Like I said... traffic. 
Friday, March 8, 2013
A Day (Off) In the Life
Like I said... traffic. 
Saturday, March 2, 2013
Review: "Chess" the Musical at Point Park University
Assuming that you're reading this blog, you know me already. (If not, wilkommen...) Therefore, you know that I am a musician and lover of the theatre. However, above all, I have a slightly and obsessively encyclopedic knowledge of some works of musical theatre. This blog entry will, I'm afraid, center wholly upon that last factor.
On Friday night, Matt and I went to the Pittsburgh Playhouse in the Oakland neighborhood of Pittsburgh to see Point Park University's presentation of the 1980s musical, "Chess." Written by Benny and Bjorn, the male members of ABBA, and with lyrics from frequent Andrew Lloyd Webber collaborator Tim Rice, "Chess" is the definition of a problem musical.
That problem? On disc, the musical is perfect. It is, as it were, trapping lightning in a bottle and having it there for all time. On stage, however, multiple iterations, changes, and other assorted complications have shrouded that elemental energy in issue upon issue of people, places, and the eternal heartbreak of a flop.
When it was recorded in 1984, "Chess" was issued on 2 LPs. No dialogue was included on those records. Instead, the songs drove the story and told you all you needed to know as a listener. Stars of stage Elaine Paige and Barbara Dickson played, respectively, Florence, an American woman who assists the American chess champion, and Svetlana, the woman married to the Soviet chess champion. Swedish singer Tommy Korberg played the Soviet chess player who was matched against Murray Head's American.
The records are thrilling. As a work of art firmly rooted in its moment, the score written for "Chess" is a mix of synth-pop, soaring power ballads, and a pastiche of theatre styles. In fact, you probably know a song from "Chess" without knowing you do... If you've ever heard "One Night in Bangkok" you're listening to the last song from a theatre musical to reach the tops of the Billboard charts.
The problem with "Chess" isn't the score or the lyrics. The problem is the book. In order to put the work on stage as a piece of theatre rather than a concert, a story was constructed and, in the decades hence, changed entirely, reconstructed repeatedly, and in spite of that always seems to fail to nail down that perfection exhibited in the original concept album.
Chief among the problems onstage last night was the book, written for the 1988 original Broadway production, which failed quickly and spectacularly at a cost of $6 million. That story line changed locations, characters, motivations, added new people who didn't matter to the story's progress, and more or less changed a fast, slick show into one firmly stuck in frozen mud. That version, unfortunately, is the only one currently licensed for performance in the U.S.
The young man singing the role of the Soviet chess player, Anatoly Sergievsky, gave an inspired performance with his soaring tenor voice. His American counterpart, singing chess champion Freddie Trumper, was woefully miscast. The role demands a rock tenor. This young man brought moments of good singing, but his voice wasn't anywhere up to the level of songs he was given.
The same went for the women. The young lady in the role of Florence, the American's chess second who becomes the Soviet champion's lover, was very good. Her director got in her way more than her own talent. The same could not be said for the young lady singing Svetlana. She fell well short of her role's demanded characteristics: i.e. someone who can belt with both chest and head voices.
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Point Park's production was, at times, perfunctorily ugly. Elements of the stage design, namely the clear plastic towers you see, got in the way of well-designed video projections. As the "gimmick" they rose up as the characters' world was falling apart and spewed out all of the trash held inside them. An enormous set of risers was totally wasted upon a Greek chorus of CIA and KGB members who did little except stand about or move the occasional piece of furniture. The dull nature of the stage set, however, didn't obfuscate the quality of some performances.
And even though the split between first acts is a few months and thousands of miles (Bangkok to Budapest) - and though most characters got costume changes - poor Florence remained in the same dowdy "power suit" the entire time, clinging onto the same cross-body purse.
Such unevenness is to be expected in any sort of amateur production. What is inexcusable is changing a character from male to female and then neglecting to change script references to the male character's name. Such was the case of the male CIA officer / Freddie's agent, Walter de Courcey. Inexplicably - and quite in violation of the contract signed to obtain performance rights - Walter became a black woman with the last name "Anderson."
However, at least twice in the second act, she was referred to as Walter and, in a third instance, called "a son of a bitch" instead of simply "a bitch." This sloppiness is unforgivable, even in the most amateur productions. It feels lazy and, above all, ignorant of your audience's intelligence.
I guess what I'm trying to nail down here is this fact: None of the young men and women performing on that stage were "the problem." Professionals - the scenic designer who holds an MFA, the director who has many local credits listed in his bio, and whoever directed the Soviets to sing in terrible dialect - made the decisions that hampered a good college level production from being, perhaps, a great one.
Finally, a few Hall of Shame moments:
First, they need to have a seating chart posted at the box office. We decided to sit in the balcony. Upon arriving there, we had A.) a limited view; B.) poor sound; and C.) rude college students surrounding us. All this with a half-empty orchestra. If not criminal, it's at least incredibly rude to put customers paying full price in the worst seats in the house without their knowledge.
Second, they need to tell their spotlight man to NOT SING ALONG WITH THE CAST. This should go without saying when your light booth doesn't have walls. During Florence's big first act song "Nobody's Side" this young man thought it was his right to sing along with her, much to my chagrin.
Moving downstairs at the intermission solved both of those problems.
All in all, Point Park's "Chess" wasn't a total failure. It was fettered by the poor 1988 book more than anything, but some terrible design and directing choices truly hampered the proceedings. Was I glad to have seen the show again and for Matt to see it a first time? Yes. Was I happier to be able to come home after, crack open a bottle of champagne and explain to him how it was supposed to go while playing him tracks from various professional recordings? You bet.
That, all in one, is the heartbreak of live theatre. There are moments of greatness that exhibit to the audience what could be and a few glaring errors that keep it from being so much better.
2.5 Stars out of 5.
That problem? On disc, the musical is perfect. It is, as it were, trapping lightning in a bottle and having it there for all time. On stage, however, multiple iterations, changes, and other assorted complications have shrouded that elemental energy in issue upon issue of people, places, and the eternal heartbreak of a flop.
When it was recorded in 1984, "Chess" was issued on 2 LPs. No dialogue was included on those records. Instead, the songs drove the story and told you all you needed to know as a listener. Stars of stage Elaine Paige and Barbara Dickson played, respectively, Florence, an American woman who assists the American chess champion, and Svetlana, the woman married to the Soviet chess champion. Swedish singer Tommy Korberg played the Soviet chess player who was matched against Murray Head's American.
The records are thrilling. As a work of art firmly rooted in its moment, the score written for "Chess" is a mix of synth-pop, soaring power ballads, and a pastiche of theatre styles. In fact, you probably know a song from "Chess" without knowing you do... If you've ever heard "One Night in Bangkok" you're listening to the last song from a theatre musical to reach the tops of the Billboard charts.
The problem with "Chess" isn't the score or the lyrics. The problem is the book. In order to put the work on stage as a piece of theatre rather than a concert, a story was constructed and, in the decades hence, changed entirely, reconstructed repeatedly, and in spite of that always seems to fail to nail down that perfection exhibited in the original concept album.
Chief among the problems onstage last night was the book, written for the 1988 original Broadway production, which failed quickly and spectacularly at a cost of $6 million. That story line changed locations, characters, motivations, added new people who didn't matter to the story's progress, and more or less changed a fast, slick show into one firmly stuck in frozen mud. That version, unfortunately, is the only one currently licensed for performance in the U.S.
The young man singing the role of the Soviet chess player, Anatoly Sergievsky, gave an inspired performance with his soaring tenor voice. His American counterpart, singing chess champion Freddie Trumper, was woefully miscast. The role demands a rock tenor. This young man brought moments of good singing, but his voice wasn't anywhere up to the level of songs he was given.
The same went for the women. The young lady in the role of Florence, the American's chess second who becomes the Soviet champion's lover, was very good. Her director got in her way more than her own talent. The same could not be said for the young lady singing Svetlana. She fell well short of her role's demanded characteristics: i.e. someone who can belt with both chest and head voices.
.jpg)
Point Park's production was, at times, perfunctorily ugly. Elements of the stage design, namely the clear plastic towers you see, got in the way of well-designed video projections. As the "gimmick" they rose up as the characters' world was falling apart and spewed out all of the trash held inside them. An enormous set of risers was totally wasted upon a Greek chorus of CIA and KGB members who did little except stand about or move the occasional piece of furniture. The dull nature of the stage set, however, didn't obfuscate the quality of some performances. And even though the split between first acts is a few months and thousands of miles (Bangkok to Budapest) - and though most characters got costume changes - poor Florence remained in the same dowdy "power suit" the entire time, clinging onto the same cross-body purse.
Such unevenness is to be expected in any sort of amateur production. What is inexcusable is changing a character from male to female and then neglecting to change script references to the male character's name. Such was the case of the male CIA officer / Freddie's agent, Walter de Courcey. Inexplicably - and quite in violation of the contract signed to obtain performance rights - Walter became a black woman with the last name "Anderson."
However, at least twice in the second act, she was referred to as Walter and, in a third instance, called "a son of a bitch" instead of simply "a bitch." This sloppiness is unforgivable, even in the most amateur productions. It feels lazy and, above all, ignorant of your audience's intelligence.
I guess what I'm trying to nail down here is this fact: None of the young men and women performing on that stage were "the problem." Professionals - the scenic designer who holds an MFA, the director who has many local credits listed in his bio, and whoever directed the Soviets to sing in terrible dialect - made the decisions that hampered a good college level production from being, perhaps, a great one.
Finally, a few Hall of Shame moments:
First, they need to have a seating chart posted at the box office. We decided to sit in the balcony. Upon arriving there, we had A.) a limited view; B.) poor sound; and C.) rude college students surrounding us. All this with a half-empty orchestra. If not criminal, it's at least incredibly rude to put customers paying full price in the worst seats in the house without their knowledge.
Second, they need to tell their spotlight man to NOT SING ALONG WITH THE CAST. This should go without saying when your light booth doesn't have walls. During Florence's big first act song "Nobody's Side" this young man thought it was his right to sing along with her, much to my chagrin.
Moving downstairs at the intermission solved both of those problems.
All in all, Point Park's "Chess" wasn't a total failure. It was fettered by the poor 1988 book more than anything, but some terrible design and directing choices truly hampered the proceedings. Was I glad to have seen the show again and for Matt to see it a first time? Yes. Was I happier to be able to come home after, crack open a bottle of champagne and explain to him how it was supposed to go while playing him tracks from various professional recordings? You bet.
That, all in one, is the heartbreak of live theatre. There are moments of greatness that exhibit to the audience what could be and a few glaring errors that keep it from being so much better.
2.5 Stars out of 5.
Tuesday, February 19, 2013
Dilemmas, Distresses, and Driving
Since my last post, humble reader, my life has continued to twist and turn.
After saying how great work had been so far, I ended up tired and disgruntled after Saturday night's time at the store. And, just yesterday, I got a call from Trader Joe's offering me an interview this Thursday.
Let's discuss the first item... The problem with work on Saturday night wasn't the majority of the time. No, in fact, it was the aftermath of work. The store closes at nine. My end of the night duty was to wash dishes: all of the various coffee machine parts, elements of the juicer that had been demonstrated earlier, and various other bits and pieces used throughout the very long weekend day.
It took me almost forty minutes to scrub the bowls, hoppers, grills, tubes, containers, mesh screens, and ten thousand other pieces that make up our machines. Hence, a shift that was to end at 9:30 became walking out the door (as a group) at 9:50.
From there, the drive home was frustration piled upon frustration... a driver from Maryland unable to figure out that you have to pay before leaving the parking garage (in spite of dozens of posted signs); stupid, slow people driving through Oakland; almost getting smashed by a Duquesne University student bus; dangerous drivers in the East End... the usual suspects. But heap that onto my worn out, achy exhaustion and I was fit to be tied.
It hadn't been all bad, though. The highlight of the night, though, was my official knife training. Getting to play with gorgeous, expensive cutlery is fun - no two ways about it. Those skills came in handy on Sunday when I had two knife demos, one of which turned into a very nice sale. Said demonstrations kept me from having to work the registers, which I was trained to do on Sunday and which stresses me out.
It's not a complicated system by any means. It's just laid out in the least intuitive way possible. One has to log in. Then one is told that their password - only a week old and never used once - had expired. (Makes sense...) One is then prompted, even before ringing a single item, to enter the customer's name into the system. Then we can get around to the actual sale itself.
I still enjoy the place. I like my co-workers, even if I'm still trying to figure out how to read a couple of them. I like the customers so far. The first time I ever answered the phone, a woman was calling to ask if we carried the Le Creuset tagine (kismet, right?). I was able to expound at length on the wonders of the thing, impressing my manager hovering nearby. I even showed the staff how the ceramic tagine top fits on the 4.5 quart round Le Creuset oven, thereby making a larger base for cooking - and blowing my co-workers' minds.
That brings me to the dilemma... the Trader Joe's interview.
I'd applied there even before I did at SLT. SLT just happened to fall into my lap while TJs wasn't hiring at the time. Trader Joe's is close - like walking distance close... 0.9 miles to be exact. If I chose to bike there, the road has dedicated bike lanes. Drive? Parking is free.
This is all quite the opposite of SLT, which is over five miles away. In Pittsburgh terms, that's at least a twenty minute drive each way. I'd die if I biked there and I have to pay to park - $30 for 10 ins and 10 outs from the garage.
What remains to be seen is the number of hours, the pay per hour, and other minutia. I like SLT because we're a smaller crew and, let's face it, I can talk about kitchen goods until I go blue in the face. Trader Joe's always seems to be busy, has an enormous staff, and carries a dizzying array of products. It might be trading driving stress for a larger world of stress, but we'll see all about that.
Until then, friends, I'll try to keep sane and have this roller coaster car I call my life attached to the crazy tracks!
After saying how great work had been so far, I ended up tired and disgruntled after Saturday night's time at the store. And, just yesterday, I got a call from Trader Joe's offering me an interview this Thursday.Let's discuss the first item... The problem with work on Saturday night wasn't the majority of the time. No, in fact, it was the aftermath of work. The store closes at nine. My end of the night duty was to wash dishes: all of the various coffee machine parts, elements of the juicer that had been demonstrated earlier, and various other bits and pieces used throughout the very long weekend day.
It took me almost forty minutes to scrub the bowls, hoppers, grills, tubes, containers, mesh screens, and ten thousand other pieces that make up our machines. Hence, a shift that was to end at 9:30 became walking out the door (as a group) at 9:50.
From there, the drive home was frustration piled upon frustration... a driver from Maryland unable to figure out that you have to pay before leaving the parking garage (in spite of dozens of posted signs); stupid, slow people driving through Oakland; almost getting smashed by a Duquesne University student bus; dangerous drivers in the East End... the usual suspects. But heap that onto my worn out, achy exhaustion and I was fit to be tied.
It hadn't been all bad, though. The highlight of the night, though, was my official knife training. Getting to play with gorgeous, expensive cutlery is fun - no two ways about it. Those skills came in handy on Sunday when I had two knife demos, one of which turned into a very nice sale. Said demonstrations kept me from having to work the registers, which I was trained to do on Sunday and which stresses me out.
It's not a complicated system by any means. It's just laid out in the least intuitive way possible. One has to log in. Then one is told that their password - only a week old and never used once - had expired. (Makes sense...) One is then prompted, even before ringing a single item, to enter the customer's name into the system. Then we can get around to the actual sale itself.
I still enjoy the place. I like my co-workers, even if I'm still trying to figure out how to read a couple of them. I like the customers so far. The first time I ever answered the phone, a woman was calling to ask if we carried the Le Creuset tagine (kismet, right?). I was able to expound at length on the wonders of the thing, impressing my manager hovering nearby. I even showed the staff how the ceramic tagine top fits on the 4.5 quart round Le Creuset oven, thereby making a larger base for cooking - and blowing my co-workers' minds.That brings me to the dilemma... the Trader Joe's interview.
I'd applied there even before I did at SLT. SLT just happened to fall into my lap while TJs wasn't hiring at the time. Trader Joe's is close - like walking distance close... 0.9 miles to be exact. If I chose to bike there, the road has dedicated bike lanes. Drive? Parking is free.
This is all quite the opposite of SLT, which is over five miles away. In Pittsburgh terms, that's at least a twenty minute drive each way. I'd die if I biked there and I have to pay to park - $30 for 10 ins and 10 outs from the garage.
What remains to be seen is the number of hours, the pay per hour, and other minutia. I like SLT because we're a smaller crew and, let's face it, I can talk about kitchen goods until I go blue in the face. Trader Joe's always seems to be busy, has an enormous staff, and carries a dizzying array of products. It might be trading driving stress for a larger world of stress, but we'll see all about that.
Until then, friends, I'll try to keep sane and have this roller coaster car I call my life attached to the crazy tracks!
Friday, February 15, 2013
Radio Silence
Sorry about that... it's been a while. But in this short expanse of time much has happened. The journey, it seems, has really taken off!
What's been going on, you ask? Well, I was phoned on the night of Thursday the 7th and offered a sales position with Sur La Table at Pittsburgh's SouthSide Works. I had my first day of work on Sunday the 10th and have worked twice since.
Thus far, I've been trained in cookware (a venue in which I shall shine - and even taught the woman training me a few things) and on how one uses the incredibly expensive (and in my eyes, incredibly unnecessary since I don't drink coffee...) coffee-making machines. These range from a few hundred upward to three thousand dollars and can make a staggering range of coffee drinks.
Naturally, I've been plotting how I will use my very generous 40% employee discount (and still bring home some pay) in the time I am there, which I hope will be limited by the coming-along of a full-time job.
In other news, I've unofficially/officially moved in with Matt. There's still much more to bring down, seek out, and make happen, but I'm here. Much of the decor is already mine and has been here since last year, but working out storage and what I really need here will take some time.
We celebrated a low-key Valentine's Day yesterday. We never make much of the holiday since our anniversary falls ten days later, but I still took the time to make a pretty cake, which my marginal icing and piping skills made at least a little pretty.
The top looks like a mix between Keith Haring and Cornelli Lace, but it was fun. I was happy that I did the piped green border around the bottom as that detail made the piece really pop against the background of my red Le Creuset tray.
Word of warning: Do not - even in desperation - buy the Dr. Oetker chocolate cake mix at Whole Foods. The cake's texture is only so-so and it only tastes of chocolate due to my slathering chocolate frosting ovedr it and chips to the middle layer. I will continue to place my faith in Uncle Dunkie and Aunt Betty (Duncan Hines and Betty Crocker to the rest of you) when it comes to boxed mixes.
I spent time today getting a tie-rod replaced on my car at the Sears Auto Center at Ross Park Mall, which I only found out needed changing when I had an oil change on Tuesday morning. Thankfully, I successfully sold an extra clarinet I'd purchased back in 2004/5 and made more money on that transaction than I'd even hoped. That takes the sting out of car repairs, even if they still make one grumble.
My struggle to find a desk I like for the apartment continues. The one that came with Matt's furniture some years ago is insufficient for both of us. If I'm permitted, it'd be very easy to just bring my Drexel Heritage mission-style desk from home, but I don't know how the mother is going to rule on that idea. I keep finding things I marginally like that cost far too much and things I hate that cost even more. I guess I'm just picky.
After departing Ross Park, I took time to walk around the Strip District for the first time in a while. I bought a half-pound of loose-leaf Irish Breakfast tea and am enjoying a cup of it right now while I write. I also lugged home an eleven pound sack of Arborio rice. That should keep us in risotto for a few months!
I'm afraid I don't have much more to offer right now as far as news goes. My mother is being frightfully neurotic about my absence and it's really wearing on me, but that's not much that bears repeating. I know she's lonely without me, but there's only so much I can do about that and only so many times I can pretend I really care when she won't go out and make something happen with her life in retirement.
I don't work today/tonight, but am scheduled to close tomorrow and receive register training, thereby making me a real employee rather than one who can only wander about and help people find things that I, myself, am struggling to find among the thousands of products.
Until next time, dear readers, I send you my best wishes. I've gotta say in closing that the three shifts I've worked so far at Sur La Table have flown by. Never before have four-hour spans just disappeared like this. While I don't love being part-time, I guess I do like the place pretty well. They say if you do what you love - and we all know I love cooking (or at least its paraphernalia) - you don't truly work. It's work, but it's been fun so far!
- Bill
Thus far, I've been trained in cookware (a venue in which I shall shine - and even taught the woman training me a few things) and on how one uses the incredibly expensive (and in my eyes, incredibly unnecessary since I don't drink coffee...) coffee-making machines. These range from a few hundred upward to three thousand dollars and can make a staggering range of coffee drinks.
Naturally, I've been plotting how I will use my very generous 40% employee discount (and still bring home some pay) in the time I am there, which I hope will be limited by the coming-along of a full-time job.
In other news, I've unofficially/officially moved in with Matt. There's still much more to bring down, seek out, and make happen, but I'm here. Much of the decor is already mine and has been here since last year, but working out storage and what I really need here will take some time.
The top looks like a mix between Keith Haring and Cornelli Lace, but it was fun. I was happy that I did the piped green border around the bottom as that detail made the piece really pop against the background of my red Le Creuset tray.
Word of warning: Do not - even in desperation - buy the Dr. Oetker chocolate cake mix at Whole Foods. The cake's texture is only so-so and it only tastes of chocolate due to my slathering chocolate frosting ovedr it and chips to the middle layer. I will continue to place my faith in Uncle Dunkie and Aunt Betty (Duncan Hines and Betty Crocker to the rest of you) when it comes to boxed mixes.
I spent time today getting a tie-rod replaced on my car at the Sears Auto Center at Ross Park Mall, which I only found out needed changing when I had an oil change on Tuesday morning. Thankfully, I successfully sold an extra clarinet I'd purchased back in 2004/5 and made more money on that transaction than I'd even hoped. That takes the sting out of car repairs, even if they still make one grumble.
My struggle to find a desk I like for the apartment continues. The one that came with Matt's furniture some years ago is insufficient for both of us. If I'm permitted, it'd be very easy to just bring my Drexel Heritage mission-style desk from home, but I don't know how the mother is going to rule on that idea. I keep finding things I marginally like that cost far too much and things I hate that cost even more. I guess I'm just picky.
After departing Ross Park, I took time to walk around the Strip District for the first time in a while. I bought a half-pound of loose-leaf Irish Breakfast tea and am enjoying a cup of it right now while I write. I also lugged home an eleven pound sack of Arborio rice. That should keep us in risotto for a few months!
I'm afraid I don't have much more to offer right now as far as news goes. My mother is being frightfully neurotic about my absence and it's really wearing on me, but that's not much that bears repeating. I know she's lonely without me, but there's only so much I can do about that and only so many times I can pretend I really care when she won't go out and make something happen with her life in retirement.
I don't work today/tonight, but am scheduled to close tomorrow and receive register training, thereby making me a real employee rather than one who can only wander about and help people find things that I, myself, am struggling to find among the thousands of products.
- Bill
Tuesday, February 5, 2013
Why Didn't I Learn It In College?
One of the few loose ends in need of tying up since I've left YSU is what to do with my retirement funds. Over the course of six and a half years, I haven't accrued that much since we weren't paid much to begin with. Truly, looking at the number on my annual statement never fails to disappoint me. It's just one more reminder of how utterly broken my employer, the state education system, and the larger system that allows adjunct faculty to be paid and treated so poorly all are.
Last week, I met with the Allstate Financial Services representative who oversees my mother's investments and retirement. He handed me paperwork for an annuity that will, by the time I am sixty (some thirty years from now) not even double the money I would be moving to him. Now, I know that interest rates are terrible and that it's a lot to ask to get some sort of decent return on funds, but that just seems to me like I'm being suckered.
I can understand the need for prudence when a person is within a few years of retirement - no risky investments that one can't weather the possibly negative outcome of. But I'm thirty. How is it that I can't make my money do more for me?
All I can think, sitting here today at the shop, is that universities should have a financial wisdom component in their general education requirements.
Seriously, I'm thirty years old and at a complete loss on how to do any of this.
When I was a freshman at John Carroll we had to take a First Year Seminar course that, other than waking me up for an 8 a.m. class on Tuesdays and Thursdays, taught me nothing. We read Peter Singer's The Great Ape Project, about apes and chimpanzees having rights; Chinua Achebe's Things Fall Apart; and Martha Nussbaum's Cultivating Humanity: A Classical Defense of Reform in Liberal Education. I think you can discern for yourself how little any of those texts meant to an eighteen year-old me.The professor who taught my particular section of said course was - and still is - an Associate Professor of Marketing in John Carroll's Boler School of Business. Her approach was to have to do as little as possible for the course because she knew all too well that this time every week could be so much better spent. Instead of using that time for better purposes though, we just didn't do much on Tuesdays and Thursdays from 8:00-9:15 a.m.
Imagine how much someone with a PhD and a business background could have taught us about far more important things like finances, investing, retirement - things we could actually put to more use than considering the issues pertaining to British colonial policy in Africa and Chimpanzees being afforded rights on par with human beings.
Instead, I sit here on the cusp of age thirty-one all at sea about my retirement funds. My very expensive Jesuit education - the one at the university with a renowned school of business - should have provided me with some sort of idea on how this goes.
To my dying breath, I'll defend the humanities and the role that literature, art, philosophy, and religions play in the formation of the well-rounded person. However, I'm well-rounded with an obvious flat deformity when it comes to money.
During my sophomore year of high school, when we had a course called Principals of Democracy, we learned how to do tax returns. We were quizzed and tested on them. Why can't colleges offer a "Here's how not to totally screw up your finances 101" class? It seems well worth it to me and, at the very least, a public service that would help keep many college-aged students from falling into credit card debt.
As I solicit advice from friends on Facebook and ponder what will become of this money, I just wish that somewhere along the line a person who actually knows these things would have taught them to naive little me instead of letting me blindly wander this forest.
Monday, February 4, 2013
The Why and the How
After finishing yet another book, E.L. Doctorow's work of historical fiction, Homer & Langley, I picked a book off the stack on my nightstand that I'd begun reading a while back, but that I hadn't been in the right place to pursue to its end.
Bread Upon the Waters is written by Peter Reinhart, the man who wrote the award winning The Bread Baker's Apprentice, the inspiration and urtext on my learning journey of baking bread. This earlier book functions as a memoir with recipes, a recounting of the author's path from hippie commune-living college student to religious brother to his current iteration as professor of bread baking at Johnson and Wales University.
I can't even say why I wasn't prepared to read the book before now. (I purchased it over two years ago). But the time finally seemed apropos for something like a bildungsroman as I transition out of the classroom and into the real world.
More than evolution into manhood or learning to make bread, Reinhart's Bread Upon the Waters is an extended metaphor of how the process behind making world-class bread mirrors our personal journeys into life and faith.
As I understand it, we begin as rough, unfinished materials. We're stirred into being. We're given time to mature and develop. We may well get punched around and need more time to grow. If we're lucky, we're formed by experienced, caring hands. We're tested by fire. And, ultimately, we're given to the world to share of ourselves.
While reading last night, nearing the end of my chapter, I read a quote from Holocaust survivor and Austrian neurologist Viktor Frankl. Reinhart writes:
I think it's fair that any single one of us asks the questions: Why do I live? Who or what do I live for?
It's also fair to say that, for the first question anyway, I don't have a solid answer at the moment. I live for the prospect of a real job. I live for the idea of independence. I live for the eventuality of being able to pay off my student loans, to be able to go on vacations like my friends do, and to not have to worry so much about money.
But are those enough? Beyond those things, I'm at a bit of a loss. Should I have some deeper goal, some philanthropic/idealistic notion of what my job will be able to help me do or become?
This book has already accomplished one thing: it's made me reconsider prayer. I've been very troubled in my faith as of late. That was born out of hypocrisies I see in the Catholic Church, friends who have similarly fallen away from religion, and, being completely honest, my own doubts. I have, once more, considered the positive reassurances of invoking divine intervention. Even if it falls on deaf ears, it somehow calms me. That alone makes the time well-spent.
While I've always stood by the idea that when a door closes a window - somewhere - opens, I guess I've been waiting for that window to appear for far too long without actually looking for it. No one ever tells you that... that you need to look for the light sometimes rather than just wait for it to find you. It's my fault I stayed at YSU for so long. I accepted the darkness and never sought out light and a life outside of my dissatisfaction with what mine had become.
If Frankl was able to survive three years in concentration camps by finding meaning in what his life had been reduced to, I think I can (at the very least) work to identify the meaning behind my existence in far less perilous circumstances. Frankl found meaning in work, in love, and in courage.
I'm working on work. Love? Well, I have that. I just need to appreciate it more. And, as the Cowardly Lion once did, I need to believe in my own courage. It took courage to walk away from my job. It took courage to tell my mother about Matt. I have it... I just need to remember it's there once in a while.
The journey continues...
- Bill
Bread Upon the Waters is written by Peter Reinhart, the man who wrote the award winning The Bread Baker's Apprentice, the inspiration and urtext on my learning journey of baking bread. This earlier book functions as a memoir with recipes, a recounting of the author's path from hippie commune-living college student to religious brother to his current iteration as professor of bread baking at Johnson and Wales University.I can't even say why I wasn't prepared to read the book before now. (I purchased it over two years ago). But the time finally seemed apropos for something like a bildungsroman as I transition out of the classroom and into the real world.
More than evolution into manhood or learning to make bread, Reinhart's Bread Upon the Waters is an extended metaphor of how the process behind making world-class bread mirrors our personal journeys into life and faith.
As I understand it, we begin as rough, unfinished materials. We're stirred into being. We're given time to mature and develop. We may well get punched around and need more time to grow. If we're lucky, we're formed by experienced, caring hands. We're tested by fire. And, ultimately, we're given to the world to share of ourselves.
While reading last night, nearing the end of my chapter, I read a quote from Holocaust survivor and Austrian neurologist Viktor Frankl. Reinhart writes:
His (Frankl's) premise was that a person's search for meaning in life is a primary force, and frustration in this search is often the cause of our anxieties. The solution he proposed was, of course, to reconnect a person with a sense of meaning. This may not clear our lives of problems or obstacles but it enables us to bear the inevitable suffering of life with dignity and purpose. Frankl adopted the existential truism, "He who has a why to live can bear with almost any how." (Emphasis added)That statement stuck with me and, frankly, kept me awake for a while.
I think it's fair that any single one of us asks the questions: Why do I live? Who or what do I live for?
It's also fair to say that, for the first question anyway, I don't have a solid answer at the moment. I live for the prospect of a real job. I live for the idea of independence. I live for the eventuality of being able to pay off my student loans, to be able to go on vacations like my friends do, and to not have to worry so much about money.
But are those enough? Beyond those things, I'm at a bit of a loss. Should I have some deeper goal, some philanthropic/idealistic notion of what my job will be able to help me do or become?
This book has already accomplished one thing: it's made me reconsider prayer. I've been very troubled in my faith as of late. That was born out of hypocrisies I see in the Catholic Church, friends who have similarly fallen away from religion, and, being completely honest, my own doubts. I have, once more, considered the positive reassurances of invoking divine intervention. Even if it falls on deaf ears, it somehow calms me. That alone makes the time well-spent.
While I've always stood by the idea that when a door closes a window - somewhere - opens, I guess I've been waiting for that window to appear for far too long without actually looking for it. No one ever tells you that... that you need to look for the light sometimes rather than just wait for it to find you. It's my fault I stayed at YSU for so long. I accepted the darkness and never sought out light and a life outside of my dissatisfaction with what mine had become.
If Frankl was able to survive three years in concentration camps by finding meaning in what his life had been reduced to, I think I can (at the very least) work to identify the meaning behind my existence in far less perilous circumstances. Frankl found meaning in work, in love, and in courage.
I'm working on work. Love? Well, I have that. I just need to appreciate it more. And, as the Cowardly Lion once did, I need to believe in my own courage. It took courage to walk away from my job. It took courage to tell my mother about Matt. I have it... I just need to remember it's there once in a while.
The journey continues...
- Bill