Bulls advance; Gators slip

People keep hitting my blog from web searches for the latest AP college football top 25, so I'd better put the link up now. There you are.

My alma mater, South Florida, advances from 23rd to 18th in both the AP and USA Today polls on the strength of a convincing victory over a weak North Carolina team. Meanwhile, the Florida Gators fall back from third to fourth in the AP poll (though retaining third in the actually more important, since it counts for BCS rank, USA Today poll) after having a near-death experience in Oxford, Mississippi.

Everything in my bones tells me that South Florida's glory run will come to an end next Friday evening against West Virginia, but then I didn't think there was any way they could beat Auburn. I'm more confident that the death knell for the Gators will sound at Baton Rouge on October 6th. But then, I didn't think there was any way they could beat Ohio State.

Baseball whine time.

At last I've found someone who's as much of a fusspot Mets fan, and pathological Yankee hater, as I am. It's gratifying to see Braves and, especially, Yankees fans also represented there (scroll down).

I'm disappointed not to find the Phillies represented, though. Somebody should have called on Joe Queenan.

Shame and scandal in sweet New England

So far I've resisted commenting on Belichikgate (someone besides me must have called it that, I trust); its only effect on me being my concern over whether, with fall approaching, I'll be able, without attracting derision, to wear during my morning run on the Promenade the Pats hoodie sweatshirt my sweetie gave me for my birthday after they won Super Bowl XXXVI. Now, as so often happens, I find that Twiffer has done the job admirably, using as his springboard some hyperventilation by Gregg Easterbrook.

And the Easterbrook piece led me to this, which I can't resist sharing.

Sex Pistols redux.

Brixton's the place to party like it's 1977 this November 8th.

Jaguar E type

When I was in my senior year of high school, the E type (or XK-E, as it was commonly known) was big news. Although first made in 1961, it had just begun to penetrate the American market in 1962-63. Its hefty six cylinder engine and monococque body were charismatic. I recall a trip to Sheppard's, Tampa's exotic car specialist, to retrieve my Sunbeam Alpine from one of its many visits to the service bay, when I encountered six mechanics working on one. They were squatting, three to a side of the engine (which had been lifted out of the car), and appeared to be engaged in some sort of religious ceremony (which they may well have confessed to have been their sense of the matter).

The. Worst. Baseball. Weekend. Ever.

First, my beloved Brooklyn Cyclones, having breezed past their archrivals, the Staten Island Yankees, in the semifinals, once again came a cropper in the championship series.

Then to the Mets. It seems now that whenever they play their only remaining serious rivals for the division pennant, the Phillies, Joe Btfsplk is in the stands wearing a Mets cap and holding a "Ya gotta believe!" sign. Yesterday was especially painful, as it looked like the Mets had traded their usual lineup for nine clones of Inspector Clouseau.

The only bright spot was the Red Sox' Saturday trouncing of the Yanks, unfortunately bracketed by two losses to the Beasts of the Bronx.

9/18 update: Arrrrrrrrgh! Yechhhhhh! Twiffer once accused me of sounding like a Cubs fan. Maybe I'd be happier if I were one.

College football update: Bulls in top 25; Gators roll.

The South Florida Bulls, despite having an off week and despite their last week's upset victim, Auburn, being upset a second time by perennial SEC also-ran Mississippi State, have cracked the top 25 in both the AP and USA today polls (you can see them here). I'll stick with my theory that they'll have a lot of trouble next week with revenge-minded North Carolina, smarting from a loss this week to lightly-regarded Virginia.

Meanwhile, the Florida Gators continued their dominance over non-traditional rival Tennessee (I explained the "history" between these teams here). I expect the Gators to be a little flat against Ole Miss next week, but to prevail nevertheless. What happens after that against their traditional nemesis Auburn, now twice beaten, is an open question.

Brooklyn Bridge Park, Saturday morning, September 15, 2007

It's official: USF football is big-time.

Her (rubbing eyes): Why so late last night?

Me (after a yawn and stretch): Big game. My alma mater beat Auburn with a TD in overtime.

Her: Beat who?

Me: Auburn. That's Auburn University, in Alabama, not the town in Massachusetts. They're a major football power in the SEC. Ranked seventeenth in the AP poll going into the game.

Her (turning over): Oh. How'd the Red Sox do?

So it goes. It now seems unlikely the Bulls will be able to pull off any more surprises. After an off week, they play North Carolina at home on the 22nd, and will undoubtedly be favored. The pessimist in me sees this as a classic scenario for a letdown; I suspect USF has just enough Gator DNA to fall flat coming off a big victory. If they can get past the Tarheels, they face their really big test on Friday the 28th, when they host the currently number three ranked West Virginia Mountaineers, who will be itching for revenge.

It seems I may have been wrong in thinking that dumping Michigan from the top 25 because of their loss to Appalachian State was an overreaction. Unfortunately, their drubbing by Oregon (which must have Lloyd Carr perusing Monster.com) may serve to dim ASU's accomplishment.

Update: South Florida didn't make the top 25 in the AP writers' poll (which doesn't count for BCS purposes) or the USA Today coaches' poll (which does), though it gets strong honorable mention in both (you can see the poll results here). It's interesting to note that Oklahoma is ranked third and Florida fifth in the AP poll, while those rankings are reversed in the USA Today poll, in which Florida received seven first place votes. I can only conclude that Urban Meyer is much better liked by his fellow coaches than is Bob Stoops.

S-AB enters the terrible twos.

I missed it: this blog had its second birthday on August 30th. My only excuse for failing to commemorate this as I did last year is that I was headed north on the Adirondack on that very day.

Anyway, birthdays are times to make promises. I promise that S-AB will be more controversial in the coming year. It befits its age.

College football kickoff

No real surprises the first weekend of play, except for the One Big Surprise. In Monday's New York Times, Viv Bernstein had a front page story about how Appalachian State coach Jerry Moore assembled a team from players who were "on the recruiting bubble" but were "too short or too thin or, in some cases, too obscure to have been noticed by the major programs." In this respect, Bernstein makes Moore sound like college football's analogue to Billy Beane. The same Times had, in the sports section, an essay by ASU alum Stephen J. Dubner, co-author of Freakonomics. I expected Dubner to have some dismally scientific take on his old school's unexpected triumph; instead, he mostly reminisces about his student days in Boone, when the football team was lousy but the soccer team was great (sort of reminds me of my days at South Florida, except that our football team then was nonexistent). He also informs us that Appalachian "is pronounced app-uh-LATCH-un, not app-uh-LAYCH-un, and that goes for the mountains, too, not just the University." I believe this is true south, but not north, of the Mason-Dixon Line, but invite anyone to correct me.

Mike Celizic uses the upset as a platform to campaign for the abolition of pre-season rankings. His principal reason is that a high poll position at the outset of the season tends to be sticky, despite the team's actual performance. However, he wrote his column before Michigan was summarily dumped from the top 25 (an overreaction, in my view). In any event, it's a useless campaign. Even if AP gives up the game, all those publishers of pre-season preview books are going to continue doing theirs.

Mets sweep Braves!

Yes, I know: Thursday night I could've posted, "Mets lose four straight to Phils." This year's Mets seem to have a kinship with Antaeus. Of course, being a fusspot Mets fan, that just makes me wonder when Hercules will get wise.

Hilly Kristal, 1932-2007.

Last year I posted about the perhaps temporary demise of the famous new wave rock venue CBGB & OMFUG. At the time, I noted, there was a possibility that the club might reopen at a different location, although that location might be Las Vegas, not New York.

Yesterday, as I was sad to learn, lung cancer counted as its latest victim CBGB's founder and guiding spirit, Hilly Kristal.

The economics of lobster rolls.

Matthew Yglesias presents this gem in the Atlantic (be sure to scroll down through the comments, too, for discussion of such worthy topics as why hot dogs taste better at the ballpark), with inspiration from Tyler Cowen.

Thanks to WikiFray companion John McG for the link.

Studebaker GT Hawk

The GT Hawk was a European style grand touring car made in South Bend, Indiana. Designer Brooks Stevens borrowed extensively from other makers, most noticeably in the Mercedes Benz style grille and the Lincoln Continental inspired taillights. Nevertheless, the overall effect was handsome and well-integrated. Studebaker even had some success selling it in European markets before shutting down production in 1964.

This specimen is not in the best of shape, and is missing some chrome trim strips (to my mind, addition by subtraction). Still, it's eye-catching.

Erie Canal delineated!

If you survived elementary school music, you can probably remember the line:

From Al-ba-nee to Buf-fa-lo-oh

(If you need your memory refreshed, more of the lyrics are here.)

Anyway, it's good to know that New York State's government, despite its present continued dysfunctional nature, can get something done. According to this AP story:

Ending a dispute over the location of the ends of the Erie Canal, Gov. Eliot Spitzer [NY] said yesterday that Albany and Buffalo are the official eastern and western ends of the historic waterway. Supporters believe the designation will help develop the areas, particularly Buffalo's inner harbor. When the canal was built in 1825 it stretched 363 miles from Albany to Buffalo; an expansion in 1905, which allowed the passage of larger vessels, moved the navigable ends to the Hudson River in Waterford and the Niagara River in Tonawanda.

Thus, the original end-points are established. Woe to you, Waterford. Tough luck, Tonawanda. (Thanks to Johanna Turner of NYCMaritime for the link to the article.)

Update: Twiffer sez: i bet this will help buffalo get, like, a pro football team or even a hockey team. (New dads get excused from having to hit the shift key.) I can't resist recounting my first hockey game, which was a Sabres-Bruins match in Buffalo in 1971. I got to see Bobby Orr set some record -- I think it may have been scoring in a single game by a defenseman.

Meanwhile, August proposes a contest to name the Albany hockey team. He suggests the Pork; I counter with the Impasse.

Red Hook revisited, and the Really Big Art Show.

Yesterday my wife, our friend Barbara and I drove to Red Hook to help another friend, the artist Kei Andersen, remove and take home her two paintings that had been displayed at the Brooklyn Waterfront Artists' Coalition's annual Really Big Show, which is held in one of Red Hook's magnificent nineteenth century warehouses. Below is a photo of Kei and her paintings, Broken Whelk I (left) and II.


After looking over the show, and seeing among many things some fine displays of photography, I was drawn to the windows.


From the westward side, I had a view of the trolleys that were the subject of this post, but from the opposite end, so that the trolley that once served the King of Norway is nearest.


From the eastward side, I had a panoramic view of the ruins of a sugar refinery and the pier from which bulk sugar was once unloaded.




The area east of the sugar refinery was once occupied by a shipyard, and is now the site of an Ikea store under construction. A graving dock that was built in the mid-nineteenth century, and in which work was done on many ships, including the Civil War ironclad Monitor, has been filled in for a parking lot. I have nothing against Ikea (love the meatballs!) and am glad we will no longer have to drive to New Jersey to shop there, but wish they could have found a way to preserve this bit of history.

Addendum: On the subject of preservation of historic sites, Gowanus Lounge reports that several early nineteenth century buildings in downtown Brooklyn that played a part in the Underground Railroad are being taken by eminent domain for demolition to make way for (ironically) an underground parking garage. Read it and weep, here.

O Florida, venereal soil.*

Every time I think my former home state has done its utmost in the way of legal lunacy, something happens to confound me further. The latest Flori-DUH award must go to Broward County Sheriff Ken Jenne and, in particular, State's Attorney Mike Satz, who should have had better sense, for mounting a successful prosecution and trial of one Terry Lee Alexander, age 20. Young Mr. Alexander's offense was that, being jailed on a ten year robbery sentence, he had, in the confines but not privacy of his cell, what in my high school lingo was called a hot date with Sally Five-slide. As Fred Grimm observed in his July 26 Miami Herald article:

At the time of the offense, Alexander was punished with 30 days without TV, music, exercise time and other jail house perks. But obviously self-abuse demands a criminal charge and a full-blown jury trial, and two prosecutors, and a court-appointed taxpayer-paid defense lawyer and six jurors (and an alternate), and a judge, and a court reporter, and a couple bailiffs, and a pretrial deposition, and a daylong trial.

The upshot of all this was a guilty verdict and sixty extra days tacked onto Alexander's ten years. Perhaps an aggravating circumstance was that Alexander was observed in the act of, as we said in my college dorm, making the beast with one back**, by a female jailer. Nevertheless, the jailer, Coryus Veal, was on notice of the prospect of such an observation. According to Grimm, she testified: "They had warned me about what goes on in there." Indeed, as Grimm commented:

In the course of the one-day trial, prosecutor Cynthia Lauriston and Veal managed to describe Alexander's offense in startling detail, eight times, once with Lauriston approximating the action with arm motions. It was hard to imagine the original act had a much more lascivious effect than the lurid stuff those poor women had to utter, over and over, in Courtroom 417 Wednesday.

It may be that resort to a "law and economics" approach would have been helpful here. A simple cost/benefit analysis would likely lead to the conclusion that allowing, or at least tolerating, prisoners' resort to a time-honored method of relieving certain tensions would have benefits, in the form of a more docile inmate population, that outweigh the cost of occasional discomfort to jailers. Update: Nick asks, quite reasonably, just what was the crime of which Mr. Alexander was convicted? According to Grimm's article,

[t]echnically, Alexander faced charges of indecent exposure, with lots of lewd, lascivious, wicked, deviant, etc. tacked on. He also faced the prosecution's tortured contention that his jail cell qualified as a "public place."

This article by Debra Cassens Weiss in the ABA Journal gives additional interesting details. Veal testified that she observed Alexander doing the deed "from a master control room." Evidently, technology has enabled penology to realize Jeremy Bentham's vision of a panopticon with efficacy undreamed of in Bentham's time.*** 

Weiss's article also notes that, in attempting to convince the jury that her client's action was harmless, Alexander's attorney, Kathleen McHugh, asked Ms. Veal if other prisoners were thereby inspired to, as it were, take matters into their own hands. "Did you call in a SWAT team?", McHugh asked. Ms. Veal answered, "I wish I had." Another ABA Journal piece, by Martha Neil, reports that during voir dire Ms. McHugh asked prospective jurors about their own history with respect to recourse to self-help. According to Ms. Neil, all nine men and eight out of ten women asked the question gave an affirmative reply. 

*With apologies to Wallace Stevens. 

**Cf. Othello, Act I, Scene I; also see here. 

***Of course, Bentham's consequentialism would argue for a hands-off policy concerning Mr. Alexander's hands-on practice, just as would a University of Chicago style law and economics analysis, which has consequentialist underpinnings.

It's a boy!

Hearty congratulations to Twiff and Persephone.

Phil Rizzuto, 1917-2007

Anyone who has read my blog for a while knows that I loathe, hate and despise the New York Yankees. However, this doesn't necessarily translate to the individual level. Today I saw someone wearing an old Yanks jersey with the name O'Neill on the back, and thought, "What excellent taste." I'd feel the same about someone wearing one that said "Williams." DiMaggio, Gehrig, Ruth: all names I revere. Even Maris and Mantle.

One who fit in that category was Phil "Scooter" Rizzuto, who died today at the age of 89. A Brooklyn native, he tried out for the Dodgers, and never forgave Leo Durocher for saying the unforgivable: "You might as well go shine shoes." The Yanks, to their credit, saw a diamond in the rough and signed him. He was with them from 1941 to 1956, and contributed to seven world championships. He's probably best remembered, however, as a game announcer for the Yanks, a role he filled until 1996. It was this guise that enabled his brief foray into rock 'n' roll.

To finish this off, I'm going to abase myself by giving you a link to a rabidly pro-Yankee blog.

Update: Joe Martini shares a Scooter memory here.

The tragedy of Fred Exley.

I'm writing this in Massena, which Exley, in Pages From a Cold Island (the subject of my earlier post), called "a far northern and perhaps fantasy village in St. Lawrence County." Being here, I can testify to its being "far northern," at least with respect to New York State, and to its presence within St. Lawrence County. But I can also affirm that it's a very real place with real problems: GM is closing its powertrain plant here, which will mean the loss of many jobs; local folks are hoping that a proposed NASCAR track will boost the economy.

Reaction to my first Exley post was mixed. My wife said, "It was too long, and it turned into a rant at the end." I protested that it wasn't any longer than book reviews in The New Republic; she said, "They're too long, too." Other responses, in the comments below the post and in OTBKB, were more positive. Thus encouraged, and with some inspiration from Keifus, I've decided to write more.

My earlier piece quoted Walter Kirn's observation that, in Exley's view, "[i]n America...a person is either a suffering poet or a cheerful drone." Keifus had this to say in his comment:

It's tempting to separate the world into suffering poets and cheerful drones, isn't it? People glorify the geniuses that drown their muses in booze and sex, as if the ones who force themselves to just suck it up [don't] share a similar burden. (And maybe they do.) People identify suffering with [genius], and imagine (no doubt wrongly) that the suffering implies bigger capabilities...

[K: I've taken the liberty of inserting "don't" in your second sentence and substituting "genius" for the second "suffering" in your last sentence, as that's what I think you intended. Please correct me if I'm wrong.] In Pages, Exley at one point confesses a desire to be a "cheerful drone" of a sort. This came during his description of his interview with Gloria Steinem. After meeting her at the airport, Exley stumbled trying to retreive her luggage from a conveyor belt, then apologized for his awkwardness, saying, "It's just--you know, you know--that I'm so intimidated, you know, being with you and all."

Then if possible I became even more nauseating. I smiled with a weakness verging on illness, batted my big baby brown eyes at her, and gave her a helplessly feeble shrug by way of eliciting her utmost in pity. Gloria looked down at me and with deadly serious and sympathetic earnestness said, "Don't be." And, oh Lord, I score that as the moment I fell head over heels in love with Ms. Gloria Steinem!

As the interview progressed, though, Exley found it hard to break through Steinem's reserve. Trying to get an emotional response, he began asking her about men with whom she had been said to be romantically involved. In each case, she responded that the man in question was a "friend." Finally, Exley asked about Thomas Guinzberg, a publisher whom Exley admired and thought well suited to Steinem. She said she had been with him shortly after the assassination of John F. Kennedy, and thought "he took [it] too cavalierly." To underscore her assessment, she said, "Tom Guinzberg should have been a sports reporter for the Daily News."

On hearing this, Exley realized that his love for Steinem was doomed:

Ye fucking gads, dear reader, where could Gloria and I go from there? One must understand that the dream of my life--the dream of my fucking life!--was to be a sports reporter for the Daily News! I'd have a lovely and loving wife named Corrine; three sons named Mike, Toby and Scott; two boxers, Killer and Duchess, with bulging muscles under their fawn coats, and black ferocious masks, and like all boxers they'd be big whining slobbering babies who couldn't even sleep when they were denied access to the boys' beds. I'd have a split-level home somewhere on the north shore of the island, say, at Northport; and just at the moment I was up to here with Corrine, the boys, Killer and Duchess, my boss at the sports desk would telephone me and cry, "Hey, Ex, don't forget you got to fly out to the coast and cover the Mets' five-game stand with the Dodgers." And off I'd wing, to stand in the press box, a paper cup of Coors beer in my hand, the klieg lights dissolving the faces of the crowd into one another, cheering like mad for Seaver and the guys; after which, much renewed, I'd fly back to the loving Corrine, Mike, Toby and Scott, Killer and Duchess.

How to square this with what Exley said to his students at the Iowa Writers' Workshop, in which he held up as an exemplar Edmund Wilson alone in his stone house, the embodiment of the discipline and unflagging effort needed to become the kind of writer whose work mattered? I think we can conclude that Exley, like, I suspect, many of us, was torn between conflicting desires: one for greatness, entailing a life of risk, sacrifice and hard work; and one for safety, comfort and small but rewarding pleasures. The tragedy of Exley's short life was that he was unable to muster the discipline to attain the former, at least not on a consistent basis, but perhaps because of a belief that it was inimical to a dream of greatness that he couldn't foresake (being subject to the erroneous belief discussed by Keifus), was also unwilling to exercise the lesser amount of self-control needed to achieve the latter.

Frayfriend JMB says:

I couldn't help but think that [Exley would] be disappointed in Singer Island as it is now--towering Condos and sprawling townhouse communities as far as the eye can see, one public beach, one fishing access park and one County park.

Actually, Exley saw this coming. Near the end of Pages, he tells of a final visit to Singer:

Never do I look inland. In the short time I've been gone two high-rise condominiums have gone or are going up. Looking inland at them reminds me of the doctor's words to the effect that money will not be stayed and that my days on this cold island are numbered. And as I walk I find myself thinking anxiously of the future, of other havens.

But JMB adds:

Then, this past weekend, I sat in with a blues band for a bassist I know who was going to be out of town. It was in a Club of 'questionable merit', connected to a motel that advertised "Hourly, Daily, Weekly Rates" in an area of Singer Island I hadn't seen before.

While sitting on the corner of the stage during a break (while the 'Lingerie Show' was happening and deals of some sort or another were going on outside the front door and the Riviera Beach Police made their 30 minute rounds) I thought that THIS was the closest I would come to what Exley experienced in his time here.

So, perhaps the struggle that goes on in our physical and social environment, one that reflects the inner struggle of Exley and others like him, the struggle between Apollo and Hermes, continues, with neither side, praise be, in sight of victory.

No words, just pix.*

*With a tip o' the hat to Hugh Crawford.

Taking a break.

I'll be away for a few days in a computer-free zone, so I'll defer those projects I've promised to work on (more on Exley; Second Amendment) until after next Tuesday. Best wishes.

Castillo to Mets?

Gotta like the deal for the strength it adds to defense up the middle, and the DP combo with Reyes. Offensively, Castillo looks like less of an asset. His .304 average so far this season (.294 career) is decent, though not as good as Ruben Gotay's. Run production is subpar, with only 18 RBIs for the season, compared to 19 for Gotay, who has batted 123 times compared to Castillo's 349. Castillo seldom walks (29 times this season), but doesn't strike out much, either (28). One reassuring stat is that he doesn't ground into a lot of double plays (only three this year). Evidently, he hits lots of well-placed grounders and bloops. He's no threat to clear the fences, with 23 dingers over a career now in its twelfth season, and none so far this year (Gotay has 4, again with only 123 ABs). All in all, though, this adds up to Castillo's being reasonably well suited to the role of number two hitter; he has a fair chance of advancing a runner and getting on base himself.

This deal may prove a test of Billy Beane's maxim that good defense is seldom worth what you pay.

Healey and Triumph

This morning, as I was on the homeward leg of my customary run/walk, I spotted an Austin-Healey 3000 parked next to a Triumph TR-6 outside the same garage where I saw the MGA last week.


Schad (see his comment under the MGA post) says he likes the look of the TR6. I do, too, but prefer the voluptuous curviness of the Healey and the MG to the angularity of the TR. As to whether I prefer the Healey or the MG, I'm still coming down on the side of the latter, largely out of agreement with Mies van der Rohe's esthetic principle: "Less is more."

More odds and ends.

A big "Thank you!" to Louise Crawford for posting on Only the Blog Knows Brooklyn her nice words about, and link to, my Fred Exley piece. (Louise, this isn't the P.S. I promised. That will come in the next few days, as we transplanted Appalachian hillbillies say, "Good Lord willin' and the cricks don't rise.")

Sidebar on Larry Tribe: I mentioned the eminence grise of Harvard Law School in the "Guns" portion of the previous Odds and ends. Frayfriend Persephone replied (scroll down to the fourth comment) with the lyrics to a parody song performed by the HLS Drama Society. On reading this, I was reminded of having seen something a couple of years ago about Tribe being accused of plagiarism (a subject about which another Harvard faculty member wrote this song). A little Google research showed that the Drama Society had retracted the song after Professor Tribe complained that it did not reflect the facts. Reading further in the Drama Society blog piece, I discovered a link to this web page, which I assumed to be another parody written by a clever student. I was flat-out amazed when further reading showed it was Tribe's own creation. It strikes me kind of like Rupert Holmes' execrable "Pina Colada Song" (more about that later) fortified with a shot of Arthur C. Clarke and a dash of Janet Evanovich. Particularly mind-boggling is his apparent conflation of an Edith Wharton protagonist with a Mansonette who wasn't involved in the Sharon Tate murders but later may have tried to assassinate President Ford. To paraphrase Horace, even Homer nods; still, this seems more like an episode of narcolepsy.

Watch out, Wellfleet! College Point, Queens is breathing down your neck. Thanks to Tom of NYC Maritime for linking to Greg Beyer's Times piece about the Electric Oyster Experiment, in which scientists are trying, with apparent success, to create oyster beds in the East River (a misnomer; it's actually a tidal strait), where none have existed for many years. Their technique is to place metal racks in water and run an electric charge through them, which stimulates the growth of limestone on the metal. Seed oysters imported from Long Island Sound are then planted on the limestone, where they thrive. The racks are by Brooklyn sculptor Mara Haseltine, who makes them in the shape of DNA molecules.

Good earworm of the day: "Driving the View," by Son Volt; hear it here. Anthemic chord progressions; inscrutable lyrics. What more couldja want?

Bad earworm of the day: "Escape (the Pina Colada Song)," by Rupert Holmes. I was subjected to this on the car radio somewhere between Sturbridge and Hartford. If you're into masochism (not yoga), you can hear an especially cheesy instrumental version here. Be warned: I'm not responsible for any consequences.

Godspeed, Gary and Kate

I've been neglecting other blogs as well as my own lately, so this announcement from Gary, of runs Brooklyn/Brooklyn runs came to me late and as quite a surprise. I had the pleasure of meeting Gary and his wife, Kate, at the Brooklyn Blogfest in May. I'll miss them both, and the fascinating entries and photos on Gary's blog, very much. I'm glad, though, that he's decided to leave the existing body of runs available on the net, so I'll keep my link to it, as well. There's much there worth going back and savoring.

MGA

Maybe the best looking automobile ever. (I say "maybe" because it's a tough choice for me between it and the Austin-Healey 100s. Those of you who prefer Duesenbergs or early Lincoln Continentals are welcome to weigh in. Those who prefer 1960 DeSotos or Caddy Fleetwoods please keep your thoughts to yourselves.)

My closest friend in high school had a copy of Oscar Brand's Sports Car Songs, which had a "glossary" on the back of the sleeve. It defined "MGA" as "an abbreviation for meshugganah."

Update: Lots of reaction to this post (note to self: cars a good topic). Goinglikesixty plumps for the MG TC. There was a time, when I was more into retro for retro's sake, when I would have agreed. Now I prefer the minimalist, streamlined look of the MGA to the boxy, open fender aspect of the T series. Joe Martini agrees, though he prefers the Healey to the MG. Uh, Joe, unless you at some time drove a Chevy Vega, don't address the subject of combustible wiring harnesses. Karen Oh puts in a good word for the Morgan, a worthy mention indeed. I learn, to my delight, that Schad and I have something alike in our pasts - Sunbeam Alpines. Finally, Louise Crawford says a Healey was her family's car in the early 1960s. It must have been a very small family, and, at that, a very tight squeeze.

Lake Champlain & Moriah redux.

Last summer, I posted about riding Amtrak's Adirondack from New York City to Plattsburgh, New York (the train continues north to Montreal) on the way to visit my in-laws in Massena. In that post, I included a couple of photos and some text about a preserved locomotive, ore jenny and caboose from the Lake Champlain & Moriah Railroad that are on display adjacent to the Port Henry, New York station. At the time, it was raining, and the quality of the photos (which I had to shoot through a window because the stop at Fort Henry was too brief to allow me to detrain) suffered accordingly. When I took the Adirondack north again a couple of weeks ago, the weather was better, so I got these shots, which are correspondingly more satisfactory:

Portland Head Light

Last weekend we took Liz to Maine to start three weeks of camp at Kingsley Pines (I'm giving them free advertisng because I think it's an excellent camp run by great people), and stayed with Lori, my wife's step-cousin once removed, in Cape Elizabeth, near Portland. Our first evening there, we had dinner al fresco in the park surrounding Portland Head Light. The park commands sweeping views of Portland Inlet and the southern reach of Casco Bay, with its many islands.

Soon after we arrived, I looked westward and saw two large sailing vessels, a two-masted schooner and a sloop, between the breakwaters at the entrance to Portland Harbor.


A short while later, a cargo ship came out of the harbor, heading for sea.


The ship proved to be Jutta, a typical small tramp freighter, capable of carrying containers or dry bulk cargo.


Lori told me Portland Head is the most photographed lighthouse in the U.S., but that didn't deter me from snapping it once again.


As I went back up the hill, the sun was obscured by a cloud, softly backlighting the flag.