Friday Cat Blogging
Among many of the weblogs that I check out regularly -- and far and wide elsewhere for all I know -- there's a custom called "Friday Night Cat Blogging." Though I am as appreciative of cats as anybody, I haven't taken part in this, partly because at this time my camera equipment isn't working well, and partly because from a resplendent family of eight of those little furry rascals just four years ago, we are now down to just one, and partly because...
Well....
A few weeks ago, on the same day that Bobby Fischer left us, so did one of the dogs that lived with NTodd, at the Dohiyi Mir weblog. Rin Tin Tin had been a member of that household only for about a month, yet there were no less than 59 comments made in response to the post about the sad event. But to the post in which NTodd also observed Bobby Fischer's death, there was only one comment offered, mine.
I understand this perfectly. Dogs and to a still large but lesser extent cats are integral parts of the American household. But to the great majority of Americans Bobby Fischer was only a name, when they had heard of him at all, and a soiled name at that. For a while he was widely toasted after he bested a Russian at their own game to become World Champion. But that was in 1972, 36 years ago, and afterwards he supposedly made anti-Semitic statements, plus he disobeyed the U.S. government by playing a match in Yugoslavia in 1992 against the same man, Boris Spassky, and again winning, and in the furore following that Fischer gave up his U.S. citizenship and joined Iceland.
But, with 60 years of chessplaying sealed inside my head, I am -- much more than the overwhelming majority of people -- aware of and appreciative of Bobby Fischer's amazing achievements at the chessboard. There are not many things as indicative of the tremendous feats that the human mind can accomplish. And because he only had one life and that was at the chessboard, I discount the other things that are held against him. Besides, as with any of the other delights, chess can work grievously against the mind if a person drinks too freely from its punchbowl.<
Fischer's mother was Jewish, which meant that he was born into that, and I don't see how anyone can escape what he was born into enough to truly disavow it. Control over 16 wooden pieces is one thing; control over the innumerable affairs external to that is another thing altogether.
As for the match in Yugoslavia, it was worth three million dollars to him, and the chess world is not like pro football, pro baseball, pro basketball, singing, acting, stock-dealing, drug-dealing, weapon-dealing, and all the other entertainments. If you were to invite only millionaires to a chess tournament, you would have an empty room like you wouldn't believe.
Sometimes I regret not similarly honoring my one remaining cat by featuring him on a Friday night. But he humors me in this as he does in most other things. His name is Beauty. He's short-haired, black, with golden eyes, medium-sized and still lithe and unusually strong. He's an outside cat, and a survivor. We don't recall the year of his birth, but he must be about 18 years old. Though he can be a little on the demanding side at times, he's an endlessly good person.
Well....
A few weeks ago, on the same day that Bobby Fischer left us, so did one of the dogs that lived with NTodd, at the Dohiyi Mir weblog. Rin Tin Tin had been a member of that household only for about a month, yet there were no less than 59 comments made in response to the post about the sad event. But to the post in which NTodd also observed Bobby Fischer's death, there was only one comment offered, mine.
I understand this perfectly. Dogs and to a still large but lesser extent cats are integral parts of the American household. But to the great majority of Americans Bobby Fischer was only a name, when they had heard of him at all, and a soiled name at that. For a while he was widely toasted after he bested a Russian at their own game to become World Champion. But that was in 1972, 36 years ago, and afterwards he supposedly made anti-Semitic statements, plus he disobeyed the U.S. government by playing a match in Yugoslavia in 1992 against the same man, Boris Spassky, and again winning, and in the furore following that Fischer gave up his U.S. citizenship and joined Iceland.
But, with 60 years of chessplaying sealed inside my head, I am -- much more than the overwhelming majority of people -- aware of and appreciative of Bobby Fischer's amazing achievements at the chessboard. There are not many things as indicative of the tremendous feats that the human mind can accomplish. And because he only had one life and that was at the chessboard, I discount the other things that are held against him. Besides, as with any of the other delights, chess can work grievously against the mind if a person drinks too freely from its punchbowl.<
Fischer's mother was Jewish, which meant that he was born into that, and I don't see how anyone can escape what he was born into enough to truly disavow it. Control over 16 wooden pieces is one thing; control over the innumerable affairs external to that is another thing altogether.
As for the match in Yugoslavia, it was worth three million dollars to him, and the chess world is not like pro football, pro baseball, pro basketball, singing, acting, stock-dealing, drug-dealing, weapon-dealing, and all the other entertainments. If you were to invite only millionaires to a chess tournament, you would have an empty room like you wouldn't believe.
Sometimes I regret not similarly honoring my one remaining cat by featuring him on a Friday night. But he humors me in this as he does in most other things. His name is Beauty. He's short-haired, black, with golden eyes, medium-sized and still lithe and unusually strong. He's an outside cat, and a survivor. We don't recall the year of his birth, but he must be about 18 years old. Though he can be a little on the demanding side at times, he's an endlessly good person.
posted by Carl (aka Sofarsogoo) | 8:12 AM
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