Whither Marriage?

Marriage may be where its been but its not where its at.-- "Have I Got a Girl For You" (from Company)

For being the guy who wrote "I Feel Pretty," that Sondheim guy sure is a laugh riot.

A recent happy hour encounter with Bitter Married Guy, urging me not to rush into marriage (having never been married at 43, an unlikely possibility), left me wondering more urgently about a subject I recently fancied about-are any of you married people happy?

Having asked that question, let me immediately answer myself and say that yes, Virginia, there are indeed many happy married people. But sometimes I think maybe that kind of happiness is more along the lines of accepting one's reality than true happiness.

What has me worried is the frequency with which I hear such vicious complaints by married people about their marriages. True, you shouldn't necessarily form general conclusions based just on anectdotal evidence, or at least, you shouldn't always do that, but I think its like one out of 10 marrieds I know that are just busting out happy about it.

Everyone else is like the walking wounded of matrimony. They all feel trapped like General Zod in the Phantom Zone, enduring an arrangement they never bargained for or expected. Someone forgot to tell them that little habit of hers of squeezing the toothpaste from the middle of the tube that seemed so cute at first gets on your very last nerve after about 15 years. These people are cheating, or want to cheat, or think a lot about how to cheat, or talk about trying to cheat, or have platonic romances instead of cheating. Husbands think their wives are "controlling"; wives think their husbands ignore them or are totally inconsiderate of their needs. So I ask again, who among you are really happy?

I need to know what the deal is. Of course, I'm hardly one to lecture here. I've broken up with women for (1) owning a pair of white dress shoes; (2) cheating at putt-putt golf; (3) running a wash cycle without putting in any clothes; and (4) not knowing who Burt Bacharach is. Hey, Ben Stiller dumped a girlfriend because she didn't like Bottle Rocket, so beat it (of course, justifying one's conduct by comparisons with Derek Zoolander really doesn't make for a compelling case). So my ejection threshold may be a bit lower than some, but I would like to know what's going on with all the rest of you.

I have some thoughts about what might be driving some of this. I think it has mainly to do with people's unrealistic expectations about marriage. Marriage is what happens after the wedding, and it has more to do with balancing checkbooks, buying insurance, and fixing the leaking faucet than taking horseback rides on the beach together at sunset. Marriage is what you get when you cut each other in on your chores and errand lists. I have a feeling no one tells you that going in.

Or maybe its that people don't really know each other til they get a couple of years in. Or your perspective changes. When you were dating, maybe his hot body, grunt-like bad-ass communications skills remotely resembling James Dean, and ability to provacatively mow down shots with your girlfriends at happy hour seemed way cool. But it also led you to ignore the fact that he's Jewish (and you're Catholic), or a Libertarian (and you're not), or that he hasn't kept a job longer than six months (and you have), or that there's just a lot of the time when he's a total jerk to you (and your parents, and your friends, and your boss, and so on). Its not so much fun now, at least, not when you can't go back to your place when the date's over.

I've known marrieds who are pretty selfish about their lives. Some intentionally have separate friends, take separate vacations, go on separate social occasions, scrupulously keep all the money separate. If that's what you want to do, why get married? What happened to "the two shall become one"? (that's from Mark for those who never went to Sunday School). Although I really could see it getting pretty crowded after a bit. How would you ever be alone? There's always someone at home coming up on you with this problem or that, or wanting to know when you're going to empty the dishwasher, clean the gutters, take out the trash, vacuum, do the taxes, fertilize the yard...I'm thinking meeting the fellas at Hooter's for wings could seem mighty tempting at a certain point.

Maybe you dream of that "other life" you think you were always destined to live, and would be living, if it weren't for the broad you married who currently is inhaling twinkies in the la-z-boy standing in your way. You know that other life, the one where you're a rock star, or a relief pitcher, or you run a bar in Cabo (like the bar Tom Cruise ran in Jamaica in Cocktail, only a lot less gay). That one. I hate to break the news, but you probably wouldn't have been an astronaut even if you hadn't married what's her name. You were always destined to work in the audit department and wear short sleeve dress shirts, not fly the space shuttle.

I've also known people, ok, women mainly, who view their spouse as just another home improvement project. Its one thing to reupholster the couch or put in new tile; its quite another to turn one person into someone totally different. Oh, sure, Professor Higgins and Dr. Frankenstein may have done it, in fiction, but in real life, its pretty much impossible and undesirable to totally change someone. They eventually resume their original form, like the Terminator T-1000 after a direct shotgun blast to the head. Hey, Lovie, he's a husband, not a frayed armchair.

People change over time too. Some are like wines, improving and refining as they age. Others are like cheese, just getting moldy and gross. I know I'm totally different than I was at 25. Maybe the person you were madly in love with at 25 is totally different now after 20 years have gone by. Something about spending all your time working, running errands, taking kids to about 15 different events every day, obsessing over paying every month's bills, and not having sex probably takes a little more of a toll than gray hair. I'm sure that's what that Houston dentist was thinking as Clara Harris was running him over the second time. By accident. I guess that's what you call "growing apart."

Finally, I've always thought one of the main reasons people aren't happily married is that the benefits of marriage aren't as immediately obvious as the benefits of being single. The benefit of having a long-term partner whom you can count on your whole life isn't something you can just see; the joys of unfettered happy hour cruising with boozed up legal secretaries at Cool River, however, are more readily obvious (or so I'm told).

One other thing I want to impress upon everyone is I'm on to your Marriage Cult. No matter how much marrieds complain about their situation, they all want you to join them and get married too. They're like Mormons or Amway dealers, pushing their marriage kool-aid at every opportunity. Nice try, but I will stay very happily alone, wearing my sweat pants, blogging about marriage while drinking my caffeine-free red tea and listening to "Promise Her Anything."

On second thought...

Batter Up!

"How could he (Jorge Orta) lose a ball in the sun? He's from Mexico."

-Harry Caray

Ask Milo Hamilton how much he likes Harry Caray.

Can't begin to tell you how excited that baseball season, as opposed to steroid season, is right around the corner. Today I watched two innings of the Braves-Dodgers spring training game (I think the score was about 10-3 at the time).

So many people have written so eloquently about baseball its hard to find new ways to praise it. Movies have rhapsodized about it, from the James Earl Jones speech in Field of Dreams, to Susan Sarandon's speech in Bull Durham, to virtually all of The Natural. The most prominent American authors have elegized it, including Walt Whitman, John Updike, David Halberstam, George Will, John Updike, Phillip Roth, even George Carlin (and his famous baseball vs. football monologue).

Baseball is America. Each year the President throws out the first pitch. It was invented during the Civil War, and swept first throughout every part of this country. Then we planted it throughout the world where it flourishes today as the best American export ever. Gerald Early, quoted in Ken Burns' Baseball, said two thousand years from now people will think of America for three things: the Constitution, baseball and jazz. A big part of the Bay Area's recovery from the 1987 earthquake involved the resumption of the A's-Giants World Series. The President threw out the ball at the first Yankees game after 9/11 as a means to help restore national confidence. Baseball, a sport of all things, brought integration to the national conscience in 1947 when Jackie Robinson took the field, a year before Truman integrated the military and seven years before Brown vs. Board of Education. Even in its flaws, baseball still occupies the country's attention. No one cares about steroids in football; baseball steroids is a national scandal.

Dark clouds hang over baseball. Steroids obviously, but also steep ticket prices which keep out people not in at least the upper middle class, spiraling player salaries that make them even more removed from ordinary people, team economic disparities, free agency (which often means we're just cheering for the shirts, as Jerry Seinfeld famously observed), the continuing flight of black players and fans from the game, the designated hitter, the lack of organized inner city little leagues and facilities, and night World Series games (on so late that kids can't watch them; I still remember watching part of the 1972 World Series in my elementary school library with the principal). But attendance and revenue keep going up, and even the "poor" teams are relatively competitive. All the Yankees' money has not bought a championship in 10 years. The "poor" Twins, A's, and Tigers are now routinely competitive.

I agree with Earl Weaver-baseball is the greatest game. A team that's ahead in late innings can't just run out the clock; each team gets the same number of outs and same chance to win the game. Its undoubtedly the hardest game to play. Michael Jordan, ESPN's athlete of the century, couldn't get past AA ball when he tried to play baseball. You can't succeed just by brute size, strength, or speed, like you can in other sports. If you have a 100 mph fastball, you still get clocked unless you can develop a curve. If you can hit a fastball, it doesn't matter if you can't also hit a curve. The game is complicated-the rule book is over 100 pages. Although there's a lot of apparent down time in a baseball game, the "down time" is in reality when the teams make adjustments and change strategy. Its the thinking time of the game.

The baseball season follows the pattern of life. It begins in April during the spring. Just like youth, the season is new and full and promise of what might be. It matures through the summer, as the teams come together, endure hardships, learn as they gain experience, and evolve as they become more aware of their capabilities. It comes to an inevitable end in the fall when things die, and as the teams look back on the season's potential, either fulfilled or lost. Not unlike April Come She Will. Yet, baseball is born again every April, and (despite astro-turf and the DH) I can watch what basically is the same game that my dad, his father, and his father before him watched.

Unlike other sports, most of us can remember individual plays or moments from the games. Gibson's home run, Mazeroski's, Carter's, Pujols' (ugh), Bobby Thompson's. Willie Mays' catch, Ozzie Smith's snare, Dave Parker's throws home at the All-Star game, George Brett's pine tar home run, Pete Rose running over Ray Fosse, Don Larsen's perfect game, Bo Jackson climbing the outfield wall to catch a certain home run ball, Clemens' steroid rage throwing a bat at Mike Piazza, Fisk willing the ball fair, or, the best baseball moment of all time, 47 year old Nolan Ryan's epic smackdown of 26 year old Robin Ventura. I generally can't remember where I parked my car or left my keys every day, but I can still remember every detail of Billy Hatcher hitting a home run off the left field foul pole screen for the Astros in the bottom half of the 14th inning of Game 6 of the 1986 NLCS against the Mets to tie the game. You could have an entire night's conversation just listing off great moments like these. Baseball has lasted 150 years, each season has thousands of games, yet often everything comes down to actions taking seconds but lasting forever.

Baseball's legends have formed part of the American lore. Stories about Casey Stengel's testimony before Congress, Earl Weaver baiting umpires, Babe Ruth's called shot, "I consider myself the luckiest man on the face of the earth," Yogi Berra-isms, Ripken's streak, Mark "The Bird" Fidrych, the Black Sox, Rick Monday saving a burning American flag, Henry Aaron running around the bases for the 715th time with those hippies following him, Roberto Clemente dying in a plane crash while trying to aid Nicaraguan earthquake victims, and now the steroid testimony, have become part of the American conscience. Its numbers are instantly recognizable, notwithstanding latter-day steroid-fouled assaults: 755, .406, 56, 61. Baseball surely has inspired the best sports movies. Not only the ones mentioned above, but such other greats as Bang the Drum Slowly, Major League, Eight Men Out, Pride of the Yankees, A League of their Own, The Rookie...the list goes on. Baseball scenes in non-baseball movies nearly steal the show-trying to listen to the Series in One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest, the baseball scene in City Slickers, the 1951 Giants-Dodgers playoff game playing in the background in The Godfather when Sonny Corleone was gunned down....

What can compare to a pennant race? Checking the box scores every night (or now every day on the internet). Hanging on every out the last three weeks of September. Comparing each team's upcoming schedules and probable pitchers. The baseball season is an every-day friend, renewing itself every day. Unless you're a Pirates fan.

Even the broadcasters become part of your life. Other than Keith Jackson or John Madden, I'd be hard pressed to think of a football announcer. But years later, I can still hear in my mind Gene Elston and Loel Passe calling Astros games ("how bout them Oranges"). Generations grew up listening every day to Red Barber and Mel Allen, Russ Hodges, Jack Brickhouse, Jack Buck (whom I could listen to on my transistor calling Cardinals games on KMOX while going to bed in Houston), Ernie Harwell, Harry Carey, Curt Gowdy, and the unequaled Vin Scully ("two and two to Harvey Kuenn"). These guys were storytellers and painters, of a kind who no longer call games. The story they told was baseball. No one can forget "the Giants win the pennant," "I don't believe what I just saw," "Holy Cow," "Oh Doctor," "There's a new home run champion of all time and its Henry Aaron," "Go crazy folks, go crazy," or "It might be...it could be...it is!" Hey, even a fictional call ("just a bit outside") is one of the most famous ever.

I can't forget how it feels to hit a fastball on the sweet spot of a wooden bat and watch it rifle into the gap toward the outfield wall. That feeling simply has no equal.

And, finally, I love that there's no crying in baseball.

New Zealand Trip

Many of you may remember that in late summer 2002, I went to New Zealand for two weeks. I just had my photos converted to disc, and put them on flickr under the set "New Zealand 2002." Some of the pictures are stunning, but still fail to capture that country's incredible beauty. Many of the photos have a red mark on them, which is a flaw in the borrowed camera I was using. It shouldn't totally ruin the view, however. This trip focused mainly on the South Island, although I spent a week in the capitol of Wellington enjoying the gracious hospitality of my friend Kathy Farroba, who was temporarily living in Wellington and working for the New Zealand government as a consultant.

I also throw in as an added "bonus" the travelogue I prepared each day of the trip. I include it here unedited (except for removing a few names to protect the innocent), even though some of these statements, on further review, are fairly cringe-worthy. For some reason, I wasn't too keen on using personal pronouns or past tense verbs ("visit" vs. "I visited") back then, which is extremely distracting. I'll also go back in and edit later to add hyperlinks to various cites. Hope you enjoy.

Trip to South Island
August 24-September 1, 2002

Typing this while Kathy and I watch a Channel One special called “Call Boys.” Turns out that even though these people are too reserved to meet their new neighbors without a “proper” introduction, they have legalized prostitution.

The guidebooks lie—New Zealand looks exactly like Lubbock.

Actually, the scenery falls into four categories. Part looks like the beginning of the Sound of Music (only without any nuns or Nazis), part looks like Marin County (without the hot-tubbers), another part looks like Hawaii, and the other parts look like the road between Fort Worth and Wichita Falls, but with sheep and bigger hills. As previously advertised, I did, in fact, see mountains, glaciers, fiords, and penguins, as well as beaches, dolphins, waterfalls, valleys, snow, and, yes, fire and rain.

August 24, 2002 (Wellington to Nelson)

Rode the ferry over from Picton. Miserable weather, so no scenery. The rental car smells like a cat was living there for a few months. Visit the Hunter and David LeBrun wineries, then head to Nelson on the North Coast. Edie Falco was the proprietor at the motel. Driving is ok—not hard when you’re not making many turns. No one brings a check to you at restaurants, you have to go to the front. Also, no one tips in New Zealand, which I later find is because they impose a separate goods and services tax on every transaction.

August 25, 2002 (Nelson to Abel Tasman to Punakaiki)

Woke up watching golf—golf is something of an obsession around here, but not as much as rugby. There’s a rugby channel on TV, and rugby news routinely makes it to the front page. It’s a glorious morning, after a heavy rain the night before. The radio is tormenting me with nothing but soft rock hits—the rental car not only smells like cats but also lacks a CD player. Nothing like listening to Little River Band when you’re driving on the wrong side of the road. I’m already sick of the traffic circles. Advice to the Kiwis—there’s this new invention, called a “traffic light.” Invest in some. As I arrive at the mountains, the radio is playing, appropriately, Tina Turner’s “River Deep, Mountain High.” Abel Tasman National Park is beautiful. Looks a lot like Hawaii, except its really COLD. Two hour hike, down to the beach. Stopped in Motueka for fish and chips, which came complete with beet salad and a fried egg—what is that? See lots of waterfalls, streams, and great mountain views. Afterwards drive to the West Coast. Winding, mountain roads through dense foliage at sunset. Getting very cold, and rainy. The hotel is an “eco hotel,” meaning that they collect (and hopefully purified) rainwater as their primary water source, and use mainly natural gas—which in Texas can be considered “green.” Its right on the beach. Rains hard all throughout the night. Apparently it rains 300 days a year on the West Coast.

August 26, 2002 (Punakaiki to Franz Joseph Glacier to Haast)

Stunningly beautiful day. Start at the Dolemite Point/Pancake Rocks. These are limestone rocks layered in very thin sections right on the coast. Kinda hard to describe, but impressive. Drive down the coast to the glacier. Its been there since the ice ages, and actually has been advancing the last 20 years or so. The areas from which it retreated look like the moon—lots of rocks and boulders and no vegetation. Hour hike there and back. Frustrated at the short hike, I run for about half an hour on the main road leading out of town, and drive on to Haast, stopping momentarily at the Fox Glacier. We can stop with the one-lane bridges already. As much as these people are taxed, you think they’d spring for the extra lane.

August 27, 2002 (Haast to Mount Aspiring N.P. to Wanaka to Queenstown)

The longest I’ve ever driven without seeing a Dairy Queen. Australians are everywhere, as well as Japanese. I guess NZ is Australia’s vacation getaway, kinda like their Florida. The park people are absolutely no help, so I strike out in search of a hiking trail. Again, incredible weather, and gorgeous Alpine mountain scenery. Every turn on the road leads to another Kodak moment. Stop at Thunder Falls and Bridal Veil Falls. Start up the Blue Falls Track, but its virtually straight up and not even a marked trail, so I blow that off in favor of Mt. Shrimpton. 2 ½ hour hike, get about half way up before my legs and breath run out. Trail was very well marked, with great scenery. Afterward, drive through the mountains to Wanaka, a small ski town. Ran into a guy at the photo shop from Wichita Falls, who followed a buddy here and decided to work as long as he could (meaning til the money ran out). It’s a ski town, so lots of rich kids and American bums with snowboards hitchhiking out to the slopes. Drive an exceptionally winding mountain road to Queenstown, a bigger ski town. The road has lots of ice and snow near the crest. Turns out a rock fall closed it a couple of days after I drove through. Turns out the reason the women in the hospital for caesarians were catching fire because the prepping swab was alcohol-based and was catching fire due to some of the electronic equipment in the OR. Another reason never to go to National Health. I notice in parks and towns alike, everywhere is very clean—no trash, no grafitti, no slums, and no “bad areas of town.” Even public restrooms are very clean (they call them “toilets” which is a bit unsettling for reasons I can’t entirely understand).

August 28, 2002 (Queenstown to TeAnau)

Very cloudy and cold day, so I spend the morning walking around town and I book my Milford Sound trip. As the clouds break around noon, I go jogging. Run into more American stoners with ski boards hitchhiking out to the slopes who offer me a beer. After lunch I go up the gondola to see the town and surrounding ski areas. By now, its totally clear so I can see for miles and miles (as it were). Queenstown is on a mountain lake, which at the time was still and reflected the surrounding mountains like a mirror image. After the gondola, I drive on to Te Anau. Scenery still nice but I’m out of the Southern Alps so the land flattens out. Fewer mountains, more sheep. The motel at first glance looks like a cross between the Bates Motel and that motel in Officer and a Gentleman where Richard Gere’s buddy hanged himself. Fortunately, it turns out to be great, with a Jacuzzi tub and a proprietor who acted like Basil Fawlty. I’ve started telling people who ask what country I’m from that I’m from Texas. Everyone understands—I guess the world thinks Texas is a separate country (which in many ways, it is).

August 29, 2002 (Milford Sound trip)

Milford Sound is one of 13 or so fiords (they spell it with an “i” for some reason) making up Fiordland National Park, the largest park in the country. Don’t know why they call it a sound—it was made by a glacier. On Kathy’s recommendation, I booked a bus there followed by a 1 ½ hour cruise around the sound. Proved to be a good recommendation; I was tired of driving and would have missed some of the best sights on the trip so far. As I arrived at the bus, I saw a Japanese lady taking a picture of the surrounding parking lot (improbably evoking the famous “Hey Wang, it’s a parking lot” line from Caddyshack). Apparently Milford is a big Japanese destination, because the bus company had a Japanese translator on staff who came with us. The bus driver assaulted us with boring commentary the entire trip up there, but I did enjoy listening to the Japanese translation over the speaker. At the boat dock, hordes of stinging sandflies attack us, driving the smarter ones of the bunch (pretty much me) out of the line to get on the boat and back into the reception area. After this dubious start, the cruise was outstanding. No sarcasm—this was the most beautiful place I’ve ever seen. Leaving the dock, a school (?) of dolphins swim along side us (which I don’t photograph b/c I’m eating lunch, which takes priority). The Sound essentially is a glacier carved valley filled with water, with mountains lining the shore. Along either side were several waterfalls. Also spotted a Fiordland Crested Penguin, which apparently is quite rare. Also saw the Pembroke Glacier, which is the remnant of the glacier that carved the Sound in the first place. The Sound ends at its entrance to the Tasman Sea. We returned, and drove back to Te Anau (held up at one point by a herd of sheep on the road, which our bus driver termed an “Australian Beauty Parade”). That evening I go jogging along Lake Te Anau, another still as glass lake that mirrored the surrounding mountains.

August 30, 2002 (Te Anau to Dunedin)

Everywhere in NZ, everyone says “thank you” millions of times. I guess, having bored of the same words, they’ve come up with some other phrases, like “good as gold,” “cheers,” and “cool.” Its sort of annoying, until you think about the usual American attitude. Having gone as far south as I’d planned, I spend the day going east to Dunedin, a town of Scottish origin. Although it was clear in Te Anau, it clouded up soon after and stayed that way all day. Along the way I stop for lunch in Gore, which curiously is not far from Clinton, NZ. After Gore, I see a sign saying “Gore-Clinton Presidential Highway,” which kinda gagged me. Scenery wasn’t all that great along the way—definitely the Wichita Falls part of the trip. As its “Daffodil Day,” I contribute in Gore to the cancer fund and get a daffodil to wear throughout the day. Apparently the government doesn’t contribute much to cancer research, so they have a major fundraiser culminating on Daffodil Day (daffodil being the NZ flower). Arrive in Dunedin around mid-afternoon, and walk around. Although there are some old Scottish-style buildings (mainly at Otago University), Dunedin is kind of a dud. Although there is a street not unlike the Drag, with the requisite freaks, coffee shops, and school kids (all in uniforms), its fairly low-budget (Weiner’s would fit in great on Georges Street). The Dunedin Railway Station was really nice though, like a European station, with the long platform you’ve seen in old movies. The floor tiles were Royal Doulton porcelain, with inlaid railroad icons. The place had recently been restored. I noticed here and elsewhere that the “old” sites date back to the late 1800s, which reinforces that this is a fairly new country. When they were consolidating their colony, we were starting the Industrial Revolution, invading Cuba, and (in the words of Mel Brooks) killing off every last Indian in the West. Maybe I didn’t care for Dunedin so much because the weather was so bad. Maybe I was expecting it would be like Brigadoon. There was a kilt shop though. Also a restaurant called “Tull” which the menu indicates was founded to celebrate the work of Jethro Tull. Why didn’t Chris ______ and Bill _______ think of that? Can’t wait for the Spice Girls restaurant to open.

August 30, 2002 (Dunedin to Christchurch)

On the radio, the DJ asks this trivia question to win the big prize (a CD or something): “What sense does Stevie Wonder lack?” That’s pretty unfairly hard; not everyone has a university degree. Why didn’t they ask something really hard, like “What color is the White House?” The drive to Christchurch is pretty nice, a la Marin, until the Moeraki Boulders. These are nearly perfectly round boulders, about 20 or so, on the beach. They look like alien pods, or dinosaur eggs, or bowling balls for really big people. Oamaru further up the coast is a pretty nice town. I stop at an Irish restaurant for some roast. Everyone in town was lined up for the 2 p.m. movie at the old theatre. Oamaru is one of hundreds of NZ towns with World War I memorials. The same way that every town in the South has a Civil War memorial, every town in NZ seems to have a World War I memorial. NZ must have been hammered in WWI. The British generals must have used colonials like cannon fodder. After Oamaru it clears up, and the drive up is quite nice. Canterbury (the area surrounding Christchurch), while beautiful, is the kind of place where people park their cars in their yard. Basically like Pasadena in a nicer area without the refineries. Christchurch proper, however, turns out to be quite nice. My hotel is near Hagely Park and the Botanic Gardens. The tram, restored 1800s streetcars, runs right outside the hotel. The Avon River runs alongside the Park and into the town center. The river is smallish, but lined with flowers and weeping willows. The lady at the hotel is very British, as is the hotel and the entire town. At night I go to Cathedral Square, the center of town, and the place is buzzing with nightlife.

September 1, 2002 (Christchurch to Picton to Wellington)

Every morning at my home, I wake up to the sound of doves cooing (which gets kinda annoying at times). This morning I woke up to the sound of the lady next door coughing up a lung, which was pretty special. Practically cut my nose off shaving, but despite my fears, I didn’t require stitches. Had an English breakfast consisting of “weet-bix,” tea, corn flakes, bacon, and the worst scrambled eggs of all time (I think they were done in grease). Went to church at the Christchurch Cathedral. It was lovely, even though the service was in New Zealand-ese (thankfully everything was written down so I could follow along). Went back to the hotel and changed, and spent the afternoon looking around. Rode the tram around the town center, seeing Victoria Square, the Arts Centre, New Regent Street, Christ’s College, Hagley Park, the Avon River, and Cranmer Square. The Arts Centre was having a street market, with lots of those street performers. I go to the other side of the world from Austin and still can’t get away from freaks. Leave Christchurch around 3:30 and arrive Picton at 8. Scenery til then is like Marin County, only on a larger scale and greener. Sheep everywhere. Catch the ferry at 9:00, and watch the Star Wars movie coming back (which by the way, was absolutely the worst movie I’d seen in years—the scene where Yoda was in a light saber fight with the bad guy reminded me of the “killer rabbit” scene in Monty Python and the Holy Grail).


All in all, NZ is an extremely beautiful place, but I must say that there are places in the US of nearly equal beauty. Its just that in the US, they’re trashed out, packed with tourists, on fire, or filled with snakes and stinging insects. The people here are incredibly polite, but not outgoing. You might go months without meeting your neighbors. Its very clean, but somewhat lacking in “flavor.” Very white—this would be a Klansman’s dream land. Its also deceptively poor. It lacks a lot of American “modern conveniences” like sinks where the hot and cold water come out of the same spout (highly annoying—the only time I’ve seen separate spouts in the US was at my grandma’s house, built before WWII). Public infrastructure is OK and widespread, but lacking (I’d kill for a freeway, for example). Although things are cheap for an American (the NZ $ is about 47 American cents), its incredibly expensive for the natives. For example, a movie ticket costs NZ$12.50, and a 16 oz. (600 ml) coke is NZ$2. Average per capita income is NZ$35,000/year, so I don’t know how these people make it.

I’m off to the airport in a couple of hours. Can’t wait to get out of the cold. See you soon.

I Confess

Ximinez: Now, old lady, you have one last chance. Confess the heinous sin of heresy, reject the works of the ungodly - two last chances. And you shall be free...three last chances. You have three last chances, the nature of which I have divulged in my previous utterance.
Dear Old Lady: I don't know what you're talking about.
Ximinez: Right! If that's the way you want it - Cardinal! Poke her with the soft cushions! (Biggles carries out this rather pathetic torture) Confess! Confess! Confess!

Biggles: It doesn't seem to be hurting her, my lord.
Ximinez: Have you got all the stuffing up one end?
Biggles: Yes, lord.
Ximinez: (angrily hurling away the cushions) Hm! She is made of harder stuff! Cardinal Fang - fetch...the comfy chair!

Monty Python, "The Spanish Inquisition"

I was clerking for a federal judge during the time of the David Souter Supreme Court nomination hearings. As some of you may recall, there were at the time certain, shall we say, "suspicions" about Mr. Souter's personal predilections. Mind you, this was back before round-the-clock TMZ/Smoking Gun-style journalism, and in the cesspool that was Washington even then, this sort of stuff made those old Senate gasbags uncomfortable. My judge said "he ought to walk down the aisle at that confirmation hearing with a sheep, and just dare any of those people to say anything." I'm not exactly sure what he meant by that, but as usual drew my own conclusion, which was that sometimes its better just to get your issues out in the open and get the reaction behind you.

So with that in mind, I bring forward my very own sheep, and reveal to you those things I have long hidden from public view. Like Mao's Let a Hundred Flowers Bloom campaign, only less Chinese. Of course, Mao was just trying to get the dissidents to expose themselves after which he had them dissappear, so buyer beware.

I like Johnny Mathis. Always have. That scene in Diner where the guys debate whose music to play while making out, Sinatra or Mathis, unfortunately lost its relevance before I could make it to the party. In my defense, "Johnny Mathis' Greatest Hits" stayed on the charts longer than any album in history, even longer than "Dark Side of the Moon."

I watch more football than I used to, probably due to Texas' ascendancy during the Mack Brown era and the inception of the Houston Texans. Don't get me wrong, a good Steve Atwater-type kill-shot is the best part of the game. But I've noticed lately part of my renewed interest comes from a fascination with the complicated offenses and defenses used today. "Cover 2," "spread offense," "zone blitz," "five receiver set," etc. In other words, I like to watch the complicated motions on both sides of the ball. This is really just another way of saying, "choreography."

I like musicals. Sue me. Those few of you who've been to my house have seen my 50-year-old woman DVD collection. Its not pretty. Or rather, it is pretty.

I have read Playboy for the articles.

I have two degrees from the University of Texas, been Board Certified in Administrative Law, twice been considered for an appointment to an appellate judgeship, traveled to three continents, spoken at legal seminars, published articles in legal journals, seen Cary Grant in person, and shook the Governor of Texas' hand, and still have never laughed harder than at the Dalai Lama and Cinderella Story scenes in Caddyshack.

Generally I stay at home on Saturday nights. This was what Fonzie once referred to as "amateur night." This resumes an older practice, first begun when, although old enough to drive, I stayed at home most Saturday nights as Dad grilled hamburgers, and as a family we all watched Love Boat and Fantasy Island. Sadly, that's a true story.

My back room is covered in a mound of papers, books, cards, video tapes, wrapping paper, old magazines, and photos. Throw in a couple of bottles of turpentine and match, and my house would burn before I could untie my carpal tunnel syndrome wrist brace and make it out the door.

[See above resume], and, I relish every "that's what she said" opportunity and laugh to myself when I can say it. Damn you Michael Scott.

I'm a Trekkie. More the old show than the newer ones. I have kissed a girl by the way. If you think about it, the stories are pretty philosophical. My Jurisprudence professor in law school, who by the way now happens to be the President of the University of Texas at Austin, said you can learn a lot of jurisprudence watching Star Trek. There's four basic Star Trek plots-machines can't be trusted, humans have to be free, humans have to create, and discrimination and prejudice are evil. So many Trek episodes really speak to the human condition, when you get past the bad costumes and hoky dialog (Bones: "I'm a doctor not an escalator."). Oh, and don't forget all those ultra-hot 60s big hair chicks, like Teri Garr and Joan Collins, that Kirk threw down with. Tell me that's not more educationally rewarding than watching that nimrod Mario Lopez on Saved by the Bell.

Favorite woman on TV ever-Mary Tyler Moore.

I really like Gilmore Girls. This one hurt to give up, as I'm neither a 14 year old girl nor a 38 year old mom, which is why its toward the end. Now, I got started watching this show flipping channels when I happened to notice Lauren Graham, and basically couldn't make myself change the channel. Then after awhile I started paying attention to the dialogue. Turns out, it was for a long time about the wittiest dialogue I've ever heard-His Girl Friday or Bringing Up Baby good. A comedy geared toward teenage girls and their moms with an episode containing a Leslie Van Houten reference and which also slays RenFaire geeks? Multiple Godfather references. Patty Hearst/SLA references. "Butt napkins." "Let's not harbor any Pinteresque fantasies here, Rory." Norman Mailer guesting. Grant Lee Phillips as the Troubador. Sign me up.

I haven't read a book in over a year.

I thought Graceland was awesome and would kill to have my own jungle room.

I thought Paul Lynde was hilarious, especially on Hollywood Squares. "Peter Marshall: According to the old song, what's breaking up that old gang of mine? Paul Lynde: Anita Byant!"

I do not know how to make coffee or use a fax machine.

I still have all my old Led Zeppelin and Who posters from when I was 16. Any more complaints about my interior decorating style and up they go.

For that matter, I still have, and wear, some underwear dating back to high school. Hey, it still works, why throw it out? I know, I know.

Ok, I've got that out of the way, so I've got that going for me, which is nice.

Austin (Half) Marathon

Photos tomorrow, but this morning I ran (and completed) the Austin Half Marathon. Yesterday was a cold, rainy day, but today was clear, dry, and about 45 degrees at the start. I've never run as far as 13.1 miles, so this was a first. I ran 2:12 which isn't necessarily great (slighly over 10 minute miles) but given the hills and the first-time nature it was ok. I had some more left in the tank and probably could have gone a few more miles (or pushed the 13 harder than I did). Lesson for next time.

The course was pretty interesting, going through a diversity of neighborhoods. One of the biggest challenges was that it goes nine mexican restaurants that I counted, every one of which was getting breakfast ready. Oy. There were local bands at just about every half-mile mark, including "Holy Hand Grenade," a band sponsored by the Austin School of Music Rock Camp (our very own "School of Rock"). Weird seeing a bunch of 10 year olds rocking out next to the broken beer bottles under the bridge at Lamar and Cesar Chavez. They also had a Happy Hands club a la Napoleon Dynamite (actually it was a group called Manos de Cristo, but if your group does sweet organized hand movements, you're a Happy Hands Club).

Dad came up and helped me. He hung onto my sweats and so forth, and helped me get to the starting line and go home after. Oh, we passed by the new Hillary Clinton headquarters in South Austin Saturday night on our way to eat-hope they let Dad back into Kingwood without being quarantined. As usual, he was taken aback by the Austin scene, pointing out for example guys his age riding skateboards. Mom used to notice that stuff too. She loved coming here-to her it was like going to the zoo and watching the funny animals. That kind of stuff just rolls over me now. I notice it about the same way I can't remember what color my refrigerator is.

Coming up-more races, Easter, Jazz Fest in early May.

Live From Washington, its the Congress Show!

"Baseball must be a great game, because the owners haven’t been able to kill it."

--Bill Veeck

Congress, however, is a different matter. Everything it touches turns to gold. Signed, Social Security reform.

Ok, something is going to happen tomorrow that if not entirely ground-breaking is at least at the forefront of what appears to be a new and very disturbing trend, namely, Congress' attempt to turn itself into the People's Court.

Tomorrow, the House Committee on Oversight and Government Reform, is having a hearing in which it has invited three witnesses. The only two anyone really cares about are Roger Clemens and Brian McNamee. Surely you've heard of these two. One is a (probably) retired pitcher and alleged steroid abuser, the other his former personal trainer who told George Mitchell's investigators he injected Clemens with steroids and human growth hormones (and maybe Clemens' wife Debbie). Sports radio, newspapers, TV talk and news shows, and water cooler chat (especially in Houston) has been rife with discussion about all the back and forth between Clemens' attorney and McNamee and his attorneys. A libel suit is pending in Houston federal court. IRS investigators are looking into Roger's dealings and could prosecute.

The House Committee in question primarily exists for the purpose of reviewing laws related to a number of issues, including: "Federal civil service, including intergovernmental personnel," "Government management and accounting measures generally," "Holidays and celebrations," and "Overall economy, efficiency, and management of government operations and activities, including federal procurement." Although it ostensibly has jurisdiction co-extensive with all other House committees, its main purpose is government oversight.

Fresh from all its resounding success in dealing with the public debt, the budget deficit, flood relief, and terrorism, Congress now appears poised to solve all other kinds of disputes affecting the public welfare. What's next, Charlie Rangel deciding who should have won the last American Idol competition? Orrin Hatch sorting out that nasty Paris Hilton-Nicole Richie spat? Steny Hoyer (he's the Majority Leader of the House) getting to the bottom of who's really Jamie Lynn's baby daddy? How about we put a new show on C-SPAN where Congressional committees decide who to kick off the island in Survivor? They could take calls too. But I understand. Who wants to sit through day after day of testimony on Homeland Security reorganization, or FEMA budget authorizations for FY 2009, or naming new post offices, when you can spend the day with Roger Clemens and other stars instead?

Every working day of every year, you can go to your local courthouse and watch trials in which people accuse each other of the most horrible things. Juries and judges, for which we pay taxes, decide who's right and who's wrong, who's lying and who's telling the truth. On the other hand, when there's a possibility of some widespread problem in an industry that could affect the public at large, we expect legislators to investigate that and determine if new laws are necessary. Although the lines blur, judges usually aren't legislators (or at least there's some notion that they ought not to be), and legislators aren't judges. That line exists because making the law is very different from deciding how to apply the law in particular cases.

But leave it to good ol' politicians. Generally no one pays any attention to them, even in campaigns, unless they've done something stupid. So since you won't listen when they ask, it looks like they've decided to feed off the celebrity of others. In the name of protecting the public, an entire committee of the United States House of Representatives, the people's body, model of democracy worldwide, the brainchild of James Madison, is delving into tabloid issues. All these public servants will spend the day getting to the bottom of this Roger Clemens mess, thereby protecting our kids from the evils of steroids (or vitamin B-12 shots as the case may be). That one or more might get their names and maybe faces (if they ask the right questions) in the paper or on the network newscasts is probably just a serendiptous coincidence. How any of this has to do with government oversight is not immediately obvious.

Politicians have always glommed off of stars for more publicity. I was working in the Texas Senate the day Kevin Costner visited, and the session just about ground to a halt from the rush of senators knocking each other down to get their picture made with Crash Davis. Every decent candidate tries to line up some star endorsements to further their campaign (Sean Penn endorsed Dennis Kucinich-guess it doesn't always work). Its just inevitable. Photo ops with celebrities are one thing, but holding kangaroo court to decide what essentially amounts to a public slap fight barely worthy of US magazine is quite another.

Its especially offensive these people are doing this over baseball. Most of these people look like they couldn't throw a ball if their lives depended on it. One of these idiots in the last steroid hearing called the Chicago White Sox 1919 "Black Sox" team the "Chicago Black Hawks." Another member asked if performance enhancing drugs really enhance performance. These folks will be saving our national pastime using the same intellectual acumen that leads them to cruise airport bathroom stalls for sex, have sex with pages, sexually harass their employees, take bribes from undercover FBI agents, bounce checks on the House Bank account, have $90,000 in cash in their freezer, launder campaign contributions...take your pick of Mensa-like decisions these people make every day.

Could they do worse for baseball than the owners? How do you like your visits to the Post Office?

Happy Mardi Gras!

Its Mardi Gras time again. This time last year I was freezing to death in Lafayette watching a parade. The rest of the weekend picked up, and Mardi Gras Day was actually pretty nice. I took some pretty good pictures (though many blurred), which I'll put on flickr soon.

I remember my first Mardi Gras, a mostly ill-advised group expedition when I was still in law school. Heather Locklear rode with Endymion, which was especially nice. (This year Endymion has sunk to having box-office disaster and actor-mannequin Kevin Costner as its Grand Marshal). One of our group got arrested for a minor traffic offense he managed to escalate into an arrest through sarcasm. This of course was after the guy got up early Sunday morning to go to the Quarter to buy an antique elephant tusk he just "had to have." We spent nearly all day trying to bail the guy out of jail instead of enjoying the day and attending the Bacchus parade, then I got stuck in the car with the couple planning their wedding, honeymoon, and subsequent married life. They talked about it all eight hours from New Orleans to Austin. Toward the end I was praying for sweet death. Oh yeah, the tusk guy skipped bail and came back to Texas with us. Never saw him again. Good times....Meanwhile, my friend Jude goes to Mardi Gras and meets Minnie Driver. Where's the justice in that?

Hope everyone enjoys a little bons temps rouler this weekend and Tuesday. As they say, be a New Orleanean, wherever you are.