and my efforts paid off handsomely. I learned a bit of Arabic - I could be seen scribbling new notes every morning and evening at the hotel buffet and heard wrapping my tongue around those crazy Arabic syllables. Though it must be said they seemed a far side easier than those crazy Polish ones.
I even managed an invite to pray in a local mosque on the weekly holy day, Friday. Not one of my new friends really knew how to deal with this strange request.... no pictures, no slavering admiration or “ohhing” and “ahhing” outside the mosque walls..... just a sincere desire to worship God. After all, I believe in one God, the creator and provider, the very essence of love. Allah, Jehovah, Christ.... what’s in a name? It was one of the proudest moments of my life to be welcomed in. And so many people from both the Christian (friends and family at home) and Muslim camps (Egyptians I met in the first few days of my sojourn) thought I wouldn’t be allowed inside. Hah! What folly!
Cairo is really something! I've heard about such things and seen images on TV and the movies and such and such, but nothing could have really prepared me for scenes of this magnitude. What sort of scenes, I hear you ask? Cairo is home to 20 million people, mostly because Egypt is one big desert landscape and most people who live there want to enjoy some sort of, dare I say, normal life. You know, shelter, water, toilets (PLEASE! Don't ask!), trips to local stores and outdoor markets.
Unfinished high-rise apartment flats with paneless windows and all sorts of debris strewn haphazardly on rooftops for insulation, looking so much like war-torn neighborhoods, standing side-by side a few modern apartments and miles upon miles of
expansive green fields where every crop imaginable is grown and managed by plow jockeys with scythes and horse-drawn carts. Interspersed with dusty avenues comprised entirely of urbanized desert and polluted Nile tributaries, all surrounding one another. A city of 20 million, the epicenter of which is more densely packed than it seemed anyplace on earth. Trains older than dirt, buses more crowded than a gourmand’s stomach, with passengers actually hanging out of the doors. Voluminous traffic to drive you bonkers and often no crosswalks. Horse and buggies on major traffic-strewn expressways. Men in suits side-by-side with men and women in traditional garb. Very few woman anywhere out of doors, and none dancing with men in the clubs or being affectionate with the same on the streets. And costs? I hear you ask again. In Egypt, the free market system reigns supreme. Practically everything is negotiable.
Except for the joy of the average Egyptian heart. A poor people, a desert people, a nation linked to the others around it by their wariness toward the non-Muslim and non-Arab world, a nation living in the shadow of richer and more powerful nations like the USA, who seek to have more influence in the region that perhaps geography or history warrant. But those smiles I saw, the people who proffered their hands or threw up their arms for a warm embrace...! If that's something for me to fear and avoid, then I must be living wrong.
There is enough room in all hearts, of every denomination and nationality, for God and neighbor. For brotherhood and fidelity. It is the insistent belief that these do not exist except with those “of our own” that we continue to have all these damnable problems in the world. And it is the dogged determination that life was meant to be far, far better than that, that hope for all still exists.
You see, that's exactly what I found in Egypt: nothing les than the world. Brothers and sisters. The meaning of life, all wrapped up into one big, sprawling, often messy urban and dessert sprawl.
Gosia and I visited one nightclub, in Sharm el Sheikh. We were the only tourists there. And they loved us. A crowd of men separated us and challenged us to individual dancing contests. Man, I always lost but they were big-hearted and super-friendly and we all had a blast. I danced a couple of times with a group of street-corner musicians, too, in the "Old Market" area of Sharm. One of the shopkeepers there, Muhammad Ali (I kid you not) had me repeat something in Arabic and heartily welcomed me into the Muslim family. And the night I received warm farewells - and two huge bear hugs. One from a waiter and one form the night clerk, who came all the out from behind his desk and through the staff room to wish me well.
That's me impression off Egypt and that's my impression of Islam. I’d go back again in a heartbeat, despite this war. Love and camaraderie always need an outlet.
posted by mark 11:54 PM
Thursday, March 20, 2003
Okay, before I talk about the Wonderful World of Islam (I'm being sincere) let me address a topic that has been burning on my soul for the past week... nay, for months now.
Many people throughout the annals of history have fought for the right to bear the mantle of world's stupidest person. Not personally bear, mind you, but to force others to bear, to bestow, as it were, not with grace but with malice. Surely you've heard the fatal words, if not pronounced them yourselves: "You are without a doubt the dumbest person to ever walk upon God's green earth," or something to that effect. Well, I have good news. The competition is over, finished, kaput. No one has to waste another thought on this most lofty of distinctions. The winner has been found. The most agonizingly, vainglorious, foolish clod in the Universe has been revealed, and there can be no debate of how worthy he is of the title. And no, it's not Dubba or Sadamarama. Ces't moi.
Allow me to document my credentials forthwith: last Saturday, March 15th, the fabled Ides of March, I had been stricken with the first signs of flu. The signs had appeared the previous day, but thanks to the home-and church- spun ministrations of my mother-in-law, I was on my way to recovery. My younger sister-in-law - my wife's twin, Ania - secured a prescription for me from her older physiatrist sister for flu medicine. She asked Ania who then asked me: "are you allergic to any antibiotics?" Immediately I thought of sulpha, which can kill me. I had taken it before some years ago and I know of what I speak. But I thought sulpha wasn't an antibiotic so I said "nothing." The truth is, even though sulpha made me puff up like the fat kid in Willy Wonka's Chocolate Factory with pain to match, I never bother to find out what kind of drug it is. Arrogance, my friends, slothful pride. And for those of you who don't know what it is or haven't guessed by now, let me fill you in: it's an antibiotic, used to fight infectious diseases. Ya know? Like the flu? (In Polish, grippa... Doh! Or in Polish, Doh!)
Right on the front of the box in big, bold letters, it announced itself: Sulpha-something-or-other. But because "sulpha" was merely a prefix and I had taught myself to beware medications with Latin names of five letters' length, I ignored it. And damn near killed myself. Gradually, but ever more insistently, my thighs and shoulders came to feel as if somebody had sliced them open and was scooping out the insides. It was only the doctor who came to wife's call sharp-sightedness that exposed my mistake. He was about to give me an injection and I begged him to keep me far away from sulpha.... and so he did. He read my medicine box and I presume told me wife how unbelievably foolish I was in their native language. Today, five days later, I still experience mild pain.
Let me spell this out for you in big, bold letters if you still doubt the validity of my claim. And I hope you don't ignore bold print like yours truly here. I had a box marked "poison" in front of me. I ate the contents of the box regardless. And then lo! I was poisoned. I know, huh?
But no, don't let in end there. It gets better. While I was bathing in the rich aromatic rank of my folly, I began to wonder what else I had done to possibly cement my permanent entry in the volumes of fools and numbskulls. You see, I was so close to fame now I could taste it. I craved my title of Crown Dunce... let the world kneel and tremble! My mind swayed once again, as it had often in the previous weeks, why I still had no response from any of the publishers to whom I sent proposals about my latest book, The Spokes of My Soul? Suddenly I recalled that I had not sent any self-addressed-stamped-enveloped (SASEs) with ANY of my submissions. And all publishers clearly make it known that I need to send these if I expect any reply. Shoot, rumor has it that some publishers won't even read a proposal without it.
Why didn't I include them? Well, the long answer if they weren't listed in any of the individual publishers' submission guidelines (taken from Writer's Market, the would-be published author's bible). But that's because it's says in the front of the Market that they are essential and every hopeful King and Rice and out there should know it. Which brings me to the short answer: 'Cause I'm STOO-PID!!!!!!!!! I don't want to tell you how much time and effort and money I put into the submissions. I was so excruciatingly thorough with everything, crossing every "t", dotting every "i", driving everybody around me crazy. But I omitted this simple, simple thing.
.... So what do you think, folks? My crown is richly deserved, no? Just remember that anytime you feel the need to bestow the epithet to someone else. Even Georgie and Sadamarama, however besieged by their own policies, can point to me now and feel some small sense of vindication.
Feel free to call and congratulate me if you want. But wait 'till my wife gets home, okay? 'Cause I left my apartment keys at my mother-in-law's, a four-hour train ride away. It may be a long afternoon.
posted by mark 2:27 PM
Thursday, March 13, 2003
May I proffer a truncated version of my trip to lands brown and arid?
It was brown, arid (maybe you already got that), fast, slow, fattening, slimming, wet, salty, vegetarian, fishy, meaty, hairy, large, larger, small, frictional, factional, modern, ancient, and everything in-between; and we experienced friendship, suspicion, brotherhood, sisterhood, fraternity, fraternizing sexuality, happy, boisterous Poles, strutting, drunk Russians, and tanned, perfumed Italians, honesty, Mafiosos, swindlers, embraces, pyramids, a Sphinx or two, camels, Bedouins, falafels, yeast and no yeast, Arafat, high-speed buses and nocturnal oil slicks in the - you'll pardon the expression - dead of night, visions of God and face-to-face encounters with the same, spice, no sleep, insomnia, more insomnia, skin, clothes, coral reefs, fish, fowl, war, the threat of war, retaliation, reconciliation, olive branches, strawberries baklava, and Egyptian tea.
More to come..............
posted by mark 12:44 PM
Friday, February 14, 2003
Welcome home.
Here I was, on American soil after a year abroad and I naturally wondered: what had changed, what had stayed the same? The answer to both is "nothing."
Oh, I could go on here. I could talk about war - and antiwar - fervor. Madison Avenue. Style over substance. The Osbornes. The relentless march of commercialization. Church versus state. Suburban sprawl. Fox. But what I really want to talk about is race.
We’re still utterly clueless.
When will we finally start dealing with people as people? Many maps have been drawn, but collectively we lack the sense God gave a slug to sit down and read one. We continue to polarize the issue, like everything else. We can’t find the integrity to talk about men and women; no, we fritter our invective on that most fatuous of distinctions, that of black or white.
People, get over yourselves. ‘Cause I don’t see the difference.
Why is everything politicized? Labeled and vilified? Take affirmative action - how is it that those who favor it think those who don’t are conservative, uneducated backwater scrunch wads? And those against it think the pro-camp are liberal hippie pound-puppies? How do both invoke the legacy of Dr. King and claim if breathed today he’d be on "their" side?
Uh-huh. Please, the man is dead. Let him rest in peace. Pay heed to his words and actions from his all-too-brief life and don’t waste time or insult his good name by fantasizing about what he could have said. He ain’t here to defend himself. You want to celebrate King’s legacy? Then dream. That’s about the only thing we all can get together on. Then in your waking hours treat everyone with the same degree of justice, equality, and fairness.
Both sides make good arguments, but at the end of the day ask yourself this: would you be prouder knowing that you or your loved one landed that new job or promotion because you earned it or because of political favoritism? Let’s increase everyone’s ability to earn the jobs, pass the tests, receive the appointments. But don’t hand them out as a way of proving how just you are.
Root out racism where it exists and fry it to ashes, instead of launching pre-emptive strikes against the bigotry we assume to be present. Is White America Saddam Hussein and racism its hidden weapon of mass destruction? Consistency is what’s called for here.
Geeze, we can’t even agree what to call each other! In one culture alone, we have "black" and "African-American" and something else thoroughly odious. Three names for one culture - what is this, a Tolkien novel? Blacks call each other "blacks" and save "African-American" for the TV cameras and journalists’ ink. How can we say with a straight face that we’re making strides toward racial equality when we keep playing Mickey Mouse games?
Or look at the recent movie "Barbershop." Great movie that provides a glimpse of how a people lives, breathes, and earns its self-respect. A family flick. But Spike Lee, self-appointed Cultural Ambassador, can’t shut up about it. He criticizes a character for speaking his mind and the producer and writers for filming it. But the movie is genuine, of real people having real discussions, and all Spike can say is that young people will form their opinions of Dr. King and Rosa Parks around this one movie.
If that’s what he thinks about youth culture, then he better get on parents and teachers and churches. Get on Mike Meyers. He’d better serve the community by telling those thugs with the recording contracts to stop calling each other the most reprehensible names around. As Chuck D of Public Enemy raps, "Knowing where the word comes from/ I must be three times stupid and stuck on dumb." One gets the feeling that if Spike were white, he’d throw up his dukes whenever anyone would dis Elvis.
The late chicken pitchman Frank Perdue said it best: "Parts is parts...." Or "people is people." Forget this polarizing gar-bage and start treating each other as "brother," "sister"..... and friend. Respect the culture but ignore the color. Offer your hand, not a political slogan.
And that’s the American soil I love.
posted by mark 12:20 PM
Wednesday, January 08, 2003
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posted by mark 8:33 PM
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The life and times of my big road excursion, pedaling 3435 miles from the Jersey Coast to San Francisco. And all points thereafter.
Past
current
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