A writer friend of mine was recently approached by a blogger pitching him an Oktoberfest story as a guest post on his site. It would talk about the history and cultural significance of the celebration and, so to be suitable for all ages, it would not mention the consumption of beer.
That’s like writing about Wimbledon and not mentioning tennis.
Yesterday I went with my friend Ardy to CACTI Park of the Palm Beaches to watch the Houston Astros play the Washington Nationals. Spring training is the relaxing month (at least for the spectators) of a slow-paced game, so I was surprised by the sight of so many fans already in clothing announcing their affiliations. There were a lot of Astros caps and jerseys, worn by children as well as seniors (we were on the side with their dugout); the boy in front of us sported a jersey bearing Altuve’s name and number, while his father wore a Dodgers cap. I saw a man wearing a Phillies cap with a green P, indicating that his affections extended to the Eagles (and, of course, why wouldn’t they?).
Ardy and I, sitting at the top of Section 101, were about the only people in non-annotated clothing. Though Ardy wore a black cap with an hourglass on it, the logo of the Elderly Brothers – the name he and his brother coined for their recent tour through the South.
Last night I went on BritBox to watch the third episode of “Douglas Is Cancelled” and couldn’t find it anywhere. It was not there under “Continue Watching” – as it was a few nights ago – and it was not there under “Recently Added.” And I thought: Has “Douglas Is Cancelled” been cancelled?
Or, after yesterday’s post, have I been banned from it?
I’ve been looking forward to “Douglas Is Cancelled” (now on BritBox) since reading a glowing review of it in The Spectator last year. For one thing, nobody is killed in it, only cancelled. Plus, it seemed to address, as few shows do today, an important aspect of contemporary life. And to do it, as the review made clear, with great humor.
Watching the first episode, I occasionally laughed out loud. The writing is brilliant. (Husband to wife about their teenage daughter: “It’s like we’ve lost her to a cult.” Wife to husband: “We’ve lost her to a university, which is the same thing only you still have to do their laundry.”) But the characters seemed a little undeveloped, as if their sole purpose was to deliver great lines. The writing got in the way of the drama. I thought of "The White Lotus," where none of the characters utter witty lines but the show is full of understated humor and suspense.
Last night we watched the second episode, which was even more disappointing. The characters seemed to be caricatures, with fewer good lines and lot of exaggerated behavior. It’s still interesting, and better than a lot of things we stream, but not the modern classic I had hoped it would be.
Yesterday I gave a friend my tour of Miami, which I hadn’t given in a while. This one, unlike all my previous ones, began at the historic Gesu Church downtown, where Andy had attended 8:30 mass. I had never been inside before and, looking for the men’s room, we nearly entered a confessional. Andy commented on the ceiling, which he thought was surprisingly low for such a large sanctuary, and wondered if it was because of hurricanes. The church was built in 1922.
From there we headed to Coconut Grove, Andy taking pictures of some peacocks, and then – because he expressed an interest in coffee – to Calle Ocho. Unfortunately, a large section of the street was blocked off for the weekend festival, eliminating a good number of ventanitas, so we settled for Versailles, where a group of women from Argentina queued for cafecitos.
Refreshed, we drove down Ponce de Leon to Coral Gables, turned right on Miracle Mile, and then left onto Columbus Avenue with its fairy tale tunnel of sculpture-like ficus trees. At the Biltmore we strolled through the cool, high-ceilinged lobby – admiring the birds in their cages – and the never-ending swimming pool (at one time, the largest in the country). On the way out, we spoke to the receptionist at the spa, who was born in Russia, adopted, and then grew up in Austin, Texas. She had moved to Miami a few years ago from Minnesota. She looked to be in her 20s and had already lived an interesting life.
Brunch at Bulla, which has some of the best eggs Benedict in South Florida – though they call them huevos Benedictinos. (Take that, Trump.) Our waitress was from a small town outside Havana. Then we stopped at Chocolate Fashion for a flourless chocolate cookie.
A spin up Coral Way, to admire the thick green line of banyan trees, and then on to 95 to the Design District, a quick drive through, and then Wynwood, where we parked and walked the streets crowded with tourists. At Panther Coffee we saw a man doodling quite beautifully on an iPad. I asked if he was an artist, and he said he was. I asked if he lived in the neighborhood, knowing that few artists do these days. No, he said, he lived in Brooklyn.
The recent photo of Elon Musk standing in a cabinet meeting in T-shirt and ballcap brought back an unpleasant memory for me.
In the spring of 2008, I was summoned to the managing editor’s office to discuss a redesign of the Travel section, which I had been editor of for 18 years. The m.e. sat quietly at her desk while a ballcapped young man I had never seen before explained his plans for my section. These involved discontinuing long travel narratives – three of which had landed in The Best American Travel Writing anthologies – and diminishing my presence. My column, he noted blithely, would now appear below the fold and jump inside.
I had no idea who this man was. I wondered, naturally, about his background – his knowledge of travel writing, his experience of travel. I assumed they were slim, and that he had been given the job of remaking the section primarily because of his age and his presumed ability to connect with younger readers (an oxymoron even back then).
I sat mostly speechless, and with the sudden realization that the world had changed, at least in the newsroom, and that people like me were no longer welcome. A few months later, I was laid off.