Friday Randomness

  1. I spent the morning with the Cape Cod Technology Council and delivered my third “First Friday” presentation — this one on local marketing and local digital media. I get more from the Q&A then they do, each and every talk gives me more fuel and thought fodder than I arrive with.
  2. David Ortiz and his “cha-ching” selfie with the Commander-in-Chief was an awesome marketing move by Samsung and the genius who came up with their celebrity #selfie program deserves a raise (personally I loathe the word selfie, and am now going to use it as a synonym for onanism,  as in “Hey Fred, I see you have the new Victoria’s Secret Catalogue! Time for a selfie?” It worked on me, I am definitely going to a Galaxy Note 3 when my current phone is up for renewal this summer.
  3. Cotuit buddy and US Ambassador to the UK, Matthew Barzun’s Twitter account  should be studied by any public official. The US Embassy’s Timberline blog on Tumblr is fascinating reading, to wit: “Never stay in a hotel with the word Palace in its name and never build a road.”
  4. Red Sox open at home today v. the Brewers. World Series rings will be handed out. Moment of silence to mark last April’s evil events. Read the transcript of President’s Obama’s remarks on Tuesday’s White House visit by the Sox, an excellent speech that had to have been written by a Bostonian.
  5. 5. April is the month where the most important man in my life is my outboard motor mechanic.
  6. 6. I am not into getting my boats ready for the water. This winter trashed the yard, gutters have been ripped off of the roof, the north side of the house needs painting and the lawn is scabrous.
  7. 7. Google + pissed me off by spamming everybody I know when I posted a picture of last week’s blizzard. Oversharing is a sin and I am sick of services that think I am an attention whore by default.

The unclimbed

I was way too wimpy to ever climb a Cotuit water tower as a kid. I know those who did. One went on to feel perfectly at ease jumping out of airplanes. I am so freaked out by heights that I get weird thinking about heights.  (A Cub Scout expedition to the top of a fire tower in Georgetown, Massachusetts in 1966 ended with me clutching the bannister of the open metal-grate stairs and having to have my fingers pried off by my mother the Den Mother). Anyway, I went for my daily constitutional behind the ball park where the land is at risk of being developed unless the Barnstable Land Trust can raise enough $$$ to buy it and save the Kettleer’s home field, Lowell Park, from having some starter castles in the outfield.  Give today.  The pink surveyor ribbons are in the woods!

Whan that aprill with his shoures soote…

A. Bartlett Giamatti was the president of Yale when I was a student there in the late 1970s. I had lunch with him once and the conversation was unfortunately about comparative literature and the poetry of Spenser, one of his many academic specialties. I was bitching about my experience in English 101, a prerequisite for English majors at Yale which ran both the fall and spring terms of my freshman year and was without a doubt the most frustrating class I’ve ever taken — sort of an evil bootcamp designed to weed out the wimps from what was arguably the best English literature department in the US. I made a wisecrack about a student who wrote a dreary paper about reptile symbols in The Faerie Queen and he shook his hand in the universal gesture of beating off (or so I interpreted it) and went back to asking the rest of the table about how they felt about college life in general. I wanted to tell him I found it highly strange that I had to spend time in the Yale language lab with a set of headphone on my stoned head, listening to someone read Chaucer’s Canterbury Tales in a sing-song voice like a parody of a Scandanavian when I was in school to read the King’s English goddammit, and not pick through some mongrel predecessor that opened my education with these familiar words:

Whan that aprill with his shoures soote
The droghte of march hath perced to the roote,
And bathed every veyne in swich licour
Of which vertu engendred is the flour;
Whan zephirus eek with his sweete breeth
Inspired hath in every holt and heeth
Tendre croppes, and the yonge sonne
Hath in the ram his halve cours yronne,
And smale foweles maken melodye,
That slepen al the nyght with open ye
(so priketh hem nature in hir corages);
Thanne longen folk to goon on pilgrimages,
And palmeres for to seken straunge strondes,
To ferne halwes, kowthe in sondry londes;
And specially from every shires ende
Of engelond to caunterbury they wende,
The hooly blisful martir for to seke,
That hem hath holpen whan that they were seeke.

We didn’t talk about baseball. I had no idea he was into baseball. I didn’t watch the game in college. I never once went out to the ancient Yale ballfield where George Bush and Ron Darling had pitched (Ron was a contemporary and also a renowned Cotuit Kettleers). I barely passed English 101 and quickly shifted to American History after a disastrous freshman year.

Giamatti, a Bostonian, was a life-long Red Sox fan. He  declared once that his life’s ambition was to become president of the American League. In 1986 his wish was almost granted and he became president of the National League, graduating to the top job of Commissioner of Major League Baseball in 1989– a job he held less than six months — long enough for him to banish Pete Rose — before dying at 51 of a heart attack on Martha’s Vineyard (he smoked).

Of course his son, the actor Paul Giamatti, was a Yalie.

So back to yesterday, March 31, Opening Day. The reigning World Champion Red Sox opened the season down in Baltimore’s Camden Yards  and lost to the Birds 2 to 1 in a nice game under sunny skies while up here Massachusetts endured another day of “wintry mix” and “thunder snow.” Watching the last two innings, I thought about Giamatti’s finest contribution to baseball, his written love letter to it: The Green Fields of the Mindthe oft-quoted poetic elegy to the national pastime.

“The game begins in the spring, when everything else begins again, and it blossoms in the summer, filling the afternoons and evenings, and then as soon as the chill rains come, it stops and leaves you to face the fall alone.”

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