December 3, 2009
Tiger, The Babe, & Lardner’s “Champion”
Ring Lardner
Tiger Woods cheated on his wife with some cocktail waitresses and the world is a-twitter.
How did we get here?
Perhaps it was around the time of Watergate and Ball Four, the early ’70s, when journalists decided that it would be better — more profitable — to start hero-bashing. And from its humble start, this sport has grown — fed by the 24-hour news cycle, the internet, and perhaps Joe the Plumber’s grave dissatisfaction with the complexity of modern life — to something approaching ritual. We have human gods (i.e. celebrities) now; we look up to them, we feel idiotic for doing so, and we must kill them, so to speak, to regain our self-respect. But this is an error: such a good can only be the fruit of creation, not destruction. But nevertheless we moderns delight in destruction.
Somewhere Babe Ruth is winking. The Tiger Woods of baseball was never crucified publicly for his private failures. The Bambino, a married man, bedded scores of bimbos during his heyday and often played drunk, but who knew? When he once famously puked on third base after legging out a triple, fans simply assumed he was a bit tired. The Fourth Estate exchanged knowing winks in the press box and kept their traps shut, so Little Billy could keep his untarnished image of the Babe.
Ring Lardner was a contemporary of the The Sultan of Swat, and he fictionalized the media’s sugar-coating of sports heroes in “Champion.” This story, from his collection How to Write Short Stories (1924), is the humorous and disturbing account of a talented boxer, Midge Kelly, who scores his first knockout at seventeen — the “knockee” being his younger, crippled brother. He then beats up his own mother, and runs away from home. On the path to boxing glory the man cheats a legion of trainers, friends and women — financially, emotionally, sexually. For instance, he leaves his bride the day after their wedding and when she later writes begging for a little money so that their child won’t starve, he ignores her. He treats his forgiving and needy kin the same way. One can imagine even Tyson wincing at the inhuman nature of this “champ.”
At story’s end a reporter interviews Midge’s trainer and gets a sugary tale of a young man who says his prayers and loves his family and all the rest. So that’s the story that’s published in the paper. And even if any aggrieved party had challenged the story, or come out with the brutal truth, it wouldn’t have made print. As the editor would have said, “You can’t print that. People don’t wanna see him knocked down. He’s champion.”
How times have changed.
February 16, 2009
Korean Youth: “Hitler is Cutie Boy”
"Cutie Boy"
"Vanilla Man"?
The middle school speaking test always brings out an eccentric answer or two:
Q: “Who do you admire most? Why?”
Minho: “Hitler. Because he is cutie boy and belly blaybuh [very brave].”
I glance at the other children — a few are dozing off, foreheads smack down on the table; some are fidgeting restlessly, scanning their cheat sheets, scared out of their minds. I calculate Hitler Youth’s score, trying to erase any political or moral biases on my part.
Still, I can’t help feeling a little angry. How would he feel if I declared an admiration for Hirohito or Tojo or someone like that? Maybe he wouldn’t understand my Korean, though. Maybe he would understand me but wouldn’t care. Look at him — smiling all smugly at me. Maybe the kid’s a nihilist. Or maybe he’s insane. Hitler was insane. Is the boy?
No, no; he’s not insane. In all likelihood he was only joking, only trying to drive me insane. But he should know that pissing me off could result in me flunking his ass. And no Korean kid is a nihilist when it comes to test scores, God help them.
I take a breath and give the kid an eight out of ten. “At least he said something,” I think.
Back to the test. Once again, the question is: “Who do you admire most, and why?” Standard responses: King Sejong (the man who is said to have invented hangeul, the Korean alphabet), Helen Keller, Nelson Mandela, Thomas Edison, etc.
Some students give reasons; some don’t. Others scratch their heads, shrug, say “Sorry.” One kid says “Oh shit” in a garbled voice and grins. I yawn. Next…
“I admire Lincoln,” a boy says solemnly. “He gave freedom to chocolate man.”
February 15, 2009
“Status Anxiety” – Alain de Botton
Excerpts from the introduction:
Status Anxiety
A worry, so pernicious as to be capable of ruining extended stretches of our lives, that we are in danger of failing to conform to the ideals of success laid down by our society and that we may as a result be stripped of dignity and respect; a worry that we are currently occupying too modest a rung or are about to fall to a lower one (viii).
It’s easy to feel this particular anxiety as an expat in Korea.
Let’s say you’re a hagwon teacher here. Depending on where you’re from, your status is quite high considering you’ve graduated from college (which only a quarter of adults in America have done).
Yet in Itaewon and Hongdae and other spots where expats gather en masse we have many opportunities to meet “Masters of This” and “Doctors of That,” teaching at universities, making more money, getting more holidays… These encounters with people of higher status can diminish one’s self-respect: “Why aren’t I in his shoes? What’s wrong with me?”
The anxiety is provoked by, among other elements, recession, redundancy, promotions, retirement, conversations with colleagues in the same industry, newspaper profiles of the prominent and the greater success of friends. Like confessing to envy (to which the emotion is related), it can be socially imprudent to reveal the extent of any anxiety and, therefore, evidence of the inner drama is uncommon, limited usually to a preoccupied gaze, a brittle smile or an over-extended pause after news of another’s achievement.
I met a guy about my age last night in Hongdae; he’s a professor at a good university in Seoul. He probably makes, like, twice my salary. He works ten hours a week, has time to write books, to DJ at local clubs, [probably also to copulate with many of his female students.] And after saying, “Aw shucks, I can’t dance,” he turned out to be a pretty good dancer. Anyway, he made me feel a touch of envy and anxiety.
If our position on the ladder is a matter of such concern, it is because our self-conception is so dependent upon what others make of us. Rare individuals aside (Socrates, Jesus), we rely on signs of respect from the world to feel tolerable to ourselves.
"No status anxiety - aye, 'tis sweet!"
Oh, to escape this meritocratic world and return to the feudal chains of medieval Europe. Then, my antecendents felt none of this status anxiety. The king would be king, the lords would be lords, as God willed it, and peasants would be peasants, forever trailing the rounds of a smelly ox, also as God willed it.
For a peasant to question his station vis-à-vis his social betters would have been ludicrous. Meritocratic conceptions lay far in the future.
More regrettably still, status is hard to achieve and even harder to maintain over a lifetime. Except in societies where it is fixed at birth and our veins flow with noble blood, our position hangs on what we can achieve; and we may fail due to stupidity or an absence of self-knowledge, macro-economics or malevolence.
As de Botton mentions later in the book, we can take philosophical solace in the fact that “the lot of us” – worldly failures and successes alike – “will ultimately end up as that most democratic of substances: dust.”
Take that, Mr. $3,500-a-month Uni Prof!
And from failure will flow humiliation: a corroding awareness that we have been unable to convince the world of our value and are henceforth condemned to consider the successful with bitterness and ourselves with shame.
But it doesn’t have to be this way: As shown above, de Botton offers us solutions in the second half of the book.
Thesis
That status anxiety possesses an exceptional capacity to inspire sorrow.
That the hunger for status, like all appetites, can have its uses: spurring us to do justice to our talents, encouraging excellence, restraining us from harmful eccentricities and cementing members around a common value system. But, like all appetites, its excesses can also kill.
That the most profitable way of addressing the condition may be to attempt to understand and to speak of it.
If you’ve read this far, you won’t regret checking out the book!
February 14, 2009
Canadian Expat Goes 13 Days Without Pre-emptively Telling People He’s From Canada.
SEOUL — Digger Smythe just survived a rough couple weeks. Friends say the 25-year-old from Fairfax, Manitoba has noticeably aged, with pronounced dark circles and emerging gray hairs. What the heck happened?
“I had a bet goin’ with a couple of friends about who was gonna go the longest time without sayin’ they’re Canadian. I mean, of course if in class if a student asked us where we’re from we’d tell ‘em the truth, but I mean weren’t allowed to tell people who didn’t ask us first. And we weren’t allowed to show it on our clothes; like, we couldn’t wear any clothes that said ‘Canada’ or had the maple leaf on ‘em. It was fuckin’ nuts.”
Including Digger, fifteen Canadians agreed to take part in the $500 prize, winner-take-all contest. After Day One, however, only four remained.
"We're out of the contest!"
Mr. Smythe explains:
“Well, you know, we were all at a bar in Itaewon and we see some people and we could tell by looking at ‘em they weren’t Canadians. So my friend Liz goes up to ‘em and asks one of ‘em, ‘Where you from?’ and the girl says ‘Florida’ and we’re all like, ‘Yuck, American!’ Then she asked the other guy and he says New Zealand and Liz is like, ‘Well, that’s better, I guess’. Then the Kiwi guy is like all sarcastic and he says, ‘Sorry for not being Canadian,’ and Liz is like, ‘Fuck you, how did you know we’re Canadian?’ So she was out first.”
“And then my buddy Trevor was out next – it’s pretty funny but actually he was wearing his Canada hoodie the whole time we were out and just no one noticed it. And his girlfriend Lindsay finally caught him, she pointed to his hoodie and was like ‘Gotcha!’ And he said he was screwed anyway because he doesn’t have any clothes or bags or anything that don’t have the Canada logo on ‘em.”
Asked about the veracity of the story, Trevor said, “Yeah, I mean, I hate to say it but Americans really piss me off and if anyone says to me, ‘Oh, are you American?’ it totally ruins my fuckin’ day. I mean, Americans are the most arrogant, patriotic assholes – how would you like it if someone thought you were one of them? All the fucking time? Canadians have a lot of pride, you know, and if you ask us why we’re so proud we’ll say, Cuz we’re not fuckin’ American! end of story.”
On Day 13 two finalists remained: Digger and his pal from Newfoundland, Buck McPherson.
“It was last Friday night and we were having a party with Trevor’s class from the hagwon and so we had some samgyup and then the guys left and it was only me, my buddy Buck, and two Korean chicks – one was this fat walrus but the other was pretty fuckin’ fine. So Buck and I get a little smashed and we’re both hittin’ on the hottie – her English name is Rachel – and we’re like fighting over her and whatever. But we also wanna win the bet; I mean, it’s winner-take-all and I didn’t just waste two weeks of my life for nothing. But this girl was pretty hot.
“So Buck says to me, ‘Does this chick know where we’re from?’ and I’m like I don’t know dude. So we’re sitting there, thinking about all the possibilites and ramifications and shit. Like, once she knows you’re Canadian it should be pretty smooth sailing, but, you know, to hook up with her you gotta be the first to say it. But if you say it you lose the contest. You know what I’m sayin’? You see how insane the whole situation was? Hook up with a hot chick, or win, like, a week’s salary. It’s a pretty tough conundrum.
“Then it looks like the fat girl wants to go home and Rachel looks like she wants to join her; she’s grabbing her purse. So Buck and I realize it’s now and never with this chick and he’s like, ‘Screw the money; let’s screw her’ and stuff but we’re also thinking about the money in the back of our minds.”
Digger then continued rambling about his extraordinary dilemma. Let us excuse him from the role of narrator, and let a bit of dialogue suffice to finish the story:
“I’m – I’m – ” Digger begins.
Rachel looks at him.
“I’m from – ” Buck counters.
“Don’t say it, prick,” Digger growls.
“Can you guess where I’m from?” Buck asks Rachel.
“Why didn’t I think of that?” Digger says.
“Um,” Rachel thinks.
“Not the States,” Buck says.
“No hints, fucker!” Digger says.
“Um, England?”
“No-o,” Digger says. “Now it’s my turn. Guess about me.”
“I ask where you from?” Rachel asks.
“Right. Where I’m from.”
“You from, um, France?”
“France?!”
“No?”
“No! I speak English! How the fuck can I be from France?”
“OK, OK,” Buck interrupts. “Me again.”
“This game is boring,” says the fat girl.
“Well, congratulations,” Digger says.
“What?”
“My turn,” Buck says.
“What did you say?” repeats the fat girl.
“Nothing.”
“What do I get if I guess right?” Rachel asks.
“Something nice. You’ll see.”
She frowns. “I don’t understand.”
“Just guess where I’m from,” Buck says.
“Do I have to?”
“Yes! Guess!”
“Australia.”
“What?”
“Australia.”
“You think I sound Australian?”
“Me again,” Digger says.
The fat girl grabs her purse.
“Let’s go,” she tells Rachel in Korean. “These guys are fucking creepy.”
They stand up.
“Hey, where you goin’?” Digger asks.
“Home,” says Rachel.
“But we haven’t finished the game.”
“Don’t worry. You can finish playing with each other.”
The girls walk, a little wobbly, toward the door. The men stand and pursue. A beer glass falls and shatters upon the floor.
“You’re really goin’?” calls Digger. “You can’t go.”
“Bye,” the girls chorus, following this with giggly put-downs in their native tongue. They walk to a taxi.
Digger and Buck stand on the sidewalk watching Rachel get in the taxi.
“Hey,” calls Buck. “Don’t go yet!”
Rachel peers at him from the darkness of the taxi.
“I’m Canadian!” Buck says.
The door closes; the vehicle speeds away.
Buck stares disconsolately at the receding taxi. Digger punches his arm and, smiling widely, gestures back toward the bar.
“Hey buddy, this round’s on me.”
Buck turns to his friend.
“Thanks, asshole.”
February 12, 2009
Public Ballad-Singing Among Asian Metrosexuals.
SEOUL — Sometimes I’ll be walking in the park and notice a young metrosexual – someone who looks like the guy on the right: 
He’ll be walking and singing a ballad.
Upon noticing me it seems he sings a bit louder and brings out more passion in his facial expressions. Maybe I’m dumb – Is this the universal call of challenging one to a singing duel, may the best bard win? Or like what they have in the ghetto, those rapping contests?
Maybe it’s like a peacock flaunting its feathers - this guy flaunting his song at a fellow male, challenging him, showing dominance over him. “Look at me - I can sing, and sing well, and female birds will want to mate with me (instead of you, song-less mute).”
This phenomenon is not limited to Korea.
A fortnight ago at Manila Int’l Airport, clerks at a duty-free shop displayed similar behavior:
I approached a display of dried mangoes; a clerk turned to me and continued singing, “… baby you know it’s true…”
I turned to the boxed sets of chocolates; another clerk was singing, unabashed, throwing his face up and closing his eyes in passionate intensity: “… you make me wanna be, the man I wanna be…”
Where I’m from, white suburbia, such public ballad-crooning by males - sans instrument, collection box, or karaoke machine - rings a bit, um, gay.
Why this cultural gap? Can we divide the world on the basis of those who feel the right to sing freely, and those who do not?
versus 
???
November 16, 2008
The Grinch Who Killed Halloween
Pagans, I guess
- I admit, I have no idea what the thing was. Perhaps it was a fungus detector, there so the boys could delight in seeing exactly how filthy their ne’er-washed hands are.
- Koreans ask one another “What’s your blood type?” like some westerners ask, “What’s your sign?” Some think that blood types show insight into one’s personality. Up until recently I had no idea what my own blood type was, a fact met by students with shock and disbelief. To them, not knowing my own blood type was like not knowing my own age. So now I know my blood type is “O”: So what? It means I’m supposedly “agreeable, sociable, an optimist,” yet on the bad side, “vain, rude, dominant.” That is, one part Norman Vincent Peale and one part Hitler.
- In the 9th century, Pope Gregory IV moved All Saints’ Day forward in the calendar so that it was to be celebrated on the same day as Halloween, perhaps evidence of the then-common practice of dressing old pagan rituals and customs with a Christian veneer.
- Don’t get me wrong — I really wasn’t that impressed with the book at the time, and am not sure I actually finished it. Rather, I was quite impressed with other things, like the brand new one-timer function in NHL ’94.
September 13, 2008
Korean Parents, Hagwon: Pernicious to Life
It’s the weekend of “Chew-suck,” a.k.a. Korean Thanksgiving.
“Happy Chuseok,” I chanted to a trio of tremendous middle-school students. “Are you excited about Chuseok?”
“No way,” replied a girl.
“What?”
“I have to go to hagwon every day during the vacation,” she whined.
Hagwon are after-school academies, the Korean equivalent of, say, a Sylvan Learning Center. The thing is, in Korea almost every kid goes these academies. You can see kids of all ages out walking the streets well past midnight; they’re either heading home or walking to yet another academy, to study more English, Math, Science, Art, etc.
“Why don’t you tell your mom and dad,” I advise the girl, “that you’re not going to any stupid hagwon this holiday.”
She laughed dismissively. “If I did that my parents would kill me.”
Knowing how insane many Korean parents evidently are, maybe she’s not kidding. A few of these parents are crazy enough that they are reported to have had the base of their kids’ tongues cut (for more flexibility of the tongue, for better English pronunciation, duh). While most parents here do not subscribe to such methods, many are so desperate and thoughtless in their quest to give their brood a social advantage that only slightly less inhuman means are accepted as a matter of course.
Ask teenagers here about their hobbies and you’ll get one of two answers: if a boy, it’s “computer games.” If a girl, it’s “Well, I used to play the piano, draw, etc., but I don’t have time for that anymore.”
The poor things don’t know how to have fun, how to be spontaneous, creative, independent, adventurous. They only learn how to get good scores on school tests. And maybe, if afforded the rare moment to think, they’d learn how terrible and sad their lives are. And how their own parents have created this hell.
Ask a Korean adult about this and he or she might say, “Yes, it’s not good, but Korea is such a small country — we have many people but not many natural resources — so it has to be really competitive like this. We have no choice.”
That’s bullshit. Look back a generation or two. Same circumstances — small country, many people. But kids then didn’t attend hagwon; in fact, they were banned from doing so throughout most of the 1980s (because then-dictator Chun Doohwan, so they say, didn’t want to let his birdbrain son fall too far behind his peers).
And, on a broader scale, people in a country have to decide when to stop sacrificing themselves on the altar of economic growth. Following capitalism’s demands is killing adults and kids alike. Same, to a slightly different extent, in America.
(How refreshing to visit Cambodia and see the kids there playing, running around, laughing all day — like, well, kids. They and their parents seem to be telling the “civilized” world: “Fuck money; we’re going to be happy.” And they are, without a doubt, a lot happier than us rich bastards.)
Koreans 35 and older reminisce fondly on childhood. Kids today, on the other hand, are lucky if they survive it.
Perhaps Koreans have always been worried about education. Be that as it may, there’s no doubt that nouveau riche academy owners are masters at exploiting this fear. “Don’t let your kid fall behind,” is the marketing mantra. Thus fed to a populace that considers “falling behind the Kims” to be nothing if not sinful, profits are maximized.
These fat cats are laughing all the way to the bank; meantime more and more parents are digging their sons’ and daughters’ graves — physical, mental and emotional ones, if not real ones.
It’s no surprise that the Korean birthrate is so low; no surprise the suicide rate is, conversely, so high. And no surprise that the stratification of classes, the gap between classes, is increasing.
This farce must end.
So what must be done?
1. All hagwon classes must end by 5:00pm.
2. Any parent caught sending their child to an illegal hagwon class is to be fined $1,000.
3. The parents of any child caught at a hagwon past midnight are to be jailed for a month.
Oh, what a wonderful world that would be!
August 3, 2008
The Surreal Charm of Save Me the Waltz
Original jacket art
Zelda Fitzgerald wrote her only published novel, Save Me the Waltz, while being treated for schizophrenia at Johns Hopkins Hospital, in 1932.
It’s a semi-autobiographical story about a beautiful, fun-loving Southern girl, Alabama Beggs, who marries a successful painter, David Knight. Despite their shared travels and adventures in Europe, she is bored and not a little jealous of her husband, for — through his work, his career — David has found what may be called his “justification for existing.”
In a search for her own raison d’être, Alabama throws her body and soul into ballet. She is successful, yet a foot injury cuts short her promising career. Alabama and David then return home to the South, where they lead unhappy lives. At novel’s end, Alabama compares the act of dumping ashtrays with her habit of self-purgation: “It’s very expressive of myself. I just lump everything in a great heap which I have labeled ‘the past,’ and, having thus emptied this deep reservoir that was once myself, I am ready to continue.”
~~~~~
The New York Times ridiculed the “almost ludicrous lushness of writing,” a lushness one can nonetheless find charming and captivating.
The tone of the book is Expressionist and surreal. It’s also funny. For proof, we have the following excerpt (pp. 164-5): Alabama brings her daughter, Bonnie, over to her boardinghouse room in Naples, Italy, where Alabama is rehearsing for her debut with the ballet company.
The Easter table was decorated with lugubrious crosses made of dried palmetto leaves. There was gnocchi and vino da Capri for dinner, and a purple card with cupids pasted in the centre of gold radiations resembling medals of state. In the afternoon they walked along the pulverized white roads and up the steep alleys gashed with bright rags hung out to dry in the glare. Bonnie waited in her mother’s room while Alabama prepared for rehearsal. The child amused herself by sketching in the rocker.
“I cannot make a good likeness,” she announced, “so I have changed to caricature. It is Daddy when he was a young man.”
“Your father’s only thirty-two,” said Alabama.
“Well, that’s quite old, wouldn’t you say?”
“Not so old as seven, my dear.”
“Oh, of course — if you count backwards,” agreed Bonnie.
An extraordinarily unique artist, Zelda Fitzgerald — paying what she described to her famous husband, Scott, as “a pretty emotional penny” — poured her heart into Save Me the Waltz. While not a perfect book, it can be an enjoyable read.
Zelda Fitzgerald
March 13, 2008
Iowa City, 2001
Stew emerged from the darkness with a chess set. “Here we go,” he said, and placed it on the living room table. He blew; dust danced in the air. “Maybe this will get our minds off the war. Before we kill each other.”
“Maybe, but you’re still wrong, ass,” Lars said. “Don’t deny it. By the way, if you guys get bored you can play Madden — just keep it down.” “That’s okay,” Stew said. “I got my wine.” Lars set the oak pieces upon the checkered board while Ian grabbed a bag of Doritos. Then the board was set and it was quiet. One could hear brains clicking and whirring like supercomputers with strategy.
“Yes,” Stew said and sipped his merlot. “We will play chess and we will like chess. Chess is a game of war but it is a good game.”
“Ha-ha,” Ian said sarcastically.
Socrates tugged his beard. “Ah, indeed, in all likelihood that statement is fine and true; let us now direct our attention to the match, for our friends are set — their kings, queens, rooks, bishops, knights and pawns.”
Lars spotted the Doritos. “You’re gonna eat those?” he asked Ian.
“Yeah, why not?”
“You’ll get cheese powder all over the fucking pieces.”
“I’ll wipe my hands.”
“No you won’t. Wipe ‘em on what? — the fucking carpet?”
“I’ll get napkins.”
“Fuck that, no you won’t. You’ll be distracted by me kicking your ass in the game and you’ll forget to wipe your hands. And you’ll ruin the pieces. And these are expensive fucking pieces. My grandfather bought the set in England.”
“Ooh, England,” Ian said. “And the merchant told him, ‘Ye be wary of the cheese powder’.”
Stew laughed and looked at Socrates, who smiled politely back.
“Don’t eat ‘em!”
Ian chucked the bag over the table and Lars’ head, onto the couch.
“Plus, you’d probably’ve made crunching noises to distract me,” Lars concluded.
“I’ll make crunching noises for him,” Stew said.
“I’ll crunch your ass, fag.”
Stew laughed again.
They played a thoughtful game; Socrates and Stew snacked on chips, beer and wine as they watched from the couch. When Ian called his first checkmate, Stew commented, “Looks like trouble for Lars.” “Uh, shut up,” Lars said, eyes fixed on the board. Socrates enjoyed the long, contemplative quiet and at match’s end grabbed another beer from the fridge. Dutiful Socrates made a libation to Athene, sipped his beer and spoke: “Though it has not been invented yet where I am from — not to criticize the Athenian mind, for it is noble and has introduced many fair games to the populace — I can say with certainty that chess is a most extraordinary game.”
“Why’s that?” Ian asked.
“Chess ennobles its participants with virtue. Like a good knife it sharpens the mind; like the fairest virgin it builds the honorable habit of patience. Because even when you have realized the keenest move possible, you must wait for your opponent to move first. And that is a noble and good thing. I would like to take chess back to Athens with me, but I know such action you would find disagreeable.”
“No, not at all. See all that dust? Go ahead and take it. We’ll probably forget it’s gone.”
“No,” he chuckled. “It is your game — chess — and I am not of a gullible mind and am sure that you play this excellent game very often and would terribly miss it and become sore at me if I took it. Taking chess from you — that I cannot do.”
“Take it!” Stew said, drunk. “We are a generous people. And, besides, we got a PlayStation. Who needs chess when you got a fucking PlayStation?”
“I may be an old man, and the gods may have taken away the sharpness of my senses — that I cannot deny — but even the most forlorn dead in Hades knows that no enjoyable play-station can fit inside this modest dwelling of yours. Even so, I appreciate your efforts to grant xenia to me, a helpless stranger in this forbidding town. I am but an old man, long dead, alone without my wife Xanthippe, my dear old friends, our dear old talks at the agora in Athens. I even do miss the blood-bestrewn battles of our youth, as at Delium… By Zeus! I do not mean to bore you. I but fancy to say: Miss chess, I will. Nonetheless, my friend Plato has a fairly adequate play-station, where slaves provide me with drink when I am thirsty and food when I am hungry, as good slaves are wont to do.”
Someone knocked at the door and a pleasing aroma aroused everyone’s appetite. Socrates rose and opened the door. Words flew like butterflies from his mouth:
“Welcome! Come in, do come in! O, a fair maiden — young, Telemachus’s age, with red cheeks, dark brown hair curling about the face, and a most healthy bosom! Tell us, who are you and where do you come from? Are you among a roving gang of costumed bandits of whom we had seen so many yester-day? — those who walk from home to home, demanding treats and threatening heinous trickery if not satisfied? Or are you a messenger from the land of Sadness, where constant tears provide a river to wash in and drink from, so that the sad people are never dirty nor thirsty? Do you come from a place such as Laestrygonia, where ignorant Cyclopes care nothing for almighty Zeus who bears the aegis? And, pray tell, what is inside the box you hold before me? O, perhaps it is a punishment from the gods which will bring us to ruin! Yes, I fear you bring the Furies which mighty Odysseus overcame with such arete as we can not possess. Please, do tell me your story.”
“I’m from Papa John’s,” the girl said. With a look of mild alarm she peered around Socrates and found Lars, who sat at the kitchen table strumming an acoustic guitar. With a movement of facial muscles he apologized to her for Socrates.
“Large pepperoni, right?” the girl asked.
“Uh, yeah,” Lars nodded. “That’s us.”
Ian, reclined on the old plum recliner, pointed to the end table. “Uh, Socrates, will you do me a favor and hand her that twenty?”
Socrates stared blankly at the end table, then at Ian.
“That twenty-dollar bill,” continued Ian.
Socrates considered. “I regret that I do not yet enjoy the acquaintance of this Twenty Dollar Bill of whom you presently speak.”
Ian sat up. “That green piece of crumply paper with the number twenty on it and a picture of Andrew Jackson!”
Socrates picked up the twenty and broke into a fit of giggles. “I knew of what you were speaking; only I fancied to make a joke.”
Stew laughed appreciatively. “Nice.”
Now Socrates offered the bill to the girl in a curious lavish gesture, his offering arm stretched out, his chin proudly raised — perhaps a fashion learned from his father many years ago. The girl handed him the pizza box and stepped back into the yellow tint of the hallway. With that look of a young woman who is unsure whether she ought be frightened or amused, she bit her lip and awaited his next words.
Socrates looked down at the box and back up to the girl. “Do send our dearest thanks to Papa John,” he said solemnly.
The girl cracked up; snot splattered above her lip. She wiped it with the sleeve of her red jacket. Red-cheeked from the cold, eyes wet, body tense, she sniffed and smiled.
Without knowing why, Socrates smiled back.
“You’re unreal,” she murmured.
Socrates clasped his hands like a benevolent priest.
“Well, have a good one.” She turned and walked away down the hallway.
“Farewell,” Socrates said.
Socrates vomits from the pizza but enjoys Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon. Of movies he expresses spellbound amazement, fainting thrice. Afterward, Socrates declares that children may have neither the maturity nor understanding to watch certain moving pictures without suffering profound psychological trauma. He suggests, with the loving mindfulness of a good parent, that children should play chess instead.
And that, my friends, is why Chess is the Greatest Game.
March 9, 2008
Brian Glanville and the Three Wise Monkeys
Brian Glanville might be the best sportswriter in the world. His Story of the World Cup is a classic, and his weekly articles provide vivid and entertaining commentary on the world of soccer. Here is a sample of his writing: (World Soccer, 8 May 2002)
AN OUNCE of prevention is worth a ton of cure, and it was surely suicidal to allow Birmingham City fans to attend the return play off against Millwall at the New Den.
Having said which, my Deep Throat, who observed the brutal, subsequent violence from the front line, assures me that it was the worst he had ever seen, that some 900 thugs attacked the police with every kind of missile and with flares, and that the police themselves behaved with astonishing bravery. Reinforced a full hour after the trouble was at its height, the police were successfully preventing the Millwall rioters from attacking the Birmingham fans.
One of the most sick aspects of the riot was that the cars of hapless local residents were attacked, burned or had their windows smashed. This in an area largely inhabited by poor people.
One assumed, though without any certainty, that the usual Millwall apologists, who emulate the Three Wise Monkeys won’t be as tiresomely evident as usual. Though they will have been pleased to read a Daily Telegraph match report which doesn’t even mention the violence.
Much as if a critic had attended the theatrical performance where President Abraham Lincoln was assassinated by John Wilkie Booth and merely written a review of the play. But as my Deep Throat remarked, this was, however appalling, only the latest of the season’s riots outside the ground, beginning with the so-called August friendly against Spurs.
One can’t see the police successfully suing Millwall as they might try; but you could even see the New Den being forced to close down.
Glanville often uses that maxim, three wise monkeys. It’s a good maxim. Here’s a description of it from Wikipedia:
The three wise monkeys (Japanese: 三猿, san’en or sanzaru, or 三匹の猿, sanbiki no saru, literally “three monkeys”) are a pictorial maxim. Together they embody the proverbial principle to “see no evil, hear no evil, speak no evil”. The three monkeys are Mizaru, covering his eyes, who sees no evil; Kikazaru, covering his ears, who hears no evil; and Iwazaru, covering his mouth, who speaks no evil.
Sometimes there is a fourth monkey depicted with the three others; the last one, Shizaru, symbolizes the principle of “do no evil”. He may be covering his abdomen or crotch, or just crossing his arms.
Origin
The source that popularized this pictorial maxim is a 17th century carving over a door of the famous Tōshō-gū shrine in Nikkō, Japan. The maxim, however, probably originally came to Japan with a Tendai-Buddhist legend, possibly from India via China in the 8th century (Yamato Period).
In Chinese, a similar phrase exists in the Analects of Confucius: “Look not at what is contrary to propriety; listen not to what is contrary to propriety; speak not what is contrary to propriety; make no movement which is contrary to propriety” (非禮勿視， 非禮勿聽，非禮勿言， 非禮勿動).[1] It may be that this phrase was shortened and simplified after it was brought into Japan.
Though the teaching had nothing to do with monkeys, the concept of the three monkeys originated from a word play. The saying in Japanese is “mizaru, kikazaru, iwazaru” (見ざる, 聞かざる, 言わざる, or with the suffix in kanji, 見猿, 聞か猿, 言わ猿), literally “don’t see, don’t hear, don’t speak”. Shizaru is likewise written し猿, “don’t do”. In Japanese, zaru, which is an archaic negative verb conjugation, is the same as zaru, the vocalized suffix for saru meaning monkey (it is one reading of 猿, the kanji for monkey). Therefore, it is evident how the monkeys may have originated from what one would see as an amusing play on words.
In English, the monkeys’ names are often given as Mizaru, Mikazaru, and Mazaru. [2] [3] It is not clear how the last two names changed from the Japanese originals.
Meaning of the proverb
Just as there is disagreement about the origin of the phrase, there are differing explanations of the meaning of “see no evil, hear no evil, speak no evil.”
- In Japan the proverb is simply regarded as a Japanese Golden Rule.
- Some simply take the proverb as a reminder not to be snoopy, nosy and gossipy.
- Early associations of the three monkeys with the fearsome six-armed deity Vajrakilaya link the proverb to the teaching of Buddhism that if we do not hear, see or talk evil, we ourselves shall be spared all evil. This may be considered similar to the English proverb “Speak of the Devil – and the devil appears.”
- Others believe the message is that a person who is not exposed to evil (through sight or sound) will not reflect that evil in their own speech and actions.
- Today “See no evil, hear no evil, speak no evil” is commonly used to describe someone who doesn’t want to be involved in a situation, or someone turning a willful blind eye to the immorality of an act in which they are involved.
Other representations
They have also been a motif in pictures, e.g., ukiyo-e, Japanese woodblock printings, by Keisai Eisen. Today they are known throughout Asia and in the Western world.
