From A Bird's Eye View

The Election Process Explained . . . Sort Of

April 11, 2016By Sparrow/WatsonComments:10 Comments

by Bob Sparrow

To go from my sister’s emotion-filled description of her experience at the 9/11 Museum in New York to my discussion of today’s politics is like going from dining on filet minion to choking down some chipped beef on toast. But you can’t have steak every night and we can no longer ignore the elephant or the donkey, (or more aptly, asses) in the room. However, we do understand that the subject of politics can be polarizing, so I’m just going to try to ‘splain’ some things, because politics can also be confusing.

We’re now in the middle of presidential candidates vying for electoral votes via the state’s ‘primary’ or ‘caucus’ process. There are ‘open primaries’, as well as ‘closed primaries’; there are ‘semi-open primary’ and ‘semi-closed primary’. You would think that should just about cover it all; but it doesn’t, as there are also ‘blanket primaries’ and of course the ever-popular ‘nonpartisan blanket primaries’. If you’re already confused, that’s exactly where the politicians want you.

Some states don’t use the ‘primary’ process for delegate voting, but rather they have a ‘caucus’, where a select group of community leaders gather together in high school gymnasiums, church basements or community centers to cast their votes. The results of the caucus voting, however, do not directly determine which candidate will win the support of that state’s voters for the presidential nomination, so sometimes the caucus is just a place where locals stand around and try to figure out what a caucus is.

Really???

Whether the delegates vote in a primary or in a caucus, it is a very confusing process that varies state-by-state; for example, all the delegates in Louisiana can change their mind and thus their allegiance after the first vote in the state. In order to understand how delegate votes are gathered, you would need to know the importance of the terms winnowing, calendar and front-loading. Just know that it is possible for a candidate to ‘win’ the state in the primary, but actually end up with fewer delegates. And let’s not forget about the ‘super delegates’, a position that the Democrats created in 1968 after they felt that the regular delegates were doing a poor job of selecting presidential candidates. If you’re thinking that ‘super delegates’ would give us ‘super candidates’, think again. Regardless if it’s a ‘primary’ or a ‘caucus’, the object is to get the required number of delegate votes to win the nomination at the convention. But what happens, you ask, if no candidate gets the required number of votes?

Ahh, then we have a ‘brokered convention’, which is another contentious process whose rules read in part as follows . . .

On the first ballot at a brokered convention, delegates from all states and territories except Colorado, Wyoming, North Dakota, Virgin Islands, American Samoa, Guam and a few from Louisiana must vote for the candidate who won their support on the day of their state’s primary or caucus.

On the second ballot, “55 percent of a state’s delegates will be free to vote for whomever they want.”

I’m not making this shit up!

The confusion and convolutedness of this process is only overshadowed by the puerility and pretentious nature of this year’s line-up of self-absorbed candidates. We started with over 20 hopefuls, who thought they could solve our country’s problems that they mostly helped create; we are now down to the following five:

Trump – A snake oil salesman who has come at a time when our country is apparently in need of snake oil.

Hilary – who, if she can perfect her phony genuine smile, could win.

Sanders – If he wins, will be the only president required to sign a ‘Do Not Resuscitate’ document prior to his inaugural speech.

Cruz – has realized that being the son of Cuban immigrants isn’t enough; so listen for him to vow that he was born a poor black child.

Kasich – Listening to him is like watching an episode of Ozzie & Harriet where Ozzie is trying to tell Thorny why he’s running for city counsel

Once each party selects its nominee, and after months of the requisite mud-slinging, we then go to the general election where a candidate can win the popular vote, but lose the election via that arcane institution called the ‘Electoral College’, whose mascot is the Cheetah. You don’t really know how this process works either and you don’t want to know!

Go Cheetahs!

On Election Day, we in California are particularly frustrated, as by the time many of us actually get to cast a vote, the networks have already predicted a winner. We vote anyway as we like to show off the little sticker we put on our shirt that says, “I voted”. Emotionally, we feel like we were part of the process of selecting the leader of the free world, but intellectually we know that our ballot went the way of the hanging chad.

Sometimes I wonder why we all just don’t put our heads down on our desks, close our eyes and raise our hands when we hear a name we like. Hey, it worked in elementary school and after listening to this year’s debates, that’s probably fitting. It couldn’t possibly produce worse results.

Posted in opinion

THE MUSEUM OF SADNESS AND STRENGTH

April 6, 2016By Sparrow/WatsonComments:14 Comments

By Suzanne Sparrow Watson

There is a quietness about the 9/11 Museum. You can see the trepidation on everyone’s face as they enter – do we really want to re-live that horrible day? And yet we all file in, bracing ourselves for what we know will be a roller coaster of emotions. The museum allows you to wander through the various exhibitions on your own, you can also download an app that provides information as you walk by each display, or you can buy tickets for a guided tour. We chose the tour and were glad we did. Our guide was a young man from New Jersey who had lost neighbors in the terrorist attack, so for him, this was personal. I reflected that we are fortunate in our generation to be guided by such people; future generations will experience it from a more distant perspective.

The Last Column

Our guide first took us to the bottom of the museum, to Foundation Hall, where the famous “slurry wall” stands. It was a wall built to hold back the Hudson River, which lapped at the side of the Trade Center when it was built in the mid-60’s. After the attack, when the site was being excavated, the workers were astounded to find that the slurry wall had survived. Daniel Libeskind, the architect heading the redevelopment of the site, pushed to keep a portion of the original slurry wall in place. He proclaimed that it was a testament to the determination and resilience of a nation; a document “as eloquent as the Constitution itself”. Also in Foundation Hall is the “Last Column,” a 36-foot girder that was the last to be removed from the site, marking the end of the recovery effort. During the excavation it quickly became a makeshift memorial, plastered with Mass cards, rosary beads, flags, photos of missing innocents, and patches from fire and police units. When it was finally cut down it was laid on a flatbed truck, draped in black, with an American flag over it, and escorted by first responder honor guards to a place of safekeeping. It now stands again in Foundation Hall as an exemplification of our resilience and hope.

The Dream Bike

There are many displays that feature recovered portions of the buildings – bent beams, the only remaining glass window and the staircase used by many to escape the burning tower. But I suspect that the real reason most of us come is to pay tribute to the people that we lost that day. After seeing incredibly massive beams bent and misshapen by the impact of planes and the heat of the fires, it gives new perspective to what the people who were in those structures must have experienced. I still recall, on the afternoon of the attack, one of the news channels interviewing a fireman who had been at the scene. He was understandably shell-shocked and said, “How bad must it have been up there that people thought jumping out of a window on the 100th floor was the better alternative?”. There is a room called “The Wall of Faces” filled with pictures of the victims. It is overwhelming to be in a room, with face after face looking down on you, and realize that we lost all of them in one day. People who set off to work on a gloriously sunny Tuesday morning, kissed a loved one good-bye, and were never seen again. And then there are the first responders’ stories, especially the 343 fire fighters who died trying to save people. One particularly poignant display is of the motorcycle that belonged to Gerard Baptiste, a firefighter with Ladder 9 in Lower Manhattan. Two weeks before 9/11 he bought a broken-down 1979 Honda motorcycle off the street for $100. He had to roll it to the firehouse and the guys gave him endless ribbing about the worthless piece of junk they said would never start. Baptiste died at the Trade Center and shortly afterward the surviving members of his firehouse decided to restore the bike in his honor. With the help of Honda, some motorcycle shops and private donors they were able to make it into what is now known as “The Dream Bike”. The bike was auctioned, with proceeds going to the education funds of the children of firefighters from Ladder 9 who were lost on 9/11. The winning raffle ticket, selected by Baptiste’s mother, went to a woman from California who donated the bike to the museum so everyone would know his story.

The Wall of Faces

Down the hall from the “Wall of Faces” is an alcove, a small space painted black with benches on all four walls. On its walls is a projection of video remembrances of the victims. Each person who died is remembered with a picture and a bit of personal background information. For most of them there is also an audio remembrance from a family member or friend. For me, this was the hardest room to experience, hearing a young woman talk about how much her children miss their dad and a father describing how proud he was of his lost son. There was one woman who chose to remember her husband by recounting the story of a Thanksgiving dinner where they argued about who was supposed to have brought the gravy to the table. They argued and both stalked off to the kitchen. She said they imagined that all of the relatives thought they were in there fighting but, in fact, they were kissing. She said “that’s just who we were”. Some voices were clearly emotional as they described their loved one, some sounded wistful, and others like the woman with the gravy story, chose to remember a lighter moment. No matter the emotion, the remembrances brought all of the people back to life and thus, made the realization that they had been so tragically taken from their families all the more jarring. Our guide told us that if we see a guide with a tan vest, that person is a family member of a victim. Some, he said, come every day to the museum as a way to work through their grief and talk about their loved one.

I should note that there is a small portion of the museum that describes the rise of Al Qaeda and the planning of the 9/11 attacks. There are photos of Osama bin Laden and the 19 hijackers, along with video description of how they carried out their plot. The photos of the hijackers are placed very low on the wall, much below eye level, so that one does not have to look at them if you chose to just walk by. After seeing all that I had thus far, my instinct was to give those pictures a swift kick. I questioned why we had to acknowledge them at all in a place of reverence and dedication. But upon further reflection I realized what the museum designers intended – future generations will not recall the events of 9/11 from personal experience, they will need to learn about it from history books and places like the 9/11 museum. So the “who”, “why” and “how” need to be included to present a complete picture.

A remembrance

We finished our tour of the building and went outside to visit the plaza and the two reflecting pools where the names of the victims are carved into the steel that surrounds them. The pools are built on the former foundations of the two towers and are symbolic of the sadness one feels there. One person has described the water falling on four sides into the bottomless pit as the endless tears shed over the victims. Perhaps the most touching site I saw all day were the single white roses stuck sporadically into the carvings of names. I had assumed that family members had been there to lay a flower on the name. But in fact, each and every morning the staff of the museum places a white rose on the name of any victim who would have celebrated a birthday that day. Somehow, I found that to be such an elegant gesture and thoughtful beyond words.

The Freedom Tower

We left the museum and went for a very long walk back to our hotel, reflecting on the gamut of emotions we experienced on the tour. I picked up a copy of USA Today in the lobby; the front page headline blared “US Military Families to Evacuate Turkey” due to possible attacks. Sadly, the beat goes on. But thankfully, so do we. The new One World Trade Center, also known as the Freedom Tower, is now complete and other buildings are going up where once the ground was but a scar. Would I recommend going to the 9/11 Museum? I guess that depends on your perspective. One of the guest services workers at our hotel said he couldn’t go – that it is still too soon. For me, it was well worth the visit; it is a place where we can reflect, mourn and vow to move forward.

Posted in opinion

LIFE IN THE BIG CITY

April 4, 2016By Sparrow/WatsonComments:8 Comments

By Suzanne Sparrow Watson

I’m home. Tired, and with a banging head cold, but I survived my time in New York. I set a relatively low bar in terms of my expectations. I figured that if I wasn’t mugged, knifed or blown up in a terrorist attack in Times Square I’d be ahead of the game. As it turned out…it was a lively trip but in the best possible way.

Day One: My alarm sounds at 3:30 a.m. I check my phone and discover that the airline has changed my seat assignment. What they failed to tell me is they also changed the departure gate to another wing of the terminal. I have a whole blog worth of observations about airlines and weird people on airlines but that’s for another time. So let’s just pretend that through the magic of space travel we made it back to NYC in time to have a glass of wine at an Irish pub. As it turns out, we ate at three different Irish pubs over four nights – West End Bar and Grill, Alfie’s, and McHale’s. All three places were filled with locals, had decent prices and – this is critical – awesome happy hours. We also frequented Hurley’s, the Irish pub next to our hotel, for an Irish coffee one night. We decided that it must be our partial Irish heritage that attracted us to such places, along with the aforementioned happy hour of course. In any event, we checked into our hotel, the TRYP Times Square, where we discovered our room to be approximately the dimension of a good-sized bathroom in any other city. But, as they say, we didn’t go there to sleep. And with the blaring taxi horns and the visiting high school ski team from England next door, we didn’t.

Day Two: We had tickets for the 9/11 Museum at 9:30 so we Uber’d it downtown. There is so much to say about the memorial that I will write about it in a separate blog later this week. It was a beautiful day so after our tour we decided to walk The High Line. The High Line is a recent addition to the New York experience and is well worth a visit. It is approximately 1.5 miles of unused elevated railway that has been transformed into a walking trail lined with beautiful plants and resting areas. It is a fabulous stroll, meandering through the Meatpacking district and Chelsea, and has totally transformed what was a blighted area into a neighborhood where apartments sell for a cool $5 M. That seems to typify New York…transforming an area where no one wanted to live into a place that is unaffordable for all but bond traders and trust fund babies. The other nice feature about the High Line is that for a brief period of time you are relieved from having to dodge the cabs that terrorize the streets. It would appear that most New York cab drivers take traffic lights as mere suggestions and running down pedestrians is what they do for sport. I imagine that at the end of their shifts they gather to see who “scared off” the most tourists. From the High Line we walked back up to our hotel, where I collapsed in a heap of total exhaustion. But, again, we didn’t go there to sleep, so after an hour’s rest, we walked up to Central Park. My two great-nieces, you see, had not had enough exercise for the day and wanted to get in a little run. Note to self: I need to be in much better shape to hang with 16 and 18 year-olds. After dinner at Alfies, we retired for the day. I checked my Fitbit – I’d walked 20,000 steps (9 miles) that day. No wonder my knees ached. The good news is that the English ski team checked out so at least it was quieter. Except for the horns.

Day Three: Sometimes you’re lucky to know someone in town and this certainly proved to be the case in New York. A good friend of mine recently moved there because her husband became the General Manager of the Waldorf Astoria. The poor thing has to make do with a three bedroom apartment in the hotel. Can you imagine the hardship? Heck, I’d order room service every night. In any event, she arranged for us to take a guided tour of the historic hotel and partake in a wonderful lunch afterwards at Peacock Alley – named such because people used to watch the “swells” parade like peacocks between the old Waldorf and Astoria hotels. But here’s where it really came in handy to have a connection – the maître d’ gave each of us a box of FOUR of the famous Waldorf red velevet cupcakes upon our departure. I won’t say how many I ate but I’m not sure I walked enough to account for all of the calories.

That night we skipped dinner – we were still full from lunch and cupcakes. We had tickets to see “An American in Paris” at the Palace theater. The play is magical – a combination of ballet, jazz, singing, and acting woven into a great story with a Gershwin score. It won several Tony awards and after seeing it I understood why. It made me wish that I hadn’t given up ballet at age 10. I do have to say that the only surprise of the night was how some people dress to attend the theater. The worst was a man wearing one of those “wife-beater” shirts – you know, the sleeveless ones that instantly deprive the wearer of at least 50 I.Q. points – and shorts. Ironically, he was seated right next to a man in a suit and tie who clearly understood the sense of occasion. It made me think that perhaps we are becoming a nation of slobs. But again, that’s a blog for another time.

Day Four: No plans or tickets to anything. We ate a late breakfast and then took off walking. We strolled by Rockefeller Center and over to Fifth Avenue, the universe’s vortex of high-end shopping. It’s fun to window shop but on the theory that if you have to ask how much something is you can’t afford it, I didn’t go in any of the stores. I speculated that the necklace in Harry Winston’s window would have eaten up my entire 401k. We walked up the East Side of Central Park, crossed over to the West Side and then stopped for coffee. That’s the great thing about NYC, as my niece says, you can’t swing a dead cat without finding a Starbucks.

Later, on our last evening, we hit McHale’s for dinner and then decided to “do something”, although that varied for all of us. The girls wanted to wander Times Square and then go work out (seriously, it’s hard to believe we’re related), my niece wanted to see “School of Rock” on Broadway and I wanted to see “An American in Paris” again. I know, with lots of choices and infrequent trips to NY, why would I see the same show again? Well, it’s that good and I enjoyed it just as much the second time around.

The next day we woke to pouring rain – the first bad weather we had encountered. So it really was time to leave. Our group headed for the airport, flew to Dallas and sadly said good-bye as we boarded separate planes for the final leg home. It was a wonderful trip – truly the adventure of a lifetime – spent with wonderful people. But I have to say, as I crawled into my own bed last night, I don’t miss the honking horns.

Posted in travel

Beach Music

March 28, 2016By Sparrow/WatsonComments:10 Comments

by Bob Sparrow

Beach music is the music I hear on the rare occasions I frequent the beach. Beach Music is also the name of a novel by my favorite author, Pat Conroy, who wrote a number of classics, and who sadly passed away earlier this month. He wrote prose like poetry – such a gifted writer, gone too soon. Here a passage from Prince of Tides that I think exemplifies his writing . . .

It was growing dark on this long southern evening and suddenly, at the exact point her finger had indicated, the moon lifted a forehead of stunning gold above the horizon, lifted straight out of filigreed, light-intoxicated clouds that lay on the skyline in attendant veils. Behind us, the sun was setting in a simultaneous congruent withdrawal and the river turned to flame in a quiet duel of gold.

You and I would just write something like, “Hey, the moon is coming up just as the sun is setting, cool.”

Rainy day in Malibu

Although I have lived nearly my entire life within a half-hour’s drive of one beach or another, I am not, nor have I ever been, a ‘beach person’. So the music I hear is not actual music, but rather the vibe of the beach; the pounding of the surf, the squawking of sea gulls, the spray of the ocean on my face. To me, beaches are most interesting in the winter when it’s cold and rainy. It’s at those times that the coast briefly returns to its natural state of sand beaches with no umbrellas stuck in them and the rhythmic and steady slapping of the ocean on the shore. Even without all the man-made trappings, each beach has its own personality. My destination today is Malibu. I choose it not for it’s popularity or its connection to Hollywood stars, but rather because of its most-interesting history.

View I never saw!

Malibu’s ‘Hollywood’ past includes being the backdrop for such movies as Gidget, Planet of the Apes and Grease as well as the TV productions of Happy Days, Baywatch and The O.C. – yep the series about life in Orange County was filmed in Los Angeles County! Past residents of Malibu include, Charlie Chaplin, Mary Pickford, Douglas Fairbanks, Gloria Swanson, Rod Steiger, George C. Scott and Johnny Carson to name just a few. The long list of present residents includes, Leonardo DiCaprio, Robert Redford, Tom Hanks and Whoopi Goldberg.

‘Malibu Beach Music’ – a few of the musical artists in Malibu include Barbra Streisand, Bob Dylan, Lady Gaga, Rihanna, Cher, Brad Paisley, and Pink.

With all the enclaves in southern California, why have so many stars chosen Malibu as their home? I thought you’d never ask.

It’s all about the privacy, and of course the weather. And why is Malibu more ‘private’ than any other place? I found the answer to that question in a book I recently read called, The King & Queen of Malibu, written by David K. Randall. It is a fascinating story of Fredrick and May Rindge, an odd, millionaire couple from Boston, who came to California for ‘health and wealth’ and in 1891 ended up buying over 13,000 acres of property called ‘the Malibu’, that included Topanga Canyon, the Santa Monica Mountains and Malibu Beach.

The Rindges guarded their privacy zealously; hiring armed guards to shoot any trespassers, which they did! They successfully fought off Southern Pacific Railroad, who wanted to establish a railroad line through their ranch, but in 1929 lost an ‘eminent domain’ fight, which allowed the government to put a road through their property along the coast – that road today is the Pacific Coast Highway (PCH). But May Rindge, then a widow, kept control of Malibu Beach, and in order to raise much-needed money, she allowed a few Hollywood stars to build vacation homes there, and thus ‘the Colony’ was created.

I decided that I would take the hour or so drive north to discover what I could of what Malibu looked like today. I arrived in Malibu in an early morning fog that would hang on for another hour or so before the sun burned through the marine layer to reveal the full extent of the coastline. The fog was dense and close and a chill rented the air on this last day of winter.

Really?

Upon entering the city limits of Malibu, I encounter a sign welcoming me to Malibu, stating, “27 Miles of Scenic Beauty’. My research had told me that since being incorporated, Malibu had 6 miles of that 27 annexed by Ventura County, so it’s now only 21 miles of . . . regarding the ‘Scenic Beauty’, when one drives north on PCH though Malibu, the mountains rise sharply up on the right so all one sees is dirt or hillside grass. On the beach side there is a continuous line of two-story homes that are connected so as to limit access to, and visibility of, the beach; so all one can see are garages and the backs of houses. I’m sure the views from the homes are great, but the average Joe can not only not get to the beach, he can’t even see the ocean. And although Malibu’s beaches are all officially ‘open to the public’, beach access is limited and well hidden thus keeping Malibu a secluded and private city; which is why the stars are there.

As I drove further up the coast, I came to the realization that I was not only not going to see Jennifer Anniston walking her dog on the beach, but I wasn’t even going to get to walk on the beach myself. As I turned around and headed south for home, I remembered why I never really was a beach person.

Posted in opinion

NEW YORK STATE OF MIND

March 21, 2016By Sparrow/WatsonComments:6 Comments

By Suzanne Sparrow Watson

Next week I am off on an adventure – New York City! Yep – the Big Apple, Gotham, The City that Never Sleeps. I’ll be joining my niece Shelley and her two daughters, Katie and Abby, in taking the city by storm. Literally – the projected forecast indicates it’s going to rain our entire trip. However, we remain undeterred and confident that we will have a great time. For you long-time subscribers, you may remember that two years ago we went to Washington DC. That was a fabulous trip not only for the historic sites we saw but because we found ourselves to be very compatible travel companions. For me, it was not only the delight in spending time with such fun people but I also lost five pounds in the process. Have I mentioned that the two girls are elite athletes? Katie will attend St. Mary’s College this fall on a track scholarship and Abby is the state tennis champion in doubles. And then there’s me, their “old Aunt Sue”, the operative word in that name being “old”. I try not to be a “drag” on their ability to see all the sites so I make an attempt to keep pace, which on the face of it is utterly ridiculous. This trip I have already done my prep – I bought the giant size bottle of ibuprofen at Costco.

As with any adventure, anticipation is half the fun so I have been studying what to see and where to go. I’ve been to NYC three times but always on business so my “play” time was somewhat limited. This trip is not about rate of return, it’s about the fun factor, so I’m reading loads of travel sites for advice. Here’s what I’ve learned so far:

Don’t be afraid to wander. Usually it’s my mind that does the wandering but all of the travel writers suggest getting out of the tourist spots and venturing into unusual neighborhoods, strolling the streets to gaze at the fascinating people. I worked in downtown San Francisco for over 20 years so I know about “fascinating” people. Many times they have purple hair or are urinating on the side of a building. Since we will be there during what is Spring break for many schools, I have a feeling that I’m going to see a lot of families from Iowa with cameras around their necks taking pictures with the nude body artists in Times Square. But I know the secret to spotting the true New Yorkers – they’ll all be dressed in black.

Eat dinner early. New Yorkers apparently are a lot like Europeans – they prefer to dine between 8-10 pm. Thus, many of the guide books suggest dining before 8. No problem! First of all, with the prices in New York I’m not sure we’re going to be “dining” anywhere. My goal is to find some out of the way joints where we can enjoy real Italian food and maybe a good nosh. Secondly, on most nights, when New Yorkers are chowing down on their escargot and Lobster Osso Bucco, I am happily ensconced in bed reading a book. Sometimes I am even able to read three pages before falling asleep, which means I’ll be deep in slumber before New Yorkers have begun to dip into their crème Brule. Maybe. Read on.

Don’t crowd yourself. Of course, all of the experts suggest staying away from the usual tourist traps – Macy’s, Rockefeller Center, Times Square. Oops. We’re staying right near Times Square – 48th and 8th – so it’s going to hard to avoid. I read that sleep in a hotel anywhere near the lights and frivolity of Times Square is hard to come by. After all, it is the City That Never Sleeps for a reason. And, again, it is Spring break so I anticipate lots of college kids whooping it up. I’m brining ear plugs and lots of Tylenol P.M. But I’m realistic enough to know that I will probably be awake at 2 a.m. most nights wondering how college kids can afford hotel rooms in NYC.

Mind your etiquette. My coffee blew out my nose when I read this piece of advice. The writers in each case went out of their way to talk about how NICE New Yorkers are. Perhaps they run in different circles, but my experience as a born and bred, laid back Californian is that a “typical” New Yorker will push you down a flight of escalators if you are not moving fast enough. In fact, the guidelines for being a respectful tourist caution that we not take up the entire sidewalk so that other walkers can’t pass, don’t stop on the sidewalk to consult a map, or (I knew I was right about this) do not stand still on an escalator. I’m planning on minding my manners but I’ll venture a guess that the nicest people we meet will be those tourists from Iowa.

With all that advice under my hat, I’m ready to take a bite out of the Big Apple. We only have two things planned so far – tickets to the 9/11 Memorial and An American in Paris – so we’ll be footloose and fancy-free. I take that back. Nothing is free in New York except the experience of watching all those fascinating people.

Posted in travel

Nashville Notes

March 14, 2016By Sparrow/WatsonComments:5 Comments

by Bob Sparrow

Following are myNOTESfrom a recent trip to country music’s mecca, Nashville, Tennessee.

Thursday – Time: 10:00 am – Flew out of LAX to Nashville

3:00 pm – Arrived in Nashville, took Uber to the Hilton Doubletree downtown

3:05 pm – Swept out underwear and headed out and remembered that we were hungry.

3:15 pm – Stopped at B.B. King’s for roasted chicken and collard greens. – the best ever!

4:30 pm – Headed out to explore ‘The District’

‘The District’ is a region bordered by the Cumberland River and 4^th Avenue on the north and south, and Shelby Street and Church Street on the east and west; Broadway runs roughly down the middle. There is a large footbridge across the Cumberland that takes pedestrians over to Nissan Stadium where the NFL Tennessee Titans play. ‘The District’ was originally called the ‘Art District’, but now mostly features the art of the pour, as it is full of bars, saloons and honky-tonks – I guess those are three names for the same thing, but mostly that’s all there is, well, that and lots of places to buy cowboy hats and boots; there is also the Johnny Cash and George Jones Museum. Didn’t see much art. Back to the bars, saloons and honky-tonks – they are all filled with live music, starting in the morning and going until . . . not sure, couldn’t stay up that late!

7:30 – Went into the Benchmark Bar and ran into some guys from IBM all decked out in their shiny new cowboy boots and hats; they looked like . . . guys from IBM trying not to look like guys from IBM!

Time: Not sure. Just cruised from bar to bar, each one with great live music that made you wonder, how did this guy or girl or group not make it, they are amazing?!! Surprised at how inexpensive drinks are – this is good . . . and bad!

Still unsure of the time: Strolled over to Printer’s Alley

‘Printers Alley’ was originally home to a thriving publishing industry. The area had two large newspapers, ten print shops, and thirteen publishers. In the 1940s it became a nightclub and entertainment district; sale of liquor for on premise consumption was illegal throughout Tennessee, but restaurants and clubs in ‘the alley’ served liquor anyway, often claiming it had been “brown bagged” (brought in by customers). Law enforcement agencies normally looked the other way on such sales. Liquor sales in restaurants were finally legalized in 1968. 1968!!!!

It honestly has lost some of its vibe, but still has some classic watering holes.

Chocolate Martinis

Time: Much later: Crawled back to the hotel, but needed just one more drink before bedtime – a Chocolate Martini.

Friday – it’s only Friday?! That was quite a Thursday! Slept in due to possible hang over. Don’t think they actually have mornings in Nashville – all days just start around noon.

Time: afternoon – walked over to Puckett’s Grocery and Restaurant. Had BBQ pork (melts in your mouth), onion rings, Caesar salad – most delicious lunch ever! Food here is just terrific!

Hit some shops and the Country Music Hall of Fame & Museum, but wanted to rest up for the concert this evening, so headed back to hotel and on the way bought a ‘Goo Goo Cluster’ – a candy bar created in Nashville and a local favorite.

Linda, Blake & Dana

7:00ish – Walked to the Bridgestone Arena to attend the Blake Shelton concert. The opening act was Chris Janson, who, like most of the entertainment seen in Nashville was outstanding! Blake put on a great performance in which he sang all his hit songs, interfaced with the audience and had a great back-up band. The word on the street was that Gwen Stefani was in town, and perhaps was going to make a surprise cameo appearance, but not to be.

After concert – what else, visited more bars.

Time: about 1:00 a.m. – Remembered we missed dinner, so headed to Merchants, one of only places that didn’t have music, and it was sort of a relief to have a little peace and quiet. After dinner, back to the hotel and opted for the Chocolate Chip cookies instead of the Chocolate Martini. Livers were thankful.

Saturday – Slept in – what a surprise! What, it’s only Saturday?!!

Grand Ole Opry

Time: 1:30 – ‘Backstage Tour’ of the Grand Ole Opry. Tour included videos of Blake Shelton and Charles Esten, (the character of Deacon Claybourne on the TV series ‘Nashville’); very fun and interesting. Also visited the Gaylord Opryland Hotel – magnificent.

Those who watch the TV series ‘Nashville’ will understand that a trip to Nashville is not complete until you visit the Blue Bird Café. Even though it is small and in an out-of-town strip center, it is a legendary venue that has given some of country music’s biggest stars their start; such as Keith Urban, Taylor Swift and Garth Brooks to name a few with whom you might be familiar. Because it holds only about 100 people, tickets are extremely hard to get. But they offer about 20 seats on a first-come-first-serve basis.

Blue Bird Cafe

Time: 3:30 – After about a 30-minute Uber ride from our hotel, we got to the Blue Bird Café and got in line; doors open at 5:30. Looks like we’ll get in. Met two girls from New Jersey, Sherry and Sarah, with whom we shared some chips and a few ‘boxes-o-wine’ while waiting in line. They became our new best friends for the evening.

Time: 5:30, we’re in! Just being inside is an amazing experience when you think about all the stars that have been on this ‘stage in the round’ at the center of the café. It is never a rowdy crowd here, as patrons are expected to remain fairly quiet and listen to the singer-songwriters performing. Lots of songs about love gone bad, not a surprise at a country venue. Great experience!

Linda, Sherry, Sarah with Box-O-Wine

Time: Later – we head back to the bars of Broadway and eventually staggered home

Sunday – slept in! Fortunately the flight home didn’t leave until mid-afternoon, so head back to BB Kings for lunch – brisket, green beans, mashed potatoes; pulled pork, mac & cheese – gonna miss this southern cooking!

8:00 p.m. – Landed at LAX

After reading this, if you’re thinking you’d really like to go to Nashville – me too! No, I’ve never been, and this vicarious vacationer didn’t lie in my opening statement, these are my notes from a recent trip, but the trip was given to Linda and Dana as a Christmas gift from son-in-law/husband, Joe Borrelli. They both said, “Best Christmas gift ever!”

Posted in opinion

CAN YOU HEAR ME NOW?

March 7, 2016By Sparrow/WatsonComments:11 Comments

By Suzanne Sparrow Watson

This about sums it up

We’ve been going through some conversations around our house that I suspect are not all that uncommon. They go something like this:

Me: Can you please turn up the TV so I can hear it. Him: (no response) Me again: I said, PLEASE TURN UP THE VOLUME! or

Him: Wodge bleit heog thu oebnog. Me: What? Him: I said, bleit heog thu oebnog! Me: I can’t understand you. Quit mumbling!

Obviously, what we have here is a failure to communicate. Or hear. He keeps the volume down so low on the TV that a rabbit couldn’t hear it. His mumbling is such that invariably waitresses always ask him to repeat his order. When they don’t, he usually ends up with the elk’s ear soufflé or stuffed frog gizzards and then he wonders what went wrong. It’s gotten to the point that the most frequently used words around here were “huh?”, “whaaaat?” and “For Heaven’s sake, speak up!”. Something had to be done before we were reduced to sign language.

Believe me, you want to be in the pink

It was a choice between a visit to an ENT doctor or marriage counseling. Since Medicare doesn’t pay for marital interventions we elected to go with hard science over navel-gazing. My husband had the first appointment but I tagged along on the theory that four ears are better than two. Especially when two of those ears don’t hear so well to begin with. We told the doctor that we had problems hearing each other and had a lunch bet on whose problem it is. The first step was a comprehensive hearing test to diagnose his hearing at different decibels and tones . It also tested how clearly he could distinguish similar words. Sounds simple enough. However, in order to obtain the total silence needed to conduct the test, they escorted him into what can only be described as an in-house diving bell. It is a thick, steel chamber with padded walls (not the first time we’ve seen those) with a small window in which to view the audiologist performing the test. Once he was seated and hooked up she heaved a huge lever to close the door tightly. I’ll stop right here and just say that if you are the least bit claustrophobic, do not get a hearing test. The test then proceeded with beeps and tones and upon hearing them, he had to squeeze a button. Kind of like when you need more morphine in the hospital only the result isn’t as much fun. The second part of the test consisted of computer-generated words that he had to repeat. Things like “deer” and then “fear” or “hang” and then “hand”. The volume is also modulated so that some words are said more loudly than others. In other words, it’s like listening in on a lively discussion in the hotel room next to yours – you hear about every other word.

The results for my husband were middling – he has good hearing at normal tones but severe hearing loss with high tones. The doctor explained that is very typical hearing loss as we age. He said it was borderline as to whether he needs a hearing aide and suggested waiting until it became a noticeable problem. Really? In my opinion we already have a noticeable problem when I practically have to do jumping jacks to get his attention about the TV volume. So I asked the doctor why my husband often doesn’t hear me. At which point he just smiled and said, “Perhaps he’s just not listening“. Perhaps? Perhaps?! I think they refer to that as “selective” hearing – always aware when being called to dinner but never quite hears the request to take out the garbage. At least now I had confirmation from a medical professional.

Do I need one for every hair color?

The next week it was my turn. I have had fairly severe ringing in my ears for the past five years so I explained to the audiologist that I might not hear high tones correctly. It was sort of like telling my golf group before a round that I hurt my wrist that morning. Always good to have an excuse at the ready beforehand. The audiologist just smiled – I guessed I’d just given her the equivalent of “the dog ate my homework” and she wasn’t buying it. I was strapped into the ~~electric chair~~ seat, and waited to hear the beeps. I was sailing along, feeling very good about things, until I sensed that the interval between beeps seemed to be increasing. Or was it? I began to push the button like a crack addict at an arcade – random but in the hope that I would “hit” once in a while. My heart began to pound. I was certain that she was going to find me profoundly deaf. I began to think about the display of hearing aides she had in the waiting area and which one might best blend in with my (current) hair color. Finally, she unlatched the door and printed out my results. We both walked into the doctor’s office where a nurse immediately took my blood pressure. I have never had a systolic reading over 110 in my adult life. My reading that day? 137! At last the doctor came in and said, “Well, I think your husband owes you lunch. You have perfect hearing”. As to why the sound is so low when he watches TV? The doctor explained that he probably just isn’t as interested as I am in hearing it. Well…it is an election year so, yeah, that’s plausible.

Now, two weeks later, I try to speak in louder, lower tones. He still mumbles. I’m looking in to getting him a “selective” hearing aide. And just to be safe, I’ve discovered that the local community college offers a course in American Sign Language.

Posted in travel

Say What? You Went Where?

February 29, 2016By Sparrow/WatsonComments:6 Comments

by Bob Sparrow

As you regular readers know, I love to travel, but I can’t hike in places like the Andes or the Himalayans every year. Nevertheless, I was feeling a bit of cabin fever (You know how this harsh California weather can keep you housebound all winter), and perhaps a bit ‘blog-challenged’, so I started looking for someplace to go, someplace local, someplace neither you nor I have been before.

I pulled out my map as I recalled some of my experiences from previous ‘local’ excursions, i.e. being thrown off the beach at Nixon’s Western White House, being freaked out by a paranormal experience on the Queen Mary and being ripped off by a phony fortune teller at Venice Beach, to name a few. OK, maybe they weren’t all great experiences, but they were experiences and they were local! Now I was looking for someplace really ‘different’, someplace ‘locally foreign’, if there is such a thing. Then I saw it, starring up at me from my map . . . South Central Los Angeles. No, I wasn’t back at the local Yardhouse being over-served on foreign beer! I thought, why not do a trip into the toughest part of LA, it could be a great experience . . . or you could never hear from me again; either way, it’s an adventure.

Depending on the kind of adventure I was looking for, I could either drive there during the day, or wait until the evening. I thought I wouldn’t get the full flavor unless I went in at night, but I also was really interested in surviving the experience. I’m sure if I left it up to you readers, you’d have me go late a night with $100 bills hanging out of my pockets. So I planned to leave Saturday morning.

Watts Riot

I wanted to hit as many of the famous, or infamous ‘landmarks’ as I could, you know, the places where I was sure to find placards reading, ‘Kodak Moment’, signifying great photo opportunities. I actually called some places I found on-line that offered tours of the area, but none of them responded to email or phone inquiries. In fact, truth be told, none of them looked like they were still in business – not a good sign.

My ‘South Central’ map indicated a number of ‘must see’ locations: the site of the Watts Riots (1965), the neighborhoods where crack cocaine became an epidemic (1980s), sites of the Rodney King beating (1991) and where the riots broke out with the subsequent reading of the verdict of the officers involved in the beating (1992), and of course the hangout for the notorious rival gangs, the Crips (late ‘60s) and the Bloods (early ‘70s).

At this point I was beginning to wonder if Disneyland might have been a better choice – I know it would have been a safer one, but undaunted, I plotted my route through South Central on my map and, after checking to make sure my insurance (both car and life) was current, I put on some Snoop Dog and motored north to South Central.

Peeps from the ‘hood

Church of Scientology

It was an unusually warm winter day in southern California and I could see a hazy outline of the downtown Los Angeles skyline in the distance as I exited the freeway and entered ‘the hood’. I noticed that most of the shops, which were liquor stores and check cashing places, had bars on their windows (we don’t see a lot of that in Orange County); I noticed a good number of street people wheeling all of their earthly belongings in a grocery cart. Along the sidewalks I saw lots of clothes hanging from rope lines and didn’t know if these were items being sold or laundry being dried. As I traveled north on Vernon Avenue there were a number of churches, none more magnificent looking than the Church of Scientology, which looked like it was dropped in from a Beverly Hills neighborhood. I wondered as I drove by if that was Tom Cruise out in front waving people into the building. I drove by some old major crack houses (No, I didn’t stop, I’ve been clean for four days!) and then passed the corner of Florence and Normandie, which was the site of the Rodney King verdict riots. Next on my left was Manual Arts High School; it was built in 1910 and was only Los Angeles’ third high school at the time. There was a high chainlink fence around it – not sure if they were keeping people in or out. I turned on Martin Luther King Boulevard and drove past the Los Angeles Coliseum adjacent to the incongruous location of the private institution of the University of Southern California. Instead of having ‘Fight On’ as their slogan, it seems like it should be ‘Drive On’ or perhaps ‘Drive By’. I then headed south on South Central Avenue and drove by the old Black Panthers Headquarters, it didn’t look like any meetings were in session, so I didn’t stop. After several miles of graffiti-filled buildings and walls, I began to work my way over to Avalon and 116^thStreet which is where the Watts Riots started in 1965, causing 34 deaths, 1,032 injuries, 3,438 arrests, and over $40 million in property damage. As I headed back to the freeway on my way out of the hood, I drove by the iconic Watts Towers (right).

The whole trip took me about three hours and I traveled a total of about 90 miles and never saw another white person the entire trip – the demographic is made up almost exclusively of Hispanics and Blacks, while Whites and Asians make up about 1% each.

OK, to be honest, it really didn’t compare to getting away on a mountain trail with pine-scented air, but it was really interesting to take a deeper dive into the history of South Central Los Angeles and to actually cruise the streets. Unfortunately, given recent events, ‘South Central’ seems to be a clarion for the failure on all sides of race relations.

Yeah, maybe Disneyland next time.

Posted in opinion

TRIPPIN’ IN TUCSON

February 22, 2016By Sparrow/WatsonComments:9 Comments

It pays to live on the west side of town

By Suzanne Sparrow Watson

Tucson is not Phoenix. Ask any long-time Tucsonans about it and they will take a certain amount of pride in that statement. Okay, maybe a lot of pride. Phoenix – they say – has become Los Angeles. If Phoenix and Scottsdale are the city slickers of the state, Tucson is the proud aging hippie. It is a haven for the “anti” anything sort – big business, big box stores, housing developments and most noticeably, freeways. The city planners have consistently voted down any suggestion of bringing expressways or thoroughfares to cope with increased sprawl. Early on (in the 50’s) they were concerned that improved roadways would only encourage more people to live on the outskirts of town. So what happened? People came anyway for the beautiful scenery and warm climate, moving farther and farther from the town center. Now a drive that would take 10 minutes on an expressway takes 30-40 with seemingly hundreds of red lights. The road maps look like they were assembled by Lady Gaga’s costume designer. So with perhaps one of the most frustrating cities in which to drive in the United States, what is the attraction?

Dash the Wonder Dog and his hilarious father

Well, for me, in addition to the beautiful scenery, it is home to some of my favorite relatives. My niece and nephew are there and they and their families are worth every second of waiting at stop lights to see them. As a bonus, this past weekend our daughter Wendy and family met us down there for a relaxing family weekend. I say relaxing because we stayed at the fabulous Westin La Paloma resort. In true Tucson style, the grounds and amenities are some of the best representations of desert landscaping and southwestern architecture in the state. When you enter the lobby you feel as if you have “arrived” somewhere. Huge picture windows provide a view of the magnificent Catalina Mountain range. I can’t be certain of this but I’m guessing that the blood pressure of visiting guests goes down significantly as they enter the hotel. But here is the best part about La Paloma – they welcome dogs! More on that in a bit.

After checking in, our entire family decided it was time for a nap. To say that we like to relax would be an understatement – give any one of us a comfortable bed and a good book and we’re happy. Westin, of course, is famous for their “Heavenly Beds” and they do not over-promise. If I’m ever bed-ridden I’ve decided that I’m going to check in to a Westin for the duration. Once we all had our beauty sleep we drove over to niece Shelley’s house for a delicious dinner. Her two daughters are 17 and 15 and our grandsons are 15 and 12 and although they haven’t seen each other in years, we soon heard them laughing and having a great time. All four of them are honor students, polite and have great senses of humor so when I am discouraged after seeing pants-dragging, tattooed teenagers and despair for our future, all I have to do is remember that these four are also our future and my faith is restored.

Sunday night brought family rivalry night to the fore. As it happened, University of Arizona (our daughter’s alma mater) was playing USC, whence our son-in-law graduated, in a rivalry basketball game. Since they have lived in Southern California for many years they have attended lots of USC events, but Wendy was anxious for the boys to see where she went to school. Fortunately they were able to secure tickets to the game but there was still the matter of sides to be taken. You can see from the pictures they were a family divided for the night. Jake, wisely understanding who packs his lunch, chose to wear the garb of his mom while Matt stuck with his favorite team. For the record, UofA beat USC so half of the family was happy!

Overlooking the lovely generator

But back to La Paloma. The grounds are magnificent in part because it is built on a cliff so there are no roadways near the rooms. In order to reach your room you climb on a golf cart that then winds it way around the trails of the property. It’s surprising how relaxing that is – not to hear car doors slamming or horns honking in the middle of the night. On the other hand, if you leave your iPad in the car it’s not necessarily a simple matter to go retrieve it. So, fair warning – if you stay there make sure you have everything out of your car before heading to your room. As mentioned, we especially enjoyed our stay because they allow dogs. Not only do they allow them, they provide a water dish and dog bed. Of course, Dash heard all the chatter about the “Heavenly Bed” so requested his own pillow up with us. As he snuggled into it each night he let out a huge sigh and was out for the night. In the mornings we sat in the lobby with Dash and were approached by people, young and old alike, who asked to pet him. Even members of the hotel staff came out to see him and offered dog treats. I thought about charging them an amusement fee – after all, they were charging me the “resort fee” for Wi-Fi and use of the pool towel. As I walked Dash around the property I was struck by a sign I encountered (right) suggesting that guests stop, take a photo, and then post it to social media. But as you can see, the “scenic view” was of the side of the conference center and its diesel generator. Call me crazy but if I were running La Paloma I think I’d move that sign to where the real view is. But, hey, for all I know people are really excited by large utility boxes.

Now THIS is a photo spot!

All in all, we had a great time and would highly recommend a stay in Tucson and at La Paloma. One word of warning – do not let your dog sleep on the Heavenly Bed. There’s been no living with Dash since he’s experienced the pillows at La Paloma.

Posted in opinion

Golf :-) #%&@!

February 15, 2016By Sparrow/WatsonComments:4 Comments

by Bob Sparrow

I love golf. I think it is the greatest game ever invented. It requires both unique mental and physical skills, it combines camaraderie and competition and it’s one of the only sports you can play while smoking a cigar and drinking a beer. Personally, I’ve had the pleasure of playing some magnificent courses from Kapalua, Hawaii to Kiawah, South Carolina.

I hate golf. It is exasperating, demeaning and expensive. It brings out the worst in us, it impugns our self-worth and facilitates, no encourages, cheating. Personally, my first bad experience with golf was when my high school golf coach said after a round, “The best two balls you hit all day were on #7 when you stepped on a rake.”

Kapalua, Maui, Hawaii

If you play the game, you know exactly what I’m talking about; if you don’t, there’s no way to explain the fascination of hitting and chasing a little white sphere around a cow pasture. To try to put it in perspective for both camps, I would say that golf can be defined as 4½ hours of a series of calamities interrupted by an occasional miracle, or as John Feinstein put it, ‘a good walk spoiled’.

The subject probably needs a little fuller vetting, so let’s tee it up.

Scots skipping work to play golf

Golf had an ignominious beginning, (what a surprise) dating as far back as 1261, when the Dutch cursed while they played a game with a ball and a club. But the modern game of golf is considered a Scottish invention where the first documented mention of golf was in Edinburgh in 1457 when King James II banned golf in an attempt to encourage archery practice, which was being neglected. So even back then, men were sneaking out of work to play golf.

Some say it was named golf because all the other four-letter words were taken, but the word for ‘club’ ‘striking’ or ‘cuffing’ – lord knows I’ve ‘cuffed’ the ball many a time, has an interesting etymology. The word started out spelled as ‘gowfe’ which led to ‘gouff’, which led to ‘gowf’, which led to golf, which led to club throwing, sandbagging, and in the 70s, white men dressing like black pimps. Personally, I think the word will ultimately evolve into ‘goof’. And it’s probably not a coincidence that golf spelled backwards is flog. Some say the name golf came from initials that meant Gentlemen Only Ladies Forbidden, but that is just an ugly rumor probably started by a man whose wife could beat him at the game.

And why, you ask is golf made up of 18 holes, not 10 or 20 or an even dozen? The story goes something like this:

Kiawah Island, South Carolina

During a discussion among the club’s membership board at St. Andrews, Scotland in 1858, one of the members pointed out that it takes exactly 18 shots to polish off a fifth of Scotch. By limiting himself to only one shot of Scotch per hole, the Scot figured a round of golf was finished when the Scotch ran out.

A great story, but unfortunately not true. Early courses were 5-7 holes, played two or three times. It wasn’t until 1764 that golfers at St. Andrews decided to combine the first four short holes into two to produce a round of 18 holes, although it was still a 10-hole course with 8 holes being played twice. However, it would be over 100 years before 18 holes became the standard for golf frustration.

In my opinion the best explanation of the origin of, and exasperation with, the game of golf comes from the late, great Robin Williams; even if you’ve seen this before or not a fan of golf, I think you’ll enjoy this short video. Spoiler Alert: there are a few f-bombs in the video, OK quite a few, so get the children out of the room before listening.

They say that golf is a game you can play for a lifetime, but what they don’t say is that you’re going to get worse every year until you finally can’t straighten up after you make your last putt.

But until then . . . “Fore!”