The Centre Could Not Hold
*
Of course many bars in Manhasset, like bars everywhere, were nasty places, full of pickled people marinating in regret. Steve wanted his bar to be different. He wanted his bar to be sublime. He envisioned a bar that would cater to Manhasset's multiple personalities. A cozy pub one minute, a crazy after-hours club the next. A family restaurant early in the evening, and late at night a low-down tavern, where men and women could tell lies and drink until they dropped. Essential to Steve was the idea that Dickens would be the opposite of the outside world. Cool in the dog days, warm from the first frost until spring. His bar would always be clean and well-lighted, like the den of that perfect family we all believe exists but doesn't and never did. At Dickens everyone would feel special, though no one would stand out. Maybe my favorite story about Steve's bar concerned the man who found his way there after escaping a nearby mental hospital. No one looked askance at the man. No one asked who he was, or why he was dressed in pajamas, or why he had such a feral gleam in his eye. The gang in the barroom simply threw their arms around him, told him funny stories, and bought him drinks all day long. The only reason the poor man was eventually asked to leave was that he suddenly and for no apparent reason dropped his pants. Even then the bartenders only chided him gently, using their standard admonition: “Here now—you can't be doing that!”
J.R. Moehringer, The Tender Bar.
It was so clear, they were deep in the heart of it. When everything was a confabulation, a readable version of the truth, it was best to remain silent. To be composed, if not enigmatic; at least not to blurt. He was perfectly apt to tell a total stranger everything. So she shrugged, oh darling, in honour of those liquid, fabulous days, gin and tonics in the early afternoon, a river of delinquency that never stopped. He had betrayed himself so often, and then walked through the ruins into a brighter day. They were splintering. The centre could not hold. And so we were completely doomed, just like so many oblivion seekers before us; and the merry dance, the fine dance, the chiselled young faces and the earnest stare, everything possible, all of it vanished as if it had never been.
We were on a mission, not just to drown our sorrows but to live the fine destiny alcohol had prescribed us, from high to low and every dreary terrace on the way down. Oh couldn’t you be fair and reasonable? Couldn’t you cut some slack? Couldn’t we be let off just this once, you bastards? But there was no sympathy, there was no rationale; the casual cruelties of the time swept aside the talents until all was lost, lost, and he shuddered in hope that he had not made too much of a fool of himself, and that things went well in every quarter, the hand extended to help, help everyone. Doormat. The depths we went to.
The everyday, the very shocking ordinariness of the local, the Glengarry, he had rapidly developed a romance around, was shocking to him, when all his beloved characters turned out to be dreary imitations of the real thing, when they walked back and forth across the great divide and could see for certain how unevolved, how primitive, how sodden with alcohol and sorrow, these people were. His cheated destiny. When everything Margaret said was a repeat of a previous conversation, the Stollies having done marvels. Brigette, stay, stay, those imploring eyes and desperate uncertainties, when nothing was for her own good and everything was accepted as a downhill slide. When progress was infinitely backward.
The tediousness of common adventure, of the savage ordinariness and deep dysfunction tied up in the most average of days, when they ended as they began, within a few suburbs of where they grew up, where their parents had lived, and we were so broken hearted at the overwhelming tragedy, their distant lives at play on the screen, or closer to home, the deaths of our own friends. Nothing was settled anymore. He had confronted the worst of it. He had decided now, the course. It would involve heroic sacrifice and self discipline, it was a chore, a mandate, a task, this great assignment, and he would not fail them or others. He would not fail.
This was the sadness that had stalked him all those years, given away so arbitrarily, scattered aces as sheets of flesh and living cinematography tore away. There wasn’t any corrupt way to get to the higher plane. He was going to be humble and let the insistent voices of the nation’s God botherers wash over him. He was going to be free. Of turmoil, of fear. In the kingdom of the blind the one eyed man is king; in the kingdom of confabulation, the networked corridors of lies and flimsy walls, he remained silent as the only source of armour, the only way to ensure protection, never disclose, never open up, trust no one and no thing, for all is treachery and betrayal in a house of cards. Be wary, be silent, be dignified and reserved; and never let the bastards win.
THE BIGGER STORY:
http://www.theaustralian.news.com.au/story/0,25197,25793770-5006784,00.html
NSW police say they believe the story of British backpacker Jamie Neale -- who survived almost two weeks lost in the Blue Mountains -- and won't hold his family to promises to donate the proceeds of the sale of his story to rescue services.
The remarkable tale of lost and found has made headlines around the world, with many struggling to believe the 19-year-old from North London could have lived after 12 days in the freezing wilderness of the Blue Mountains in NSW.
Mr Neale and his family have engaged Sydney-based media agent Sean Anderson to negotiate the rights to his story.
The only words released publicly by Mr Neale came in a statement issued yesterday through the hospital. It said: "I am grateful to everybody for their help and support."
As he slowly regained his strength in hospital yesterday, further details emerged of what pulled him through his ordeal.
A feast of fast food may have helped save the teenager -- for the first few days at least -- after he gorged himself on pizza at his youth hostel the night before setting off on the longest "day walk" of his life.
And the teenager's former teachers believe bush skills learned through the Duke of Edinburgh Award program and his natural threshold to withstand cold temperatures set him up with the best possible chance.
http://www.abc.net.au/local/reviews/2009/07/16/2627688.htm
Harry Potter is still casting a magical spell.
The films featuring the boy wizard and his friends have always been fun, enjoyable and expertly made, but they've never really been able to capture the true magic, spirit and grand vision of JK Rowling's source novels. Until now.
Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince has poetry, beauty and real emotion, and takes the entire series to a whole new level.
It's Year Six for Harry at Hogwart's School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, but this installment pays scant attention to what goes on in the classroom.
The young wizard (played by Daniel Radcliffe) is still battling the evil forces loyal to the dark lord Voldemort, and their power is increasing.
Harry's life is constantly in danger, and it seems his greatest protection lies in the form of school headmaster Albus Dumbledore (Michael Gambon), who gives Harry a task to retrieve the hidden memories of Horace Slughorn (Jim Broadbent), a teacher who played a crucial role in the life of the young Voldemort.
As well, he's come across a second-hand textbook that used to belong to a so-called "half-blood prince", and it proves to be very handy. Harry's relationship with Ginny Weasley (Bonnie Wright) is also deepening, as is the connection between his two best friends Ron (Rupert Grint) and Hermione (Emma Watson).
The Potter films, and books for that matter, have always had a blend of cute, whimsical fantasy, and dark, treacherous storytelling.
For this sixth movie, director David Yates, who directed the previous Order of the Phoenix, has set his focus purely on the powerfully sinister and mature aspects of Rowling's tale, and it pays off in spades.
WAR hero Ted Kenna will be laid to rest in his beloved home town of Hamilton today after a state funeral in Melbourne yesterday.
http://www.standard.net.au/news/local/news/general/two-farewells-for-our-war-hero/1570176.aspx
Prime Minister Kevin Rudd joined hundreds of mourners at Melbourne's St Patrick's Cathedral to farewell Australia's last Victoria Cross recipient.
Today's less ostentatious funeral will be held at Hamilton's St Mary's Catholic Church at 1pm before a private burial.
Mr Kenna died last week in a Geelong nursing home, only days after his 90th birthday, with his wife Marjorie by his side.
Southern Grampians Mayor Marcus Rentsch said the Melbourne service was a poignant occasion which did justice to Mr Kenna's legacy.
``It was wonderful to be at a state funeral with the nation's leaders honouring a great Australian like Ted,'' Cr Rentsch said.
``But I'm sure he would want his final send-off in Hamilton with the community there to pay their respects.''
Old friend, Major General Gordon Maitland, told the crowd how Mr Kenna stood up in full view of the enemy machine gunners, how he had emptied his Bren gun and how he had then called for a rifle to finish the job, all while under heavy fire.
``He recognised the stature of being a Victoria Cross holder,'' Major General Maitland said. ``But he sought no glamour, no reward.
``He wore it with empathy and he wore it for all of those who fought with him.'' Mr Kenna's son Robert said his father would not have been comfortable with the fuss of his state funeral.
But he would, no doubt, have been more pleased when 11 of his grandchildren took their turn to honour ``our Pop''.
The eldest, Tammy Malcolm, recited a poem she had written. Her brothers and sisters and cousins followed, telling of special memories.
Of course many bars in Manhasset, like bars everywhere, were nasty places, full of pickled people marinating in regret. Steve wanted his bar to be different. He wanted his bar to be sublime. He envisioned a bar that would cater to Manhasset's multiple personalities. A cozy pub one minute, a crazy after-hours club the next. A family restaurant early in the evening, and late at night a low-down tavern, where men and women could tell lies and drink until they dropped. Essential to Steve was the idea that Dickens would be the opposite of the outside world. Cool in the dog days, warm from the first frost until spring. His bar would always be clean and well-lighted, like the den of that perfect family we all believe exists but doesn't and never did. At Dickens everyone would feel special, though no one would stand out. Maybe my favorite story about Steve's bar concerned the man who found his way there after escaping a nearby mental hospital. No one looked askance at the man. No one asked who he was, or why he was dressed in pajamas, or why he had such a feral gleam in his eye. The gang in the barroom simply threw their arms around him, told him funny stories, and bought him drinks all day long. The only reason the poor man was eventually asked to leave was that he suddenly and for no apparent reason dropped his pants. Even then the bartenders only chided him gently, using their standard admonition: “Here now—you can't be doing that!”
J.R. Moehringer, The Tender Bar.
It was so clear, they were deep in the heart of it. When everything was a confabulation, a readable version of the truth, it was best to remain silent. To be composed, if not enigmatic; at least not to blurt. He was perfectly apt to tell a total stranger everything. So she shrugged, oh darling, in honour of those liquid, fabulous days, gin and tonics in the early afternoon, a river of delinquency that never stopped. He had betrayed himself so often, and then walked through the ruins into a brighter day. They were splintering. The centre could not hold. And so we were completely doomed, just like so many oblivion seekers before us; and the merry dance, the fine dance, the chiselled young faces and the earnest stare, everything possible, all of it vanished as if it had never been.
We were on a mission, not just to drown our sorrows but to live the fine destiny alcohol had prescribed us, from high to low and every dreary terrace on the way down. Oh couldn’t you be fair and reasonable? Couldn’t you cut some slack? Couldn’t we be let off just this once, you bastards? But there was no sympathy, there was no rationale; the casual cruelties of the time swept aside the talents until all was lost, lost, and he shuddered in hope that he had not made too much of a fool of himself, and that things went well in every quarter, the hand extended to help, help everyone. Doormat. The depths we went to.
The everyday, the very shocking ordinariness of the local, the Glengarry, he had rapidly developed a romance around, was shocking to him, when all his beloved characters turned out to be dreary imitations of the real thing, when they walked back and forth across the great divide and could see for certain how unevolved, how primitive, how sodden with alcohol and sorrow, these people were. His cheated destiny. When everything Margaret said was a repeat of a previous conversation, the Stollies having done marvels. Brigette, stay, stay, those imploring eyes and desperate uncertainties, when nothing was for her own good and everything was accepted as a downhill slide. When progress was infinitely backward.
The tediousness of common adventure, of the savage ordinariness and deep dysfunction tied up in the most average of days, when they ended as they began, within a few suburbs of where they grew up, where their parents had lived, and we were so broken hearted at the overwhelming tragedy, their distant lives at play on the screen, or closer to home, the deaths of our own friends. Nothing was settled anymore. He had confronted the worst of it. He had decided now, the course. It would involve heroic sacrifice and self discipline, it was a chore, a mandate, a task, this great assignment, and he would not fail them or others. He would not fail.
This was the sadness that had stalked him all those years, given away so arbitrarily, scattered aces as sheets of flesh and living cinematography tore away. There wasn’t any corrupt way to get to the higher plane. He was going to be humble and let the insistent voices of the nation’s God botherers wash over him. He was going to be free. Of turmoil, of fear. In the kingdom of the blind the one eyed man is king; in the kingdom of confabulation, the networked corridors of lies and flimsy walls, he remained silent as the only source of armour, the only way to ensure protection, never disclose, never open up, trust no one and no thing, for all is treachery and betrayal in a house of cards. Be wary, be silent, be dignified and reserved; and never let the bastards win.
THE BIGGER STORY:
http://www.theaustralian.news.com.au/story/0,25197,25793770-5006784,00.html
NSW police say they believe the story of British backpacker Jamie Neale -- who survived almost two weeks lost in the Blue Mountains -- and won't hold his family to promises to donate the proceeds of the sale of his story to rescue services.
The remarkable tale of lost and found has made headlines around the world, with many struggling to believe the 19-year-old from North London could have lived after 12 days in the freezing wilderness of the Blue Mountains in NSW.
Mr Neale and his family have engaged Sydney-based media agent Sean Anderson to negotiate the rights to his story.
The only words released publicly by Mr Neale came in a statement issued yesterday through the hospital. It said: "I am grateful to everybody for their help and support."
As he slowly regained his strength in hospital yesterday, further details emerged of what pulled him through his ordeal.
A feast of fast food may have helped save the teenager -- for the first few days at least -- after he gorged himself on pizza at his youth hostel the night before setting off on the longest "day walk" of his life.
And the teenager's former teachers believe bush skills learned through the Duke of Edinburgh Award program and his natural threshold to withstand cold temperatures set him up with the best possible chance.
http://www.abc.net.au/local/reviews/2009/07/16/2627688.htm
Harry Potter is still casting a magical spell.
The films featuring the boy wizard and his friends have always been fun, enjoyable and expertly made, but they've never really been able to capture the true magic, spirit and grand vision of JK Rowling's source novels. Until now.
Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince has poetry, beauty and real emotion, and takes the entire series to a whole new level.
It's Year Six for Harry at Hogwart's School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, but this installment pays scant attention to what goes on in the classroom.
The young wizard (played by Daniel Radcliffe) is still battling the evil forces loyal to the dark lord Voldemort, and their power is increasing.
Harry's life is constantly in danger, and it seems his greatest protection lies in the form of school headmaster Albus Dumbledore (Michael Gambon), who gives Harry a task to retrieve the hidden memories of Horace Slughorn (Jim Broadbent), a teacher who played a crucial role in the life of the young Voldemort.
As well, he's come across a second-hand textbook that used to belong to a so-called "half-blood prince", and it proves to be very handy. Harry's relationship with Ginny Weasley (Bonnie Wright) is also deepening, as is the connection between his two best friends Ron (Rupert Grint) and Hermione (Emma Watson).
The Potter films, and books for that matter, have always had a blend of cute, whimsical fantasy, and dark, treacherous storytelling.
For this sixth movie, director David Yates, who directed the previous Order of the Phoenix, has set his focus purely on the powerfully sinister and mature aspects of Rowling's tale, and it pays off in spades.
WAR hero Ted Kenna will be laid to rest in his beloved home town of Hamilton today after a state funeral in Melbourne yesterday.
http://www.standard.net.au/news/local/news/general/two-farewells-for-our-war-hero/1570176.aspx
Prime Minister Kevin Rudd joined hundreds of mourners at Melbourne's St Patrick's Cathedral to farewell Australia's last Victoria Cross recipient.
Today's less ostentatious funeral will be held at Hamilton's St Mary's Catholic Church at 1pm before a private burial.
Mr Kenna died last week in a Geelong nursing home, only days after his 90th birthday, with his wife Marjorie by his side.
Southern Grampians Mayor Marcus Rentsch said the Melbourne service was a poignant occasion which did justice to Mr Kenna's legacy.
``It was wonderful to be at a state funeral with the nation's leaders honouring a great Australian like Ted,'' Cr Rentsch said.
``But I'm sure he would want his final send-off in Hamilton with the community there to pay their respects.''
Old friend, Major General Gordon Maitland, told the crowd how Mr Kenna stood up in full view of the enemy machine gunners, how he had emptied his Bren gun and how he had then called for a rifle to finish the job, all while under heavy fire.
``He recognised the stature of being a Victoria Cross holder,'' Major General Maitland said. ``But he sought no glamour, no reward.
``He wore it with empathy and he wore it for all of those who fought with him.'' Mr Kenna's son Robert said his father would not have been comfortable with the fuss of his state funeral.
But he would, no doubt, have been more pleased when 11 of his grandchildren took their turn to honour ``our Pop''.
The eldest, Tammy Malcolm, recited a poem she had written. Her brothers and sisters and cousins followed, telling of special memories.
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