Yeah, because you keeping this "secret" really fooled everyone. We're shocked!
***
Last week I praised Phoenix for having a number of sporting/concert venues that are not named after corporate sponsors. In fact, I think I called it one of the city's few redeeming qualities (there are probably more but they're so hard to think of when it's 118). Then I read the Cardinals are shopping for a sponsor to grant naming rights to for their new stadium. So much for Cardinals Stadium, I guess. Bastards.
Thursday, July 27, 2006
Mega Book Post
I’ve had a good run lately with the books I’ve been reading.
It started with a huge novel by an Australian prosecutor named Eliot Perlman called Seven Types Of Ambiguity. It tells the story of a kidnapping and the successive trial from the points of view of seven of the involved parties. It’s got a Dickensian (both a word and a style that I love) quality in its political and social scope, but also gets very po-mo with its different narrators and the way it shows how truth varies from person to person. Simply one of the best novels I’ve ever read, but it’s a serious undertaking.
Also read Joan Didion’s memoir called The Year Of Magical Thinking about the year after her husband’s death during which she was also dealing with her daughter being sick. Brutal and honest stuff. Not something you’d want to read just for fun, but if you’ve ever lost a person this is about as good a memoir on grieving as you’re going to find (C.S. Lewis’s A Grief Observed is the only other better thing I’ve read).
Then I went for a wonderful satire by Max Barry called Company. Barry also wrote a book satirizing advertising called Jennifer Government that I loved—Company takes on corporate culture. As often happens with satires, the plot just sort of unravels at a certain point, but it’s so worth it for the horrid and painful truths in the first half of the book. If you’ve never worked in a corporate office, it would probably just seem like absurdism, but – tragically – it’s not.
Kevin Brockmeier wrote a book called The Short History Of The Dead that is far from perfect but I’ll always remember because it has one of the best ideas I’ve ever heard for a story. The book takes place (in even numbered chapters) sometimes in the future, as a plague of some sort is killing off virtually all humanity. One of the last people left living is a researcher in Antarctica. The odd-numbered chapters take place in a sort-of Purgatory-like City that’s somewhere after life but not quite like what we think of as death. It’s based on a belief prevalent in many African cultures that there are not two states of existence (alive and dead) like we assume in the Western world, but instead there are three: alive, dead but still remembered by the living, and ancestors (not necessarily people who have been forgotten, but those who are no longer remembered by the living). The odd numbered chapters make the book. The city first fills up drastically, then begins to drastically empty as quickly as it filled (all as a result of the plague). Ultimately, the only inhabitants left are those remembered by the researcher in the even-numbered chapters. It’s a very good book and there are some passages of writing that are excellent, but it’s such a neat idea I’m not sure any writer could have pulled it off.
Then I read Never Let Me Go, by Kazuo Ishiguro (the guy who wrote The Remains Of The Day). This book inexplicably takes place in the twentieth century, but in a different twentieth century than the actual one we just completed. It’s revealed slowly, but the essential idea is that clones were created, raised separately to adulthood, and then essentially used for parts. The book is the journal of one of these clones and it’s about as creepy as anything I’ve ever read. Her story is mostly mundane (schoolyard crush becomes lifelong flame), but the background of who they are and what future faces them is so abhorrent that it just paints every little action that might otherwise be boring or trite as painfully bittersweet. This is a book I wouldn’t hesitate to recommend to anyone.
Most recently, with a little urging from Brianna, I moved onto Daniel Handler (the guy who also writes as Lemony Snicket). I read his first novel The Basic Eight and loved it, and just finished his novel/short story collection Adverbs and loved maybe half of it. Handler is one of those writers who is as much or more interested in playing with language as he is in plot. That’s fine and interesting – it’s just not generally my preference. (I’m a plot guy. Tell me a good story and write well and I don’t care if there’s nothing new in the writing at all.) This worked out pretty well in The Basic Eight because he has 400 pages of novel to fill up so he essentially had to give us plot. And, really, there’s not that much plot – just enough. But his writing is entertaining enough to cover a lot of things that might have been flaws in other books. In general, I hate novels told in a series of letters or diary entries, but this “diary” worked. Flannery is entertaining to read. There’s an over-long section at the end that is almost all about circuitous writing and not at all about plot and that’s the only part of the book I didn’t just love. It should really be a movie (except they’d probably ruin it and they aren’t big on school killing movies since Columbine).
Adverbs is billed as a novel on the cover and true enough seems to contain many of the same characters … but it’s still really a collection of stories. As such, some are excellent, others are just semi-interesting exercises in complicated exposition. Still, there are a handful of the through-images that I just love from Adverbs: (1) The stories mostly take place in San Francisco in a time around (before, during, and after) a disaster of some kind. We don’t really know what. Maybe it’s an act of terrorism. Maybe it’s a volcano. Maybe it’s an earthquake (hey, it’s San Francisco). This is brilliant to me. The not knowing is cryptic and frightening, which is of course the point. What better expression of our national consciousness post-9/11? Moreover, it gets to the point of something I have always tried to work into stories about San Francisco, which is that an impending dread hangs over the place and did so even long before 9/11. The city is sitting right on top of probably the world’s most treacherous fault line. The city has been destroyed before, and very well may be again. But no one knows when. That feeling of uncertain but potentially approaching doom pervades many of the stories, and is wonderful. (2) Although the book is taking place in a recognizable place, it’s not really our world. It’s not our San Francisco, or it is but it’s not our world of culture. Characters have passionate discussions about music, naming bands that Handler has completely made up. If you try really hard you can maybe guess that he may or may not be referring to some real world bands (and places, etc). But maybe he’s just making it up. To his characters, though, the bands they talk about are as real as U2 and Shakira. It’s a nice touch and a tempting one to emulate.
Anyway. Having finished the Handler books, I’ve gone back to Perlman for a collection her wrote called The Reasons I Won’t Be Coming. The first story is one of those that just takes your breath away. Mine, anyway. The second story was also very good. I’m excited.
Other stuff I want to read soon, but may or may not get to:
Handler’s other books, the adult Watch Your Mouth and the Lemony Snicket series so that I’m caught up for #13 this fall
Levi’s American Vertigo essays
A memoir called Oh, The Glory Of It All, by Sean Willsey. But maybe I should wait until I’m working on a San Francisco book to pull out all the SF stuff. Also if I ever get around to writing that, I should re-read the best earthquake novels I've ever read, The Ground Beneath Her Feet (Salman Rushdie) and Strong Mation (Jonathan Franzen).
I’m always itching to re-read Bret Easton Ellis stuff. I’m thinking it might be time to revisit Glamorama.
Jose Saramago’s Seeing/Blindness books.
Who knows how much else?
It started with a huge novel by an Australian prosecutor named Eliot Perlman called Seven Types Of Ambiguity. It tells the story of a kidnapping and the successive trial from the points of view of seven of the involved parties. It’s got a Dickensian (both a word and a style that I love) quality in its political and social scope, but also gets very po-mo with its different narrators and the way it shows how truth varies from person to person. Simply one of the best novels I’ve ever read, but it’s a serious undertaking.
Also read Joan Didion’s memoir called The Year Of Magical Thinking about the year after her husband’s death during which she was also dealing with her daughter being sick. Brutal and honest stuff. Not something you’d want to read just for fun, but if you’ve ever lost a person this is about as good a memoir on grieving as you’re going to find (C.S. Lewis’s A Grief Observed is the only other better thing I’ve read).
Then I went for a wonderful satire by Max Barry called Company. Barry also wrote a book satirizing advertising called Jennifer Government that I loved—Company takes on corporate culture. As often happens with satires, the plot just sort of unravels at a certain point, but it’s so worth it for the horrid and painful truths in the first half of the book. If you’ve never worked in a corporate office, it would probably just seem like absurdism, but – tragically – it’s not.
Kevin Brockmeier wrote a book called The Short History Of The Dead that is far from perfect but I’ll always remember because it has one of the best ideas I’ve ever heard for a story. The book takes place (in even numbered chapters) sometimes in the future, as a plague of some sort is killing off virtually all humanity. One of the last people left living is a researcher in Antarctica. The odd-numbered chapters take place in a sort-of Purgatory-like City that’s somewhere after life but not quite like what we think of as death. It’s based on a belief prevalent in many African cultures that there are not two states of existence (alive and dead) like we assume in the Western world, but instead there are three: alive, dead but still remembered by the living, and ancestors (not necessarily people who have been forgotten, but those who are no longer remembered by the living). The odd numbered chapters make the book. The city first fills up drastically, then begins to drastically empty as quickly as it filled (all as a result of the plague). Ultimately, the only inhabitants left are those remembered by the researcher in the even-numbered chapters. It’s a very good book and there are some passages of writing that are excellent, but it’s such a neat idea I’m not sure any writer could have pulled it off.
Then I read Never Let Me Go, by Kazuo Ishiguro (the guy who wrote The Remains Of The Day). This book inexplicably takes place in the twentieth century, but in a different twentieth century than the actual one we just completed. It’s revealed slowly, but the essential idea is that clones were created, raised separately to adulthood, and then essentially used for parts. The book is the journal of one of these clones and it’s about as creepy as anything I’ve ever read. Her story is mostly mundane (schoolyard crush becomes lifelong flame), but the background of who they are and what future faces them is so abhorrent that it just paints every little action that might otherwise be boring or trite as painfully bittersweet. This is a book I wouldn’t hesitate to recommend to anyone.
Most recently, with a little urging from Brianna, I moved onto Daniel Handler (the guy who also writes as Lemony Snicket). I read his first novel The Basic Eight and loved it, and just finished his novel/short story collection Adverbs and loved maybe half of it. Handler is one of those writers who is as much or more interested in playing with language as he is in plot. That’s fine and interesting – it’s just not generally my preference. (I’m a plot guy. Tell me a good story and write well and I don’t care if there’s nothing new in the writing at all.) This worked out pretty well in The Basic Eight because he has 400 pages of novel to fill up so he essentially had to give us plot. And, really, there’s not that much plot – just enough. But his writing is entertaining enough to cover a lot of things that might have been flaws in other books. In general, I hate novels told in a series of letters or diary entries, but this “diary” worked. Flannery is entertaining to read. There’s an over-long section at the end that is almost all about circuitous writing and not at all about plot and that’s the only part of the book I didn’t just love. It should really be a movie (except they’d probably ruin it and they aren’t big on school killing movies since Columbine).
Adverbs is billed as a novel on the cover and true enough seems to contain many of the same characters … but it’s still really a collection of stories. As such, some are excellent, others are just semi-interesting exercises in complicated exposition. Still, there are a handful of the through-images that I just love from Adverbs: (1) The stories mostly take place in San Francisco in a time around (before, during, and after) a disaster of some kind. We don’t really know what. Maybe it’s an act of terrorism. Maybe it’s a volcano. Maybe it’s an earthquake (hey, it’s San Francisco). This is brilliant to me. The not knowing is cryptic and frightening, which is of course the point. What better expression of our national consciousness post-9/11? Moreover, it gets to the point of something I have always tried to work into stories about San Francisco, which is that an impending dread hangs over the place and did so even long before 9/11. The city is sitting right on top of probably the world’s most treacherous fault line. The city has been destroyed before, and very well may be again. But no one knows when. That feeling of uncertain but potentially approaching doom pervades many of the stories, and is wonderful. (2) Although the book is taking place in a recognizable place, it’s not really our world. It’s not our San Francisco, or it is but it’s not our world of culture. Characters have passionate discussions about music, naming bands that Handler has completely made up. If you try really hard you can maybe guess that he may or may not be referring to some real world bands (and places, etc). But maybe he’s just making it up. To his characters, though, the bands they talk about are as real as U2 and Shakira. It’s a nice touch and a tempting one to emulate.
Anyway. Having finished the Handler books, I’ve gone back to Perlman for a collection her wrote called The Reasons I Won’t Be Coming. The first story is one of those that just takes your breath away. Mine, anyway. The second story was also very good. I’m excited.
Other stuff I want to read soon, but may or may not get to:
Handler’s other books, the adult Watch Your Mouth and the Lemony Snicket series so that I’m caught up for #13 this fall
Levi’s American Vertigo essays
A memoir called Oh, The Glory Of It All, by Sean Willsey. But maybe I should wait until I’m working on a San Francisco book to pull out all the SF stuff. Also if I ever get around to writing that, I should re-read the best earthquake novels I've ever read, The Ground Beneath Her Feet (Salman Rushdie) and Strong Mation (Jonathan Franzen).
I’m always itching to re-read Bret Easton Ellis stuff. I’m thinking it might be time to revisit Glamorama.
Jose Saramago’s Seeing/Blindness books.
Who knows how much else?
Monday, July 24, 2006
Tagged
from Robert ...
Everyone has a job where the same situation, complaint and/or problem comes up. We all know how to resolve the issue quickly and easily because, after all, it's a routine. I'm curious, what is routine for everyone? Each one of us, unless we work at the same place, will all have a different answer.
Q: What's subrogation?
A: God I hate the California Department Of Insurance.
Q: What's segregation? Isn't that illegal?
A: I don't know. I haven't read the laws in Illiterate Nation.
Q: Where's the rest of my money?
A: You live in Idaho and your claim was handled by an Asaian girl. You've just called a 602 area code to get ahold of me. And you think I'm going to just send you money?
Q: What's the status of my claim?
A: I re-assigned my entire caseload three months ago.
Q: What's the status of my claim that was caused by a washing machine/dishwasher/refrigerator?
A: (1, truth): Four years from now, we might send you a check for about 15% of your deductible. If you're still living at the same place. If not, don't expect me to look too hard to find where I should send your $3.47. (2, my answer): Well, I'm not certain of the attorney's schedule but I think he's hoping to get something filed by the end of the summer. From there, it's all up to the courts and the defendants. It's really not in our hands if they want to drag their feet.
Q: What's the status of my E&O claim? I've emailed you five times.
A: I know I've been the "E&O Specialist" for three months, but I haven't actually been trained in it yet. I'll get back to you if that ever happens. Unless I quit first. Or jump off the roof.
Everyone has a job where the same situation, complaint and/or problem comes up. We all know how to resolve the issue quickly and easily because, after all, it's a routine. I'm curious, what is routine for everyone? Each one of us, unless we work at the same place, will all have a different answer.
Q: What's subrogation?
A: God I hate the California Department Of Insurance.
Q: What's segregation? Isn't that illegal?
A: I don't know. I haven't read the laws in Illiterate Nation.
Q: Where's the rest of my money?
A: You live in Idaho and your claim was handled by an Asaian girl. You've just called a 602 area code to get ahold of me. And you think I'm going to just send you money?
Q: What's the status of my claim?
A: I re-assigned my entire caseload three months ago.
Q: What's the status of my claim that was caused by a washing machine/dishwasher/refrigerator?
A: (1, truth): Four years from now, we might send you a check for about 15% of your deductible. If you're still living at the same place. If not, don't expect me to look too hard to find where I should send your $3.47. (2, my answer): Well, I'm not certain of the attorney's schedule but I think he's hoping to get something filed by the end of the summer. From there, it's all up to the courts and the defendants. It's really not in our hands if they want to drag their feet.
Q: What's the status of my E&O claim? I've emailed you five times.
A: I know I've been the "E&O Specialist" for three months, but I haven't actually been trained in it yet. I'll get back to you if that ever happens. Unless I quit first. Or jump off the roof.
Friday, July 21, 2006
Seriously, so you've been the president for more than five years and in all that time you have never vetoed a bill that Congress has sent you, and you're starting to think, "Y'know, it's really time."
So you choose to veto a stem cell research bill? As your first veto. Seriously? Because I was hoping it was just a bad dream. But apparently not.
So you choose to veto a stem cell research bill? As your first veto. Seriously? Because I was hoping it was just a bad dream. But apparently not.
Thursday, July 20, 2006
Even though we learn history as a series of events, with very few exceptions it doesn’t really work that way. Sure there are historic moments that we all sit up and take notice of, but maybe only a few in a lifetime. (Recent ones that come to mind are Pearl Harbor, Kennedy’s assassination, and of course 9/11.) So, while we all learned that World War I started when the Archduke got shot, I’m willing to wager that most people (even in Europe) didn’t even know it had happened and that those who did scarcely expected just how widespread the consequences would be.
Which is why this shit freaks me out so much. Right now it’s over there and involves two other countries and sure we’ve got a whole other war we’re actually fighting. But this kind of crap has a bad habit of spreading. I think another all-out war involving Israel is about the scariest possibility of all in the Middle East and right now it seems they’re walking right up to the brink of it.
Which is why this shit freaks me out so much. Right now it’s over there and involves two other countries and sure we’ve got a whole other war we’re actually fighting. But this kind of crap has a bad habit of spreading. I think another all-out war involving Israel is about the scariest possibility of all in the Middle East and right now it seems they’re walking right up to the brink of it.
Wednesday, July 19, 2006
Hey blog, what’s up? Haven’t seen you for a while. You look good. Did you lose a little weight? Yeah. I know, I’m sorry I never write. Or call. Or even read other blogs. I know I can be insensitive. Let me make up for it. I’m sure I’ll never neglect you again.
***
We notice the big changes more, but I think it’s the little battles, the skirmishes around the edges, where change really happens.
That’s why I don’t think you have to care about football or sports or colleges or Michigan at all to take some small bit of interest in this story.
The athletic director and the president of the University of Michigan want to add luxury skyboxes to Michigan Stadium. The stadium is one of the country’s oldest and largest, with a capacity of over 100,000. As you can see, the stadium is a huge oval, with only press boxes that interrupt the shape. However, given its age, the stadium is in pretty desperate need of renovations that will cost millions. The plan to add skyboxes would help recoup the costs of the other renovations.
The thing is, there’s nothing inherently evil about luxury skyboxes. I would never argue that a new stadium should be built without them. I’ve had the pleasure of attending a handful of basketball, hockey, and baseball games in box seats and the appeal is obvious. So it’s hard to argue against the basic concept. And it’s easy to say, “It’s just one stadium.”
But I think it’s more than that. There’s a kind of strange beauty in the tradition of a gigantic public stadium like the one at Michigan. The kind of place where every fan who piles in is sitting on a bleacher seat amongst a sea of humanity. To me, adding what amount o plush condominiums on the side of that stadium, would be to rob it of some of that history and tradition and beauty. It would kill a little something in Michigan U culture. More and more, it seems we are willing to surrender ourselves and our community to the almighty dollar. It makes me sad.
I’m a believer in communities and the power of people working together. My faith in the power of togetherness is the foundation for virtually everything else I believe in – from democracy to live music. Communities with pride are miraculous and powerful things.
So, while I might not often have a lot of positive things to say about Arizona (and Phoenix in particular) I’ll say that one thing I love about this place is that while we do have plenty of places like Dodge Theatre, US Airways Center, Wells Fargo Arena, Chase Field, and Cricket Pavilion, we also have Glendale Arena, Marquee Theatre, Celebrity Theatre, Cardinals Stadium, Sun Devil Stadium, Walkup Skydome (in Flagstaff), and (in Tucson) Arizona Stadium and McKale Center.
These places – stadiums, theatres, concert venues – are where communities come together. These places form the basis for whatever civic pride we might have, and I believe civic pride is a vital thing.
I grew up in Denver which is a place with a very strong sense of community in every way – great fan support for sports teams, major city centers where large numbers of people work, a strong downtown people are happy to visit and are proud of, good nightlife, well-developed public transportation, etc. It’s a strong community that’s perennially among the highest ranked in surveys of good places to live. It’s also one of the highest ranked cities in terms of healthy population. I can’t believe that this is all a coincidence. (For example, you might argue some of this is due to geography and climate but Seattle’s geography and climate are almost exactly opposite to Denver and yet it too is a town with a lot of civic pride and well-known as a popular place to live.)
In my teens, Denver had a quickly growing population, skyrocketing property values, etc etc. To catch a game or a show I went to places like McNichol’s Sports Arena, Mile High Stadium, Fiddler’s Green, and Red Rocks Amphitheatre. Places whose names said something about the community, about the place itself. In 1996, the Avalanche won the Stanley Cup, the first pro sports championship for the Denver area. And in 1998 and 1999, the Broncos won the Super Bowl. I know few things without doubt but I know that I will never experience another night like the night the Broncos won their first Super Bowl. Imagine a team (or a music group, or a movie star) who you love with every atom in your body, a team (or etc) you have loved since birth. Imagine that for years they have failed, or (trust me it’s even worse) come oh so close to glory but fallen short. And then, just at the point you’ve resigned yourself to the permanent misery of a Cubs fan, your team (etc) wins. Imagine how ecstatic you would feel – for them, but also for you, you who has lived and died watching them for years and years. Then try to imagine that everyone else in the city where you live feels the exact same way. Imagine what it was like for me on that day when my mother, who was always aware of sports but never seemed to care in the least (unless it was to roll her eyes at the silliness of it all), broke down in tears in the second half because Green Bay had taken the lead and she thought, “The Broncos are going to blow it again. Just when I let myself get my hopes up.” Have you ever seen complete strangers on the street hugging? Have you seen grown men cry tears of joy? Probably not, unless you were in Denver that January night (or in Boston when the Red Sox finally won the World Series a few years ago). It was magic. The city exploded, but not into riots or violence (which sadly isn’t rare and is what happened pretty much anytime Dallas won the Super Bowl). The city exploded with love. It was the craziest week I’ve ever lived through. That’s the public benefit of sports teams.
But since those wonderful days (and since I’ve moved away) they tore down McNichol’s and built something called the Pepsi Center (even though Albany already had a place called Pepsi Arena – formerly the much more charming Knickerbocker Arena), they renamed Fiddler’s Green to Coors Amphitheatre (even though there was already a Coors Amphitheatre in San Diego), and – worst of all by far – tore down Mile High Stadium and had the audacity to call the new place Invesco Field (OK, they caved and decided to make it Invesco Field at Mile High, but that kind of patronizing is almost worse).
Population growth slowed. Housing prices declined. Homes were foreclosed. The bubble burst. Is this coincidence?
OK, probably it is.
But I’ve heard stories from those of you who lived here or have had family here for years. Stories about the year the Suns made it to the finals and the whole Valley got Suns fever. Stories about grandmas and cousins who caught Suns fever that year and still have it. Isn’t it a beautiful thing when that happens? Even if it’s only happening because of a stupid game, isn’t it beautiful?
I think we lose some of this when we let our stadiums be called not by names that are recognizable and geographically relevant even to non-sports fans but by ever-rotating monikers based on yearly profits and airline mergers. Everyone knew about Mile High Stadium. Even if you’d never heard of it, you’d know where it was. But Invesco Field, what the hell is that?
And I think it holds true for the tradition of Michigan Stadium, this epic venue where seeing a game today is not fundamentally different then seeing a game there in 1960. They’re willing to sacrifice the beautiful tradition of the place for the possibility of money. We all are. We, as a society, have proved we’re willing to make that trade. And I humbly submit that we’re clearly none the better for it.
Michigan’s board of regents will vote on the proposal this week. I’m hoping it gets denied. It’s a small thing. But it matters.
***
We notice the big changes more, but I think it’s the little battles, the skirmishes around the edges, where change really happens.
That’s why I don’t think you have to care about football or sports or colleges or Michigan at all to take some small bit of interest in this story.
The athletic director and the president of the University of Michigan want to add luxury skyboxes to Michigan Stadium. The stadium is one of the country’s oldest and largest, with a capacity of over 100,000. As you can see, the stadium is a huge oval, with only press boxes that interrupt the shape. However, given its age, the stadium is in pretty desperate need of renovations that will cost millions. The plan to add skyboxes would help recoup the costs of the other renovations.
The thing is, there’s nothing inherently evil about luxury skyboxes. I would never argue that a new stadium should be built without them. I’ve had the pleasure of attending a handful of basketball, hockey, and baseball games in box seats and the appeal is obvious. So it’s hard to argue against the basic concept. And it’s easy to say, “It’s just one stadium.”
But I think it’s more than that. There’s a kind of strange beauty in the tradition of a gigantic public stadium like the one at Michigan. The kind of place where every fan who piles in is sitting on a bleacher seat amongst a sea of humanity. To me, adding what amount o plush condominiums on the side of that stadium, would be to rob it of some of that history and tradition and beauty. It would kill a little something in Michigan U culture. More and more, it seems we are willing to surrender ourselves and our community to the almighty dollar. It makes me sad.
I’m a believer in communities and the power of people working together. My faith in the power of togetherness is the foundation for virtually everything else I believe in – from democracy to live music. Communities with pride are miraculous and powerful things.
So, while I might not often have a lot of positive things to say about Arizona (and Phoenix in particular) I’ll say that one thing I love about this place is that while we do have plenty of places like Dodge Theatre, US Airways Center, Wells Fargo Arena, Chase Field, and Cricket Pavilion, we also have Glendale Arena, Marquee Theatre, Celebrity Theatre, Cardinals Stadium, Sun Devil Stadium, Walkup Skydome (in Flagstaff), and (in Tucson) Arizona Stadium and McKale Center.
These places – stadiums, theatres, concert venues – are where communities come together. These places form the basis for whatever civic pride we might have, and I believe civic pride is a vital thing.
I grew up in Denver which is a place with a very strong sense of community in every way – great fan support for sports teams, major city centers where large numbers of people work, a strong downtown people are happy to visit and are proud of, good nightlife, well-developed public transportation, etc. It’s a strong community that’s perennially among the highest ranked in surveys of good places to live. It’s also one of the highest ranked cities in terms of healthy population. I can’t believe that this is all a coincidence. (For example, you might argue some of this is due to geography and climate but Seattle’s geography and climate are almost exactly opposite to Denver and yet it too is a town with a lot of civic pride and well-known as a popular place to live.)
In my teens, Denver had a quickly growing population, skyrocketing property values, etc etc. To catch a game or a show I went to places like McNichol’s Sports Arena, Mile High Stadium, Fiddler’s Green, and Red Rocks Amphitheatre. Places whose names said something about the community, about the place itself. In 1996, the Avalanche won the Stanley Cup, the first pro sports championship for the Denver area. And in 1998 and 1999, the Broncos won the Super Bowl. I know few things without doubt but I know that I will never experience another night like the night the Broncos won their first Super Bowl. Imagine a team (or a music group, or a movie star) who you love with every atom in your body, a team (or etc) you have loved since birth. Imagine that for years they have failed, or (trust me it’s even worse) come oh so close to glory but fallen short. And then, just at the point you’ve resigned yourself to the permanent misery of a Cubs fan, your team (etc) wins. Imagine how ecstatic you would feel – for them, but also for you, you who has lived and died watching them for years and years. Then try to imagine that everyone else in the city where you live feels the exact same way. Imagine what it was like for me on that day when my mother, who was always aware of sports but never seemed to care in the least (unless it was to roll her eyes at the silliness of it all), broke down in tears in the second half because Green Bay had taken the lead and she thought, “The Broncos are going to blow it again. Just when I let myself get my hopes up.” Have you ever seen complete strangers on the street hugging? Have you seen grown men cry tears of joy? Probably not, unless you were in Denver that January night (or in Boston when the Red Sox finally won the World Series a few years ago). It was magic. The city exploded, but not into riots or violence (which sadly isn’t rare and is what happened pretty much anytime Dallas won the Super Bowl). The city exploded with love. It was the craziest week I’ve ever lived through. That’s the public benefit of sports teams.
But since those wonderful days (and since I’ve moved away) they tore down McNichol’s and built something called the Pepsi Center (even though Albany already had a place called Pepsi Arena – formerly the much more charming Knickerbocker Arena), they renamed Fiddler’s Green to Coors Amphitheatre (even though there was already a Coors Amphitheatre in San Diego), and – worst of all by far – tore down Mile High Stadium and had the audacity to call the new place Invesco Field (OK, they caved and decided to make it Invesco Field at Mile High, but that kind of patronizing is almost worse).
Population growth slowed. Housing prices declined. Homes were foreclosed. The bubble burst. Is this coincidence?
OK, probably it is.
But I’ve heard stories from those of you who lived here or have had family here for years. Stories about the year the Suns made it to the finals and the whole Valley got Suns fever. Stories about grandmas and cousins who caught Suns fever that year and still have it. Isn’t it a beautiful thing when that happens? Even if it’s only happening because of a stupid game, isn’t it beautiful?
I think we lose some of this when we let our stadiums be called not by names that are recognizable and geographically relevant even to non-sports fans but by ever-rotating monikers based on yearly profits and airline mergers. Everyone knew about Mile High Stadium. Even if you’d never heard of it, you’d know where it was. But Invesco Field, what the hell is that?
And I think it holds true for the tradition of Michigan Stadium, this epic venue where seeing a game today is not fundamentally different then seeing a game there in 1960. They’re willing to sacrifice the beautiful tradition of the place for the possibility of money. We all are. We, as a society, have proved we’re willing to make that trade. And I humbly submit that we’re clearly none the better for it.
Michigan’s board of regents will vote on the proposal this week. I’m hoping it gets denied. It’s a small thing. But it matters.
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