This Kid is Alright

The great Sarah Morris of Los Angeles sent me this challenge on Facebook...and Pete Townshend's lyrics have been really resonating lately with me...

Using only song names from one artist, cleverly answer these questions. Pass it on to at least 15 people and include me. You can't use the band I used. Try not to repeat a song title. It's a lot harder than you think! Repost as "my life according to (band name)"

Pick your Artist:
The Who

Are you a male or female?
A Man in a Purple Dress

Describe yourself:
I Don't Even Know Myself

How do you feel:
I Can't Explain

Describe where you currently live:
Armenia City in the Sky

If you could go anywhere where would you go?
Going Mobile

Your favorite form of transportation:
Magic Bus

Your best friend is:
How Many Friends...too many to count

What's the weather like:
Blue, Red, and Grey

Favorite time of day:
5:15

If your life was a TV show, it would be called:
Another Tricky Day

What is life to you:
Amazing Journey

Your fear:
I Can't Reach You

What is the best advice you have to give:
Love Ain't for Keeping

Thought for the Day:
Won't Get Fooled Again

How I would like to die:
In the Ether

My soul's present condition:
Getting in Tune (with the straight and narrow)

My motto:
Love, Reign O'er Me

A Columbus Dispatch

Mike and Kate are getting married this afternoon. I've only seen them in stolen moments during the last 36 hours I've been in Columbus, but they're nervous, excited, and happy...and I couldn't be happier to be here.

Because...
...I've eaten the Thurman Cafe burger (featured on "Man Versus Food"), real Ohio pizza, and two of the best ice cream concoctions in the country, and also have fully taken advantage of the "alcohol flowing like water from the shower" principle.
...I've walked a beautiful golf course and gotten lost and heard a the father of the bride close a two-thousand-dollar hay sale on the seventeenth tea
...and I spent two nights knocking back various drinks and reveling with my wonderful parents, my fantastic brother, and my incredible cousins (the girls have gotten more gorgeous than ever, but buddies of mine, they're all taken)...and my warm, loving, aunts and uncles...and met John's new girlfriend and congratulated Andrew and Beth on the pregnancy and Julie on her engagement...the next wedding next year...

I'll be writing more tomorrow. Today and tonight will mark the second time in two weeks I'll see a couple have their first matrimonial dance to "The Way You Look Tonight."

And I lined up two job interviews next week!

Life is great.

Time and Language

Today marks two months since the S.O. and I mutually decided that friendship was insufficient for us, and since then, it would be hard for me to be happier. In the ups and downs of my life, she has become along with my family a great constant, and I feel so blessed. Not that our constancy means we're always mentally synchronized.

I'm a morning person, and lately I've been getting up early due to the oppressive heat in the apartment. I mean, EARLY. 3:30 a.m. Sometimes I fall back asleep, but not always. Yesterday, for instance, I lay awake until 4:30, decided that since I had a job interview that morning I should keep the mind sharp anyway, and spent an hour doing logic puzzles before going to the gym. I then spent the entire day in shirt, tie, and pants, carrying a computer bag on my shoulder. The S.O., on the other hand, is not a morning person, as anyone who took the Henry James seminar with her can attest to. She has to set an alarm, and yesterday she forgot to set it, woke up to silence, decided she had gotten roused too early, and fell back asleep until 11:38.

I have long had a theory that time works aversely on language in the short term: the longer awake you are, the less capacity you possess. Last night, as I walked the S.O. home after a hard-fought but losing battle at Trivia Night, the theory was proven. She, with eight hours of extra sleep, was relatively chipper despite the lateness and talked at length about a fascinating but depressing book she had just finished on crystal meth in America. I was genuinely interested, but ti was taking me twice as long as usual to form sentences, including thinking up words like "eat" and "sentence" as I tried to explain the fact to her. And we were both repeating ourselves to what for other people would have been annoying degrees.

Thankfully, some of the best times in our relationship render language equally insufficient.

The Connoisseur's in Germany

The Connoisseur earned his nom de plume in the Rostan Blogoverse because of all my friends in Chicago, he possesses the most consistently extraordinary taste. As a scholar, he understands literature and poetry and can talk about them for hours. Culturally, the same goes for film (especially Pixar/animation), video games (which he brilliantly and correctly defends as an art form), and music (he has introduced me to genres I never would have listened to before and now want to further explore). In the culinary realm, he’s a stunningly terrific amateur chef and a good judge of alcohol. And finally, he’s a superb judge of human character: he’s been dating the Princess, one of the only women who comes close to the S.O.
Right now, he’s out of the country and across the ocean, and I slightly miss him because he always makes the good times even better. But I know he’s enjoying himself in Germany. It’s hard not to.
I made two trips to Germany in the fall of ’04, riding their excellent railroad system and carting the required reading of Jared Diamond back and forth. Each trip was made in the company of one of my really awesome roommates at the Castle. First was a day trip to Cologne, that gorgeous little city which gave the world Kolsch beer, in company of a very personable tennis player one year my senior. I had really wanted to visit the city’s modern art museum, but he was more interested in medieval art…which, by the way, I’m not into…too many grotesques and repetitions. But we did get to marvel at the wonders of the Dom, once the tallest building in Europe, and with a spectacular view at the top, and I enjoyed one of the best meals of the trip, having wienerschnitzel at a riverside café.
We made one more pit stop in Cologne as the hour-long dinner break on the not-that-legendary night train to Milan. Donovan and I, with assorted roommates, ran through a rainy night which made the Dom look even more imposing and extraordinary to have sausages and Kolsch from a hole-in-the-wall. I still remember the contrast between the thundery darkness and the welcoming light, the tastes of pork and lager…
At the end of October, after the World Series, I made an overnight trip to Berlin with my other roommate, a witty Mormon. We pulled into the famous Zoo Station of U2 and Scorpions fame, checked into a hostel located right next to a “sex museum,” and set out a non-stop jaunt along the Tiergarten and didn’t really stop moving, except to sleep, until we strolled through the really urban shopping district the next afternoon. What do I remember about Berlin? The endlessness of the Tiergarten, which struck me even more the following summer watching Live 8 and the crowds thronging within. The Reichstag, going in and realizing that this was where Hitler issued his decrees. The Brandenburg Gate, so different, so mighty in its simple pillars and friezes, suggesting the timelessness of human achievement by its stark, no-frills, we-will-get-the-job-done spirit of victory. Touching the Berlin Wall and thinking of how when my parents were tiny this hunk of concrete nearly caused the destruction of the world. And the little trip-specific things, of course, like the giant poster of Nicolas Cage in National Treasure covering the Zoo Station McDonald’s, and eating at the Hard Rock Café so the Mormon could continue in his quest to get shotglasses from every HRC on the continent, and having a sausage platter and drinking wheat beer with Pepsi—a good combination, as a matter of fact—in the middle of the city.
Wish I’d made it to Munich.
And I hope the Connoisseur is having a blast.

Two Moments of Living Poetry

1. In the current issue of First Things, David B. Hart elegizes baseball as the perfect expression of Platonic philosophy (http://www.firstthings.com/article/2010/07/a-perfect-game). His description of baseball's idealism of timelessness, proportion, and exultation of the human spirit is so elegantly written that I feel unworthy trying to sum it up in a sentence. However, Hart surprised me by not following through on one thought in particular. In talking about the religious sentiments found in the Great American Pastime, he touches on the Western Religious vision of eschatology: "within the miniature cosmos of the park, the game must be played down to its final verdict and cannot end before judgment is passed." But although he tips his hat to the Great Yogi, he overlooks the fact that baseball is one of only a few sports (I almost said the only sport, until the S.O. (who, by the way, is utterly confused by the game) tempered my enthusiasm) which is not played to a clock, and as such the microcosmic universe of the ballpark has the possibility of infinity; even if such possibility could never fully be acted on, we are aware that we enter, like life, not knowing when it will end or how. And in this timeless nature, the great religious tropes of salvation and redemption come fully into play. The second baseman who mishandled a throw early on which enabled the other team to score runs may, at the end, post a game-winning four-bagger, or conversely, after sterling catches halt a rally, the left fielder may strike out in a pressure-filled situation in the ninth…and yet still have a chance at penance if the game continues. The philosophical possibilities are endless.
   
2. Do you know how in movies, time-lapse photography can depict hours, days, weeks passing by in seconds? This morning, I walked out of the apartment to go to church, knowing only from my window that the sky was blue and the sun was shining. Then I looked up at the sky and saw a vision I don't think I have ever seen before or since: the white, fluffy clouds passing over my head faster than clouds had ever moved before, as if the entire spin of the axis had increased in velocity. At that moment, I was filled with a sensation that here was visible change happening all around me, and maybe, just maybe, it was a sign that my current straits in the job hunt were not going to last. My status as a single person and a technically homeless person ended in unexpected ways…why not this status as well?
   

   And I had been reading Donald Miller before setting out, and his maxim that "Wonder is the feeling we get when we let go of our silly answers, our mapped-out rules that we want God to follow. I don't think there is any better worship than wonder."
   

   This was wonder.
   

   And I got down on my knees in the morning dew and thanked God for it…and after hearing the Gospel of Luke today—ask and it shall be given, seek and ye shall find, knock and the door shall be opened—I went into the little chapel of St. Andrew and prayed some more, with full heart and childlike devotion.
   

When I was a child, I talked like a child…

I forget who said this…it was a writer I really respect, so I wish I could remember…but there is a reason clichés become clichés. At the kernel of everything trite is the truth.

And the greatest of all clichés is the 13^th Chapter of St. Paul's first letter to the Corinthians. I have lost count of how many times I have quoted from the 13^th chapter in correspondence and conversation. Its bullet points and implications are familiar to people who only have one sentence memorized, familiar to non-Christians. And you know why? Because except for a few other divinely-inspired men, nobody EVER summed up the human condition so completely. This is the meaning of life.

I bring this up because today I was reminded of one of the key lines from the epistle…the part about becoming a man and putting away childish things. Three months from now I'll be 26, so this is weighing a little more on my mind.

All of my life, summer was a special time. There were nights in June back in elementary and middle school when I would pray to God to let the summer last forever. It meant big movies, bike rides, ice cream from Handel's, cookouts, running through backyards with my friends, Indians games, plenty to read at the library, and most of all…no responsibilities. This week, during a string of sunny and not-too-hot days in Chicago, I spent each morning applying for three jobs (this makes twenty-five applications in two weeks) and each afternoon writing notes from Trollope's first two novels. Except for Wednesday when I wore a dress shirt and black pants on a really steaming day for an interview.

Mommy has told me I need more sun. And sitting for hours at the Regenstein can, as it did today, give a guy a headache. But…I'm happy.

Even during my Los Angeles summers, the ODOT summers, part of me rebelled against my increasing plunge into maturity and responsibility. I wanted the whole taste of freedom in its vanilla-and-Oreo glory. But now, I have a series of set goals in my mind as befits someone of 25. Get a job. Write a few books inspired by my great education. Be the best man I can be for the S.O., my family, and my friends. And be a servant to God. This takes work and no slacking…and I love the work.

On Tuesday during our unexpected free ice cream break, the Thinker told me how much he admired my tenacity in getting down to business and sticking to it. I'm on the right track. I know it. And the best is yet to come.

I have put away my childish things…I think about the world in shades of grey as I search for the truth…and I can say words like "tits."

Necessary Deaths

Today, during a break from three job applications and typing an entire volume's worth of Trollope notes, the shadow of the past cast itself over my present. Checking for news about the explosions from Transformers 3 which the S.O., the Earth Mother, the GameMaster*, and I had seen on Sunday, I found that Shia LaBoeuf was going to star in a motion picture going into production soon which sounded really familiar. Turns out I read the screenplay three years ago during my employment for Pretty Pictures! I dug up my old report and found the following sentence:

(NAME WITHHELD) has written an entirely unique screenplay which, if ever filmed, will either become an instant cult classic or a flop which will ruin careers and reputations.

So be warned. But for the immediate purposes of this entry, the memory sent me back into the past and how much I enjoyed reading for the old company, a time I am reminded of every day as I tinker with my resume and cover letter and remember all the work I did. It was a fantastic job, but it also put the seeds of the literary scholar within me, and once there, they were quick to take root.

Once in a while the best things in life—what you think are the best things—will lead to things even better for you than you could have originally imagined. I would never have met the S.O. earned my master's, or found myself in this amazing community had I stayed in Hollywood through some twist of luck. I don't know how much cause and effect there was here…I hesitate to say that my training in Emerson led directly to this degree, this life…but I do know that the Los Angeles years were necessary to push me in the direction I'm going now. And they died the necessary death at the necessary time.

I don't know where I'll end up next or if this time will ever end…but WHEN that happens, I'll feel it with every bone in my body. Chicago might push me to New York, to Europe, maybe just to Evanston. It doesn't matter, because that spot will be one of my own volition, my own act of rebirth.

Special Announcement!

This blog is, as the title says, about my life, but the critical bug has never left me and needs room of its own. Visit "Culture and Rational Protest" at http://trollopebolt.wordpress.com/!

Three Voices on a Thin Line

Hatred is increased by being reciprocated, and can on the other hand be destroyed by love. Hatred which is completely vanquished by love passes into love; and love is thereupon greater, than if hatred had not preceded it.—Baruch Spinoza

I wish I could believe this, but I cannot, except in exceptional cases where the person hating is completely in the power of the person who refuses to hate in return…so long as the wicked have power, it is not much use assuring them that you do not hate them, since they will attribute your words to the wrong motive. And you cannot deprive them of power by non-resistance.—Lord Bertrand Russell.

Reading Russell on Spinoza today was startling after yesterday's reflections. Spinoza believed that all good and evil were within a complete whole, all things happen according to the divine will, and our only great emotion should be the intellectual love of God in which we try to approach this truth through love and contemplation. This renders my struggle with forgiveness moot and also means I should stop worrying about how I'm going to find a job, or if I really make mistakes in my job interviews, or if people don't like me or call me racist or keep me from feeling financially or emotionally or spiritually secure. It stresses a near stoic nobility which is very attractive to me, especially as a bit of a determinist myself…but I still feel and hurt even as I try to love my enemies and accept the world as it is. I think, then, that the real secret is to fight for the just and right while practicing a loving, open spirit even to those who oppose you…to do the opposite of Westboro. There is indeed evil which is beyond my control, but that does not mean I should sit by and fight against evil. There is a possibility to bring change even as you let the loving, gracious world in. Russell was right that we cannot combat hatred through pure love, but wrong when he does not agree with Spinoza. Love can, as Spinoza's spiritual descendant Marvin Gaye put it, conquer hate when we combine love with action…which is indeed not emotion. Writing this made me feel a lot better about my existence. I pray it did the same for yours.—Andrew J. Rostan

Read this fantastic article by Eric Alterman: http://www.thenation.com/article/37165/kabuki-democracy?page=full. And send good vibes to me, the S.O., and all our job-hunting friends!

The Virtue of Forgiveness

In Guernica this week, Susie Enfield offers a profound meditation on "Living with the Enemy" (http://www.guernicamag.com/features/1853/linfield_7_1_10/), comparing the post-World War II relationship between Germans and Jews with the current coexistence of the Hutus and Tutsis. In the middle of the article, she quotes Jean Amery, the Holocaust survivor/philosopher who proposed a doctrine of "undying resentment" for the Jews and crushing self-mortifying degradation for the Germans. Amery recognized that being wronged, being tortured, is something which we may forgive (though he would not understand why in some cases) but cannot forget. Reconciliation only comes when both sides admit, with force and repentance, that the act should never have happened. Right now, as I said to the Thinker over ice cream this afternoon, this is a state which the entire country could not get to right now. But I digress…

Amery's ideas are interesting, worth considering to a degree, but above all they scare and challenge me. Very rarely in my life has an outside party ever truly hurt me or brought me to the brink of trembling negative emotion. The last time was in the fall of 2008, about a week before I took the English Literature GRE. At that time, I had feelings for my then-and-now friend the White Lady, and being completely inexperienced, mishandled them so badly that I received a strongly worded e-mail from her outlining in no uncertain terms how much I screwed up. My parents and friends were amazed that I put all the blame on myself and, as they saw it, forgave her. Under Amery's terms, however, this was me being on the German side, stating that something regrettable had occurred which demanded my repentance. This is a pattern which has continued throughout my life, where I am more than willing to take the blame in conflicts…

But I can be incredibly angry and unforgiving and selfish about much smaller matters. One very close acquaintance of mine has, in all the time we've known each other, done many things which get on my nerves, but I am unwilling to say anything about his actions. I shall never have a chance to forgive him because I do not give him the opportunity to make an apologetic statement or gesture, to be forgiven, and this may be stubborn sinfulness on my part…which is nothing compared to me reading this over and realizing that I may not truly know how to forgive. I either beg for forgiveness myself or remain a stone-faced, impassive rock in a tempest of bitter feelings.

God tells us we have to practice self-denial and subservience to our fellow man, but in this I know I am failing because I do not keep a good heart through the practice.

I hope all who read this and think I have done them a serious wrong may forgive me.

Holy Matrimony, Part I of II

In this great Institute, a room was filled with early 20^th-Century masters and 30 kinds of cookies, and people I've known for years got very drunk.

I first met Russ in middle school, and from small seeds our friendship grew…particularly after he wrote a paper about me for Mrs. Nord's class in 8^th grade. I also like to think he spotted an easy target: I stopped counting how much money I lost to him over the years in NCAA brackets and otherwise, and how many arguments we had concerning capitalism v. socialism. This was more than compensated for by his being a great organizer for sports-watching parties, a fantastic conversationalist, and a really conscientious man with a sense of humor as dry as a good bottle of red wine.

I first met Robyn in high school. She was the exact opposite of Russ: petite, quiet, giggly, and with a pair of brown eyes so wide you could quite easily get lost in them. But as anybody who knows her well could tell you, underneath the feminine exterior is an iron will and a mammoth, solid gold heart. In four years of Honors English I came to admire and care about her very much, and still remember her playing all the female characters in The Great Gatsby for a senior project, and how she beat me in the 2002 Oscar Pool under my own tiebreaker rules.

Because by then she and Russ were together. The story as I heard it was that she liked him, he was resistant, and our mutual friends talked him into it. By some quirk of nature I kept in touch with them both over the years as they finished high school together, finished college together, are now in the process of getting their Ph. D.s together (mathematics for him, philosophy for her), and, on Saturday, became husband and wife.

And as I watched them exchange vows and rings at Our Lady of Mount Carmel, a great solemnity mixed with my welling eyes. For years, until I met the S.O., I had a nervous capacity to sabotage potential relationships by thinking too much of the ramifications: what if she says no and I ruin the friendship? What if we're together a long time and break up? What if we get married? Because I wanted, and still want more than anything, to be a husband and father like Daddy someday. What I know now is that relationships are a happening…they move as they are supposed to move and develop naturally. You can't force it, you can't predict what will come next. You just have to enjoy the good and be strong and pure of heart in the bad. Now I don't worry about ramifications. I'm over the moon with the S.O., and we might be together for a long time or be hating each other's guts next month (GOD DON'T LET THIS BE TRUE). I don't think about that. I think about being happy right now, and that's what matters.

For my dear, dear friends, however, the time had come. And I would wager everything this marriage will end, as Chris Onstad sagely wrote, with one of them in the room watching the other die…both full of peace and contentment and love, love, love…the love I could feel at breakfast that morning when Russ told me about his nerves, and could see in Robyn's eyes during the ceremony.

The reception, by the way, was at the Butler Institute of American Art, and I drank whiskey and wine in the galleries where so many field trips instructed me to revere Sargent and Homer, and a gluttonous Antone's meal was topped off by 30 types of cookies, a thousand-dollar wedding cake (I had one and a half slices, and they were great), and a whole lot of dancing where people I never expected to see get drunk got drunk…and some old high school friends made me realize how good my life still is despite it all…and an usher looked like Alan Rickman…and we did the Electric Slide.

To Mr. Waller and Mrs. Repko-Waller…may your days be filled with a love supreme.

A Very Animated Object

I'm home again...for what will probably be the first of many weddings, happening tomorrow downtown. But today was passed in the company of my family. Every time I come home, things change a little. My parents look wonderful but older. Mommy is making pickles from scratch, and Marc has grown a very nice beard. And I seem to get a little more mature, despite my babyishness. Yes, they still insist on paying my way through everything, but Mommy and I had a serious talk about my immediate future before drinking wine all afternoon and watching crazy YouTube videos of movie insults (yeah...I'm no inanimate f**king object today), and tonight we watched "The Hangover" while Marc went out...and we had a huge dinner out without me causing any arguments. Dare it be that with equivalent education and a new sense of relationship and responsibility I finally understand them in a way where we can really act more as equals?

Maybe not, but the fact that we're all under the same roof and loving each other is all that matters.

E. M. Forster: Ahead Of His Time

Adam Kirsch wrote a fantastic review of two new books about a writer whom I have a shameful relationship to: E.M. Forster. Shameful because I have never read any Forster, but absolutely love three films based on his novels: the immaculate, deeply emotional Merchant-Ivory productions of A Room with a View and Howards End, and Sir David Lean's final movie, the not-as-faithful but daring and hallucinatory A Passage to India. What attracts me to these films, beyond Ivory and Lean's technical perfection as directors and the fantastic screenplays, is the take on relationships Forster offers. This refers to both the sexual passions which end in marriage and the more basic same-sex (have to tread carefully there) friendships. Forster's vision of human interpersonality is one of equality, mutual respect, and give-and-take: a sort of libertarian bond. Love, sex, and marriage are possible because two people enter into such perfect knowledge of each other that they find a harmonious equality, which is why Lucy and George end up together and Miss Quested leaves Ronnie.

This is of course a bit of an idealization…maybe more than a bit. But it resonates with me more strongly now because of the decades of biographical research. It's no secret now that Forster was gay, but his new biographer Wendy Moffat explored a "Sex Diary" he kept where he admitted that he didn't even know how sex worked until he was 30! As a fellow (though heterosexual) late bloomer and still-virgin, Forster's ideas about the nature of the human connection can be understood as an emotional construction from an individual who did not fully appreciate the physicality of connection, the intensity of touch, and the nerves and whole new gauntlet of emotion raised by a failure to feel on your or someone else's part. Equality and respect have little to do there.

Yet I still suggest in this entry that Forster was ahead of his time…as a recent and proud regular contributor to the Equal Rights Campaign, the organization's mailings keep sending home how many taboos are still in place on homosexuality and sexual freedom and expression. Forster's day was unimaginatively more restrictive, but according to Moffat and others, he enjoyed…really enjoyed…an active sex life altering between cruisings through Central Park and some true, long-term relationships, much like any human being, straight or gay. Kirsch suggests this is why the posthumously-published Maurice was his weakest novel: so anxious to argue for and present homosexuality as a norm of the same kind as heterosexuality, Forster jettisoned his art in favor of ethical polemic. But the idea that Forster was able to live a long, influential life and write some of the greatest novels of the century while embracing himself is one which I think could be made more of by the current gay-rights groups. Especially in the recent uproar over gay actors playing straight…naïve or not, E. M. Forster proves that to think about relationships, to portray relationships, you just need to be emotionally connected. The orientation is an afterthought.
http://www.tnr.com/article/76235/the-prose-and-the-passion?passthru=MmU0NDlhMjNlMDI0NTJhMjM2OTg5MGI2OTY2NDc5YmQ

OTHER MAGNIFICENCE

Yesterday would have been Ingmar Bergman's birthday. Cries and Whispers is forever in my top-ten, and I need to rewatch it soon. I'll never forget Professor Methot calling it "a ninety-minute film-school education," then being stunned to see how much it resonated with a passage from my own life…the lesbianism and really nerve-wracking new use found for broken wineglasses notwithstanding. And Fanny and Alexander is another masterpiece. Give yourself time for Persona.

It's overcast, humid, and I didn't sleep well. Thank God I'm seeing my friends today and going home tomorrow.

The radio played Neil Diamond's "Shilo" this morning, which is one of the two or three best songs of his entire career. Yes, it's better than "Sweet Caroline."

And the painting is by Dora Carrington...my favorite female artist who had the bad luck to fall in devoted love with a gay man.

The Smithereens - Behind The Wall Of Sleep

Fantastic song I heard on 93.1 day...even in the 80's, it takes balls to name-check Jean Shrimpton in a power-pop tune.

An Advanced Conservative Liberal

I was lunching with the Poet Laureate at Miller's Pub today, a marvelous establishment where the panels are oak, the staff wears fancy coats, the gin is Hendrick's, and for $10.75 you can get a massive meal fit for a king with barbecue sauce almost as good as the Royal Oaks. And in a conversation mostly about writing, I described my Trollope project, which he listened to with much interest (though not as much as I showed for his). What I didn't tell him was the crux of the matter, driven home to me now upon the completion of The Duke's Children, the twelfth and last installment of the Barchester/Palliser saga: what does it mean to be a conservative liberal?

This is actually not a contradiction. There is a way of thinking Trollope is trying to portray in these books, which he set up appropriately enough after the terrific The Way We Live Now (which both Newsweek and Vanity Fair described last year as the best novel about 2009 America despite being written in 1874 Britain), in which a country's identity and well-being are attached to the combination of perpetuating the national character and institutions while taking one step after another to making this character accessible to more and more people of every class. The status quo is not something to be revered as we revere God, and it is also not something to be discarded. It must change with the times, and the method of life must be updated, but the basic premises and principles which made these institutions and with it the nation great must keep their spirit. This is something which neither the most diehard Obama supporters, in their rush to change everything they don't believe in, nor the Tea Partiers in their march forward to the 18^th Century are willing to admit to.

That paragraph was one strand of the book which I hope to spend the next five years working on. Another will deal with a clear progression from Mr. Harding's introduction to the Duke of Omnium's acceptance of a changing world, how individuals cannot live outside the grain of society, how it is beyond them and keeps getting beyond them as the world changes and shrinks and becomes more democratic. How a human being should conduct themselves in the world they live in.

The last, of course, will be of Trollope's life as a citizen of 1855-1880 England and a world traveler, fulfilling Reverend Bignall's aforementioned claim that the role of the humanist is to introduce the Other world with its Other ideas to our own world, to spark minds and help them grow in inspiration and wonder.

Trollope certainly would have approved, and I feel proud to have this chance to give him his due. And if someone reads this and steals the idea, well, I still will have helped give Trollope his due. But I hope not, because nobody else can write about him like I can. And there's a lot of Palliser in me: the advanced conservative liberalism, the thin skin, the desire to do good for others. But he only had one Glencora. Between Mommy and the S.O. and the Earth Mother and the Drama Queen, I have too many Glencoras to handle. However, that's a blessing.

OTHER MAGNIFICENCE

This I will keep secret, for it is not my own idea. But today the Poet Laureate shared with me the most viable idea I've ever heard for a Robert Bolt-style screenplay in this decade. My mouth was salivating as much as it did when I tasted that barbecue sauce.

George Steinbrenner died, and so did Bob Sheppard. I wrote to George with my condolences. But I was a bit more struck when another New Yorker, Tuli Kupferberg, passed away. The world always needs a social activist with a sense of humor. There are so few…

And as a lover of the beautiful American game and a respecter of its history, I can honestly say I never was an anti-Steinbrenner man. He was loud and arrogant, but he poured all his resources into restoring the Yankees to glory…twice. Even the Clevelander in me respects that.

Memo to job scammers on Craig's List. Come on! Don't claim to be writing from a corporation, then put a smiley face and a request for a credit score in one lengthy paragraph with no signs of professionalism!

The Tall Guy made me think about going back to school…bartending school, that is. If a really cool Div School Ph. D. candidate can do it, so can I!!!

I heard two radio stations simultaneously playing "That's All" at the gym this morning…but I also heard one truly fantastic song I'm linking to…

What Mighty Contests Rise From Trivial Things

We won trivia night tonight, my fourth U of C victory, calling ourselves the LeBron James Witness Protection Program because Inglouorious MAPHers no longer cut it. We won with the All-Star Game playing in the background, paying tribute to George Steinbrenner (more tomorrow) and prompting the S.O. to ask me what on earth was going on, and as I explained to her the concept of the All-Star Game and the World Series home-field advantage, she said, "That's the most ridiculous thing I've ever heard." The S.O., by the way, helped us pick up 37 points and a perfect round thanks to her knowledge of sailing, sundial construction, and scientific names for fever…God, am I a lucky devil! Also on the scene were the Voice, Little Miss Sunshine in her long-awaited Trivia Night debut, and showing up late but stepping in when we needed them, the Earth Mother and the Creator Of Worlds (and when he reads this blog I think he'll get a kick out of being the C.O.W.). To my joy, they also just signed a lease in Hyde Park for next year, meaning I'll be surrounded by the very best of company. Coupled with nine job applications and a good talk with Mommy, this was definitely a good day. Although any day I get to see the S.O. smile is a good day. And nobody still knows about my nationally-televised past at the Pub. They might sue me one day, but I'll look back at thirty-dollar paydays with pride even if I make a fortune.

Happy 73rd Birthday, Bill Cosby!

"Do you know how to tread water?"

"The POLICE are your mother and father."

"The belt will wail tonight!"

"I've always heard about people having a conniption but I've never seen one. You don't want to see 'em. My wife's face... split. My wife's face split, and the skin and hair split and came off of her face so that there was nothing except the skull. And orange light came out of her hair and there was glitter all around. And fire shot from her eye sockets and began to burn my stomach and she said, "WHERE DID THEY GET CHOCOLATE CAKE FROM?" And I said, "They asked for it!" And the children who had been singing praises to me... LIED on me and said, "Uh-uh! We asked for eggs and milk... AND DAD MADE US EAT THIS!" And my wife sent me to my room... which is where I wanted to go in the first place."

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HYZL-ToB1cA&feature=related

Kung Fu Treachery and Sagging Vaginas

With my workload finally reduced from giant overbearing deadlines to, well, the deadlines are still giant and overbearing, but there's no outside authority which will make me lose $60,000 if I don't get this one thing done on time…

Anyway, recently I have discovered more time to watch movies, and two recent pictures have made an impression on me. Neither film was my idea…the Connoisseur recommended the first, while I saw the second in theatres today with the Cameraman and another associate of ours.

Scott Sanders's Black Dynamite is on the one hand comparable to Grindhouse as a loving tribute to a classic 1970s genre ripe for sincere appreciation of its occasional ridiculousness. But while Tarantino and Rodriguez captured the motifs and atmosphere of old-school low-budget horror, they still produced their modern-day versions with immaculate professionalism. Sanders and co-writer/star Michael Jai White (who is PERFECT) go one further with what the Connoisseur appropriately described as a "PIXAR attention to detail." The same kind of stock available to Blaxploitation directors was used, and so were little low-budget gaffes and tricks such as boom mikes casting shadows on and sometimes appearing in interior sets, excessive split-screen, easy thrills such as broken windows, and mismatched overcutting for the action sequences. But did I mention the script is also really, really funny? Blaxploitation hallmarks such as the Vietnam flashback, the drug dealer preying on the innocent, the pimp fraternity, the out-of-place kung fu, and the evil white man's conspiracy are all beautifully set up (climaxing in a nunchuck-wielding certain former president), the musical score is devilishly apropos, and the cast plays it on the fine line it needs to be played on. I can't decide if my favorite moment is Black Dynamite's character-breaking frustration with the visible boom over his desk, the scene where the revolutionaries and good-hearted pimps use Greek mythology to deduce the nature of the evil plot, the fight scene with Dr. Wu ("Your knowledge of scientific biological transmogrification is only outmatched by your zest for kung-fu treachery!"), or possibly the greatest dick shot since Monty Python's Life of Brian. And so many quotable lines ("Sarcastically, I'm in charge."). Everyone with Netflix needs to watch it today.

Ricki Stern's Joan Rivers: A Piece of Work is notable for two things: the brilliantly obscene clips of Rivers's stand-up career, with hilarious jokes involving fourteen abortions, inappropriate nicknames for Michelle Obama, and certain drooping female body parts…and the emotion which breaks through her proudly plasticized face when she fires her longtime manager. Overcome with sadness, she describes how it killed her to let go of one of the only people who could talk to her about her late husband, who could say "Remember when Bernie Brillstein threw that party and Edgar was the only person who showed up in a black tie?" It made me realize how she was doing stand-up when my parents were younger than me and NO WOMEN did stand-up, and how much energy and talent she's used in 75 years. "I'm an actress," she says, "and a comedienne is only one of my roles." It's a role I think she plays brilliantly. And you notice the brilliance when you're not laughing at Melissa ripping Annie Duke a new asshole on The Celebrity Apprentice. Or Joan pulling out a miniature Lysol spray can and saying "I'm a Jewish woman! I have to clean the bathroom!"

OTHER MAGNIFICENCE.

Signed my lease today! I received a fantastic 3BR/2 Bath apartment, an MAC T-shirt, and a chocolate bar.

Call me a magnificent idiot for buying a pair of shorts labeled medium and then seeing they're 2XL after I rip off the tags. At least they fit…and they'll be nice in winter.

The locks at the Ratner Center don't like me.

And there's nothing I'm looking forward to more this week than getting to play trivia with the S.O. tomorrow.

Rest in peace (as much as you can), Harvey Pekar. American Splendor and the non-fiction histories redefined what a graphic novel can be. And your self-portraits had the most human beauty imaginable.

St. Paul and the 98-Pound Weakling (a.k.a Me)

“It is strength that endures the unendurable and spills over into joy…strength for the attaining of all steadfastness and patience.”

These are two different translations of Paul’s Letter to the Colossians, which I heard reflected on yesterday at church, and would have written about last night had there not been pressing business. This is the strength I am trying so hard now to gain and bolster within me, but it can be very hard…and oddly enough, it is the very successes I have in life which make it so difficult. Finding an apartment and securing an availability posting at a temp agency only remind me sometimes that I still do not have a permanent assignment and a living wage. And as I make more and more wise decisions and consider my position and myself with an increasingly critical and well-judging eye, my heart sometimes looks back to my past and sighs with thoughts of my folly, or more accurately, what I THINK was my folly. Taking classes at Emerson I never fully enjoyed to earn a degree which I ultimately wanted no part of…not taking more courses which would have helped me build a career…paying far too much for an apartment in Burbank where I did my best screenwriting but suffered under the dual woes of scabies and loneliness. There are times when I believe that for someone whom others consider intelligent, I have done far too many foolish things worthy of no one’s respect.

But then little things happen, like reading fifty chapters of Trollope in a day or writing two or three really good job applications and knowing that my work ethic is as fine-tuned and eager as ever. Reading a fantastic article by Nigel Bignall which sums up all the reasons I want to be a writer of non-fiction (http://www.standpointmag.co.uk/node/3156/full). Spending half an hour on the phone with Daddy as he listens to what I have to say and shares the wisdom of his fifty-six years with a son who is always and evermore ready to listen, or a little less but equally crucial time with the S.O. And listening to the words of God and saying my prayers.

My exercising gives me a strong body. My faith gives me a strong, patient spirit. The former shall pass away, but the latter I will never stop cultivating until I die.

OTHER MAGNIFICENCE
Four 1-0 wins in a row after a match where it looked like everyone wanted to kill each other. A little sad for the Netherlands, but it was a hell of a fun ride. Though the commentary hit an all-time low: “Beyond the gates open only to World Cup champions is still a never-never land for the Netherlands.” If only the S.O. had been there…

Both the Quarterly Gentleman and Anthony Trollope agree: Rome in July is no fun.

And why do I want to write non-fiction, asks the person who doesn’t have time to take a gander at my links? Well, Rev. Nigel Biggar of Oxford writes that the gift of the humanities is to one, introduce us to foreign worlds from other times which give us “the benefit of distance from our own world, and thereby the freedom to ask questions of it that we could never otherwise have conceived. In foreign worlds, past and present, they see and love and do things differently. And in reflecting upon that difference, it might occur to us from time to time that they see and love and do things better.” Two, by fostering our critical thinking, they instill within us truth, humility, and charity, and allow us to make better decisions. My first of what will hopefully be many books will touch on a way of thinking devised in a now foreign world which I believe carries a strong, strong message for a fractured world of today. And to put this truth in writing as no one else can is for me a true vocation.

And congratulations to the Wolverine and the Russian Warrior Princess for their successful journey!

Farewell to a Titan

In the Rostan Blogoverse, I'll call him the Titan.

I met him in April 2009 during my own Campus Days, and he "bestrode the mighty world like a Colossus." He was at least a head taller than anyone else (including, though I didn't know it yet, the Tall Guy) and every inch of his body was proportionately long. His face, arms, legs, all long…and he had a voice where once you heard him, you knew exactly who he was and you didn't want to stop listening. He had studied literature at Berkeley, lived in San Francisco, and was coming here to tackle a combination of Medieval and Russian works, usually with Christian themes. That night I went downtown with him and Little Miss Sunshine, and we had a marvelous time eating deep dish pizza. It was one of the periods in his life when he had a beard, but even then his smile just flashed from it.

The Titan and I reestablished our friendship at the first night at Woodlawn Tap in August, the night before the MAPH barbecue. He hadn't changed a bit…indeed the only things which changed about him during that year were his facial hair (the beard came and went, and I was stunned when I first saw it go) and his hair, which would sometimes be hidden by a fedora and was finally cut short. The more I got to know him, the more I cared about him. He was as nervous in some ways as I…I'll never forget going to a post-Thanksgiving potluck with him in Little Miss Sunshine's car where he fretted the whole way about what to write his thesis about. And he was always friendly, always good-natured, and could talk about deep ideas with the most tongue-twisting MAPHers; I could never get enough of hearing him discuss Homer and poetry in the Theories of Narrative course we took together. He was a great guy to watch movies with, a great guy to have long dinner conversations with, a great guy to watch White Sox games with…and as I learned, a hell of a dancer.

Tonight the Titan, having considered Ph. D. programs, writing a screenplay based on Mary Renault novels, or becoming a tea merchant, returned to San Francisco to decide his future there. I had to be at the farewell breakfast at the Pancake House (sorry, Goddess)…Little Miss Sunshine was there, too, and as we started together, we would end together. And I've been to a few MAPH farewells already this year, but the Titan's stuck out. As we passed our last moments for the time being together, it struck me how our friendship epitomized my overall relationship to this program. I was never quite as well-read as everyone, I didn't always understand what was going on, and I never will entirely…the breakfast conversation ended up mixing Christian theology and Lacanian feminism into a stew which remained obscure in some morsels…but I soaked up so many ideas and inspiration and deep, intellectual love. I couldn't have asked for much more, and I certainly couldn't have met many people better than the Titan…and I put my heart into our last embrace.

Godspeed, my dear man, and see you soon, be it with more writing under your belt or striding the mighty seas…

OTHER MAGNIFICENCE

Diego Forlan looks like Charlton Heston with a bit of Klaus Kinski in the eyes.

The only thing more enjoyable than watching Germany win an exciting third-place match with the S.O. is seeing the fruits of the S.O.'s labor: the most beautiful and cuddly indestructible killing machine ever. "EXTERMINATE!!!"

Line from Slate which made the S.O. crack up and which I wish I'd told the Philosophearl: "I don't think LeBron understands that words mean things."

And you know what? I think video games are art, and I'm not going to write an entire post about it. So there!

I can't believe I almost forgot this. After taking my leave of the S.O., I went over to Kenwood Cleaners to pick up my suit...and it turned out their DELIVERY CAR had been stolen with my suit in it. However, they will buy me a new suit. As the S.O. said, "I can't decide whether to be upset or amused or both."

The Perfect Stranger (minus the funny accent)

Facebook will probably be even more synonymous with the phrase "social network" once David Fincher's same-titled drama takes the film world by…well, not storm, cloud or virus maybe…this fall. Kind of weird for me because for half a decade, Facebook has been less and less social. Sure, it's a valuable communication tool for hosting dinner parties and such, but on the whole…I'll explain through maybe the greatest idea of my cinematic career, which Superman and I spent a few years working on: a web-savvy guy solves a murder by looking at the Facebook pages of people connected to the crime, then using their own personal information to get closer to them. Clever, sure, but not exactly social. We're basically looking at the lives of a few friends and even more complete strangers who pop up in their pictures and comment on the posts which, as the Permanent Guest suggested, almost no one else gives a damn about anyway. In a world where so many people are suffering from poverty, unemployment, or just plain loneliness, we connect through screens and clicks and types.

Or not connect at all. Lately, in my own compulsive Facebook trolling (yes, I'm guilty, too), I find myself becoming more and more fascinated with people I don't care about or people I've barely seen in years. Another case in point: a girl I knew from my alma mater, a gorgeous lesbian, keeps updating her profile with new pictures all the time, and I find myself fascinated by staring at her with other women, wondering what their relationship is and what they're doing. It feels wrong, but it's almost impossible to stop your imagination from running away and wanting more. Or I'll look at pictures of people I've met who probably wouldn't give me the time of day in person, or click on links and be distracted for half an hour. Lost in my own world and further and further from social.

All of this being said, I can't say Facebook is a negative influence on my life, for there is one thing I know to be more true than anything else. As fascinating as people on the other side of the country or the lovely old Sapphic acquaintance may be, none of them are the friends whose voices and presence keep me going. None of them, ESPECIALLY the aforementioned acquaintance, are the S.O., who makes my life so happy now in a time of uncertainty that I can't even imagine what our relationship will be like when my state of affairs becomes more settled.

Donald Miller writes that one of the great actions a Christian should strive to do is to love everybody, no matter what our minds or our common sense or even our hearts once in a while tell us. To be committedly social. And I hope I can carry on in that vein for the rest of my life.

Although when you want to have people over for a wine-fueled potluck, Facebook still comes in handy.

OTHER MAGNIFICENCE

Speaking of being loved by others, Mom of Superman posts on Facebook at least once a month how she wants me back in L.A. Warms the heart a great deal, although I closed today on that magnificent three-bedroom apartment for me, the Songwriter, and the Nice Guy.

I spent fifteen minutes this morning working out my future gym membership plans sans car or job locale, and felt pretty proud of myself when a solution emerged.

I can't read The Economist at the gym anymore…I rush through everything…but I know I have to start reading it again. Need to be on top of the world and not so insular.

Achewood is always magnificent, but the whole "gay sex in the back of the van" story is starting to really weird me out. And I miss Ray, Roast Beef, and Molly. And Cornelius, who probably comes the closest to me.

I put "The Night Watch" up as my desktop today…the Eighty Years' War is going to be refought on Sunday with exactly the same outcome. BET ON IT. And then go eat a gluttonous Dutch meal and feel guilty afterwards.

I have seen three feature-length films in IMAX. Only one of them, Shine a Light, was worth the ticket price. I'm hoping that the nineteen bucks I just spent on an opening-weekend seat for Inception won't give me cause for regret.

The King Is Dead, Long Live the...Wait...

I was wrong yesterday. This may be unchristian of me, but it doesn’t totally matter for a few hours. To quote the truly lamented Stephen Jay Gould, I now hate LeBron James with a hate which only love can understand.
The love of Cleveland, Ohio, if not the city, its rich history of professional sports, fostered since I was five years old in the summer of 1990 and Daddy took me to the bone-chilling (even on a summer’s day) Cleveland Stadium to see an Indians team which had a .500 season (and would lose 105 the next year) play Seattle, featuring a hotshot kid named Ken Griffey, Jr. I didn’t care that apart from Griffey these guys were all mediocre. I fell hard for the poetry of baseball, and the Indians became MY team. Just as the Cavaliers became MY team after Is aw a few games at Richfield Coliseum, and the Browns became MY team when I finally got used to Daddy watching or listening to them every Sunday. And I can remember 1995, when Progressive Field and Quicken Loans Arena were brand new and the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame and the Great Lakes Science Center were pristine and Tower City was the place to be and Cleveland was full of hope…even for my parents, who had seen the Drive and the Fumble and the Ehlo moment. There was nothing I looked forward to more in my pre-teen years, even through high school, than driving up the freeway to Cleveland for a game.
A decade later, we had lost two World Series, including a heartbreaking Game Seven to a shitty corporate enterprise called the Florida Marlins on my 13th birthday. The Browns left and were replaced by a new Browns with nobody who knew football running the team. The Cavaliers had been a non-entity since 1992. And the city was bankrupt, poverty-stricken, and no longer considered a potential tourist destination.
Then LeBron came, this teenager who could play like nobody since the two M.J.s retired, and suddenly the Cavs were contenders, and the Indians even had a miraculous upswing until the Curse of the Big Geek came upon them. But I’m losing the point. LeBron brought the hope back. He was personable, daring, and knew the game so brilliantly he could almost singlehandedly—in the free agent era!—give you a title. It was impossible not to love him.
That’s why last night hurt. I can understand switching to another team. I can understand wanting a certain situation for yourself. But to go on national TV, and create so much hype in the process, to casually rip the city you grew up in, the city which gave you everything, the city which held to you as the one shining beacon it had left? And never mind that this Decision (all respect to the King) might tarnish his legacy forever…
As the much superior Mr. Simmons wrote yesterday, “I think it's a cop-out. Any super-competitive person would rather beat Dwyane Wade than play with him. Don't you want to find the Ali to your Frazier and have that rival pull the greatness out of you? That's why I'm holding out hope that LeBron signs with New York or Chicago (or stays in Cleveland), because he'd be saying, "Fine. Kobe, Dwight and Melo all have their teams. Wade and Bosh have their team. The Celtics are still there. Durant's team is coming. I'm gonna go out and build MY team, and I'm kicking all their asses." That's what Jordan would have done. Hell, that's what Kobe would have done. In May, after the Cavs were ousted in the conference semifinals, I wrote that LeBron was facing one of the greatest sports decisions ever: "winning (Chicago), loyalty (Cleveland) or a chance at immortality (New York)." I never thought he would pick "HELP!"”
So…you crushed I don’t know how many spirits to enter a situation which will put your once-undisputed greatness into question.
“Winning is a huge thing for me.”
Enjoy the wins, LeBron.
Just know that in my heart of hearts, I love Cleveland and will not stop until the day I die…and I REALLY f**king hate Miami.

The Not-So-Dirty Jobs

There was an article in the Boston Globe today (http://www.boston.com/bostonglobe/ideas/articles/2010/07/04/what_happened_to_studying/?page=full) revealing that college students are studying less and less, and have been doing so for the past forty years. While I won't deny that, especially at Emerson, I frittered away a few nights with YouTube or fanfiction.net or reading volumes of film and music criticism which did little for me, the years of waking up at 5 a.m. in the summertime and ten-hour days at Boston Public or Regenstein have given me a work ethic. Today was living proof. Undaunted by little time to eat and two more rejections from prior job applications, I saw two apartments in Hyde Park this morning, had an interview (thanks to the Wolverine's referral) in the early afternoon at a fantastic temp agency, where I discovered I am incredibly proficient in the 2007 Microsoft Office and can type 65 wpm, and in the late afternoon put down the first payment on a fantastic apartment thanks to the industry of MAC. A very, very good show all around…and as I told the S.O., a day to make one wish to crash. But even crashing involves working…this is being written on a brief hiatus as, fueled by Trader Joe's wine and cookies, I continue my research into Anthony Trollope's life and work with A Tribute to Jack Johnson on the stereo (forgot how awesome it is). A Rostan's work may not involve being put down or pushed round, but it's never done.

OTHER MAGNIFICENCE

The farmer's market in Daley Plaza is a nice place to get more homemade goodies than I've ever seen anywhere else in this city.

Regent's Park reminds me of a location from Scorsese's Casino, full of 1970s-style luxury.

Bill Simmons, whom I now respect as America's great sports guru after reading every word in The Book of Basketball, brilliantly gave LeBron his seal of disapproval (http://sports.espn.go.com/espn/page2/story?page=simmons/100701). As sad as this might end up being, two decades of living and (usually) dying by Cleveland have almost inured me.

That being said…I f**king hate Miami sports.

Ringo Starr: Oh My My

Ringo Starr, 70

Seven times ten. What a perfect way to start this thing.

I was five years old, and Daddy was driving me to the Youngstown Jewish Community Center for preschool in his white Ford Tempo-slash-Taurus. By this time I had begun listening to the radio and watching VH1 with childish vigor, and was now curious to hear the cassettes of music Daddy had made himself which rested in the side pockets of the car. And having some notion of Daddy and Uncle Richard talking about the "Beatles," I picked Rubber Soul-Revolver one day and…I think from "Drive My Car" I was hooked.

But in retrospect, as I realize that Ringo Starr, who was 44 when I was born, is now 70 and thus signifying the aging of so many generations, I can remember the deep, funny, what my older self would call wry voice singing "What Goes On" and "Yellow Submarine." It didn't have much of the romantic passion of John, Paul, and George. It was something a kid could relate to. No wonder they would have him close out The White Album with a gorgeous lullaby…what better contrast was there to John Lennon's eight minutes of random noises and screams?

My Uncle Tom told me once that the secret of life is growing old without growing up. Ringo Starr never grew up. He played Mr. Conductor on TV and a goofy caveman in the movies. He had seven top ten hits in a row before any of the other Beatles, and most of them were the most brilliant and immaculate novelty numbers you could ask for. "You're Sixteen" with Paul on kazoo and Harry Nilsson's vocals. "Oh My My." "No No Song." (Though "It Don't Come Easy" and "Photograph" proved he could do serious pop-rock with the best of them.) He wrote songs about girls losing their hair and the flowerbeds of eight-legged aquatic creatures. And today he talks about peace and love and flashes the "V" with complete sincerity.

He also grew old in the best way…the age of experience. There have been many great drummers, but few knew how to play with metronome precision and still swing as hard as Ringo could, and by all accounts his own (bank) account is sitting pretty.

Plus, he married a Bond Girl, which is cool no matter what the S.O. says.

Ringo Starr, then, is a symbol of what might be accomplished by the ordinary human being who can take a few talents and use them in the right places at the right times. He's goofy, not that good looking, and has almost as many malapropisms as Yogi Berra. But just read all of the above again…he gives hope to the schlubs like me out there.

Happy Birthday, Ringo.

OTHER MAGNIFICENCE

The World Cup final will be a re-enactment of the Eighty Years' War…which the Dutch eventually won.

This morning 97.1 did a spiel about how the synthesizer was one of the keystones of classic rock…and immediately cut to Elton John's grand piano and the opening chords of "Levon."

There should be a natural law against being this humid.

Overheard in Hyde Park, an elderly black man talking to his wife: "Why should I care who the governor of Vermont is?"

And during a busy hour looking at four apartments, I can only inwardly roll my eyes as my gorgeous leasing representative moans how she hates working out and can't do it as much as she wants to.

Introduction

So…my name is Andrew J. Rostan. An ordinary man with slightly out-of-the-ordinary hopes and dreams, partially influenced by earning two degrees in subjects which have no immediate useful application to the world. I live in Chicago, Illinois where I have a plethora of amazing friends and a significant other more wonderful than I deserve. And when I'm not either a) working hard or b) curled up with a good book and a glass of wine, I love to write.

 

I kept two different blogs from 2007 to 2009, the ashes of which are still clinging to the silken threads of the World Wide Web. I got a thrill out of producing entries, and only abandoned them because of graduate school (the first because of the application process taking over my life, the second because of the actual studying taking over my life). But now school is over for good (probably), stress relief is a necessity, and my obsession with biography (which is part of the hopes and dreams) has given me a new interest in the art of posterity.

 

Therefore, I am mounting the third, and idiomatically charming, try. "Andrew J. Rostan's 'The Magnificent Seven.'" Why did I name the blog this? Three reasons.

 

1. As my dear friend The Minstrel* has told me on many occasions, while I don't think my life is that magnificent, he does, and he believes the rest of the world does, too.
   
2. I want to make sure I write something EVERY DAY, so sometime after sunset in Chicago, I shall type seven lines, minimum, about something I thought about today or something amazing I did. It will probably go longer most days, but I know that I can write seven lines at the end of the day even if I'm brain-dead or slightly tipsy. And by lines, I mean "full-across-the-page" lines on Microsoft Word's Blog Post feature. The subject matter of those lines? It could be a book I'm reading, a movie I saw, a record I heard, a fun event I went to, a comment on an article from Arts & Letters Daily or The Economist or Vanity Fair (my three big news sources), a meditation on God (I am a devout Episcopalian), or just some random thought blowing across my mind. But I promise I shall always try to make these thoughts interesting…and brief, so you can come for a minute or two, read, enjoy, and move on…but maybe be a little inspired, or with a sudden urge to try a new recipe or cultural artifact. That would be nice.
   
3. It gives me a reason to keep Yul Brynner and Steve McQueen in my background.
   

 

So…come by every day for one new glimpse into my world. It may not always be done well, but I take a little satisfaction that I can do it at all.

 

*Just so you all know, while I shall always take credit for my opinions and occasional idiocy, my friends are so great that I don't want to write anything which will embarrass them for potential employers and career partners. Therefore, with the exception of me, Mommy, and Daddy, everybody will get an appropriate alias…and believe me, coming up with that part will be half the fun ;)