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program notes: baroque conversations 1 2010
Thursday January 21, 2010
- Jeffrey Kahane, conductor & keyboard
Bach Keyboard Concerto No. 2 in E major, BWV 1053
Bach Selections from The Well-Tempered Clavier, BWV 846-893
orchestration: solo piano
Bach Keyboard Concerto No. 1 in D minor, BWV 1052
In contrast to many composers, Bach did not compose for the ages. He composed for his students, for his jobs, for his family. I doubt very much if he envisioned the fame he would achieve after his death, and because of this, many of his works were not published during his lifetime. Bach's surviving works comprise an impressive oeuvre, even though many of his works have been lost. Bach also reworked some of his pieces for different ensembles. His Keyboard Concerto No. 2 in E major, for example, was most likely an arrangement of a concerto for oboe or perhaps oboe d'amore. I say most likely, because the original concerto has been lost, but we speculate that Bach composed it while working in Cöthen in 1717–1723. We do know that Bach made the arrangement in about 1738 for the performers of the Leipzig Collegium Musicum.
There are three movements in the Concerto. The first features the keyboard taking long solo digressions while the ensemble accompanies. The soloist is performing double duty here as both soloist and continuo player, and it is an impressive show. The overall structure of the movement seems to be in a traditional three-part da capo form (the outer sections are similar, while the middle has a contrasting character), a structure that was likely more fashionable in 1720 than it was when Bach arranged it in 1738. The contrasting middle section ends in a minor key, but sets up the recap of the opening theme beautifully. The third section allows Jeffrey Kahane to show off his virtuosity in passages that sound improvised.
The second movement is marked Siciliano, a designation that suggests a lilting compound meter—the beats are broken up into three subdivisions rather than the duple subdivisions of simple meter—often slow and in the minor mode. The Siciliano often features dotted rhythms, which add to the feeling of forward progress. Music in compound meter has been used historically to illustrate flowing rivers or spinning wheels because the continuous rolling of the triplets suggests perpetual motion. The theme in this movement is stated by the violins at first, but is soon taken over by the harpsichord. The center section of the movement has the harpsichord playing with only the barest of accompaniment from the rest of the ensemble. Typical of Baroque melodies, the main melody here seems to be spun out endlessly.
Bach composed the first book of The Well-Tempered Clavier in 1722 when he was working in Cöthen. (A second volume followed 20 years later.) He wrote Book I for students who were learning how to play, but especially for students who already possessed some skill. It is a methodical exploration of each key in the well-tempered tuning system. In this system, the 12 half-steps of the octave are tuned at a near-equal distance, resulting in a system where every key was said to sound "in tune." (Our modern ears are used to so-called "equal temperament," an even more precise division of the 12 half-steps.) The meantone tuning of Bach's time made some keys sound different, and consequently less desirable to composers. The well-tempered tuning system, therefore, allowed a composer to write in any of the possible keys. Bach composed a prelude and fugue for each of the 24 keys. Each prelude is freer in structure, while the fugues are structured around strict imitation.
Although manuscript copies of The Well-Tempered Clavier were passed around musical circles, the work wasn't published formally until 50 years after the composer's death. Bach's style had been out of fashion for some time because the first Classical composers favored simpler melodies and less counterpoint, but composers like Haydn and Mozart carefully studied The Well-Tempered Clavier and gradually brought more complexity and even counterpoint into Classical composition. Mozart went so far as to transcribe some of Bach's three- and four-part fugues for string trio and quartet. These are the versions we will hear tonight. We will hear a selection of the original preludes played by Kahane on the keyboard; interspersed with these will be various fugues from Mozart's string transcriptions. The advantage of such arrangements is that they allow us to hear how each voice behaves, something that is hard to distinguish when all of the "voices" are played on a single instrument. In this form, we can follow the main theme as it is stated, imitated and developed by the different parts. The complex structure of the fugue becomes clearer as does Bach's genius for counterpoint. Mozart's version of The Well-Tempered Clavier is just one in a long line of analyses and reconstructions of the piece by composers and musicians enthralled by its mystery, complexity and its sheer beauty.
Bach's Keyboard Concerto No. 1 in D minor seems to be based on a lost violin concerto that also provided material for an organ concerto and pieces of two of Bach's sacred cantatas. Because the source material had a single-line instrument as soloist, and because the keyboard can play many notes simultaneously, Bach's work in transcribing the original was very likely adding complexity and left-hand harmony to the keyboard part. There are three movements, the first and third of which are faster in tempo and have a comparable overall structure.
The first and third movements begin in D minor and change to a closely related major key. There are a few more key modulations, and then we return to D minor in the final section when the main theme comes back. The first and third movements also feature quick passagework in both the keyboard and in the ensemble. There is an intensity to this Concerto, a seriousness and relentless drive that comes to a brief rest only in the middle movement. The soloist must have incredible endurance to play this piece because the activity never stops. It is the quintessential high Baroque concerto: virtuosic, rigorous and unrelenting.
– Christine Lee Gengaro, PhD


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subset: commoncrawl


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Your Search Returned 47 tagged news reports
Fullington Academy's basketball victories recorded Tuesday night over arch-rival Crisp Academy ranged from one extreme to the other. Whereas the visiting Lady Trojans were pushed to the limit before escaping with a 40-38 triumph over the Lady
The El Dorado Lady Wildcats were challenged by their coaches after a horrific first quarter in their Ark Valley-Chisholm Trail League opener against Buhler at Baker Fieldhouse.The Lady Wildcats responded with inspired play for the remaining three
The El Dorado High basketball teams waited for almost a week after many other squads to open up their season Thursday night against host Abilene in the Dickinson County Invitational. The Lady Wildcats played tough before falling to the Cowgirls 41-37,
The team's two Seniors, Lydia Jahn and Kelsey Goodacre were recognized at a special halftime ceremony. In the game, Kate Mayfield scored two first-half goals and the Ukiah defense took care of the rest. That the Lady Wildcats finished 4-10 in league
Bigger was better when it came to match-ups involving Class A Fullington against the Class AA and AAA foes it faced in the Lady Rams Classic hosted this past Thursday by Covenant Christian Academy. Coach Mike Cason's Lady Trojans lost a 55-54
When Crisp Academy's Lady Wildcats dropped an 11-1 decision to Central Fellowship Monday, they completed the "schooling" given them this year by the rugged Class AA and AAA schools they've played. When Crisp Academy's Lady Wildcats dropped an 11-1
Crisp Academy's Lady Wildcats enjoyed the ride they made here in their new air-conditioned bus with its DVD player and tinted windows. Crisp Academy's Lady Wildcats enjoyed the ride they made here in their new air-conditioned bus with its DVD player
Fresh off a title run in Saturday's Sherwood Invitational at Albany, Crisp Academy's Lady Wildcats turned in a rather stale home field performance Monday in a 9-1 loss to visiting Southland...Fresh off a title run in Saturday's Sherwood Invitational
State runner-up finishes by Lady Wildcats, Lady Trojans highlight 2008-09 school year in area Dispatch Sports Editor Crisp Academy's state runner-up finish in girls softball and Fullington Academy's identical result in girls basketball represented
Before the Lady Wildcats left for Andover, they traveled to their home at Orndorff Field and grabbed a small Ziploc size baggie of dirt from the infield. The Lady Wildcats were inspired, but inspiration can only do so much. El Dorado competed with


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Regardless of his or her work history, a staff member's first day on a new job can be intimidating. For some, it's so overwhelming
and confusing that they don't return for a second day. Don't let this happen! Make a staff member's first day welcoming by
taking these steps:
Send a welcome letter to the homes of new employees before their first day. It lets them and their family members know they're
important and you're looking forward to working together.
On the first day, pair the new staff member with a co-worker who'll serve as a cheerleader and coach. This approach has two
advantages, says Veterinary Economics Editorial Advisory Board member Dr. Ernest Ward Jr., of Calabash, N.C. First, it gives a new staff member a one-on-one way
to learn the ropes from someone who's been in his or her shoes. Second, the coach feels proud you chose him or her to be personally
responsible for the new team member. You can choose any qualified staff member who's had a couple years of experience at your
practice, exhibits leadership qualities, and wants to help new team members grow in their jobs.
Review the employee handbook to familiarize new staff members with your policies, and answer all their work-related questions.
Finally, let all team members know that a new employee is starting, and ask them to make him or her feel welcome.
Veterinary Economics Editorial Advisory Board member Bob Levoy is a seminar speaker based in Roslyn, N.Y., who focuses on profitability and practice growth.
Please send questions to firstname.lastname@example.com


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Universal Orlando announced today that its newest attraction will be based on the blockbuster 3-D CGI feature Despicable Me – "bringing minions, mayhem and a whole new level of 3-D family fun to its guests." The new "Despicable Me" attraction will replace the Jimmy Neutron attraction at Universal Studios Florida. In addition, Universal announced that one its most popular rides, The Amazing Adventures of Spider-Man, will be completely reanimated in 4K digital high definition. Both will open in 2012 and utilize brand-new, highly sophisticated Infitec 3-D projection systems designed to make the experience sharper, clearer and more "real" than ever before.
With a worldwide gross of more than $540 million, 2010′s Despicable Me is the sixth most successful film that Universal Pictures has ever distributed. It is now the 10th-biggest animated film in U.S. history. "Despicable Me" will be the first-ever Universal animated film to be transformed into a theme park experience. For more information, visit www.universalorlando.com.
1. Hollywood Rip Ride Rockit
Billed as the world's most technologically advanced roller coaster, Hollywood Rip Ride Rockit towers 17 stories over Universal Studios Florida. Best of all, you get to customize your ride experience by choosing what song will play during your roller coaster adventure. Height requirement: 51 inches.
2. Revenge of the Mummy the Ride
Battle an army of warrior mummies and confront dreaded scarab beetles, fireballs and more obstacles as you cruise through darkness at speeds up to 45 miles per hour through ancient passageways, chambers and tombs. Height requirement: 48 inches.
3. Men in Black Alien Attack
A thrilling interactive movie ride, Men in Black Alien Attack allows you to zap aliens as you spin through the besieged streets of New York. Height requirement: 42 inches.
4. The Simpsons Ride
Ride along with the entire Simpson family – Homer, Marge, Bart, Lisa and Maggie – on a hilarious adventure through a side of Springfield previously unexplored. Height requirement: 40 inches.
5. Shrek 4-D
Join Shrek, Donkey and Princess Fiona on a state-of-the-art 4-D adventure as they try to escape from the ghost of Lord Farquaad, his evil sidekick, during this fun-filled thrill ride. No height restrictions.
6. Jaws
The Jaws thrill ride re-creates all the terror and excitement of the 1975 blockbuster, Jaws, as you cruise aboard a boat in the quaint New England fishing village of Amity and come face to face with a ferocious great white shark. No height restrictions (the ride may be too intense for younger children).
7. Terminator 2: 3D
Join the Terminator as you try to save planet Earth from the evil futuristic cyborgs in this amazing mix of live action, 3-D film and state-of-the-art special effects. No height restrictions.
8. Disaster! A Major Motion Picture Ride…Starring You
Learn the secrets of disaster movies through special effects demonstrations, then board a subway train and experience the "explosive finale scene" of a movie that features a spectacular earthquake measuring 8.0 on the Richter scale. No height restrictions.
9. E.T. Adventure
Help America's favorite extraterrestrial save his dying planet as you hop aboard a star-bound bicycle and soar across the moonlit sky! No height restrictions.
10. Jimmy Neutron's Nicktoon Blast
Blast off with Jimmy Neutron and his pals on this thrilling motion simulated ride as you chase the evil Ooblar through the worlds of some of your favorite Nicktoon characters. Height requirement: 40 inches tall (stationary seating is available).
For more information about Orlando attractions, visit www.orlando-florida.net.
1. Disney's Magic Kingdom Park – 17.2 million visitors
2. Disneyland – 15.9 million visitors
3. Epcot – 11 million visitors
4. Disney's Hollywood Studios – 9.7 million visitors
5. Disney's Animal Kingdom Theme Park - 9.6 million visitors
6. Disney's California Adventure – 6.0 million visitors
7. SeaWorld Orlando – 5.8 million visitors
8. Universal Studios Florida – 5.4 million visitors
9. Universal's Islands of Adventure – 4.5 million visitors
10. Universal Studios Hollywood – 4.3 million visitors
Sources: Themed Entertainment Association, AECOM
"The Ellen DeGeneres Show" will tape two episodes at Univeral Orlando Resort on Sunday, March 28, 2010. Guests joining Ellen will include the always unpredictable Sharon Osbourne and Usher, who will perform both a song from his upcoming CD, Raymond v. Raymond, and one of his greatest hits. Episodes are set to air Thursday, April 1, and Friday, April 2, 2010. Ellen will her viewers inside Universal Orlando Resort and show them all of her favorite rides and attractions, including Universal's newest thrill ride, Hollywood Rip Ride Rockit. Ellen also hopes to explore the highly anticipated attraction, The Wizarding World of Harry Potter.
The tapings of "The Ellen DeGeneres Show" will take place on the Lagoon Stage, located at Universal CityWalk in the heart of Universal Orlando Resort. The Lagoon Stage is an outdoor, waterfront amphitheatre, seating 1,000 people and overlooking the entrance to the Universal Studios Florida and Islands of Adventure theme parks.


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My uncle was told his second cancer was terminal and there was nothing more to do than say good bye to loved ones.. He's a fighter though and after lots of reading changed his diet to a antioxidant one, "specially anything red", lots and lots of berries and antioxidant tea. 8 years later, no cancer and his goal is to out live the surgeon whom told him he had 3 months left.
Sorry to hear about your ordeal Cathy, I respect your work. I hope these can be a start to a healthy future:
http://www.webmd.com/cancer/news/20050912/study-vitamin-c-may-fight-cancerIn reply to - Cathy Consoli posted an update: I had surgery on April 29, 2013 & the doctor found cancer. I'm refusing chemo & more than likely radiation therapy too. I'm not afraid to die if that must be. I just hope I made a little difference for the better. The surgeon thinks he got it all & the [...] · View
Funny, even a casual look into the surveillance problem show Google to be a giant in data retrieval, they even been successfully prosecuted twice for illegal surveillance.. that I know of. So why would they all of the sudden be presented as our white knight? I suggest they are looking to corner the encryption market and you KNOW they will work closely with government so that the information (and money) continues to flow.In reply to - Alison posted an update: http://cnet.co/1bJ8dhZ Google tests encryption to protect users' Drive files against government demands The search giant is seeking ways to armor user files, sources say, a move that could curb government surveillance attempts. Bit late NO????? Lie to me ONCE shame on me. There are NO 2nd times · View
Ed Diver posted an update in the group #OccupyInstitutionalRacism: 1 year ago · View
A speech that will inspire, move and change points of view from a long time ago
Ed Diver posted an update in the group Economic News Discussion: 1 year ago · View
I like this guy, worth a read
he is spot on about the issues we are facing but the truth of the matter in this day and age we should not be so dumb that we cannot see it our own selves, and i am not speaking about the majority of us on this site either. we need a population growth stop the earth just cannot support this many humans, we have already crowded most of the wildlife from their homes and getting worse by the day.
It surprises me sometimes how many people believe in quaint ideas like, the American Constitution, rule of law and governance FOR the people.. "Elvis has left the building" (and still, the crowd cheers on).
The sooner everyone realizes the world has changed the sooner we can work on a better future. If you are quoting the constitution, you are wasting breath. Seriously. Congress? It was created to protect the nation from being ruled by a compromised President.. It is now frightening to look at the legislation being presented there- a perfect mirror of developing totalitarian states of the past, like pre-war Germany.
We really need to face reality, the office of President is now and has been for a while, the supreme glorious leader of the largest military the world has known. The office of President does not submit law for approval it simply states (quietly) it's radical changes to democracy. It does not ask for permission to invade other nations, it spins the media wheels and your hard earned money is converted into death for peoples far away.
Now very intelligent people put together these horrors and they know to place the true intentions at the back of legislation, after page after page of boring legal jargon. Also, they are given benign titles, for instance the most anti democratic Law ever decreed ( you can add a full stop if you like) is the National Defense Authorization Act. "I'm bored already" say most, but if it was titled The End of Democracy Act, a true reflection of it's intention, things might have gone differently..
The latest is an order to seize control of the internet, I'm not making it up, the President is now, by law, is able to stop, filter, monitor, therefore control all internet activity within American influence. It's happened. The last shadow of democracy has gone.. now what?
This is a brilliant post, thank you Christina. Some quotes:
"It's hard to read the litany of news of massive government surveillance, political and business corruption, violations of constitutional and international laws and human rights, trumped-up excuses for international "wars", the use of torture, the cynical support of despots, the interment of whistle-blowers, the bailout and non-punishment of corporate criminals, the set-up and vilification of dissidents, and new laws and rulings that place the rights and privileges of corporations above those of citizens, and not get an uneasy sense that our political and economic leaders (rulers?) are fully aware of the state of Financial, Commercial and Political Collapse and its inevitable worsening, and are working furiously in their own interests, and against ours, to protect themselves from the effects of collapse while throwing us to the lions."
"A Salon.com reporter recently quoted a Turkish professor of saying about Obama: "He talks like the head of the American Civil Liberties Union, but he acts like Dick Cheney.""
" There is a huge amount of learning and practice to do, and, if and when we give up the folly of believing that Stage 3 collapse can be averted, we have time to do it, starting small, learning from our mistakes, communicating what works and what doesn't with other communities preparing for collapse. We have lots to learn, too, from those in struggling nations and in impoverished slums and on the streets and on reservations, whose people have been, for the most part, living with cultural collapse all their lives, mostly at Stage 3."In reply to - Christina Marlowe posted an update in the group Take Action: http://howtosavetheworld.ca/2013/07/05/will-the-collapse-of-civilization-begin-with-global-corporatist-totalitarianism/ · View
Hmmm, I cant find the graphene in the links you sent me bud, lots of other great links though, can you please send it? this stuff is greatIn reply to - Ed Diver posted an update in the group Knowledge is power. : StoptheCrime.net has set up a 'THE SOURCE DOCUMENTS' page with a list of original documents commissioned by the military, by the Elite and Government that everyone should download and read. These documents are the evolving blueprint for the few s rule over the many and reading [...] · View
StoptheCrime.net has set up a 'THE SOURCE DOCUMENTS' page with a list of original documents commissioned by the military, by the Elite and Government that everyone should download and read. These documents are the evolving blueprint for the few s rule over the many and reading them makes the day to day events more obviously a part of a greater plan.
A warning though, reflecting on this information will make it harder to sleep and do not try wearing a tinfoil hat, trust me, it won't help.
thanks ed this is something to be concerned about as our government has already used it in iraq and would not hesitate to use it on us. did you get the link for mixing that graphene?
Hmmm, I cant find the graphene in the links you sent me bud, lots of other great links though, can you please send it? this stuff is great
i will post more as i find them
how to make supercapacitors
Interesting! I installed some solar panels and battery bank this year and wired it up to lights in my house.. feels goood. Please post those links, not sure how I get away with buying lots of acid though, I have hydrochloric but buying sulfuric can get you on lists, you know that right? Maybe if I say they are for my batteries.. super capacitors are another classic, I first read about them when I was an electronics Technician in the eighties. Awesome to hear you are making some, cant wait to see them.. as for visiting BP, are you up to much next week? HeheIn reply to - michael ronquillo posted an update: http://www.evur.us/ check this out it is awesome! it is an electric car that never has to be recharged and can power up a home if need be. · View
Industry is back teasing us with advances again it seems, I keep asking friends "Where's my f**king hover car? I was promised a hover car to fly me to my sky city -due decades ago! mumble mumble.."
Instead we get lots of article headlines like "Cancer cure close!" (Heard that one first in the early eighties) "New battery technology makes electric cars a reality" (early nineties) "genetic modification will make hunger a thing of the past" (mid nineties).. Luckily the institutions of our age stepped in and protected us from these advances.. If I could just break in to the Patient files at BP's head office I can get what's owed- "1 floating car please, in the dark silver thanks."
A example of the wind instead of substance:
Graphene, An Advanced Strategic High Tech Material
I look forward to not seeing this in the near future, instead my next smart phone could have another button- awesome!In reply to - michael ronquillo posted an update: http://www.evur.us/ check this out it is awesome! it is an electric car that never has to be recharged and can power up a home if need be. · View
Global Power Project, Part 1: Exposing the Transnational Capitalist Class
A great article defining, in numbers, the reality of our age- for instance, did you know that 50%, fully half of the world, have LESS than 1% of the wealth? try and consider that insane fact..
A well written, mainstream article reflecting on our loss of freedom highlighted by NSA intel gathering.. it provides a gentle inarguable viewpoint to share with friends and family who are still zombies..
When states monitored their citizens we used to call them authoritarian. Now we think this is what keeps us safe
The internet is being snooped on and CCTV is everywhere. How did we come to accept that this is just the way things are?
Suzanne Moore
The Guardian, Wednesday 3 July 2013
Declaration 2.0,
July 4, 2013, is an idea whose time has come. It addresses many of today's grievances held by the American people and, as such, echoes the original July 4, 1776 Declaration of Independence from the British monarchy.
True Defiance: I Challenge You To Survive The Coming Collapse
Brandon Smith
July 3rd, 2013
The Webster Tarpley Program – UnboundRadio.com
July 2, 2013
Snowden-Assange Cognitive Infiltration Psyop Falters amid Skepticism from Putin, Maduro; Contorted Attempts to Deny Kerry's Failed June 12 White House Palace Coup to Bomb Syria
Jeff Rense & Lindsey Williams – Insider Globalist Plans Revealed
Ed Diver posted an update in the group The Video Archive : 1 year ago · View
Tyranny can't happen here right?
My god Alison, I am a sucker for a good read and there is so much there, thank you!
My favorite so far:
http://theanarchistlibrary.org/library/ran-prieur-beyond-civilized-and-primitiveIn reply to - Alison posted an update in the group #A99: For your reading pleasure http://theanarchistlibrary.org/library · View
Ed Diver posted an update in the group World War III Watch: 1 year, 1 month ago · View
Stephen Walt And Zbigniew Brzezinski On Syria
And the quotes on this site are truly excellent, worth a read alone, an example:
"We are living in a demented world. . . Everywhere there are doubts as to the solidity of our social structure, vague fears of the imminent future, a feeling that our civilization is on the way to ruin. They are not merely the shapeless anxieties which beset us in the small hours of the night when the flame of life burns low. They are considered expectations founded on observation and judgment of an overwhelming multitude of facts. How to avoid the recognition that almost all things which once seemed sacred and immutable have now become unsettled, truth and humanity, justice and reason? We see forms of government no longer capable of functioning, production systems on the verge of collapse, social forces gone wild with power. The roaring engine of this tremendous time seems to be heading for a breakdown. But immediately the antithesis forces itself on our minds. Never has there been a time when men were so clearly conscious of their commanding duty to co-operate in the task of preserving and improving the world's well being and human civilization." – Johan Huizinga: In The Shadow of Tomorrow; pg. 15-16.
Ed Diver posted an update in the group Knowledge is power.: 1 year, 1 month ago · View
Jeff Rense & Gerald Celente – Trending Towards Disaster
Radio show June 18, 2013
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Chicago, IL (Sports Network) - Loyola of Chicago announced that they extended their men's head basketball coach Porter Moser through the 2017-18 season on Friday.
Moser guided the Ramblers to a 15-16 record last season, an eight-game improvement in the win column from two seasons ago. Seven of their 16 losses came by three points or less.
"Under the direction of Coach Moser, our men's basketball program has come a long way in a short period of time," Loyola assistant vice president and director of athletics Dr. M. Grace Calhoun said. "Both on and off the court, Coach Moser is a leader in every sense of the word and extending his contract affirms our faith in his ability to help the Rambler men's basketball program reach new heights."
The Ramblers were ranked as the sixth-youngest team in NCAA Division I basketball last season. Ten players including junior forward Christian Thomas (12.1 ppg, 6.5 rpg) will return for the team's first season in the Missouri Valley Conference.
"I couldn't be happier or more committed to lead the Loyola basketball program into a new era as we enter the Missouri Valley Conference," Moser said. "I am grateful to the administration for its support and confidence and will continue to work to restore the proud tradition of Loyola basketball. Chicago is home for me and my family, and I look forward to continuing to develop quality student-athletes who are outstanding representatives of this great university.
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Rebooting Congress
The flurry of economic reforms driven by the Prime Minister reflects two realities. One, Congress President Sonia Gandhi has recognised that a distressed economy, allied with corruption and inflation, could lose it the next Lok Sabha poll.
Two, this has emboldened the Prime Minister to take charge of economic policy, brooking no interference from the party's pro-subsidy lobby that thinks the only way to win elections is to ply voters with welfare handouts.
This marks a subtle shift in the balance of power between the Prime Minister and Sonia Gandhi. She remains the overall boss, he the detached technocrat. But the Prime Minister's position has been strengthened by recent events.
Sonia knows that an empty treasury cannot fund the food security bill and other populist measures the Congress will unleash on the electorate in 2013, ahead of the general election.
There are increasing signs meanwhile that Rahul Gandhi will move into a central role well before 2014. His visit to Jammu & Kashmir with a business delegation comprising Ratan Tata, Kumar Mangalam Birla and Azim Premji is a clear indication of his growing role in the party.
This process will culminate in Rahul being named the UPA's Prime Ministerial candidate – unless Sonia feels that the Congress cannot avoid electoral defeat in 2014. In that event, Rahul will be kept back to fight another day. The dynasty cannot be exposed to defeat at any cost. Its electoral allure, which binds the party, would fade quickly.
Congress strategists are now girding up for two crucial assembly elections in Gujarat and Himachal Pradesh. In 2013, several more states go to the polls. Four are key: Rajasthan, Chhattisgarh, Madhya Pradesh and Karnataka. Apart from Karnataka, the Congress is likely to lose the others. A 1-5 scorecard is not what the Congress wants before it braces for the 16th Lok Sabha election.
Recent nationwide opinion polls though have forecast broadly similar outcomes: the Congress is likely to win between 110 and 130 seats in the next Lok Sabha. Its historical low was 114 seats in 1999. That could be breached.
Twice before in history, the Congress has been reduced to half or less of its numbers in the preceding Lok Sabha poll. In 1977, following the Emergency, it fell from 352 seats (in 1971) to 153 seats. And in 1989, after Bofors, it collapsed from 404 seats (in 1984) to 197 seats. The slew of economic reforms in insurance, pensions and company law are the UPA-2 government's last opportunity to reverse the momentum.
* * *
The duality of power and accountability between party and government is inherently toxic. Every act of alleged corruption in the UPA-I and UPA-2 governments – from 2G spectrum and the Commonwealth Games (CWG) to opaque defence deals and arbitrary coal block allocations – can be traced back to this duality.
When there are two centres of power with contrasting objectives, the corrupt prosper. If the Congress wants to return to power – and the Prime Minister's bold reforms, allied with the BJP's errors of judgement, have given it an outside chance of doing so – internal political reforms are a condition precedent. Three are vital:
First, abolish dual power centres. Return permanently to the Prime Minister the power the Constitution gives him: as head of the government and the Council of Ministers he must have both absolute authority and accountability – not just the latter. This will boost good governance.
Second, develop independent regional leaders in the states along with grassroots organisations. Indira Gandhi, wracked by insecurity, denuded the states of strong local leaders, resulting in the emergence of powerful regional parties in Tamil Nadu, West Bengal, Punjab, Odisha, Uttar Pradesh, Bihar and Andhra. These are the states from where the Congress used to garner its parliamentary majorities till the 1970s and 1980s.
Third, reward merit. Sycophants and courtiers belong to Mughal and colonial eras. Congress leaders with talent and commitment know they might never get a shot at the top job. They console themselves by promoting their professional careers even when there is a clear conflict of interest. If they were a part of a dynamic, meritocratic party that fast-tracked talent, they would become assets, not rent-seekers.
To reverse its electoral fortunes, the Congress must re-invent itself as a modern, democratic party that places merit above loyalty.
Follow @minhazmerchant on twitter
Comments(2) Rated
The author of this article is correct in his asessing the prosepectus of congress.But i differ with him about Rahul's coronation in the party or 2014 election.The more they expose him,the more it suffers,the opinion in the country is totally against him as being dull headed and no vision of the future.It is the sycophantic brigade which wants him to play a major role in the party affairs.The days of the Neharu Gandhi are over,people have the realised the futility of backing the dynasty.
The lowered ratings of Fitch, Moody's and S&P was a charade so that the politicians having thousands of crores of black money stashed abroad can LAUNDER it back home .
Otherwise it is stuck for ever abroad as Congress can forget about winning anymore elections in India .
FDI from abroad has now made it possible for this enormous black money to be looped back into India officially using BENAMI foreign names –like how the IPL owners are mostly benami.
These corrupt politicians will now OWN India's infrastructure in assets the way Rothschild ( ex-owners of British East India Company ) has done it in Europe and USA.
Common educated Indians and India's patriotic watchdog security agencies have NOT fallen for the GDP versus growth chicanery, which forced manmohan to introduce FI in multi-brand retail and insurance as an IMMINENT fire-fighting measure.
After 2104 elections, these inflowed benami funds from foreign banks will be seized.
Come on you corrupt folks bring it all back before 2014.. Like for YSR/ Jagan Mohan Reddy—we will put your children and grandchildren in a hot scratchy jail.
Punch into Google search MODERN ECONOMICS , AN EMPIRICAL PSEUDO SCIENCE- VADAKAYIL.
Capt ajit vadakayil
Recent Posts in Politics5 writing styles for Sonia to choose from for her memoir 5 questions we hope Sonia Gandhi answers in her book Is caste politics dead? Why blame only Sonia for the pandora's box? Is caste politics dead? Sushaasan through technology
Minhaz Merchant's Recent PostsDecoding India's vote against Israel in UNHRC BRICS, sport, racism and the shift in the balance of global power Targeting 10% annual GDP growth: the break-up Beyond the Nehruvian consensus Quadrilateral of global power An agenda for the next government Modi: Why Western media still doesn't get it (an update) The West and Modi 2014: The most defining general election since 1977 False secularism: Slay the myth
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We need to prepare more than annual budgets
Can Modi pass the first governance test?
Reboot: Ctrl+Alt+Delhi
About the Author
Minhaz Merchant is chairman and group editor-in-chief of Merchant Media Ltd. A recipient of the Lady Jeejeebhoy prize for physics, he heads the group's think-tank Global Intelligence Review and is the author of biographies of former Prime Minister Rajiv Gandhi and the late industrialist Aditya Birla.


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During last Thursday's City Council workshop on Universe Knoxville, while developer Earl Worsham was declaring that the project—currently envisioned as a ball with a functionless giant pyramid on top—must "make an architectural statement" and be "visible from the interstate," a new word was bandied about in the peanut gallery: Egotecture.
© 2002 MetroPulse. All rights reserved. This material may not be published, broadcast, rewritten or redistributed.
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WASHINGTON, DC -- The Communications and Technology Subcommittee, chaired by Rep. Greg Walden (R-OR), today advanced H.R. 4342, the Domain Openness Through Continued Oversight Matters (DOTCOM) Act of 2014.
Chairman: Greg Walden (OR)
Vice Chairman: Bob Latta (OH)
John Shimkus (IL)
Lee Terry (NE)
Mike Rogers (MI)
Marsha Blackburn (TN)
Steve Scalise (LA)
Leonard Lance (NJ)
Brett Guthrie (KY)
Cory Gardner (CO)
Mike Pompeo (KS)
Adam Kinzinger (IL)
Billy Long (MO)
Renee Ellmers (NC)
Joe Barton (TX)
Fred Upton (MI)
Ranking Member: Anna G. Eshoo (CA)
Michael F. Doyle (PA)
Doris O. Matsui (CA)
Bruce Braley (IA)
Peter Welch (VT)
Ben Ray Lujan (NM)
John D. Dingell (MI)
Frank Pallone, Jr. (NJ)
Bobby L. Rush, (IL)
Diana DeGette (CO)
Jim Matheson (UT)
G.K. Butterfield (NC)
Henry A. Waxman (CA)
Authored by Rep. John Shimkus (R-IL), the DOTCOM Act was drafted in response to the Obama administration's proposal regarding the future of the Internet.
The Energy and Commerce Subcommittee on Communications and Technology, chaired by Rep. Greg Walden (R-OR), on Tuesday held a hearing focused on the Obama administration's recent proposal on the future of the Internet.
WASHINGTON, DC – The Subcommittee on Communications and Technology, chaired by Rep.


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I don't remember everything about meeting Maurice ... probably we simply faced one another in the middle of the white coral road, hesitating to speak, staring at each other. We were the only boys for miles around. I remember wondering how he could walk on the hot, sharp coral without shoes.
"Don't your feet hurt?"
He shakes his head.
"Do you live around here?"
"Back there. Around the corner."
"Hey, that's great. I live in the new house by the woods."
"I saw you working on it," he says.
"We ought to get some wire and a couple of dry-cell batteries and string it up between our houses. We could learn Morse code and send messages."
He looks up from the road. "You think we could?"
"Have you got a bike?"
"Yes." (I had just gotten it.)
"Let's go swimming. I know a rock pit back in the woods. It's got an island in the middle."
"O.K. I'll have to get my bathing suit."
"Hell, you don't need a suit. There's nobody around."
"How far is it?"
"A couple of miles. It's a great place," he says.
All that summer we were together. My days started with Maurice calling from the road. "Fra-yunk ... hey, Fra-yunk ..." I'd swallow some milk, grab a piece of bread and rush out, the screen door slamming behind me. There he'd be, straddling his bike, bare feet in the white dust, a brown arm waving, beckoning me out into the blinding glare.
We spent most of our time in the woods. The first project was a tree-house built precariously high in a tall pine. The climb was difficult for anyone who didn't know the secret hand-holds we'd constructed at the hardest parts. Lazing around in the sun we'd glance back to Chula Vista when a car started, or a man on a roof flashed his hammer. (Down would come the arm in dead silence, then, too late, the sharp snap of the blow.) Above, the fat white clouds drifted in the blue. Great sedate clouds, rich and peaceful. We lay on our backs watching them, getting dizzy as they slipped along behind the branches, as if our tree was falling.
On the ground we built track and field games. Hour after hour our bodies fell like bundles into the softened sand. Maurice once high-jumped his own height. We kept a record in a nickel notebook, carefully noting down our performance and progress.
We had caches of canned food and comic books at different places in the woods. We rarely used them, it was the idea that pleased us.
Best of all was the rock quarry. Down the long white coral road on our bikes, mile after mile into the deserted woods. Leaving the bikes against a tree we walked across the sand. The air buzzed with sun and sleepy insects. If we saw a king snake, all six feet wrapped black and shiny in the shade of a palmetto, we'd break off a pine branch and kill it, smashing the small head till the blood ran. Rabbits were rare, if we saw one we'd throw a stick.
Once we found a dead mule, bones picked almost clean, ants streaming through the eyes. The stench was too much for us and after poking the corpse we ran away, gasping for breath. We talked about that mule for weeks. What was its fascination? Death dramatized, something of unbelievable importance being revealed right in front of us. But something else too. We rambled over a tremendous amount of space every day, over vast areas of silent, empty woods (a pine woods on sandy ground is more like a desert than anything else), rambled over miles of wasteland trying to find the center of it, the heart, the place to be to know it. We sensed the forces around us but they were too thinly spread, too finely drawn over all the miles of the woods for us to grasp them. The forces eluded us. We would run into a clearing knowing that just a moment ago, in that instant before we had arrived, something of importance had happened there. But when we found the dead mule we knew we were close, suddenly very close. Those forces spread like air over the woods had converged here, on this animal the moment he died, and were not yet altogether gone.
We could see the abandoned quarry behind the trees, the tall white island in the center seeming to move as we ran. two black hawks lifted from the pinnacle, swerving away over the water and up into the blue air, their wings beating slowly, synchronized in movement like some double image in a dream. Impossibly still, the water lay against the shining coral shore like brown glass. We ran to the edge, shouting to break the silence.
"Yodela-ay! Yodelay-io"
Or just "Yay!"
(We did a lot of shouting ... phrases from childhood games, dirty words, satisfying noises of all kinds. We were afraid, but only a little afraid, of the silence around us. Usually there was enough breeze in the tops of the pines to make a faint rustling noise behind the day, but I remember times, hot, airless days, sitting in the woods alone in perfect silence, paralysis creeping over my limbs, my ears deaf without sound to hear, my eyes frozen without movement to watch. We shouted in joy and fear, sending our voices ahead to animate the bleakness, supremely conscious of ourselves as pinpoints of life in a world of dead things, impurities that sand, coral, water and dead mules were only tolerating.)
It was easy to undress. We wore only bluejeans. I remember a mild shock at the absence of anything bur air against my skin. Running to the edge of the bank we threw ourselves into the water, instantly setting the whole broad surface alive with movement and dappled light. Our legs kicked up thin sheets of water that sparkled in the sun and the slapping of our cupped hands echoed away into the woods. The water was always warm.
Neither one of us knew how to swim properly. We'd simply crash through, with a tremendous amount of wasted movement, towards the island, our progress slow but steady. We never raced, knowing, I suppose, that as bad as we were it was pointless. Halfway across we'd tread water.
"It's great nobody even knows about it except us."
"If any kids from Dania find it we can put up signs saying the water is poisoned."
"Hey, maybe it is!"
We'd laugh.
"You know that big old turtle we saw on the bank?"
"I bet he could take your peter off in one bite."
"Jesus Christ!" I'd yell, only half joking, my legs propelling me up in the air. "Jesus Christ!"
At the highest point of the man-made island a bed of soft green moss had grown over the coral. We'd lie with our chins in our hands looking out over the miles of pine woods, the sun hot against our backsides.
"We ought to build a shack out here."
"Have to carry all the wood."
"We could build a raft and float the stuff over."
Often we'd fall asleep, tired from the long ride and the swim ... a drowsy, dreamless, half-sleep in the sun. When one awoke the colors of the world had deepened, as if the whole scene had just been created.
Riding back we'd keep an eye out for cars parked in the woods. Two or three times we'd spotted one, and hidden in the tops of nearby trees had watched the gentle rocking motion of the chassis on its greased springs, silent and comically sinister. We were too scared to get close enough to see anything, except a heart-freezing glimpse of a woman's arm being raised, or the sudden flash of sunlight on a bald pate. We knew what we were watching, but somehow we could never quite believe it. From the safety of the trees we'd whistle and screech till the car drove away. Scrambling down we'd race over toe find the prophylactic, holding it up on the end of a long stick, grimacing with disgust. Neither of us knew exactly what it was, accepting it nevertheless as proof that the unbelievable act had taken place. We hid our ignorance from each other, making oblique wisecracks to cover it up.
Running down the wide empty avenue between the barracks. Deserted buildings fall behind as our toes drive into the hot sand, hundreds of dark buildings in long rows folding majestically on the periphery of vision, sealing off escape.
"Fuck the armee!"
Rushing through the hot air, ripping it apart with speed, wind cramming our open mouths and ears, racing neck and neck, stride for stride in wild harmonious abandon. At the sweetest moment our legs give out, suddenly trembling, and we fall sliding into the sand, tumbling unnecessarily for the sheer fun of it, rolling like dogs in the crystalline cloud.
I spit the dead grains from my mouth and shake my head. Looking up I see the twin lines of our footprints stretching back into a white glare. Hunched over in rapt absorption, Maurice picks at the calloused soles of his feet.
Pushing hard. The door swings easily and bangs against the inside wall. An enormous room, empty, the sun streaming in long bars across the wooden floor. My eyes search the corners, expecting something, but the place is bare. "Fuck the army!" My voice resounds marvelously. "Up your mother's asshole!" I stand as if waiting for an answer. The silence is oppressive and I run to the next building.
A fire extinguisher lies on the floor. I pick it up to throw across the room, but it's too heavy and all I can do is let it fall a few feet away.
"Hey Fraaaaank!" Maurice calls from another building. I run outside and stand in the center of the avenue. I can't tell which building his voice is coming from. "Frank!" he calls again, waving from a doorway. "Over here."
"Find something?"
"Over here."
He takes me into a building that seems darker than the others. Some of the windows are broken and boarded up.
"Look at this."
A carving on the wall, lines chipped out with a knife, very elaborate and skillful.
"Wow!" I reach out and touch it. The scene is of a woman, lying with her thighs spread apart and an immense disembodied phallus halfway inside her. She gazes over her breasts and belly at the viewer, eyes popping in a caricature of lust, tongue hanging. The detail is painstaking, down to the fine lines of pubic hair.
"Holy Mackerel," says Maurice. "You think we can get it off the wall?"
"We'll need tools. We can do it tomorrow."
"Wouldn't it be great in the tree house."
"We can get if off there," I say, taking my hand away.
"It'll be safe in the tree house."
"We can't show it to anybody. Not even Jean." (His brother.)
"Hell, I wouldn't show it to him. He'd just take it. It's ours."
We step back to let the light fall cleanly against the wall.
"Holy Mackerel."
Maurice gives a long, low whistle like some sharpy in the movies and we crack up simultaneously, moving around the room, bent over, laughing and slapping ourselves.
Down the avenue in an easy trot towards the largest building. The sun is gone. Immense clouds from the ocean move swiftly overhead, their tops white and voluptuous, their undersides black with rain. (Florida weather is sudden and dramatic. I once saw a high cloud rain into a lower one, with no effect below.) The air smells peculiar, and in the filtered light, colors fade. Distant thunder as we run into the building.
An old gym. The hardwood floor had been taken up but the basketball backboards remain, a few strands of webbing hanging limply from the hoops. Our voices echo off the high roof.
"Find anything?"
"No. It's been cleaned out."
In a corner stands an old upright piano. The keys go down under my fingers but there is no sound. I open the top, and standing on a broken-backed chair, peer down into the strings. The hammers are there, like a line of soldiers, and the strings are rusty but taut. Carefully I lower my arm into the piano, get my finger behind one of the hammers and give it a gentle flip. A note sounds weakly.
"It works," I yell to Maurice. He is shimmying up the basketball pole.
Examining the front of the piano I find a small lever set into the wood. A corroded metal plate is readable after I rub it with spit. It says "Practise-Play." I push the lever slowly to the Play position and then strike a chord. The room fills with sound.
"LEP-rosy (va-room), eee gods I've got Lep-rosy (va-room), there goes my eye-ball (plink), into your high-ball (plink-plink)...
Bump-a-dad, bump-a-dada, bump-a-dad, just the way you look to-night.
Jada ... Jada ... jada jada jing jing jing."
Maurice sits on the basketball hoop high in the air. He stretches out his arms to show he isn't holding on. At just that moment an explosion rocks the earth. My chair trembles and the windows rattle in their frames. We wait breathlessly, Maurice with his arms still outstretched, myself motionless at the piano. A wall of water is falling from the sky, growing heavier with every instant of silence, gathering speed to drive deep in the sand. A drop on the drumlike roof. Another. And then, with a roar, the full load crashes down, shaking the building.
Maurice lowers his tail through the basketball hoop like a man sitting in a garbage pail. He hangs there for a second, then pulls himself up and drops silently to the floor. He yells something I can't hear.
His lips move as he shouts. He wants to go out in the rain. I nod. He knows I'd rather stay with the piano so he doesn't wait, turning and running to the door which he throws open. Standing there, his body is a dark silhouette against the white lines of rain. He moves through the doorway and the white lines fall behind him like a curtain.
At the window I watch him running down the avenue, his jeans already black and soaking, his bony shoulders shining with epaulets of spray. He trots, slows down, staggers, his arms straight up as if the rain was a rope he could climb. Turning slowly, head lifted and mouth open to catch the drops, his back bends like a smooth, stringless bow.
"But darling," he almost yelled at her, "don't you see what I mean?"
Mother and Guy were having an argument about Carlton Fredericks, the soap-opera nutritionist, and it was clear that if I waited around for supper I'd miss my ride to the fair. I slipped out of the house on tiptoes, carefully closing the screen door behind me, wincing as the spring creaked.
It was good to be out. It was always good. Their voices faded away as I walked up the moonlit road towards Maurice's. Every now and then a dog barked... close by, from across the road, from the fringes of the woods. Yard dogs, talking over great distances like telegraphers at sea, waiting, cocking their heads to listen to the silence, haunches trembling for the answering yip of the long, atavistic howl. Steel guitars came from a kitchen radio, slippery tremolos drifting out across the warm air likes low birds. I counted my change in the moonlight. Seventy-three cents.
As Maurice's house came into view I broke into a run. In a yellow window I could see his mother washing up after dinner, her body rocking gentle back and forth as she shifted her immense weight from one leg to the other. Popeye, the old dog, jogged halfway across the yard to investigate me. Popeye was totally blind so you had to tell him who you were.
"It's just me 'peye. Just me."
Maurice's father was sitting in front of the house, reclining in a tattered deck chair we'd found at the dump. He was drinking from a wine bottle, holding it up in the bright moon after each slug to see how much was left. "Evening boy."
"Evening sir." I stood before him for a moment, waiting for him to speak. It was a tradition and he got annoyed if you didn't honor it. Having seen him mean drunk on more than one occasion, I always did. (The quietest thirteen-year-old boy in the world is the boy who finds a raving, half-blind, red-necked, out-of-work hillbilly house-painter between himself and the door.)
"You coming with us to the fair?"
"Yes sir. If I can."
He took a drink and smiled, his mouth stained with wine. "Course you can. Course you can," he said. "You're a good boy."
"Is that Maurice taking a shower?" Someone was in the stall by the outhouse.
"That's Jean."
We heard the rattle of a pail and then a splashing sound. "Shee-ut! It's cold."
"Jean!" The old man's voice rose suddenly, like a load of coal dumped in a chute. "Hush up your mouth!"
"Well it's cold, pa."
Not bothering to answer he slumped down in the deck chair. "Go on, boy," he said to me. "Maurice is inside."
At just that moment the screen door opened and Mrs. Rushing threw out a basin of water. It flashed through the air and struck the ground where the light spilled from the window. A thousand gleaming flies lifted from the greasy sand the instant the water hit, and fell back the instant afterward, like a green blanket.
"Well, look who's here," she said, smiling. "Ready to go to the fair?"
"Yes, ma'm." I followed her into the house, my head down, watching her elephant legs. I smelled cake in the kerosene oven.
"You boys go in the back now so you won't be underfoot," she said, wiping the oilcloth table. "I've got to get ready."
"Is the cake for tonight?" I whispered as we pushed through the curtain.
"I think so," Maurice said.
We sat on Maurice's bed and played cards in the flickering light. The house was one room, divided by a dark curtain about six feet high strung up on a length of wire stretched from wall to wall. The kitchen, dining table and chairs were on one side, and the beds on the other. There were four beds, taking up almost every inch of space. One had to turn sideways to walk between them. Maurice, his older brothers Jean and Dan, and of course Mr. and Mrs. Rushing all slept there. Their clothes and personal belongings were neatly crammed into open shelves high on the walls. The family shotgun hung on two nails over the only window.
"Oh shucks. I was almost there."
"All right now, come out here while I get dressed." Mrs. Rushing pulled the curtain back and waited. "Just one piece each," she said. "No snitching when I ain't looking."
"Ahh," Maurice sighed. "Coconut."
On the round table were two plates with cake, and resting on the stove the mother lode, fresh icing rippling down its sides.
"Ma, you didn't wash the bowl?"
She laughed from the other side of the curtain. "No, honey. It's there on the top of the ice-box."
Jean pushed through the door, dressed in jeans and a freshly laundered shirt. The cuffs were folded back twice to show his muscular forearms. His wet hair was slicked back over his head, revealing a pale white band at the top of his brow.
"The bowl's ours!" Maurice said.
"Hell, you're welcome to it." he sat down by the old radio (tall, with carved wood, like a miniature cathedral) and fiddled with the dial until he got some music. Then, suddenly impatient, he turned it off and went to the door. "Pa, when are we going! It's getting late."
The old man didn't answer. Maurice and I ate our cake and listened to Mrs. Rushing moving softly on the other side of the curtain.
She stood at the side of the road, her plastic purse hanging from folded hands. A small straw hat was placed straight on her head, pinned to her hair with two long needles like antennae. She wore a print dress she'd made from twenty-pound flour sacks.
The old man, Jean, Dan and myself stood behind the old De Soto, leaning up against it like the victims of a police frisk. "Be sure it's in second," Mr. Rushing yelled over the rear fender.
"I know what to do, pa," Maurice answered from inside.
"And don't turn the ignition on until we get up some speed!"
"I know, I know," he said.
"And don't talk back to your pa!"
Dan, the eldest brother, a big gentle man who always spoke softly, turned to me. "There ain't too much room back here, Frankie. See if you can get a purchase up there on the doorpost."
I ran to my position. Through the window Maurice looked absurdly small behind the wheel. He had to crane his neck to see over the hood. His white teeth gleamed in the moonlight as he smiled.
"All right now ... HEAVE!"
The car began to roll immediately, coral crunching under the tires as it picked up speed. Soon I found myself running just to keep up. After twenty or thirty yards the old man yelled, "Now!"
Maurice snapped out the clutch and the car pushed back at me, almost knocking me over. The engine coughed, died, coughed, and caught. I heard him cry "Yippee" as he pulled away in a sudden burst of power, rear tires spinning and engine roaring. In a split second he was far up the road, without lights, shifting into third.
Breathing heavily, I came to a halt. Ten yards behind me the three men stood in the middle of the road, bent over, half-bent, their arms hanging at their sides. And behind them, way back in the distance where we'd started, Mrs. Rushing took a step forward to look after us.
"Where in hell does he think he's going?" The old man asked, but he wasn't mad.
We could barely fit in the car. The springs sank alarmingly as Mrs. Rushing eased herself into the front seat, making the old De Soto look as if it were headed for the center of the earth, but things straightened out as Jean and Dan got in back. Maurice sat on my lap and we were off.
Down Dania Boulevard, the De Soto creaking like a hay wagon, I could see the rusted-out front fender waving in the wind. Every now and then a big Buick or Caddy would rush up behind up, lights flashing, and whip by as if we were standing still. Big, thick-necked men, holding their broads, speeding down to Miami and the dog track and the Fronton. An Olds fish-tailed past as ninety-five and we saw a blond head dip down. Jean opened a bottle of wine. "You just know she's blowing him," he said softly to Dan.
Maurice and I watched the taillights disappear in the distance.
"Let me have some," Maurice whispered, making a grab for the bottle.
Jean held it back. "Well, looky here!" he said in mock surprise.
"Just one. I won't take much."
"What'll you give me?"
"Aw Jean, come on."
Maurice took the bottle and raised it to his lips. I watched his Adam's apple moving like a piston, once, twice, three times. Jean reached for the bottle but just at that moment Mrs. Rushing turned around and froze everybody. Quick as a flash she reached back and snatched the bottle, glaring at Jean. "You giving wine to those children?"
There was no escape for Jean, caught between Dan on one side and Maurice and me on the other. He just looked down at his shoes. Mrs. Rushing raised her tree-trunk arm to the roof of the car. Her five fingers were spread like a star. A faint grunt escaped her lips as she drove the whole weighty load straight down on top of Jean's unsuspecting head. A tremendous blow, traveling down his backbone and compressing the entire back seat with stunning force.
It took a moment for Jean to reorient himself. "Aw, maw," he said.
Mrs. Rushing rolled down her window and threw out the wine bottle.
"Aw, maw!" he said again, slightly bewildered at the speed with which events had transpired. "It was almost full."
Mrs. Rushing didn't answer. She raised her head to watch the road and never looked back. Dan laughed quietly, without a trace of malice.
A perpendicular column of blue light descended form the sky to the parking field, striking the earth behind a screen of silhouetted automobiles, spreading a pool of white radiance, a vague open-topped dome of light in the air above us. Insects drifted through like snowflakes, disappearing at the perimeter.
"Now make sure you know where the car is," Mrs. Rushing said. "We'll meet here at midnight." She saw Jean rushing off. "Jean! Did you mind me?" He was gone before she could stop him. "That boy," she said sadly.
The old man took out his change purse. "How much money you got?"
"Sixty cents," Maurice answered.
"Seventy-three cents, sir."
He counted some change and held it out to us. "That makes a dollar and a half each. And don't spend it all in one place."
"Thank you!" we yelled together.
Dan gave us each a quarter, and just before we took of, Maurice's mother held out two silver coins. "That's eating money," she said. "And you ain't getting any more so don't spend it on those bumper cars like last time."
"We won't, momma. Thanks."
"Thank you ma'm."
"All right boys. Have a good time and stay out of trouble. We'll see you later." She moved off on her husband's arm, smiling, one hand unnecessarily holding down her hat (as if he were sweeping her away in a waltz or a polka, as if only now, at the last moment, could she control her appearance before giving up to the madcap whirl of the evening), her buttocks rolling like ships at sea.
On the fairway Maurice and I darted through the crowd like needles through a tapestry, turning, pausing, deftly insinuating ourselves across the slow movement of the parade.
The bumper cars! Waiting in line we draped ourselves over the wooden railing and surveyed the scene. On the steel floor small cars raced into the distance, took a curve, and raced back, each with a long pole to the shiny roof trailing sparks of power. Most of the drivers were children, but here and there an adult could be seen, or a young couple crammed in together, giggling, trying to avoid collisions. WHOMP! We laughed as a kid in overalls caught a teen-aged girl broadside and spun away before she could retaliate. WHOMP! Someone else hit her. THis time she straightened out and gave it some speed, accelerating nicely.
"That one looks good," I said. "Number ten. I hope she gets out." (There were small but crucial differences in the power of the cars. It was important to get the faster ones.)
"Thirty-eight," Maurice said. "And that blue one, ninety-nine."
When the boy came around we each bought a ribbon of tickets. The air was full of ozone, a thin, sharp white smell in the back of one's nose. A whistle blew and the power was cut. All over the floor cars rolled to a stop.
"She's getting out," I yelled, as the crowd pushed up behind us. "Number ten! I've got number ten!"
"Ninety-nine! In the back."
As the floor cleared the boy swung open the barrier and stepped to the side. With a tremendous roar fifty kids rushed out onto the steel track, fanning out from the narrow gate in all directions like water from a split hose. Someone was at my side, racing me to number ten, but at the last moment (when he was slowing down) I leapt into the air and landed with both feet in the cockpit, my hands grabbing the pole for support. Laughing, I slithered down into position and watched him run off for another car.
The controls were simple. An accelerator and a steering wheel. I spun the wheel, testing the amount of play. It was fairly tight. Waiting, I tried to find Maurice, but the view was obscured.
At last every kid had a car. The barrier was closed and a whistle sounded. I pressed the accelerator to the floor as somewhere out of the sight the power was turned on. My car began to move. Dozens of cars moved at top speed around the track, dodging in and out as the drivers attempted to get the feel of their vehicles. I bent back my head, sighting up the pole to watch the metal tongue sliding across the roof, sucking power.
Confident, after a few experiments, that my car was one of the best on the floor, I took off to look for Maurice, sideswiping a few kids along the way just for the hell of it. "One Way Only!" said a sign on the wall. "No Head-on Collisions!" Maurice was waiting for me at the edge of the curve. He'd got the car he wanted, the blue one. I pulled up beside him.
"Who do we get?"
"Watch it!" Maurice was struck by a giggling girl who made no attempt to control her vehicle. She'd been pushed into Maurice by a fat boy in a Tom Mix tee-shirt. "Him!" Maurice yelled. "Tom Mix!"
Our strategy had been worked out the previous year. The only question was who went first. Maurice took off, and after skirting the helpless girl, I counted to ten under my breath and followed. Elbows out, back curved over the wheel, Maurice pursued the fat boy, slowly closing the gap. We went an entire lap before Tom Mix made his move. He went to the outside, figuring to cut across and catch the giggling girl from behind. Maurice anticipated this and raced down the rail, turning at the last moment to cross paths with plenty of speed. At exactly the same time I aimed for the spot where it seemed to me Tom Mix would end up, collecting maximum speed on the long straight run.
It worked perfectly. Maurice closed in, his head bent down. At the last instant Tom Mix saw him coming and tried to turn away, but it was too late. FA-BOOM! Maurice caught him solidly on the left fender, spinning the car a quarter turn, reversing his wheels and bring him to a halt. Tom Mix spun the steering wheel frantically, trying to straighten himself out and get started again. He'd been prepared for Maurice, but as I barreled in, teeth clenched, straight-armed, I could see he didn't expect me. His body was loose. Innocent. FA-BAM! A marvelous, straight-on hit, jolting him in his seat, shaking his fat like jello.
We were invincible! Gasping, choking with laughter too wild and sweet to come out, our brains bursting with excitement, we drove off to new conquests.
It was getting late. The crowds had thinned out, and along the fairway most of the stalls were closing down for the night. Maurice and I sat on the guard rail of a darkened carousel eating hot dogs, waving away the flies automatically.
"How much have you got left?"
"Thirty-five cents," I said.
"I've got a quarter."
"I guess it's almost midnight."
Maurice jumped down from the fence and ran to ask someone what time it was. Tired, I walked after him.
"Ten of," he said when I reached him.
"Well, let's mosey on down."
We ambled along the littered promenade in the general direction of the parking field, checking the sandy ground for dropped coins. Maurice bent over and picked up a small felt pennant on a stick. DANIA-FLA. on a background of orange blossoms. "For the tree-house."
We stopped in front of a freak show to look at the posters. The alligator man. The duck woman. The armless wonder. Special attraction! The man without a face.
"I saw it last year," Maurice said. "It's a fake."
"They say he's got alligator skin."
"He's painted up. He lies around in a pit full of sawdust with these big hunks of raw meat. But he doesn't touch the meat or anything. It's a fake."
"You mean he's just like us only painted up?"
"Well, no," Maurice said, pausing. "He don't have no arms. His hands sort of grow out of his shoulders."
"Like little baby hands. But they're dead. He can't move them."
"Didn't it make you feel funny to look at him?"
"I didn't like it. He just lay there in the sawdust, real still, as if he was dead, with his head turned away. And we all walked by. If he'd really been an alligator man, well then O.K., but it was a fake and I didn't want to look." He turned away from the poster. "Let's go."
At the edge of the fair a small booth is still open, its lights shining out into the empty air. A big man in a purple jacket sits on a stool behind the counter drinking a container of coffee. As we approach he pauses momentarily, looks at us over the rim of the container, and then continues drinking as if he hadn't seen us.
We stop twenty feet away to examine the game. It's a ring toss. Ten cents a throw and the prizes are on the walls. Pennants, funny hats, candy boxes, two live canaries, china dolls, stuffed animals, canned hams, ukuleles, toasters, radios, silverware. Maurice nudges me. "Look there, on the back wall." I whistle softly. Mounted on a wooden plaque, with a belt and holster hanging next to it, is the grand prize, a silver revolver.
"Wow," Maurice whispers as we move forward.
"It's beautiful. Look at the carving on the handle."
"With a holster and everything."
The big man hasn't looked at us, or moved a muscle.
"How do you win the gun?" Maurice asks.
"Two out of three tosses on the red peg," he says expressionlessly.
We look at the back wall. Recessed into a lighted chamber under the pistol is a red peg, angled backwards under a sloping roof. I give Maurice a nickel. "We can both try."
"O.K. Give me three, please."
It's as if the man is blind. He stares fixedly out into the darkness. Bright lights shine behind his head. He leans forward slightly, collects the change with one hand and brings up three rings from under the counter with the other, all in one smooth movement, without looking down or changing position on the stool.
Maurice takes aim and throws a ring. It strikes the wall and falls onto a shelf below. "Too high," he says, and throws again. The second ring is too low. "Sucks," Maurice says. "Well, for one I get a radio." He throws the last ring. It strikes the recessed enclosure straight on, but doesn't fit and falls away. "Did you see that?" he asks me.
"It won't go that way. You have to lob it in at an angle so it'll fit."
"I'm going to ask momma for another thirty cents. I'll be right back." He runs off into the darkness.
I stand for a moment, studying the red peg. My heart beats quickly because of the discovery of throwing at an angle. It'll still be difficult, the ring must enter the enclosure at exactly the right tilt. Once inside, it must fall on the peg by its own weight. I remind myself to throw softly so it won't bounce off the back wall.
"I'll take three."
Once again he leans forward in the smooth gesture, slapping the rings on the counter near my hands. Behind me, far away, I can hear cars starting up in the parking field.
The edge of the counter presses against my stomach. I toss the first ring, giving a faint flick of the wrist at the last instant to keep it from turning over in the air. It sails into the enclosure as if guided by an invisible hand. I can hardly believe my eyes. It falls slowly towards the peg, strikes, and leans. I duck down my head and shield my eyes from the bright lights. Yes! It covers the top of the peg. Another good toss could knock it over.
Three feet away the man sits absolutely still. I can hear his breathing. He hasn't looked up, or back at the red peg. It's as if I'm not there.
Picking up the second ring I know I'm going to win. Nothing can stop it, as if it's already happened, as if time were running backwards. A peculiar, giddy feeling comes over me. A lightheadedness, strangely familiar. I throw the second ring. It misses and falls away. I shrug, blinking, as if something annoying had happened around me, some minor irritation interrupting my concentration. I feel like asking for the ring back even though I know it makes no different. The third ring is in my hands. I lean forward, aim and throw. It goes into the enclosure, as I had known it would, falls onto the peg, and knocks the other down underneath it. I've won. Two rings over the red peg. I look at them for a moment. An immense calm lies over my soul. Then I look up at that revolver.
"I've won."
The man doesn't move.
"I've won. Look."
He turns around and looks back at the peg. Then he gets off the stool and walks back and takes the rings off the peg and drops them with the others on the shelf. He comes back and stands in front of me, gazing out over my head. "You missed."
He says nothing.
For a moment I don't know what to do. I stand there looking up at him. His face is white and hard.
"But I won," I say.
Slowly he lowers his head and looks at me. His eyes are dark under thick black eyebrows. He lifts his arm from behind the counter and extends it to me. As if in a dream I reach out to shake hands.
Gently but firmly he takes my wrist, bends and spreads his knees a fraction of an inch, and slowly rubs my palm under his balls.
The arc-light had been turned off, and without a landmark it took me some time to find the car. I wandered around the field for five or ten minutes, not really looking, trying to calm down. Eventually I came on the De Soto. Pausing behind a pick-up truck I wiped my eyes carefully on the sleeve of my shirt and took a couple of deep breaths.
"Hey." Maurice was sitting on the running board, his chin in his hands.
"Hey." My voice sounded strange.
"Dan says Jean went off somewhere. With some girl. Pa wants to go without him but momma says we should wait."
I opened the back door and climbed into the car. Dan was asleep. I sat in the corner and pressed myself against the wall, my eyes closed.
"I don't give a hot damn," the old man said. "I ain't gonna wait no longer. He's gone, woman."
"Well, five minutes more."
"God-damn woman fussing over every little thing."
We waited ten minutes, and when Jean still hadn't appeared the old man started the engine. "Come on, boy," he said to Maurice. "He ain't coming back."
Maurice got in beside me. I kept my eyes closed, pretending I was asleep. Lights flashed across my eyelids as we reached the main road.
Halfway home I opened my eyes to see where we were. Maurice saw me looking out the window. After a minute or two he asked, "What's wrong?"
"Nothing," I said, and settle down as if to go back to sleep.
Chula Vista was dark, but the lights were still on at my house. Mr. Rushing stopped at the corner and let me out.
"See you tomorrow," Maurice said.
"O.K." I waved and started for the house. The moon had set and all the stars were out, thousands of them spread over the black sky like lacework. It was a quiet, windless night.
Their voices carried on the still air. I heard them, arguing away in the same tones as when I'd left, Guy's slightly hoarse rising sentences, mother's rich contralto falling sentences, back and forth, back and forth, like animals pacing their cages.
I pushed open the screen door and started for my bed.
"Frank? Is that you?" my mother called from the other side of the curtain.
"Wash the dishes before you go to bed."
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Frank Conroy, Please Don't Take My Sunshine Away
Carolyn Gaiser, Differences
Christina Stead, George
M. E. White, A Summer Evening's Wake
Jorge Luis Borges, The Art of Fiction No. 39
Ted Berrigan, from The Sonnets
Jon Cott, Swimming
Kenward Elmslie, Two Poems
Ted Greenwald, Bleep
Ted Hughes, Two Poems
Edward Kissam, Accident
Aram Saroyan, from Works
James Schuyler, Two Poems
Lewis Warsh, Dreaming over a Page
John Cage, Diary: How to Improve the World
Luce Hoctin, Les Halles
Harold Chapman, Les Halles Photographs


text:
The marketing material accompanying Lenovo's new super-exclusive Thinkpad Reserve Edition is a great example of how increasingly, differentiation is about the soft stuff, the services; and less so about the quality or power of the hardware.
Take a look at the PDF Spec Sheet. Despite it being called a spec sheet, less than a quarter of the document was actually devoted to technical information. The majority of the documentation, and the online presentation focus on what is obviously the important differentiators. These being: service and design.
Lenovo's "luxury of service" includes: a guaranteed personal response when you ring, "no answering machines, no phone menus." And should you have a problem with your Thinkpad, they will fly out to where you are and fix it for you. Wow!
Ten years ago we would have been looking at the MHz of the processor, the Mb of RAM etc. None of that is the focus here.
Imagine what your average computer shop could be if it refocused on service and helping customers rather than just selling hardware like everyone else.
"Imagine what your average computer shop could be if it refocused on service and helping customers rather than just selling hardware like everyone else."
I reckon it'd look a look like the Apple Genius Bar. Sure, it's Apple, so apart from triggering your sneeze reflex, Zern, it also looks like a cross between Ikea and an up-market sushi restaurant. But the focus is on connecting you with another person.
Try this Google Images search for more photos.
Of course the core of your point is about the "average computer shop" versus "service". Computer shops are only about selling hardware, and yet most people actually need help with their information systems — of which "computers" are only a small (and shrinking!) part. Compare the look of your local hardware shop — packed full of paint, nails, screws, tiles — with an architect's office and you'll see what I mean.
Even in an "average" computer shop, the soft stuff makes a difference.
I have a huge selection of computer shops near where I live. I used to go to one (picked at random) but increasingly found the guy somewhat dour and intimidating. Every time I went in, the conversation was stilted and monosyllabic. There were no helpful discussions or suggestions. There was little interest in what I was after.
Another computer shop down the road offered a totally different experience. There were lively discussions about what I wanted, engaged suggestions, invitations to see what their technicians were doing out the back.
I know which one gets my business.


text:
Clinton resident Joe Rozsa — also head of Trailer Trash Design firm — is North Canton's first entrepreneur-in-residence.
Rozsa will work with the North Canton Area Chamber of Commerce, Kent State University and to bolster entrepreneurship in the North Canton area. North Canton Patch had reported in February on the .
Rozsa owns a small business and has 25 years in the marketing and design field.
Beginning this fall, Rozsa will work with entrepreneurial business students at Kent State and Walsh and will connect North Canton Chamber members with available resources as well as serve as a mentor to persons interested in starting or expanding a business in the North Canton area, according to a media release from the Chamber.
In addition to his Chamber, Kent and Walsh duties, Rozsa will interact with EIRs from Orrville, Kent, Twinsburg, Aurora and Hudson, sharing ideas and information on economic development in the region.
Rozsa's Trailer Trash Design firm was a recent recipient of the prestigious Gold Hermes Award for Creativity from the Association of Marketing and Communication Professionals.
Rozsa earned a bachelor's degree in commercial art and graphic design from the University of Akron and lives with his family in a century home in Clinton.
Check back with North Canton Patch as we continue to report on Rozsa's new position as EIR.