Collapse of "The House of Gladiators"

The “House of Gladiators,” a prominent ruin in Pompeii, collapsed Saturday (before the site was opened to the public), and politicians, archeologists, and the press are complaining about the lack of upkeep on the part of the Italian government of the 2000-year-old site. Those complaints may well be grounded, but I think they miss the point. Preservation is all well and good, and I’m certainly for it. I’ve been to Pompeii twice and came away both times (once on the wrong train) with a sense of awe and reflection (and a sunburn and immediate need for a cold Peroni). My Lonely Planet guidebook said to imagine all the hordes of people being the inhabitants of Pompeii, going about their business in the crowded port city back then. But I couldn’t do that. Perhaps it’s a personal defect in my imagination, but I couldn’t get past that these were ruins — crumbling red brick walls of buildings with no surviving roofs, furniture, utensils — not to mention that my interior evocation could not turn the roaming bands of mostly German and Japanese tour groups into a bustling mélange of togaed Romans.

The real problem with historical sites like Pompeii is the conflict between preservation and promotion. Some 2.5 million people trek to Pompeii each year, making it the most visited attraction in Italy. So the Italian government, which currently controls the site, is in the position of having to juggle the opposing concerns of maintenance and tourism. The second is anathema to the first, both in terms of the stomping around of the tourist throngs and the need to keep the site easily accessible to those throngs. If preservation was the sole goal, then Pompeii should never have been excavated in the first place, or at least excavated, catalogued, photographed, and then reburied, with no tourists allowed. A second option might be to keep the tourists on the sidelines of the ruins, perhaps on catwalks, with sunscreens shading the more vulnerable areas. But that would limit access, which in turn would decrease attendance, and hence money. And that is (as usual) the crux of this issue, as can be seen in the calls from the critics of the government’s management. An Italian business publication, Il Sole 24 Ore, has said that “the only solution for Pompeii was a private sponsor such as an insurance, beverage or car company which would be allowed to place its logos at the entrance.” Pompeii Disneyland?

At some point the past must be left to the past. There’s a reason these are called ruins. Buildings get old, they decay, they fall down, and they wash away. Or they are propped up, remolded, recast as what they once were. But when does preservation and restoration become plastic surgery? I certainly don’t want the ruins of Pompeii to become Phyllis Diller.

Size Matters

The largest (or if you prefer, most pretentious) monument to Jesus Christ is Christo Redentor, the 130-foot tall statue that has gazed down on Rio de Janeiro, Brazil, since 1921.

Or rather, it was. As of today, that honor now belongs to the small Polish town of Swiebodzin (I won’t even try to pronounce it), where a Jesus statue of about 136 feet tall (167 feet if you include the dirt mound it will sit on), beating out Rio’s, is being erected today. It was supposed to be finished yesterday, but high winds prevented the torso, arms, and crowned head from being set atop the robed legs (like the Rio Jesus, this one will also allude to a cross).

The project is the brainchild of a Polish priest, Rev. Sylwester Zawadzki, and you might think his inspiration came from veneration. Maybe it did. But the town’s support for the $1.5-million statue apparently comes from the less reverent motive of economic development. The community hopes that the monument will attract both Catholic pilgrims and German tourists (why anyone would want to attract German tourists, I don’t know, even if Germany is only about 45 miles to the west). According to mayor Dariusz Berkisz (these names would score big in the new Monopoly game that allows proper names), "The biggest statue of Jesus Christ in the world will be in Swiebodzin. People will come and leave some of their money behind." And much of that money will likely be left at the shopping center and super market across the street from the sanctifying statue. (It’s not unlike The Simpsons episode where a new shopping center uses a fake angel skeleton to promote its opening.)

Of course, the marriage of religion and economy is nothing new. What were the monuments of Greece and Rome if not religious beacons to fortune? And the cathedrals and churches of the Middle Ages were built (usually on the top of hills in order to be seen from miles away) in order not to indulge godly glory but rather to attract Catholic pilgrims and German tourists (or any other tourists that might wander through the area). Still, I don’t recall seeing any painting of the Medicis leaving the construction site of the Duomo in Florence in a silver Mercedes, as the Rev. Sylwester Zawadzki did yesterday.

Republican Promises

As best as I can comprehend it, yesterday the Republicans retook control of the House of Representatives and strengthened their minority power in the Senate by making the following promises:

• Cut spending (“waste,” not “essential”).
• Reduce the debt/deficit.
• Repeal health care reform.
• Increase military spending.
• Cut back on regulations.
• Cut taxes.

To make clearer the self-contradictions in these promises, let’s put them in the form of an analogy well-used by many Republicans (“If American families have to live within their means, then why can’t government . . .” etc.). For each American family, you should:

• Cut your spending (not shelter, food, transportation, clothing, just a little of the 10% or so of the “nonessential” spending).
• Pay off in full your mortgage, car loans, school loans, and credit cards.
• Cancel your medical insurance.
• Expand your home security system.
• Don’t use fire alarms, seat belts, etc.
• Take a cut in pay (bigger the better).

The Republicans’ message seems to be something of a warped paraphrase of JFK’s most famous line: Ask not what your country can do for you; ask what you won’t do for your country.

Max Weinberg Big Band

I’m usually quite stingy in my offering a standing ovation, music or theater, preserving it for an appreciation of what I take to be an outstanding performance (not just a decent performance at an event where I spend a lot of money to see someone expected to deliver a decent performance, which I sense is the general criterion for standing ovations these days). But last night I was among the first of the entire crowd of a hundred or so jammed into Jardine’s jazz club in Kansas City at the end of a 90-minute set by the recently formed Max Weinberg Big Band. Weinberg is a clean, crisp drummer in the Buddy Rich style, and a charismatic bandleader. And his 14 other musicians (mostly horns, with a bass and piano) ranged from very good to exceptional. Here’s a review from KC’s Pitch which I agree wholly with (and there’s couple of photos (I was seated at a table just to the right, three tables directly in front of Max’s drum kit, what I took to be the best seat in the house (note the resemblance between Max and me))). And here’s a video of "Kitty’s Back" (from another performance) which ended the set last night and I thought worked well in a big band format.

Why I Don't Buy Clothes

I have never been known for my sartorial aplomb, unless you count the several years as a graduate student when I shopped for clothes at an army surplus store and wore exclusively used khaki slacks and flannel shirts; the look was described by one of my English major comrades as “tubercular lumber jack.” My reasons for clothing myself come essentially from necessity: (1) warmth (it’s uncomfortable under about 80 degrees to be bare naked, and deadly under about 30, wind chill or no); and (2) law (society tends to frown upon public display of skin, particularly by someone in his 60s, with gray hair and not in especially good shape; I have six-pack abs, but they are formed by consuming actual six packs, not resembling them). I have a wool jacket (a gift) that’s 30+ years old that I still wear. I buy two pairs of jeans every two years, and because they usually last at least three years before becoming fishing or gardening garb, I always have a rotation of four to six pair to make it through a week or two. I’ve owned two suits in my life, both bought from occasion (funeral and wedding), the second because the first no longer fit around my six-pack abs. I have underwear with holes, and I don’t worry about what the emergency attendants will think if I get in an accident because they should be thinking about a lot more important things in that moment.

Today, back in my Kansas home, I found myself in something of a need — well, truth be told, more of a desire — to buy a sweatshirt (from the University of Kansas, my double alma mater) and a t-shirt (from Pittsburg State University, “Home of the Gorillas,” as far as I can determine, the only college in the country with a simian as a mascot, a distinction I find appealing). I’d been directed to a store that purportedly carried sports apparel from all area sports teams (the “area” ranging apparently from Green Bay and Chicago to the north, Dallas and New Orleans to the south, Boston and New York to the east, and Los Angeles and San Francisco to the west), and I must admit I was impressed when I entered the crowded racks of crowded t-shirts, sweatshirts, jackets, and countless number of other sports affiliated accoutrement. (I wonder how a store that featured schools’ academic paraphernalia — chemistry Bunsen burners, music stands, math algorithms, literature metaphors — would do? No I don’t.) I wound my way through the store, and was successful in finding both a KU sweatshirt (easy, given there were scores of options) and a PSU t-shirt (a bit more limited, given only two options). Pleased with my accomplishment, I headed to the cash register, placed my purchases on the counter, and pulled out my credit card. The clerk scanned the items and announced the total — $75 ($39.95 for the sweatshirt, $29.95 for the t-shirt, the tax rounding it off to a neat $75). What?! $75 for a sweatshirt and a t-shirt? I didn’t say that. I remained calm, as if this were a regular transaction for me, not wanting to betray my naiveté when it comes to all matters of clothing purchase, signed the receipt, grabbed my plastic bag of precious shirts, and reciprocated the clerk’s order to “Have a nice day!” I already am.

Enhanced Interrogation

I’m currently reading Berlin at War, by Roger Moorhouse, an engaging description of life for ordinary Germans during WWII. Today I was reading Chapter 11, “The Watchers and the Watched,” about the Gestapo, when I came across this sentence: “In . . . cases where the investigating officers believed vital information was being withheld, they could employ the euphemistically titled Verschärfte Vernehmung — ‘enhanced interrogation’” (234) Yes, the Bush/Cheney administration not only adopted the techniques of torture from the Nazis, they lifted their inspirations’ euphemism for the practices as well. How very thoughtful.

I'm Willy Loman

I began reading, probably for at least the 20^th time (I teach it in my drama class), Death of a Salesman today, when this stage direction jumped out: “WILLY is sixty now . . . .” Jumped out? No, jumped out, grabbed me by the neck, beat me over the head with a tire iron, shoved me to the floor, stomped on my chest, shoved me into a trash compactor, and set my battered and squashed carcass ablaze until there was nothing but ashes to scatter in the bitter wind. This was the first time I’d read the play since I myself turned 60. I certainly don’t recall that particular direction in previous readings. No doubt I’d simply glossed over it, substituting “old man” for the specific age. That’s who Willy Loman was, an old man, “very tired, very confused.” Well, I guess that’s me too, now. Somewhat ironically, Death of a Salesman opened on Broadway February 10, 1949, three days before I was born. Lee J. Cobb played Willy in that production — he was 38 at the time. So was 38 the new 60? Or 60 the new 38? And what’s the new 60 now? Maybe it’s just 60. Or maybe it’s just “old man.” Somebody get me my walker . . . and you kids get off my lawn!