Maryland Basketball

I'm a fan of Maryland basketball. More especially, I'm a fan of UM coaches Gary Williams and Brenda Friese.

Gary and Brenda--Brenda and Gary--obviously know how to motivate kids. Their teams almost always wind up in the Sweet 16. And Final Four some years. With national championship pennants.

This season, Brenda and the Lady Terrapins are seeded number one in their regional tournament at Raleigh; they're squaring off against #4 seed Vanderbilt as we speak.

Gary and his always-fun-to-watch Terps got past Washington in the first round of NCAA competition, but fell to Memphis in the next round. Proud work nonetheless.

Good job in 2008-2009, Brenda, Gary. Go get'em in 2010! I'm rootin' for ya.

PUPPY LOVE

A week ago today, my life changed. I brought home a puppy.

Breed? Mixed. Gender? Male. Age? Five weeks then, six today.

I'm told the mother was daschund and the papa German shepherd. Defies physics, if you ask me, but who am I to argue with the total stranger who was kind enough to give away five of the pups in the litter. For me, it paid to go to the grocery store that day, as it meant I brought home a free puppy, as well as a carload of doggie toys and puppy food trays.

"Chester," gracefully named the next day by my pal Alice, was fourth in the donor's giveaway--and by my sights, the handsomest of the quintet. Sooner or later, his photo will show up on the web.

For now, we're content to let this sleeping dog lie. He's worn out from a day of inside play during heavy rains. Snoozing away, he seems perfectly happy in his plush little bed, perched on an open drawer by my left elbow at the computer desk. A happier scene I've not witnessed lately. At such moments, the piddles and worse are a small price to pay!

THOSE PRYING EYES

Poor Michael Phelps.

The Olympics superstar is lightning fast in the water, but he's shown himself a bit slow in grasping this dry-ground reality: in the early 21st century, there's no escaping the prying eyes of camera phones or videocams. They're everywhere.

A while back in the UK, the young Phelps got caught on someone's cellphone camera as he manfully handled a bong to help get the marijuana into his 6-foot-plus swimmer's frame. Now Kellogg has dropped him as a sponsor of their cereals, on account of his not being a proper role model for kids or an appropriate ambassador for what passes today as "wholesome grains." (Yeah, like THAT'S an agribusiness aim.)

So here's my question: how far will we go and how long will we all permit spying to rule our days? Raising a cellphone and clicking away in a crowd seems harmless enough at a concert or a celebration, but what of the "innocents" caught doing what seemed harmless enough but later turns out to be a crime, or at the very least, an embarrassment that requires beaucoups des explanation? Are we not obligated to give them a fair shake, some means of defending themselves against camera-slinging invaders?

To that, I say yes. We must devise ways to protect people from slingblade picture-taking. As a citizen of our increasingly small and dangerous planet, I want no part of using private cellphones or videocameras as extensions of law enforcement. For my part, I would even do away with traffic cameras, despite the rich income they bring for cash-strapped communities these days.

Granted, Michael and his bong-wielding buddies were flirting with getting caught by smoking marijuana at all, but let the police do the enforcement--not the teeny-bopper who may have been under-age and crashed the scene in the first place.

Come on, People. Spying with cellphones and videocameras is NOT fair game. There are no Olympic medals for it. Not yet, anyway.

Old vs. New "New Journalism"

In my salad days--we're talkin' 1960's--"new journalism" referred to works of writers like Tom Wolfe, Norman Mailer, Hunter Thompson, i.e., those who saw the world with x-ray eyes, described it with acid tongues, and moved readers to act in ways aimed at changing society. For such writing and talent, these "new journalists"got paid handsomely.

Today, I use the phrase "new journalism" in the same context we're living the rest of our lives: raw, harsh, economic realities worldwide.

That is, in the early 21st century, "new journalism" is made by those whose careers and reputations--and increasingly their incomes--are created and hustled quite cheaply online. I may be wrong, but a few sample readings in that genre tell me X-ray vision, incisive comments and handsome salaries are neither likely nor required.

Take, for example, the "spotus.org" U.K. outfit whose journalistic enterprise consists of asking readers which story they'd like to see written about. For a small donation, combined with other small donations on the topic, the blogging outfit assigns a writer to cover the requested subject. The assigned reporter looks into the matter, gathers whichever facts or quotes s/he can, and puts the story online.

According to "Day to Day" on National Public Radio, a recent "big story" for spotus.org was about the Oakland, CA police department and why there's so much police absenteeism in a city noted for having the fifth highest crime rate in the USA. Check http://www.spotus.org/ to see if you can find the story and discern its chances at effecting change in Oakland police or other citizens' lives.

Meanwhile, I'm content to rely on "the old journalism" as performed by well trained journalists--those who grasp the role of reporting in a free society and know why readers are better served when important topics are not bought in a financial vote but are produced by public-spirited editors and reporters who live in and know their communities and have a stake not only in whether their communities survive, but also in whether they thrive for everybody--not just for sellers and buyers.

In short, I like the old New Journalism a lot better than the new New Journalism. In this case, back to the future sounds about right.

January

At last, here's January. It's my favorite month. Why?

January is talented; it looks forward while also looking backward. In the cold light of First Month, we can see things better: what's past is over, what's ahead is blank. In January, we get to feel more confident of that.

Other months have a way of muddling things and missing the point. Which point? "Choice." In January, we're more likely to choose what we'll start now for accomplishment in the coming year. Here are some fresh examples:

Today is the first full day of my friend's return home after her latest bout with alcohol and depression. As she made her way to her car, the sun shone brighter, her step was livelier and her smile was wider. It was easy to think things will be better for her in the coming months.

In another January success, the dead, brown stalks of November chrysanthemums are giving way to green leaves and tiny shoots that want to be full grown someday. I shall try to help them stick to their plan.

Even the two tall hibiscus trees that are wintering in the garage are on their way to showing off again. One of them has a topknot blossom that bloomed in the dead of dark; I spotted it today while putting away strings of multi-colored lights and other reminders of Christmas past. Another January satisfaction.

Finally (even if we admit to no "finally's"), there's this: January 20, 2009 presents the start of Something Big we Americans have been building toward since January 1960, when JFK was inaugurated: a clear break with the past and a chance, albeit challenging, of a better future with a smarter, more youthful president. It means the pain of birth and hope of rebirth simultaneously.

Okay, January, 2009. Let's get at it!

The Days of Christmas

There's a partridge in my pear tree.

Well, not exactly. It's more like 10 mourning doves--or similar breed--who've been gathering lately to eat the scattered birdseed over by the apple tree. But wait....

I can't be sure the markings on these large, dark gray, pigeon-like creatures qualify them as mourning doves. Doves, yes. Mourning? Not sure.

My brother says there's a newer breed of dove that matches the descriptions I give. He often sees them on the golf course at Raymond. The giveaway markings are a pair of black or dark brown bars on either side near the bird's legs. I haven't noted configuration of the tails or else I'd have a better clue with which to seek the answer: DO I HAVE A PARTRIDGE IN MY PEAR TREE--or what??

To all you Leaping Lords and Dancing Ladies out there, I need your hints, please. In the meantime, know you're all wished a Merry Christmas and Happy New Year by your Turtle Dove in Mississippi.

Birthday Bounce

Even at 68, birthdays are fun. Mine yesterday was. Gal Pals treated and joined me for lunch and the movie "Australia." More on "Down Under" shortly. First, though, a word about living to a fine young age and feeling grateful.

Growing old is fascinating. The thing I notice most--even before physiological complaints--is the distance between how others view my age and how I view it myself.

As a person pushing 70, I am seen by the world as a "senior citizen," yet I see myself as a person who is the same age I've been since voting in the Nixon vs. JFK election! That is, I'm the same liberal Democrat, the same interested person in friends and family, the same talker/writer/jokester/philosopher, and the same traveler with the same ends and destinations I've had in mind and on my calendar forever. I even like the same kinds of men I've always liked--smart, funny, physical, literate, self-aware.

Yet for all of it, "senior citizen" is the view that prevails. I even get caught in it myself . But I usually recover in time to laugh and remember my dear, departed mother who--well into her 80's--developed a crush on a much younger man: one who, thank goodness, never knew he was the apple of her dimming eyes and active imagination. I hope to remain the acorn that so far has stuck pretty close to that colorful redhead's sturdy green tree. Meanwhile...

"Australia" is not a great movie, but it IS a great movie to see and get swept up in. Nicole Kidman and Hugh Jackman are good as the English noblewoman and hard-driving "drover" who move a huge herd of cattle to safety from predatory neighbors and poisoned drink. There's a significant strain of aboriginal magic and magical Aborigines mixed in. Definitely worth seeing and having it remind you of "Gone with the Wind" in its sweep and grandeur, if not in its broad history. The two films even share the year 1939: the tales in "Australia" start there, and the film "Gone with the Wind" was released in and won the Oscar that year.

But for an overly fussy interpretation in the first half, Nicole Kidman takes charge of the role and fills out her character wisely by the end of the film. Likewise, Hugh Jackman is commendable as the drover and the lover of Nicole Kidman. His white dinner jacket sexily slung over the shoulder in a party scene excepted, Jackman is believable as a man of the wilderness who falls in love with a woman of nobility. I fell for him myself!

So there's my REAL gift: Hugh Jackman's ability to bestir a 68-year-young "senior citizen." Happy Birthday, indeed!