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DIGITAL BEATNIK
On the Street
by Kent Winward, photos by David Winward
The last time I wrote for this column,
I lamented the proximity of my age to those two
icons of Utah basketball--Karl Malone and John
Stockton. Now, both are gone from the Utah sport’s
scene. In three short months, basketball season
ended and so did the reign of Stockton to Malone.
I've been giving this some thought and I realized
the true reason for Malone's relocation to La
La Land--deep down he realized that he needed
someone decent to pass him the ball if he was
going to look competent. I admire the fact that
he aggressively sought out a great point guard
to throw him the ball. It takes a big man to know
his limitations and needs.
At this juncture, given the past nature of this
column, I am supposed to draw out some great life
lesson on Stockton's retirement and Malone's departure.
Maybe the lesson is simply this--things change.
Sometimes it is for the better and sometimes it
may be for the worse, but things still change.
Now I will miss the intense gaze and game face
of Stockton and Hot Rod’s screams of "Hammer
Dunk." On the plus side, I won't feel bad
when the Jazz don't do well and don't win an NBA
championship for the next couple of years. I have
lowered expectations with the departure of age
and wisdom from their squad. I'll also get to
see on TNT Payton and Malone running the pick
and roll with Kobe on the wing and Shaq underneath.
This could be entertaining. Life does that to
us. It changes, but aspects will always remain
entertaining. Oh yes, I'll also get to hear all
the announcers talk about how old Karl Malone
is and I'll still get to feel older than I really
am. My mid-life crisis is intact for at least
another season.
ON THE STREET
I spent part of Sunday sweltering on 25th Street.
I could have been sweltering elsewhere or been
part of the climatized comfort of some air-conditioned
venue, but I happened to be on 25th Street. I
walked past the new construction. Listening to
tunes from what appeared to be the 1940s piped
onto the loudspeakers, I saw the old brick facades
with fading paint of businesses long vanished.
I saw the new brass letters and crisp brick of
new business. I was caught between two worlds--a
graveyard and a nursery, both equally bustling.
Earlier this weekend I spent time visiting one
of the towns of my past. I had my daughters with
me and we drove past old homes, old haunts and
familiar cites that were punctuated and punctured
with the changes of new construction. The juxtaposition
of the new with the old memory became a combined
symbol of human change and human stability. The
conflict of these contradictory impulses drives
us--growth and progression versus stability and
certitude. Between these two needs squeezing us,
we are propelled forward.
Now, I always find myself rebelling against a
perceived superficiality of the modern television
culture. This would make the Everwood facades
my least favorite locales on 25th Street. I suppose
this is somewhat hypocritical from someone writing
a throw away column in a periodical. However,
of all the wonderful locales, businesses and atmosphere
on 25th Street, the Everwood facades get picked
for one of the billboards promoting Ogden. The
one thing Ogden has going for it is depth-- why
promote the shallow?
I guess I answered my own question. At the risk
of offending all those in advertising, promotion
is inherently shallow. How can you capture on
a billboard the wonderful qualities of the past
and present combined and driving life forward
within a mix of new-setting concrete and crumbling
brick?
Another reason that the juxtaposition of past
and present, old and new, does not lend itself
so well to the sound bite or billboard is because
it is a process that we are all constantly undergoing
in our personal lives. The familiar is often the
most difficult to see. Except for the very, very
young and those who have totally lost their mind,
the universal plight of humanity is to mold our
past into our present to create the emerging future.
Metaphoric walls rise up out of the past with
faded paint--Roosevelt Hotel, Osh Kosh B-Gosh,
Milwaukee Brewed Beer--covering the weather-worn
brick that is now mysteriously on the inside of
so many buildings.
This becomes the pressing question for the future.
What do we do with the old walls? Where do we
build the new walls? Are the walls something that
close us in, capturing us in the past, or they
the not-so-blank slate from which new construction
begins? Are the walls to remind us of the past
or to block out the sad and painful memories hidden
behind them?
The summer heat beats down. Fires rage on the
hillsides, burning out the old undergrowth in
the purging and blackening heat. Flames of memory
lick the tinder and purge the old past, leaving
blackened ground ripe for new growth, after a
cold, wet winter. 25th Street changes and remains
the same, the walled artery feeding the rest of
the city with the past and the present, oxygenating
the blood and keeping that most delicate of all
human aspirations alive--hope.