The Small Town Metropolitan

Quick Shots

• The fam and I watched Room With A View on PBS's Masterpiece the other day.  Masterpiece was formerly Masterpiece Theatre and the name was changed because.... I have no idea actually, and can only venture a guess.  Was "theatre" considered too stodgy?  Was Masterpiece Theatre too long a phrase for stunted contemporary attention spans?  If so, I fear the change demonstrates a lack of understanding of their core demographic: people (even relatively young people, like myself) who yearn for the stodgy and have abnormally long attention spans.  But I digress.  The film itself was a joy: lovely to look at, marvelous performances.  The whole thing felt much more grounded in life, more warm flesh and blood than the Merchant-Ivory film of two decades ago.  I wasn't sure about the non-canonical book ends (I will not spoil, have no fear), but there is no doubt they add another level of poignancy and I quite warmed up to them by then end. 
• We're holding auditions for the theatre this weekend.  My father is pissed that they conflict with the NFL draft.  (We are an odd family, I've always known that).  Still, he plans to check in on the Steelers' progress during breaks.  If they aren't focusing on the offensive line, he's not going to be pleased. 
• From the Carbolic Smoke Ball: The Steelers combine all my father's interests by drafting Bill Shakespeare. 

I Will Arise?

I will arise and go now, and go to Innisfree,
And a small cabin build there, of clay and wattles made:
Nine bean-rows will I have there, a hive for the honey-bee,
And live alone in the bee-loud glade.

And I shall have some peace there, for peace comes dropping slow,
Dropping from the veils of the mourning to where the cricket sings;
There midnight's all a glimmer, and noon a purple glow,
And evening full of the linnet's wings.

I will arise and go now, for always night and day
I hear lake water lapping with low sounds by the shore;
While I stand on the roadway, or on the pavements grey,
I hear it in the deep heart's core.

- The Lake Isle of Innisfree, William Butler Yeats

I have been in one of those moods lately.  One of those moods in which I yearn for home and I think that I will chuck it all here in LA (not that I have much to chuck, to be perfectly honest) and pack up the little Ford and start driving East and not stop till I see the Pittsburgh skyline.  (Of course, knowing the little Ford, I would probably have to stop for extensive repairs before I hit Albuquerque).

I blame it mostly on the weather.  There is something so mournful about autumn, even autumn in LA when it can still be 70 and sunny six days out of seven.  The nights are getting cold now and the winds are alternately damp from the ocean and dry from the mountains.  I like the LA autumn, but I miss the PA one.  I miss great mounds of leaves piled about my feet.  I miss damp earth and frost in the mornings and roadside apple cider stands.  I miss watching football with my father.  Sure, we're off to a lousy start.  But that will only make the comeback sweeter.  Or we could always have heartbreak and glorious plans for next year. 

And I'm tired.  I'm working long hours and dog sitting on the side.  I don't have as much time to write as I'd like.  And even when I have the time, I don't seem to have the words.  Not lately.  And so I sit in traffic, which seems to get worse every day and I think about home.

I know that much of this is just plain old "grass is always greener-ism."  I only think about the good things that would/could happen if I went home.  I don't think about the LA things I would miss.  I don't think about the regrets I might come to have.  I don't think about snow still falling in March.

I almost left this summer.  I had purchased my plane ticket and made my plans.  And then my present job fell out of the sky and hit me on the head and I really had no choice but to give it a shot.  And I'm glad I did.  I like the job, and it could lead to better things, and there are thousands of people in this town who would give anything to be in my shoes, small cog though I am. 

But still I think.  I think about how nice it might be to "give up."  To give up the striving and the struggling and the starving and the hoping of this business in this town.  To go home and live more simply and give up a few of the dreams and have a more settled life.  Of course, the sort of things I'd try to do if I did go back are not without their own struggles.  And I may do it.  I may do it soon.

But not quite yet. 

What's Black and Gold and Read All Over?

OK, maybe not in Cleveland.  But the Pittsburgh Post-Gazette has a Steelers blog.  I wish they had a way to link to individual entries.  But scroll down, there's some funny stuff.

If I Had Any Readers...

... we could have a Ben Roethlisberger caption contest:

I'll start things off.  How about, "Can you get KDKA on this thing?" 

Or, "A hard, round bowl to protect your head!!???  What a great idea!!!"

The real story here.

Getting Your Kicks

Clive Davis argues that some Americans suffer from "oafish" soccerphobia. I suspect that most of the examples he cites were far more good natured than he (and some of his commentators) seem to think.

De gustibus non desputandum est, but every four years we decide to try. I’m an American, born and bred. I’ve never been able to get that interested in soccer; I consider this neither a failing nor a virtue – simply a fact.

When I studied in the UK, some of my friends tried to spark my enthusiasm for the sport. There was a championship of some sort being played then and I watched a few of the games with a knowledgeable crowd. Though I loved their excitement, the sport itself never "took."

I am delighted for the joy that most of the world finds in the World Cup, but I loathe the commentary that surrounds it. Like clockwork, some American commentators will write about how boring the sport is and mock those who love it. By the same token, some other American (and a great many non-American) commentators will lament the United States’ general disinterest in the whole affair and try to make it a metaphor for one of several stereotypical American characteristics (we’re too parochial or too brutal or we lack subtlety, or whatever). It all seems like more weight than one sport should be asked to carry.

The reasons why Americans, on the whole, have not yet become interested in professional soccer are probably as diverse and complicated as America itself. I venture to suggest that they are not sinister.

For me it is actually pretty simple: I grew up watching professional American football and rooting for my hometown team. So did my father and his father. I learned to love the sport in my youth and I have many happy memories associated with it. I have no such attachment to soccer. Those who do should feel neither threatened nor insulted by my lack of interest in their beloved game. I do not feel threatened because they won’t be losing sleep the night before the Steelers play the Browns (go Pittsburgh!).