Last week my best student auditioned for Region Orchestra, and he placed fifth! Unfortunately, they only take four trombones for the orchestra. But he was so close! He was pretty disappointed, so I tried to tell him that he did really well. Especially since last year he didn't even make Region Band, and they take about 25 trombones for Region Band (I think they then split them up into two bands, this stuff is a really big deal in Texas if you couldn't guess). Now he's top five in the region! Athough I guess not everybody auditions for the orchestra, so he might not do quite as well in the band audition, but I think he probably will do very well. I feel a little bad for him, because he is by far the best trombone player at this High School where I teach, but, as High School trombone players go, I can tell he's not among the very best overall. Still, he expects himself to place at the top of everything, because he's used to being the best at it. So I don't quite know what to say to him when things don't go his way like this.
But I'm excited because this year I have two students who have, I think, a good shot at making region band. They're both seniors, and they both have been taking lessons with me now for a year and a half. If I can get them both to make regions this year, after they didn't come close last year, I'll feel pretty good about how much I have helped overall. For a school to go from zero to two Region Band trombone players in just one year, that's got to say something about the school's trombone teacher, right? There's one more student who could be a sleeper, but I doubt he'll make it. He really wants to get in, and he practices a lot, but he still kind of has that 7th Grade sound, like a mix between a trombone and a duck call, and I'm not really sure how to get rid of it. Still, he's just a sophomore, he has time.
I sang in the Percussion Ensemble concert tonight. That's right. It was a command performance, if I do say so myself. So if anyone is looking for a singer to round out their traditional folkloric Afro-Cuban band, you know who to ask. I'll be waiting by the phone.
And thus begins my "five concerts in six days" Pre-Thanksgiving extravaganza. Tonight was the Percussion Ensemble (doesn't really count, because I just belted out some repeated phrases in a language I didn't understand while other people banged on things), tomorrow and Sunday are the Brass Choir with Organ concerts (complete with fifteen brass players blasting the hell out of the smallest, most reverberative organ hall you will ever find...really, really bad idea), Monday is the Studio Recital, and Tuesday is "Grand Pianola Music" by John Adams. So when the vacation finally comes on Wednesday, I'll definitely have plenty to be thankful for. Like not being in fucking Texas, if only for a few days out of the year.
Latest addiction: lonelygirl15.com. No, it's not porn, though it is slightly voyeuristic. I found some of the videos somehow on YouTube and thought they were real people, and then by the time I found out they weren't I was hooked. Even though it's fake, you gotta hand it to the people who make the videos, they're pretty realistic. And the acting is pretty good.
Friday, November 17, 2006
Saturday, November 11, 2006
Oh my God. Awesome.
Haven't you ever wondered, what would the bottom of the 10th Inning of the 1986 World Series look like, if it was played on RBI Baseball? I know I have. As painful as it may be, you absolutely have to watch this video.
Wednesday, November 08, 2006
Genius at Work
I am a genius! You know why? Because I fixed our toilet!
Our toilet, in recent weeks/months, has decided to let certain essential mechanisms cease functioning properly. Usually, after using our toilet, one would pull the little lever which is normally used to "flush" the toilet. This lever is connected, inside the upper tank of the toilet, to a chain, which is in turn connected to a rubber stopper which is keeping the water in the upper tank from going down into the bowl. Usually, pulling this lever causes the rubber stopper to rise, thus releasing the water held in the upper tank. As the water level in the tank goes down, a flotation device connected to a water flow mechanism also goes down. When it reaches a certain point, the flotation device triggers the water flow mechanism to begin to refill the upper tank of the toilet. Assumedly, by this point, all the water should be out of the tank, and the rubber stopper should have assumed its original position, thus blocking the new water from leaving the tank.
Our toilet was getting this process wrong in two ways. First, when one would pull the lever, the stopper would rise, but then, because the chain connecting the lever to the stopper is way too long, it would drop down below the stopper and get stuck, thus leaving a way for the new water entering the tank to escape. Normally, this would mean that our toilet would never stop trying to refill the upper tank after a given flush, that is until one fixed the chain and replaced the stopper. But our toilet wasn't even bothering to try to fill the upper tank with water after a flush. Upon investigation, it was decided that this was because the flotation device that was supposed to trigger the water flow mechanism was not doing so. It was not heavy enough to get itself down to the point at which water would start to flow back into the tank.
The result of these two separate but equally devastating mechanical failures was that, after each time one flushed our toilet, one would have to execute two extra maneuvers, an extra jiggle of the lever to release the trapped chain, as well as a slight push on the flotation device to trigger the water flow mechanism, in order to ensure that the toilet would be ready for its next use. Because of the constant need to access the flotation device inside the tank, the lid to the upper tank had been permanently removed, and we had been living in this primitive way for some time. Well, this morning I decided that enough was enough.
First I had to address the problem of the chain, which wasn't all that difficult. I just had to shorten the chain by changing which link of the chain was connected to the lever. In fact, this wasn't even really my idea, I think our landlord's plumber had performed this trick previously.
So that just left the mystery of the underweight flotation device. There was already a counterweight attached to the floater, which obviously wasn't doing its job, so my first idea was to get something else that was heavy but small that I could attach to that counterweight. But the problem was how to attach an object to the counterweight. If it was something I could get on a safety pin, that would work (safety pins were among the first things I found when searching the kitchen). But anything small and heavy would probably be solid metal, like coins or batteries (I did consider a 9 volt battery. Bad idea? Hard to say...). This got me thinking, what else do I know of that is heavy for its size? What besides metal can take up a relatively small space but weigh a substantial amount?
Water. Water is heavy! And yet, water floats! In water! I began to hatch a plan, a plan so simple and yet so elegant that it could not possibly fail. I found an empty (and clean) plastic yogurt cup. I stuck a large safety pin through the side. I put the safety pin around the metal bar connecting the counterweight to the flotation device in the upper tank of the toilet. At first glance, there's a yogurt cup in the toilet. But upon closer inspection, what is its function? When the tank fills with water, so does the cup. When you flush the toilet, the tank empties, but the cup does not, and the heavy water pulls down on the flotation device, enough to trigger the water flow mechanism. When the water in the tank begins to fill back up, the cup floats back up with it, allowing the flotation device to once again rise, and cut off the flow of water until the next flush.
So there you have it. Our toilet is once again functioning as it once did, in a consistent and flawless manner which will allow us to put the lid back on the tank, and go about our lives secure in the knowledge that each trip to the toilet will require only one push of a lever, and nothing more. You can't put a premium on that kind of peace of mind.
Oh, and I will now begin answering to "MacGyver."
Our toilet, in recent weeks/months, has decided to let certain essential mechanisms cease functioning properly. Usually, after using our toilet, one would pull the little lever which is normally used to "flush" the toilet. This lever is connected, inside the upper tank of the toilet, to a chain, which is in turn connected to a rubber stopper which is keeping the water in the upper tank from going down into the bowl. Usually, pulling this lever causes the rubber stopper to rise, thus releasing the water held in the upper tank. As the water level in the tank goes down, a flotation device connected to a water flow mechanism also goes down. When it reaches a certain point, the flotation device triggers the water flow mechanism to begin to refill the upper tank of the toilet. Assumedly, by this point, all the water should be out of the tank, and the rubber stopper should have assumed its original position, thus blocking the new water from leaving the tank.
Our toilet was getting this process wrong in two ways. First, when one would pull the lever, the stopper would rise, but then, because the chain connecting the lever to the stopper is way too long, it would drop down below the stopper and get stuck, thus leaving a way for the new water entering the tank to escape. Normally, this would mean that our toilet would never stop trying to refill the upper tank after a given flush, that is until one fixed the chain and replaced the stopper. But our toilet wasn't even bothering to try to fill the upper tank with water after a flush. Upon investigation, it was decided that this was because the flotation device that was supposed to trigger the water flow mechanism was not doing so. It was not heavy enough to get itself down to the point at which water would start to flow back into the tank.
The result of these two separate but equally devastating mechanical failures was that, after each time one flushed our toilet, one would have to execute two extra maneuvers, an extra jiggle of the lever to release the trapped chain, as well as a slight push on the flotation device to trigger the water flow mechanism, in order to ensure that the toilet would be ready for its next use. Because of the constant need to access the flotation device inside the tank, the lid to the upper tank had been permanently removed, and we had been living in this primitive way for some time. Well, this morning I decided that enough was enough.
First I had to address the problem of the chain, which wasn't all that difficult. I just had to shorten the chain by changing which link of the chain was connected to the lever. In fact, this wasn't even really my idea, I think our landlord's plumber had performed this trick previously.
So that just left the mystery of the underweight flotation device. There was already a counterweight attached to the floater, which obviously wasn't doing its job, so my first idea was to get something else that was heavy but small that I could attach to that counterweight. But the problem was how to attach an object to the counterweight. If it was something I could get on a safety pin, that would work (safety pins were among the first things I found when searching the kitchen). But anything small and heavy would probably be solid metal, like coins or batteries (I did consider a 9 volt battery. Bad idea? Hard to say...). This got me thinking, what else do I know of that is heavy for its size? What besides metal can take up a relatively small space but weigh a substantial amount?
Water. Water is heavy! And yet, water floats! In water! I began to hatch a plan, a plan so simple and yet so elegant that it could not possibly fail. I found an empty (and clean) plastic yogurt cup. I stuck a large safety pin through the side. I put the safety pin around the metal bar connecting the counterweight to the flotation device in the upper tank of the toilet. At first glance, there's a yogurt cup in the toilet. But upon closer inspection, what is its function? When the tank fills with water, so does the cup. When you flush the toilet, the tank empties, but the cup does not, and the heavy water pulls down on the flotation device, enough to trigger the water flow mechanism. When the water in the tank begins to fill back up, the cup floats back up with it, allowing the flotation device to once again rise, and cut off the flow of water until the next flush.
So there you have it. Our toilet is once again functioning as it once did, in a consistent and flawless manner which will allow us to put the lid back on the tank, and go about our lives secure in the knowledge that each trip to the toilet will require only one push of a lever, and nothing more. You can't put a premium on that kind of peace of mind.
Oh, and I will now begin answering to "MacGyver."
Thursday, September 07, 2006
Lonely Wanderer
So after a summer of almost complete abstinence from posting, I realize that you, fine readers, are probably owed a few various stories of my trials and tribulations, my crushing defeats and overwhelming victories, during the months spent in the wilderness known as Wyoming. So here's one for you.
It starts with an epic car ride, beginning in Newton, Massachusetts, some time at the end of June. From there we go West (young man) to Oberlin, Ohio. Then to Chicago, Illinois. Then a night spent in Wall, South Dakota, slumbering among the jackalopes and 80-foot dinosaurs. From there, I had planned to traverse the distance to Jackson, Wyoming in one day, which I realized would necessitate driving well into the night. What I didn't realize was that the East road into Yellowstone National Park, the one which I needed to use to enter the park before making my way South through Grand Teton National Park and into Jackson, would be closed for the night, starting at 8:00 pm. Unsure if I could make it through the gate in time, and, more importantly, unable to figure out if I would be able to get out the South gate before morning, I decided to save Yellowstone for the next day. Which meant I needed to find a place to stop for the night.
The East gate into Yellowstone National Park lies 30 or so miles West of Cody, Wyoming, a (once) frontier town named for Buffalo Bill Cody, the most prominent of local heroes. Between Cody and Yellowstone there is plenty of beautiful scenery, including a stretch of Buffalo Bill State Park, but not much else to speak of, and certainly not much resembling urban sprawl. Still, when you get about halfway through this stretch, you come across a small town by the name of Wapiti, Wyoming. It was there, just off the main highway, that I found the Trail Shop Motel.
I walk up to the main office, which is surrounded by cabins, none of which I get a very good look at, but there are several cars out in front, so I figure those were the cars of the other guests. It being after 8:00, I'm unsure if I will get a room, but the sign, as you see, does say "Vacancy," so I enter.
The main room is a restaurant, complete with waitresses and several couples dining, and the food looks simple but elegant. My first reaction is that some chef decided that it would be cool and chic to open a restaurant in the middle of nowhere, Wyoming, in a run down Motel, to attract that rustic but filthy rich crowd. Not a bad idea. There's a desk with a cash register, but nobody behind it. So I decide to ask one of the waitresses who I should talk to about getting a room.
"Do you know who I can talk to about getting a room?" I ask.
"Oh! A room? Uh, hold on, I'll go get her." She's surprised that I'm asking for a room. Not a good sign. Then from the back I hear:
"Hey, there's someone here looking for a room."
"Oh, really?"
Surprise again. Not good. But I'm tired and I don't want to drive any further tonight. Might as well stay here if they'll have me. A moment later a woman comes out to the desk, and I ask her if there is a room for that night.
"Is there a room available for tonight by any chance?"
"Yes, there is a room..." (oh, just one, I lucked out getting here now) "...but, there's no TV."
"Oh, that's okay."
"And no telephone."
"Okay, that's fine." (Where am I?)
We go through the necessary paperwork, I sign a sheet (remarkably empty), she gives me a key to cabin number 1 (there were lots of other keys still there, weren't there?), and, trying to ignore the feeling that this whole process was very foreign to her, and that she was wondering why I would ever want a room at this place, I walk out to find my cabin.
Cabin Number 1, just left of the dining room. I use my key, and enter the room. There are two beds, a dresser, and a nightstand. The bathroom is small, but clean, with towels and soap. What more could you ask for? Soon I begin to contemplate going back to the dining room and getting something to eat, but decide against it. I need to make phone calls, but I get no cell phone reception here. So I decide to drive back towards Cody a little ways, until I get better reception. When I go to leave, however, I notice an important detail that I overlooked earlier. The door to the cabin doesn't lock. I mean the lock works, but it doesn't latch into anything. You can just push it open. So I take my stuff with me.
Upon my return, the number of cars in the parking lot is smaller. They must be closing the dining room. I stay and watch the customers slowly leave, until only the staff is left. Why isn't anyone going to their rooms? The staff cleans up and turns off the lights in the dining room. Am I the only one staying the night here? They begin to play pool in the back; I can hear the cues hitting the balls, and the balls hitting each other. If I'm the only one, then why did she say there was a room? That either means that the other rooms are all booked, or that there really is only one room. I hear the balls hitting each other again. There's no other sound, I realize, nothing else to be heard. I really am in the middle of nowhere.
I stay up for a while and read. Around 10:30, well after pitch darkness has fallen, all the staff leaves as well. There are no lights on in the dining room. No sounds. No lights in other cabins. I'm completely alone. I walk outside, into the dark, to look for stars and try to get a handle on the situation. Obviously, I am the only person who asked for a room tonight. At least, I'm the only person here now. There are other cabins, so why am I the only person? Perhaps most people require a little bit more from their motel rooms. Like a TV. Or maybe someone else within a square mile, just in case something happens. It's simultaneously a very scary and a very exciting thing, being that alone. I enjoy that feeling for a while, standing out in the darkness, looking up. Then I go back inside and fall asleep.
The morning is a better time to survey the area. As I do, I realize the truth of it: I really am completely alone. There is still nobody here, at 7:00 am. I walk around to the other cabins, and quickly realize why they are not occupied. They aren't ready. Some are under construction, not far away from being habitable, while others are being used as storehouses for various objects, among them chairs, tables, and animal skins. So there really was only one room.
With nothing left to do, I get ready and leave, glad to be going, but also glad that I had been there. I leave my key in the room, and go, my car the last one to pull out of the parking lot. By midday I am in Jackson, and my summer has begun.
So that's where the story ends. Hopefully I will, in the near future, have more stories to tell, including one about a hike that took a wrong turn. Until then, happy trails to you all.
It starts with an epic car ride, beginning in Newton, Massachusetts, some time at the end of June. From there we go West (young man) to Oberlin, Ohio. Then to Chicago, Illinois. Then a night spent in Wall, South Dakota, slumbering among the jackalopes and 80-foot dinosaurs. From there, I had planned to traverse the distance to Jackson, Wyoming in one day, which I realized would necessitate driving well into the night. What I didn't realize was that the East road into Yellowstone National Park, the one which I needed to use to enter the park before making my way South through Grand Teton National Park and into Jackson, would be closed for the night, starting at 8:00 pm. Unsure if I could make it through the gate in time, and, more importantly, unable to figure out if I would be able to get out the South gate before morning, I decided to save Yellowstone for the next day. Which meant I needed to find a place to stop for the night.
The East gate into Yellowstone National Park lies 30 or so miles West of Cody, Wyoming, a (once) frontier town named for Buffalo Bill Cody, the most prominent of local heroes. Between Cody and Yellowstone there is plenty of beautiful scenery, including a stretch of Buffalo Bill State Park, but not much else to speak of, and certainly not much resembling urban sprawl. Still, when you get about halfway through this stretch, you come across a small town by the name of Wapiti, Wyoming. It was there, just off the main highway, that I found the Trail Shop Motel.
I walk up to the main office, which is surrounded by cabins, none of which I get a very good look at, but there are several cars out in front, so I figure those were the cars of the other guests. It being after 8:00, I'm unsure if I will get a room, but the sign, as you see, does say "Vacancy," so I enter.
The main room is a restaurant, complete with waitresses and several couples dining, and the food looks simple but elegant. My first reaction is that some chef decided that it would be cool and chic to open a restaurant in the middle of nowhere, Wyoming, in a run down Motel, to attract that rustic but filthy rich crowd. Not a bad idea. There's a desk with a cash register, but nobody behind it. So I decide to ask one of the waitresses who I should talk to about getting a room.
"Do you know who I can talk to about getting a room?" I ask.
"Oh! A room? Uh, hold on, I'll go get her." She's surprised that I'm asking for a room. Not a good sign. Then from the back I hear:
"Hey, there's someone here looking for a room."
"Oh, really?"
Surprise again. Not good. But I'm tired and I don't want to drive any further tonight. Might as well stay here if they'll have me. A moment later a woman comes out to the desk, and I ask her if there is a room for that night.
"Is there a room available for tonight by any chance?"
"Yes, there is a room..." (oh, just one, I lucked out getting here now) "...but, there's no TV."
"Oh, that's okay."
"And no telephone."
"Okay, that's fine." (Where am I?)
We go through the necessary paperwork, I sign a sheet (remarkably empty), she gives me a key to cabin number 1 (there were lots of other keys still there, weren't there?), and, trying to ignore the feeling that this whole process was very foreign to her, and that she was wondering why I would ever want a room at this place, I walk out to find my cabin.
Cabin Number 1, just left of the dining room. I use my key, and enter the room. There are two beds, a dresser, and a nightstand. The bathroom is small, but clean, with towels and soap. What more could you ask for? Soon I begin to contemplate going back to the dining room and getting something to eat, but decide against it. I need to make phone calls, but I get no cell phone reception here. So I decide to drive back towards Cody a little ways, until I get better reception. When I go to leave, however, I notice an important detail that I overlooked earlier. The door to the cabin doesn't lock. I mean the lock works, but it doesn't latch into anything. You can just push it open. So I take my stuff with me.
Upon my return, the number of cars in the parking lot is smaller. They must be closing the dining room. I stay and watch the customers slowly leave, until only the staff is left. Why isn't anyone going to their rooms? The staff cleans up and turns off the lights in the dining room. Am I the only one staying the night here? They begin to play pool in the back; I can hear the cues hitting the balls, and the balls hitting each other. If I'm the only one, then why did she say there was a room? That either means that the other rooms are all booked, or that there really is only one room. I hear the balls hitting each other again. There's no other sound, I realize, nothing else to be heard. I really am in the middle of nowhere.
I stay up for a while and read. Around 10:30, well after pitch darkness has fallen, all the staff leaves as well. There are no lights on in the dining room. No sounds. No lights in other cabins. I'm completely alone. I walk outside, into the dark, to look for stars and try to get a handle on the situation. Obviously, I am the only person who asked for a room tonight. At least, I'm the only person here now. There are other cabins, so why am I the only person? Perhaps most people require a little bit more from their motel rooms. Like a TV. Or maybe someone else within a square mile, just in case something happens. It's simultaneously a very scary and a very exciting thing, being that alone. I enjoy that feeling for a while, standing out in the darkness, looking up. Then I go back inside and fall asleep.
The morning is a better time to survey the area. As I do, I realize the truth of it: I really am completely alone. There is still nobody here, at 7:00 am. I walk around to the other cabins, and quickly realize why they are not occupied. They aren't ready. Some are under construction, not far away from being habitable, while others are being used as storehouses for various objects, among them chairs, tables, and animal skins. So there really was only one room.
With nothing left to do, I get ready and leave, glad to be going, but also glad that I had been there. I leave my key in the room, and go, my car the last one to pull out of the parking lot. By midday I am in Jackson, and my summer has begun.
So that's where the story ends. Hopefully I will, in the near future, have more stories to tell, including one about a hike that took a wrong turn. Until then, happy trails to you all.
Monday, September 04, 2006
I bought a rug today
It's light blue. Well, I guess technically it's teal. Anyway, it really ties the room together. Now I just have to finish unpacking my stuff. The original reason for the rug was that my room now, which is adjacent to the room I lived in last year, is suddenly much larger, and I have approximately the same amount of stuff in it as I had last year. So there's lots of open space. Now that I have a rug, there's still lots of open space, only now there's a rug in the middle of it. Maybe once I get some stuff up on the walls it will look better.
So I'm back in Houston. I left Wyoming last Sunday morning, the day after the final concert of the festival. 27 hours of driving later, I pulled into my driveway on Monday night, and back into the oppressive heat and humidity of Houston. Now it's a week later, and I'm still trying to get settled, to fall into the rhythm. Having a long weekend right away doesn't help with the getting into the rhythm, either. But things will kick into gear soon. Until then, I can busy myself with trying to put together a decent looking bedroom on a next to nothing budget. Furniture is expensive!
But I'm back, and next week Orchestra rehearsals start, and I've got a lot to work on this year. After all, I'm only nine months from the end of my sheltered scholastic life and the beginning of god knows what. Time to start enjoying these nine months, huh?
So I'm back in Houston. I left Wyoming last Sunday morning, the day after the final concert of the festival. 27 hours of driving later, I pulled into my driveway on Monday night, and back into the oppressive heat and humidity of Houston. Now it's a week later, and I'm still trying to get settled, to fall into the rhythm. Having a long weekend right away doesn't help with the getting into the rhythm, either. But things will kick into gear soon. Until then, I can busy myself with trying to put together a decent looking bedroom on a next to nothing budget. Furniture is expensive!
But I'm back, and next week Orchestra rehearsals start, and I've got a lot to work on this year. After all, I'm only nine months from the end of my sheltered scholastic life and the beginning of god knows what. Time to start enjoying these nine months, huh?
Friday, August 04, 2006
Moose Moose
Things I have seen for the first time in Jackson Hole, Wyoming (a partial list):
1. Bear-proof trash cans
2. Bear-proof dumpsters
3. Bear repellent spray
4. Bears
5. Mooses (Meese? Moosei?)
Which begins to beg the question: Why no Moose spray? I mean, I don't think they'll be leafing through our garbage any time soon, being less omnivorous and more partial to...well, really just grass. So the Moose-proof dumpsters are not a necessity (plus, now that I think about it, if a fucking bear can't get into the things, then what's a Moose going to do? Nothing, that's what. Just like they always do. Nothing. Lazy bastards.). But I wouldn't want to run into one of them in a dark alley. Which wouldn't happen, because there are no alleys here. Just highway and fields and forest. Oh, and mountains. Did I mention the mountains? Anyway, I'm getting off track, but my point is that I think Moose spray would not be such a bad idea. Everyone's always talking about how they're just as dangerous as bears, especially if it's a mother with a calf, so at the very least, you would be able to sell a bunch of the stuff to stupid tourists.
It turns out I did come quite close to a mama moose and her calf, only it wasn't like I had to go looking for them, it was more like they just came walking into my backyard while I was sitting on the porch. Unfortunately, there were lots of other people on the porch also, and the noise scared them away quickly. It was still pretty amazing.
The only time I've seen a bear in the wild was on a hike that I did in the Tetons a couple of weeks ago. We were on our way back down (hikes here are straight uphill for what seems like forever, and then straight back downhill for about a quarter of the time it took to get uphill), when a guy on the trail ahead of us with a snowboard strapped to his back turned around and said something to the effect of "Dude, there's a bear on the trail." Sure enough, just around the bend, we saw a mother Black Bear and her cub walking through the woods just off the trail. Again, they weren't so much interested in us as eager to get away from us, and so we didn't see them for long. In fact, the cub began climbing a tree soon after they spotted us. And he was climbing fast! So for everyone who thought you should climb a tree to get away from bears, be warned: Bears can climb trees.
So those were my two most unexpected, and therefore most gratifying, wildlife experiences so far this summer. Still to go on the list of animals to see before I leave are Elk and Bison. The Bison, apparently, are not hard, as most people are shocked when I say I have been here a month and not seen one. The Elk, it seems, stay up in the mountains during the warm months, so I may have less luck with them.
1. Bear-proof trash cans
2. Bear-proof dumpsters
3. Bear repellent spray
4. Bears
5. Mooses (Meese? Moosei?)
Which begins to beg the question: Why no Moose spray? I mean, I don't think they'll be leafing through our garbage any time soon, being less omnivorous and more partial to...well, really just grass. So the Moose-proof dumpsters are not a necessity (plus, now that I think about it, if a fucking bear can't get into the things, then what's a Moose going to do? Nothing, that's what. Just like they always do. Nothing. Lazy bastards.). But I wouldn't want to run into one of them in a dark alley. Which wouldn't happen, because there are no alleys here. Just highway and fields and forest. Oh, and mountains. Did I mention the mountains? Anyway, I'm getting off track, but my point is that I think Moose spray would not be such a bad idea. Everyone's always talking about how they're just as dangerous as bears, especially if it's a mother with a calf, so at the very least, you would be able to sell a bunch of the stuff to stupid tourists.
It turns out I did come quite close to a mama moose and her calf, only it wasn't like I had to go looking for them, it was more like they just came walking into my backyard while I was sitting on the porch. Unfortunately, there were lots of other people on the porch also, and the noise scared them away quickly. It was still pretty amazing.
The only time I've seen a bear in the wild was on a hike that I did in the Tetons a couple of weeks ago. We were on our way back down (hikes here are straight uphill for what seems like forever, and then straight back downhill for about a quarter of the time it took to get uphill), when a guy on the trail ahead of us with a snowboard strapped to his back turned around and said something to the effect of "Dude, there's a bear on the trail." Sure enough, just around the bend, we saw a mother Black Bear and her cub walking through the woods just off the trail. Again, they weren't so much interested in us as eager to get away from us, and so we didn't see them for long. In fact, the cub began climbing a tree soon after they spotted us. And he was climbing fast! So for everyone who thought you should climb a tree to get away from bears, be warned: Bears can climb trees.
So those were my two most unexpected, and therefore most gratifying, wildlife experiences so far this summer. Still to go on the list of animals to see before I leave are Elk and Bison. The Bison, apparently, are not hard, as most people are shocked when I say I have been here a month and not seen one. The Elk, it seems, stay up in the mountains during the warm months, so I may have less luck with them.
Friday, July 28, 2006
A Night at the Races
When you think of a "Figure 8" race, what exactly do you think of? Maybe figure skating. Maybe Mario Kart. Or maybe nothing specific comes to mind. I would have felt the same way up until last night, when I witnessed what has to be one of the most redneck events that humankind has ever dreamed up.
Imagine a demolition derby. You know, with those beat up shells of cars that people drag into a big arena and then crash against each other. Okay, now put those cars on a figure 8 track. Get all the drivers out of their cars. Have them stand ready behind a line in the dirt until a flag is waved. Then have them run and jump in their cars, either through the windshield, the sunroof, or (boring) by opening the driver's side door. As soon as they can start their cars, they are free to start the race. After that, anything goes. They can push each other off the track, crash into other cars at the intersection of the figure 8, pass on either side, and as long as their cars continue to run of their own accord, the race goes on. Now imagine placing bets with your friends on which car would win each race. Put it all together with a large helping of Bud Light, and you have the "Figure 8" Races at the Teton County Fair in Jackson, Wyoming.
Now if you wouldn't necessarily expect a car race to be much like a demolition derby (by the way, the demo derby is on Sunday - we missed the pig wrestling), then, as far as these races are concerned, your expectations would be wrong. Dead wrong. These cars were complete pieces of crap. They could barely run, and they would often develop more than one flat tire only minutes into the race. But that didn't seem to bother most of the drivers, as they were more interested in pounding the other cars into the ground than in actually winning or even finishing the race.
For the first race I saw, I put two dollars on number 11, who was labeled as "Old Faithful." He won the race by a landslide. Needless to say, I was beginning to feel lucky. The next race, I didn't fare so well. My car didn't win, but nobody else picked the car that did end up winning, so the pot got added on to the next race. Which I won. So I made about ten dollars right there. I couldn't lose! Unfortunately, I soon found out that I could in fact lose, and I could do it spectacularly. For the last race, the winner's bracket, number 11 comes back out, and I think I've got a sure thing. He won his first race with absolutely no competition. This guy was going all the way. So I put five bucks on him. As the race started, all the drivers began running to their cars...and he ran to the wrong car. Then he had to run around to his driver's side door (go through the windshield, you idiot! The windshield!!!!) and had even more trouble getting the car started. By that point, there was no chance. So, at the end of the night, I was about even.
But when you factor in that I got to see cars crashing into each other, flipping over, and getting their bumpers knocked off, all while drinking warm beer and sitting with all the local cowboys and barflies, I think that, at least in some sense, I made a profit on the evening. God bless local culture.
Imagine a demolition derby. You know, with those beat up shells of cars that people drag into a big arena and then crash against each other. Okay, now put those cars on a figure 8 track. Get all the drivers out of their cars. Have them stand ready behind a line in the dirt until a flag is waved. Then have them run and jump in their cars, either through the windshield, the sunroof, or (boring) by opening the driver's side door. As soon as they can start their cars, they are free to start the race. After that, anything goes. They can push each other off the track, crash into other cars at the intersection of the figure 8, pass on either side, and as long as their cars continue to run of their own accord, the race goes on. Now imagine placing bets with your friends on which car would win each race. Put it all together with a large helping of Bud Light, and you have the "Figure 8" Races at the Teton County Fair in Jackson, Wyoming.
Now if you wouldn't necessarily expect a car race to be much like a demolition derby (by the way, the demo derby is on Sunday - we missed the pig wrestling), then, as far as these races are concerned, your expectations would be wrong. Dead wrong. These cars were complete pieces of crap. They could barely run, and they would often develop more than one flat tire only minutes into the race. But that didn't seem to bother most of the drivers, as they were more interested in pounding the other cars into the ground than in actually winning or even finishing the race.
For the first race I saw, I put two dollars on number 11, who was labeled as "Old Faithful." He won the race by a landslide. Needless to say, I was beginning to feel lucky. The next race, I didn't fare so well. My car didn't win, but nobody else picked the car that did end up winning, so the pot got added on to the next race. Which I won. So I made about ten dollars right there. I couldn't lose! Unfortunately, I soon found out that I could in fact lose, and I could do it spectacularly. For the last race, the winner's bracket, number 11 comes back out, and I think I've got a sure thing. He won his first race with absolutely no competition. This guy was going all the way. So I put five bucks on him. As the race started, all the drivers began running to their cars...and he ran to the wrong car. Then he had to run around to his driver's side door (go through the windshield, you idiot! The windshield!!!!) and had even more trouble getting the car started. By that point, there was no chance. So, at the end of the night, I was about even.
But when you factor in that I got to see cars crashing into each other, flipping over, and getting their bumpers knocked off, all while drinking warm beer and sitting with all the local cowboys and barflies, I think that, at least in some sense, I made a profit on the evening. God bless local culture.
Thursday, June 29, 2006
I Made It
Top Five Reasons Why I Am a Mountain Man:
1. I live in the mountains.
2. Large portions of my face have not been shaved for quite a long time.
3. Horses live in my backyard.
4. I have begun to differentiate between North and South, East and West not by the Sun, but by the Mountains.
5. Oh yeah. I live in the mountains.
So there you have it. I am a Mountain Man. You might as well take my picture with a flannel shirt and an axe, and put me on packages of Select-A-Size paper towels. For I am currently making my home just outside of Jackson, Wyoming, and working in a place called Teton Village. It is called this because it is nestled snugly underneath the Grand Teton Mountain Range, which itself makes up the Wyoming branch of an international organization known as the Rocky Mountains.
It took five days and a cross country drive to get here, but it was well worth it. I have never been anywhere like this. The drive, as some of you already know, began in Newton, Massachusetts, and was punctuated by stops in Oberlin, Ohio; Chicago, Illinios; Wall, South Dakota; and, last but not least, Wapiti, Wyoming, just outside the east entrance to Yellowstone National Park (the motel where I stayed in Wapiti is a story unto itself, one which I will tell at a later date). It then took me through Yellowstone, which can only be described as breathtaking, and down through the Grand Teton National Park into Teton Village.
Since arriving, I have been quickly and thoroughly put to work. The hours are long but the work is rewarding, as I am helping put together a summer music festival in what has to be one of the most beautiful places on earth. More will come on my work and the festival later as well, but for now I must sign off. It is enough for today to say that I have made it to my destination, and that this will truly be a summer of Great Breasts.
1. I live in the mountains.
2. Large portions of my face have not been shaved for quite a long time.
3. Horses live in my backyard.
4. I have begun to differentiate between North and South, East and West not by the Sun, but by the Mountains.
5. Oh yeah. I live in the mountains.
So there you have it. I am a Mountain Man. You might as well take my picture with a flannel shirt and an axe, and put me on packages of Select-A-Size paper towels. For I am currently making my home just outside of Jackson, Wyoming, and working in a place called Teton Village. It is called this because it is nestled snugly underneath the Grand Teton Mountain Range, which itself makes up the Wyoming branch of an international organization known as the Rocky Mountains.
It took five days and a cross country drive to get here, but it was well worth it. I have never been anywhere like this. The drive, as some of you already know, began in Newton, Massachusetts, and was punctuated by stops in Oberlin, Ohio; Chicago, Illinios; Wall, South Dakota; and, last but not least, Wapiti, Wyoming, just outside the east entrance to Yellowstone National Park (the motel where I stayed in Wapiti is a story unto itself, one which I will tell at a later date). It then took me through Yellowstone, which can only be described as breathtaking, and down through the Grand Teton National Park into Teton Village.
Since arriving, I have been quickly and thoroughly put to work. The hours are long but the work is rewarding, as I am helping put together a summer music festival in what has to be one of the most beautiful places on earth. More will come on my work and the festival later as well, but for now I must sign off. It is enough for today to say that I have made it to my destination, and that this will truly be a summer of Great Breasts.
Saturday, May 06, 2006
I Spent a Month There Last Weekend
That's how the joke goes. Someone mentions a city that is known for being kind of run down, or perhaps just a little bit on the boring side, and then you smily wryly and say "Ah, yes, I spent a month there one weekend." And then you wait for everyone to catch on. Oh, he's not being serious, he's wittily implying that it's a boring place where nobody ever wants to go because there's nothing to do. Ahahaha, he's so funny. I must be perfectly clear, however, that I am in no way kidding, or trying to be funny, when I write, in all honesty, and with no hint of sarcasm, the following:
I spent a month in Jacksonville, Florida last weekend.
I was there to audition for the Jacksonville Symphony, along with about eighty other trombonists from around the country (where are all these trombonists coming from?). My first mistake came when I was booking a flight. The audition was on Sunday, with the semifinal and final rounds on Monday. Whereas the other trombonists from Rice arrived on Saturday and left Monday night, my return flight was on Tuesday morning, which, after I failed to advance past the preliminary round, left me with two whole days in Jacksonville with nothing to do but watch TV at my hotel and drink beer purchased from the Publix down the street. My second mistake was booking a hotel that was not within walking distance of downtown, which was where the audition took place. Not that downtown was that fun a place to be, mind you, but if I were there I could have avoided having to take a taxi everywhere, which would have been good because, as it turns out, it takes about 45 minutes for a taxi to show up after you call it in Jacksonville. No matter where you are.
It wasn't all that bad, really, I mean it was boring, but it was also nice to have a chance to relax and sit around and do nothing after the hectic end of the school year.
So now that I'm back in Houston and school is over, the name of the game has become Summer Plans. I have taken a job for the months of July and August at the Grand Teton Music Festival in Jackson Hole, Wyoming. It's a summer orchestra made up of professional musicians from around the country, and I am going to be working stage crew, along with my friend Craig and one other person who I do not know. Now, Jackson Hole, Wyoming is, from all that I have heard, an incredibly beautiful place, being right on the edge of Grand Teton National Park, which is itself just South of Yellowstone National Park. It is also in a part of the country to which I have never been, so I am very excited to get out there. However, the getting out there is a little complicated, as it is, one could say, hella far away. So after long deliberations, conversations, and calculations, here is the Master Plan for Summer 2006. All rights reserved.
May 10, or 11, or somewhere around there: drive from Houston to Boston, with stops in Nashville and Oberlin. ETA in Boston: May 15? Maybe?
May 15 (?) to June 20 (??): Boston (well, Newton).
June 20 (very approximately): begin driving from Boston to Jackson Hole, Wyoming, with a stop in Chicago very likely, and another stop after that definitely necessary, but I don't know where. Any suggestions?
June 25: Arrive in Jackson Hole. This is when I can move into my provided housing, so I have to temper the departure date to suit this date. Leaving June 20 should give me plenty of cushion.
June 26 - August 29 (???): Grand Teton Music Festival. I am employed, technically, until the 29th of August, but Rice begins before that date. Depending on when certain things occur, such as seating auditions for the orchestra, I may have to cut out of Wyoming and head back to Texas a little earlier than that. We shall see.
August ???? - May 2007: Houston!
So those are my summer plans! Exciting, no? By my calculations, I will be driving about 5,800 miles total. And I'm really excited about it. I must be losing my mind.
I spent a month in Jacksonville, Florida last weekend.
I was there to audition for the Jacksonville Symphony, along with about eighty other trombonists from around the country (where are all these trombonists coming from?). My first mistake came when I was booking a flight. The audition was on Sunday, with the semifinal and final rounds on Monday. Whereas the other trombonists from Rice arrived on Saturday and left Monday night, my return flight was on Tuesday morning, which, after I failed to advance past the preliminary round, left me with two whole days in Jacksonville with nothing to do but watch TV at my hotel and drink beer purchased from the Publix down the street. My second mistake was booking a hotel that was not within walking distance of downtown, which was where the audition took place. Not that downtown was that fun a place to be, mind you, but if I were there I could have avoided having to take a taxi everywhere, which would have been good because, as it turns out, it takes about 45 minutes for a taxi to show up after you call it in Jacksonville. No matter where you are.
It wasn't all that bad, really, I mean it was boring, but it was also nice to have a chance to relax and sit around and do nothing after the hectic end of the school year.
So now that I'm back in Houston and school is over, the name of the game has become Summer Plans. I have taken a job for the months of July and August at the Grand Teton Music Festival in Jackson Hole, Wyoming. It's a summer orchestra made up of professional musicians from around the country, and I am going to be working stage crew, along with my friend Craig and one other person who I do not know. Now, Jackson Hole, Wyoming is, from all that I have heard, an incredibly beautiful place, being right on the edge of Grand Teton National Park, which is itself just South of Yellowstone National Park. It is also in a part of the country to which I have never been, so I am very excited to get out there. However, the getting out there is a little complicated, as it is, one could say, hella far away. So after long deliberations, conversations, and calculations, here is the Master Plan for Summer 2006. All rights reserved.
May 10, or 11, or somewhere around there: drive from Houston to Boston, with stops in Nashville and Oberlin. ETA in Boston: May 15? Maybe?
May 15 (?) to June 20 (??): Boston (well, Newton).
June 20 (very approximately): begin driving from Boston to Jackson Hole, Wyoming, with a stop in Chicago very likely, and another stop after that definitely necessary, but I don't know where. Any suggestions?
June 25: Arrive in Jackson Hole. This is when I can move into my provided housing, so I have to temper the departure date to suit this date. Leaving June 20 should give me plenty of cushion.
June 26 - August 29 (???): Grand Teton Music Festival. I am employed, technically, until the 29th of August, but Rice begins before that date. Depending on when certain things occur, such as seating auditions for the orchestra, I may have to cut out of Wyoming and head back to Texas a little earlier than that. We shall see.
August ???? - May 2007: Houston!
So those are my summer plans! Exciting, no? By my calculations, I will be driving about 5,800 miles total. And I'm really excited about it. I must be losing my mind.
Thursday, April 13, 2006
Music for my Brain
My favorite Houston radio station by far is 106.9 The Point, "The Best of the 80's, and more from the late 70's and early 90's!" Just browsing through their "Last Songs Played" list on the website reveals many timeless classics, including "Every Rose Has Its Thorn" by Poison, "867-5309/Jenny" by Tommy Tutone, "Open Your Heart" by Madonna, "Hard to Say I'm Sorry" by Chicago, "Hold On Loosely" by .38 Special, "Don't Stop Believin'" by Journey, "If This is It" by Huey Lewis and The News, and "Summer of '69" by Bryan Adams. And that's just in the last two hours! Go ahead and listen to it online. You know you want to.
Now, usually, when I am in my car, I'm listening to XM Radio, which I received as a gift last year. It's great, there are lots of stations, and no commercials, and you can almost always find something to listen to. Each station is devoted to a certain time period or style of music, such as "Alternative Sounds of the 70's and 80's" (Fred - XM 44), "Hard Alternative in the Post-Grunge Era" (Squizz - XM 48), or "All of Alternative Rock music's Monster Hits" (Ethel - XM 47). Take your pick! Of course, it does get more diverse than those three, with other stations like The Fish (XM 32), which plays Christian Pop, and Cinemagic (XM 27), which is completely devoted to playing movie soundtracks. You can find a station for pretty much any kind of music you would want to listen to.
At least, that's what I thought, until I got to Houston and discovered 106.9 The Point. I found myself switching back and forth from satellite to non-satellite radio depending on my moods (commercials=annoying, but come on! 80's! Late 70's! Early 90's!). I had to do this because there was no station on XM that could compete with The Point in 80's classic rock territory.
Until now.
XM sent me an email recently telling me about 10 new stations that they added. I perused the list, not thinking that any of them would be interesting, or that I would ever listen to them. I was right about nine of the ten, but one stuck out. It was called "Big Tracks" (XM 49). Check out the tagline on their website: "The 70's wasn't the end of classic rock - only the beginning. From mullets to air guitars, Big Tracks delivers classic rock's best, straight through the early 90's. What a rockin' state of mind that is." Rockin' indeed. And check out the "What you'll hear" list: Journey, Bon Jovi, Bryan Adams, Boston, The Police, Van Halen, Bruce Springsteen!
Sorry, 106.9 The Point. I mean, I still love you, you know that, it's just that I - well, I've found someone else. You know, she's really upfront with me, she always tells me what song is playing. You do that online, sure, but not in the car. I miss that. And she doesn't have commercials. That's a big factor, too. Really, it's not you. It's her.
Now, usually, when I am in my car, I'm listening to XM Radio, which I received as a gift last year. It's great, there are lots of stations, and no commercials, and you can almost always find something to listen to. Each station is devoted to a certain time period or style of music, such as "Alternative Sounds of the 70's and 80's" (Fred - XM 44), "Hard Alternative in the Post-Grunge Era" (Squizz - XM 48), or "All of Alternative Rock music's Monster Hits" (Ethel - XM 47). Take your pick! Of course, it does get more diverse than those three, with other stations like The Fish (XM 32), which plays Christian Pop, and Cinemagic (XM 27), which is completely devoted to playing movie soundtracks. You can find a station for pretty much any kind of music you would want to listen to.
At least, that's what I thought, until I got to Houston and discovered 106.9 The Point. I found myself switching back and forth from satellite to non-satellite radio depending on my moods (commercials=annoying, but come on! 80's! Late 70's! Early 90's!). I had to do this because there was no station on XM that could compete with The Point in 80's classic rock territory.
Until now.
XM sent me an email recently telling me about 10 new stations that they added. I perused the list, not thinking that any of them would be interesting, or that I would ever listen to them. I was right about nine of the ten, but one stuck out. It was called "Big Tracks" (XM 49). Check out the tagline on their website: "The 70's wasn't the end of classic rock - only the beginning. From mullets to air guitars, Big Tracks delivers classic rock's best, straight through the early 90's. What a rockin' state of mind that is." Rockin' indeed. And check out the "What you'll hear" list: Journey, Bon Jovi, Bryan Adams, Boston, The Police, Van Halen, Bruce Springsteen!
Sorry, 106.9 The Point. I mean, I still love you, you know that, it's just that I - well, I've found someone else. You know, she's really upfront with me, she always tells me what song is playing. You do that online, sure, but not in the car. I miss that. And she doesn't have commercials. That's a big factor, too. Really, it's not you. It's her.
Monday, April 10, 2006
A Flashback
When I hear a new song, there are few occasions on which I like the song immediately. Usually I have to hear it a few times before I decide that it is truly a good song. Maybe I'm slow to commit, or maybe it's just a selection mechanism, to weed out those catchy songs that will become tiresome after I hear them four or five times. I've found that usually the best songs, and the ones that I end up liking the longest, follow an opposite progression. When I first hear them, I don't feel strongly about them one way or the other. Then as I hear them a few more times, they start to grow on me, until I'm listening to them more and more often.
This happened to me recently with the song "Only" by Nine Inch Nails. Now, I know what you're thinking, you're thinking, "Nine Inch Nails? Really? Isn't this the same guy who was just talking about Van Morrison and Paul Simon?" And I have to admit that I wasn't expecting any of the songs from their most recent album, With Teeth, to grow on me the way this one did. After all, the last time I listened regularly to Nine Inch Nails had to be some time in Middle School, back in the height of my Metallica phase ("phase" might be the wrong word, I mean, I still like Metallica, I'm just less obvious about it now). And sure, a large part of the reason that I started listening to them was because they were loud and counter-cultural (at least to an Irish Catholic boy living in Suburbia). But the more I listened to Nine Inch Nails, the more I got out of the music. It was complex, at times melodic, at times simple, but always powerful, and quite emotional.
However, my young ears were not yet trained enough to pick up on these subtleties, and so, in High School, I forgot about Nine Inch Nails, along with the countless other "Heavy Metal" bands found in my collection from that time (Metallica, Skid Row, Faith No More, Slayer, Megadeth, Alice in Chains, Rage Against the Machine, and Soundgarden are the ones I can remember). Which was why I was surprised when I heard "Only", and heard something quite different from the Nine Inch Nails that I remembered. I didn't hear thrashing metal guitars, I heard a catchy beat. I didn't hear screaming vocals, I heard a melodic line. I expected the music to remind me of those metal bands I had abandoned, but the bands it reminded me of surprised me greatly. The self-conscious lyrics made it sound like it could have been a Bright Eyes song, while Reznor's half-singing, half-talking vocals brought to mind David Byrne and the Talking Heads. Needless to say, neither is exactly of the same genre as Nine Inch Nails.
Of course, the music itself is decidedly Nine Inch Nails, and couldn't be mistaken for anything else. And this is saying quite a bit, that I could stop listening to a band for, say, 10 years, then come back and recognize their new material immediately as being theirs. But if you listen to "Only", you'll quickly notice that it doesn't sound like what you would expect from a band with a reputation for being loud and industrial. It's fairly tame, actually. And that reflects the passage of time. Since Nine Inch Nails debuted, metal went from new and fringe to much more mainstream and accepted, and then disappeared almost entirely. But the things that Reznor was doing in the music withstood the test of time, which is why a new album so many years later can still be effective. Back then, I listened to it because it was new and different. Now, I listen to it because I like it.
And so I find that, when I pick up my old albums by bands like Nine Inch Nails, Soundgarden, or Faith No More, the music still holds up. It's no longer edgy, and has lost its ability to anger the older generations, but at least when it lost that, it didn't lose its listenability entirely. The same, unfortunately, cannot be said for Skid Row or Slayer.
Hey, isn't the guy from Skid Row on Gilmore Girls now? Is that show still on?
This happened to me recently with the song "Only" by Nine Inch Nails. Now, I know what you're thinking, you're thinking, "Nine Inch Nails? Really? Isn't this the same guy who was just talking about Van Morrison and Paul Simon?" And I have to admit that I wasn't expecting any of the songs from their most recent album, With Teeth, to grow on me the way this one did. After all, the last time I listened regularly to Nine Inch Nails had to be some time in Middle School, back in the height of my Metallica phase ("phase" might be the wrong word, I mean, I still like Metallica, I'm just less obvious about it now). And sure, a large part of the reason that I started listening to them was because they were loud and counter-cultural (at least to an Irish Catholic boy living in Suburbia). But the more I listened to Nine Inch Nails, the more I got out of the music. It was complex, at times melodic, at times simple, but always powerful, and quite emotional.
However, my young ears were not yet trained enough to pick up on these subtleties, and so, in High School, I forgot about Nine Inch Nails, along with the countless other "Heavy Metal" bands found in my collection from that time (Metallica, Skid Row, Faith No More, Slayer, Megadeth, Alice in Chains, Rage Against the Machine, and Soundgarden are the ones I can remember). Which was why I was surprised when I heard "Only", and heard something quite different from the Nine Inch Nails that I remembered. I didn't hear thrashing metal guitars, I heard a catchy beat. I didn't hear screaming vocals, I heard a melodic line. I expected the music to remind me of those metal bands I had abandoned, but the bands it reminded me of surprised me greatly. The self-conscious lyrics made it sound like it could have been a Bright Eyes song, while Reznor's half-singing, half-talking vocals brought to mind David Byrne and the Talking Heads. Needless to say, neither is exactly of the same genre as Nine Inch Nails.
Of course, the music itself is decidedly Nine Inch Nails, and couldn't be mistaken for anything else. And this is saying quite a bit, that I could stop listening to a band for, say, 10 years, then come back and recognize their new material immediately as being theirs. But if you listen to "Only", you'll quickly notice that it doesn't sound like what you would expect from a band with a reputation for being loud and industrial. It's fairly tame, actually. And that reflects the passage of time. Since Nine Inch Nails debuted, metal went from new and fringe to much more mainstream and accepted, and then disappeared almost entirely. But the things that Reznor was doing in the music withstood the test of time, which is why a new album so many years later can still be effective. Back then, I listened to it because it was new and different. Now, I listen to it because I like it.
And so I find that, when I pick up my old albums by bands like Nine Inch Nails, Soundgarden, or Faith No More, the music still holds up. It's no longer edgy, and has lost its ability to anger the older generations, but at least when it lost that, it didn't lose its listenability entirely. The same, unfortunately, cannot be said for Skid Row or Slayer.
Hey, isn't the guy from Skid Row on Gilmore Girls now? Is that show still on?
Friday, April 07, 2006
Some Things that Need Saying
I just listened to the Red Sox beat the tar out of the Orioles to the tune of 14-8. Granted, at one point that score stood at 11-0, but a win is a win, and the important thing to know is that the Sox are off to a 3-1 start to their season, which is currently good for first place in the AL East.
I missed baseball. So much. Why can't they just play all year? These guys don't need to see their families. They need to keep their fans entertained!
Anyway, now I'm listening to the Yankees at Anaheim. It's 3-1 Angels in the 5th. The announcers were just making fun of Carl Pavano, the Yankee pitcher who is out with an injury listed as a "bruised buttocks." One announcer said "that must have been quite a bruise," to which the other replied "I would hate to have that examined regularly." Just shows that Yankee bashing is catching on across the country. You have to love it.
Yesterday I made a trip to SuperTarget. If you're not familiar, it's like any other Target, except that it contains a grocery store and, in its entirety, is about the size of Rhode Island. Anyway, I purchased a pair of flip-flops and a six pack of beer. From the same store. Plus I got quite a bit of exercise walking the mile and a half from the clothing section to the grocery and then to the checkout. And, to cap off the experience, the beer I bought was Sam Adams Boston Ale, which I have been unable to find at most places in Texas. Usually they carry the regular Boston Lager, but that's it, which is disappointing because I find the Boston Ale to be far superior. SuperTarget truly lives up to its name.
4-1 Angels.
So the rest of my day yesterday was spent driving out to the offices of the Cypress-Fairbanks school district, not because I was teaching today (the kids are on a band trip to Dallas. Like that could possibly be more important than their private lessons. Sheesh.), but because I had to pick up a check from the payroll office to replace the one my bank ate (see previous post). They wouldn't mail it to me for some reason. Which meant that I had to spend almost three hours driving out there, picking up the check, and driving back. And picking up the check took about five seconds. Why did it take so long, when this is normally a 30- to 45-minute drive each way? Well, there was a huge accident on the West 610 loop at I-10, right where I needed to go, which meant that I had to find a way around it, while also dealing with all the traffic of other people coming off the highway, which was closed in both directions. We're talking a ten-lane highway, right in the middle of Houston, right at the intersection with another ten-lane highway, completely shut down for hours, with no viable alternate routes. The term "Traffic Jam" doesn't begin to describe it. But, eventually, I got the check.
And believe it or not, my weekend traffic woes do not end there. Tomorrow morning and Sunday night, I am traveling out to a gig at a church West of town. Normally, I would take 610 up to I-10 (deja vu!) and head West. However, in their infinite wisdom, the Houston traffic Gods have seen fit to close down I-10 West for the weekend. It's closed. Why? Construction. For the whole weekend. So I have to take four-lane, traffic light-laden Memorial Drive instead, which will probably be full of all the people who would have been on ten-lane I-10, were it open. Hopefully, since it is the weekend, it won't be too bad. Or maybe I'll try to find an alternate route (translation: I will be horribly lost for hours on the streets of Houston tomorrow).
This city changes you. I used to love driving. Houston took that from me. I have to wonder how much longer it will be before I lose all will to live.
I missed baseball. So much. Why can't they just play all year? These guys don't need to see their families. They need to keep their fans entertained!
Anyway, now I'm listening to the Yankees at Anaheim. It's 3-1 Angels in the 5th. The announcers were just making fun of Carl Pavano, the Yankee pitcher who is out with an injury listed as a "bruised buttocks." One announcer said "that must have been quite a bruise," to which the other replied "I would hate to have that examined regularly." Just shows that Yankee bashing is catching on across the country. You have to love it.
Yesterday I made a trip to SuperTarget. If you're not familiar, it's like any other Target, except that it contains a grocery store and, in its entirety, is about the size of Rhode Island. Anyway, I purchased a pair of flip-flops and a six pack of beer. From the same store. Plus I got quite a bit of exercise walking the mile and a half from the clothing section to the grocery and then to the checkout. And, to cap off the experience, the beer I bought was Sam Adams Boston Ale, which I have been unable to find at most places in Texas. Usually they carry the regular Boston Lager, but that's it, which is disappointing because I find the Boston Ale to be far superior. SuperTarget truly lives up to its name.
4-1 Angels.
So the rest of my day yesterday was spent driving out to the offices of the Cypress-Fairbanks school district, not because I was teaching today (the kids are on a band trip to Dallas. Like that could possibly be more important than their private lessons. Sheesh.), but because I had to pick up a check from the payroll office to replace the one my bank ate (see previous post). They wouldn't mail it to me for some reason. Which meant that I had to spend almost three hours driving out there, picking up the check, and driving back. And picking up the check took about five seconds. Why did it take so long, when this is normally a 30- to 45-minute drive each way? Well, there was a huge accident on the West 610 loop at I-10, right where I needed to go, which meant that I had to find a way around it, while also dealing with all the traffic of other people coming off the highway, which was closed in both directions. We're talking a ten-lane highway, right in the middle of Houston, right at the intersection with another ten-lane highway, completely shut down for hours, with no viable alternate routes. The term "Traffic Jam" doesn't begin to describe it. But, eventually, I got the check.
And believe it or not, my weekend traffic woes do not end there. Tomorrow morning and Sunday night, I am traveling out to a gig at a church West of town. Normally, I would take 610 up to I-10 (deja vu!) and head West. However, in their infinite wisdom, the Houston traffic Gods have seen fit to close down I-10 West for the weekend. It's closed. Why? Construction. For the whole weekend. So I have to take four-lane, traffic light-laden Memorial Drive instead, which will probably be full of all the people who would have been on ten-lane I-10, were it open. Hopefully, since it is the weekend, it won't be too bad. Or maybe I'll try to find an alternate route (translation: I will be horribly lost for hours on the streets of Houston tomorrow).
This city changes you. I used to love driving. Houston took that from me. I have to wonder how much longer it will be before I lose all will to live.
Tuesday, March 28, 2006
A Letter to the Bank
The following is an exact reprint of a fax that I sent to Bank of America today about a deposit that I made that they lost:
Dear Sir or Madam to Whom it May Concern:
This correspondence is in regards to Claim #1422921MAR06, which has in the vernacular now come to be known as the case of one Christopher R. Burns v. one Faulty ATM Machine. What follows is a retelling of the events that have unfolded in the past two weeks, in case one reading this letter may be unfamiliar with them.
On March 14, 2006, an ATM deposit was made by the aforementioned Christopher Burns at an ordinary ATM machine in Houston, Texas. The deposit was of three checks, one for $250, one for $50, and one for $279.39, for a total deposit of $579.39. Shortly thereafter, Mr. Burns received a cryptic message from Bank of America itself, stating that only $79.50 in cash was received, and that the remaining $499.89 was to be removed from Mr. Burns's checking account, effective immediately. Mr. Burns took this to mean that, either by some act of God or warp in the time-space continuum (or both?), the checks deposited by Mr. Burns had somehow vanished between the ATM and the bank. On March 21, 2006, Mr. Burns filed a claim with Bank of America, at which time the $499.89 was added back to his account as a "temporary credit" while the matter was being resolved. Mr. Burns then received another letter from Bank of America, advising him to check if the three checks had cleared their originating accounts, and to report back to Bank of America within five (5) days with his findings.
The purpose of this fax is to inform Bank of America that the checks deposited have not cleared their originating accounts. Payment has been stopped on all three checks, and the original parties are in the process of writing new checks. Mr. Burns expects to be in possession of the new checks, totaling $579.39, before an exorbitantly long amount of time has passed. The purpose of this fax is also to serve as written record that Mr. Burns has in fact contacted Bank of America within the requested period of five (5) days from receipt of the aforementioned letter. Therefore please do not remove the temporary credit, as this would cause unnecessary stress on Mr. Burns, both financially and personally.
Lastly, Mr. Burns would be very much appreciative if you would advise him on what should be his next course of action in this matter. Oh, and as I have now told several people on the phone, please direct all future correspondence with Mr. Burns to the above address, not to the address associated with his checking account. Thank you so very much for your effort in this matter.
Most Sincerely and Forever Yours,
Christopher Burns
Dear Sir or Madam to Whom it May Concern:
This correspondence is in regards to Claim #1422921MAR06, which has in the vernacular now come to be known as the case of one Christopher R. Burns v. one Faulty ATM Machine. What follows is a retelling of the events that have unfolded in the past two weeks, in case one reading this letter may be unfamiliar with them.
On March 14, 2006, an ATM deposit was made by the aforementioned Christopher Burns at an ordinary ATM machine in Houston, Texas. The deposit was of three checks, one for $250, one for $50, and one for $279.39, for a total deposit of $579.39. Shortly thereafter, Mr. Burns received a cryptic message from Bank of America itself, stating that only $79.50 in cash was received, and that the remaining $499.89 was to be removed from Mr. Burns's checking account, effective immediately. Mr. Burns took this to mean that, either by some act of God or warp in the time-space continuum (or both?), the checks deposited by Mr. Burns had somehow vanished between the ATM and the bank. On March 21, 2006, Mr. Burns filed a claim with Bank of America, at which time the $499.89 was added back to his account as a "temporary credit" while the matter was being resolved. Mr. Burns then received another letter from Bank of America, advising him to check if the three checks had cleared their originating accounts, and to report back to Bank of America within five (5) days with his findings.
The purpose of this fax is to inform Bank of America that the checks deposited have not cleared their originating accounts. Payment has been stopped on all three checks, and the original parties are in the process of writing new checks. Mr. Burns expects to be in possession of the new checks, totaling $579.39, before an exorbitantly long amount of time has passed. The purpose of this fax is also to serve as written record that Mr. Burns has in fact contacted Bank of America within the requested period of five (5) days from receipt of the aforementioned letter. Therefore please do not remove the temporary credit, as this would cause unnecessary stress on Mr. Burns, both financially and personally.
Lastly, Mr. Burns would be very much appreciative if you would advise him on what should be his next course of action in this matter. Oh, and as I have now told several people on the phone, please direct all future correspondence with Mr. Burns to the above address, not to the address associated with his checking account. Thank you so very much for your effort in this matter.
Most Sincerely and Forever Yours,
Christopher Burns
Tuesday, March 21, 2006
Spring Break
So last week was Spring Break (Spring Break! WOOOOOOOOO!). When you go to school up north where it's still cold in March and you need to escape the gloomy gray weather for a week before you kill yourself or someone around you, usually this means that you escape somewhere south, maybe in Florida or Texas, where it is warm and you can go swimming and drink a lot and do other such fun things for the week.
Naturally, since I am now attending school in Houston, I decided to travel North for Spring Break, against the grain if you will. And so I spent five wonderful days in Chicago with Jill and Anne. We saw the CSO play Mahler 2, we ate delicious food at many fine establishments, including a steak house where our waitor's name was Gumer, and we saw the Contemporary Art Museum and the Shedd Aquarium (with its new shark reef exhibit). Also, I got to celebrate both my birthday and St. Patrick's Day in the windy city. It's pretty convenient that those two days come back to back, don't you think? After two solid days of merriment, though, I was pretty worn out. By the end of the night on Friday I was so tired that I couldn't even finish my beer. I know! But don't worry, Anne and her friend peer pressured me into finishing it anyway. Where would we be without peer pressure? That's what I want to know.
Oh, and last night Anne and I went to the Green Mill, an old (and I mean old) jazz club which used to be a hideout for gangsters, and now hosts the original Poetry Slam every Sunday. I was kind of expecting the slam to be corny and not very good, but almost everything was really quite enjoyable. It was a mix of comedy and serious poetry, and both sides had their highlights and lowlights. The funniest of the night, I think, was the guy who came up and ad libbed an 80's ballad-style song about Steven Seagal. It was awesome. Although he might be tied with the guy whose poem was about a blindfold that you could see through, which he bought thinking that he could win all kinds of blindfolded contests, not realizing that nobody trusts a guy who brings his own blindfold. The poem went off from there in completely absurd ways, and the delivery was so perfectly deadpan that it was hilarious.
I think that's enough information for now. If for some reason you want to know every small detail of my Chicago trip, here's a good place to find it. I'm going to go get some still much needed sleep.
Naturally, since I am now attending school in Houston, I decided to travel North for Spring Break, against the grain if you will. And so I spent five wonderful days in Chicago with Jill and Anne. We saw the CSO play Mahler 2, we ate delicious food at many fine establishments, including a steak house where our waitor's name was Gumer, and we saw the Contemporary Art Museum and the Shedd Aquarium (with its new shark reef exhibit). Also, I got to celebrate both my birthday and St. Patrick's Day in the windy city. It's pretty convenient that those two days come back to back, don't you think? After two solid days of merriment, though, I was pretty worn out. By the end of the night on Friday I was so tired that I couldn't even finish my beer. I know! But don't worry, Anne and her friend peer pressured me into finishing it anyway. Where would we be without peer pressure? That's what I want to know.
Oh, and last night Anne and I went to the Green Mill, an old (and I mean old) jazz club which used to be a hideout for gangsters, and now hosts the original Poetry Slam every Sunday. I was kind of expecting the slam to be corny and not very good, but almost everything was really quite enjoyable. It was a mix of comedy and serious poetry, and both sides had their highlights and lowlights. The funniest of the night, I think, was the guy who came up and ad libbed an 80's ballad-style song about Steven Seagal. It was awesome. Although he might be tied with the guy whose poem was about a blindfold that you could see through, which he bought thinking that he could win all kinds of blindfolded contests, not realizing that nobody trusts a guy who brings his own blindfold. The poem went off from there in completely absurd ways, and the delivery was so perfectly deadpan that it was hilarious.
I think that's enough information for now. If for some reason you want to know every small detail of my Chicago trip, here's a good place to find it. I'm going to go get some still much needed sleep.
Saturday, March 11, 2006
Monday, March 06, 2006
Baseball and Monkey Faces
This weekend I went to my first two baseball games of the season! Granted, they were college games, not professional, and I am about 1800 miles from Fenway Park, so this was not as exciting as it could have been, but still, it was a grand occasion. I saw the #4 Rice Owls baseball team battle the #7 Cal State Fullerton Titans (calstatefullertontitans calstatefullertontitans calstatefulterson....shit!) in the first two games of a three game series on Friday and Saturday, and they won both games! Which was good, because they ended up losing yesterday (probably because I wasn't there, so obviously I now have to go to every single game, good thing they're free!), and Rice has not lost a three game series at home in something like the last 30. So needless to say, I am now an Owls fan, I have a Rice hat, and I can even sing along to the Alma Mater that plays after every game which the Owls win. That is to say, I can sing along to the last four words, which seems to be all anyone else knows anyway (mumble mumble mumble...to RICE! BE! TRUE!). And, as you can see to your right, the Owls, as a result of this weekend's two wins, are now ranked #3 in the country, behind only undefeated Georgia Tech and wildly overrated Clemson (I know nothing about Clemson, but I have to assume that they are wildly overrated). Anyway, those rankings should update weekly, so check back!
I may post more at a later date about the experience of attending a college game versus a professional game, but maybe that's not quite interesting enough for anyone who is not me. One more thing about Saturday's game, though, is that it was extremely sunny and about 85 degrees outside, which caused me to receive a moderate sunburn on my neck and parts of my face. Let the record show that this occurred on March the 4th, and it marks I think the very first time in my life that I have been sunburned before my birthday.
This artwork arrived in the mail today from Josh:
He claims that he used these nine monkey faces to teach his Japanese schoolchildren different answers to the question "How are you today?" He then challenged me to figure out what they all are. So that killed about two hours right there. Let's number the faces as follows:
123
456
789
Here's what I have come up with so far:
1: Happy
2: Angry
3: Depressed/Hungry
4: Overjoyed/In love
5: Sick/Extremely drunk
6: Unsure of one's self/Worried/Having to urinate
7: Evil
8: Pretending to be happy despite being deeply and fundamentally unhappy, because you're not yet ready to talk about it
9: Frightened/Dead
That's the best I've been able to do. If you think I'm wrong, or that you can do better, please comment and tell me what you think they mean. In English, preferably. But, needless to say, I was overjoyed (#4!) to receive these pictures, and they are now hanging on my wall so I can see them and laugh every day. So thank you to Josh for sending me presents!
A New Favorite Album
I have been thinking a lot lately about the nature of my musical tastes. For instance, people will often ask me what type of music I listen to or enjoy the most. Or perhaps they will ask which is my favorite band. I find questions of either type quite difficult to answer, and I'm not sure why. I do have favorite bands, but those change over time. The bands which I listened to the most in, say, middle school are no longer very often in my stereo, but I still feel as if that should not diminish their status as one-time "favorites." And one genre of music usually cannot accurately describe my tastes at any given time, which are in constant flux.
I thought about this, and realized something that, if not true in general, has definitely been true of my listening patterns in recent months. I tend to listen to music one album at a time. I find an album that I love, and listen to it, usually many times. I listen to this album almost exclusively over a span of time that can range anywhere from a week to a month or more. Starting in January, it was Plans by Death Cab for Cutie. Then sometime last month I went through a period of Graceland by Paul Simon. And last week I rediscovered Van Morrison's Astral Weeks. Over the past three months, the songs on these three albums have accounted for, I would say, about 80% of all the time that I have had music playing.
This naturally led me to explore possible connections between these three albums, ways in which I could classify them, explain their sudden juxtaposition. At first glance, you could not imagine a grouping of three albums of more different styles, not to mention time periods (disregarding classical music). Astral Weeks came out in 1968, with Morrison weaving acoustic arrangements into serene and mystical poetry. Come 1986, we find Simon blending folk-pop melodies with African song styles. Nineteen years later, in 2005, Death Cab brings a more polished studio sound to their simple but beautiful songs.
So what do these albums have in common? Love, of course, like all music. Death, most often that of a loved one and how we are reminded of our own. Loss, usually as relates to love and death, but also the loss of the past, of youth and adolescence. And finally, new beginnings and new destinations.
"And it came to me then
That every plan
Is a tiny prayer to father time"
Thus begins "What Sarah Said," a heartbreaking description of a man sitting in a hospital awaiting the news that his love has died, from Plans. The reactions are almost too realistic. He doesn't cry, he doesn't fall apart, he simply studies other people, rations his breathing, and dissects the smell of the place into its components (urine and 409). All the listener gets are these tiny details. There's no story, no Who, What or Why. The lyrics follow exactly the kind of broken and distracted narrative that would be running through the mind of the singer. This has an incredible emotional effect when combined with the relentless repetition in piano and guitar. This returns throughout the album, this theme of a couple who knows that one of them is dying, and of how their lives and their relationship are affected. In "I Will Follow You into the Dark," it is love that spurs the singer's desire to die with his love, in order to keep her company in death. It is the journey through life without her that he fears even more.
When Paul Simon sings "I'm going to Graceland," he is speaking of this same journey. Having lost his wife, he and his son embark on a trip to the sacred place. The wounds from his loss are obviously still fresh, as he sings:
"She comes back to tell me she's gone
As if I didn't know that
As if I didn't know my own bed
As if I'd never noticed
The way she brushed her hair from her forehead"
But he has already decided to continue his journey. He has a new destination, and though it may be arbitrary, maybe it's just the idea of a new place to go, of a new start, that is driving him there. "Or maybe I've a reason to believe we all will be received in Graceland." The album as a whole has a slight feeling of melancholy, of world-weariness, even during the more upbeat numbers. There is a constant sense of randomness, as if the singer is aimlessly moving forward through life, while at the same time being hopeful of some possible progress.
I'm not quite sure what to say here about Astral Weeks. It has been said that W.B. Yeats was an important influence on Van Morrison's songwriting. That seems to be true to the extent that Morrison's lyrics, like Yeats's, are saturated with symbols and references, especially on this album. Trains, ribbons, rain, oceans, horses, stars, and avenues combine to form a world which could be seen in a million different ways depending on how you interpret the symbols. Regardless, the same themes are there, of love and loss, only he doesn't come right out and tell you about it. Instead he immerses you in his world and forces you to try to find your own way out.
In the eight songs on this album, Morrison reaches a beauty and a transcendence which is unmatched in any of his later albums. After all, when you are singing at 23 years old that "I ain't nothing but a stranger in this world, I got a home on high," where can you go from there? The answer is in "Sweet Thing," when he sings "And I will never grow so old again." He has already done his most mature songwriting, and all his future albums, in comparison, seem empty of meaning and emotion. Sure, he comes close at times, in songs like "Into the Mystic." But even then, what happens? He starts to work up to a climax, then when it just starts to get good, "Too late to stop now," and he cuts it off, seemingly right in the middle. He can't go back, can't face those emotions again. It's endlessly frustrating to listen to after you've heard what he's capable of on Astral Weeks.
If you're looking for a new favorite album, one that you won't ever get tired of hearing, I would highly recommend any of these three. Right now, Astral Weeks is my favorite, but that will probably change. If you want to know more about it, I loved this review by Lester Bangs (who, after seeing Almost Famous, I can't imagine as anyone else but Philip Seymour Hoffman).
I thought about this, and realized something that, if not true in general, has definitely been true of my listening patterns in recent months. I tend to listen to music one album at a time. I find an album that I love, and listen to it, usually many times. I listen to this album almost exclusively over a span of time that can range anywhere from a week to a month or more. Starting in January, it was Plans by Death Cab for Cutie. Then sometime last month I went through a period of Graceland by Paul Simon. And last week I rediscovered Van Morrison's Astral Weeks. Over the past three months, the songs on these three albums have accounted for, I would say, about 80% of all the time that I have had music playing.
This naturally led me to explore possible connections between these three albums, ways in which I could classify them, explain their sudden juxtaposition. At first glance, you could not imagine a grouping of three albums of more different styles, not to mention time periods (disregarding classical music). Astral Weeks came out in 1968, with Morrison weaving acoustic arrangements into serene and mystical poetry. Come 1986, we find Simon blending folk-pop melodies with African song styles. Nineteen years later, in 2005, Death Cab brings a more polished studio sound to their simple but beautiful songs.
So what do these albums have in common? Love, of course, like all music. Death, most often that of a loved one and how we are reminded of our own. Loss, usually as relates to love and death, but also the loss of the past, of youth and adolescence. And finally, new beginnings and new destinations.
"And it came to me then
That every plan
Is a tiny prayer to father time"
Thus begins "What Sarah Said," a heartbreaking description of a man sitting in a hospital awaiting the news that his love has died, from Plans. The reactions are almost too realistic. He doesn't cry, he doesn't fall apart, he simply studies other people, rations his breathing, and dissects the smell of the place into its components (urine and 409). All the listener gets are these tiny details. There's no story, no Who, What or Why. The lyrics follow exactly the kind of broken and distracted narrative that would be running through the mind of the singer. This has an incredible emotional effect when combined with the relentless repetition in piano and guitar. This returns throughout the album, this theme of a couple who knows that one of them is dying, and of how their lives and their relationship are affected. In "I Will Follow You into the Dark," it is love that spurs the singer's desire to die with his love, in order to keep her company in death. It is the journey through life without her that he fears even more.
When Paul Simon sings "I'm going to Graceland," he is speaking of this same journey. Having lost his wife, he and his son embark on a trip to the sacred place. The wounds from his loss are obviously still fresh, as he sings:
"She comes back to tell me she's gone
As if I didn't know that
As if I didn't know my own bed
As if I'd never noticed
The way she brushed her hair from her forehead"
But he has already decided to continue his journey. He has a new destination, and though it may be arbitrary, maybe it's just the idea of a new place to go, of a new start, that is driving him there. "Or maybe I've a reason to believe we all will be received in Graceland." The album as a whole has a slight feeling of melancholy, of world-weariness, even during the more upbeat numbers. There is a constant sense of randomness, as if the singer is aimlessly moving forward through life, while at the same time being hopeful of some possible progress.
I'm not quite sure what to say here about Astral Weeks. It has been said that W.B. Yeats was an important influence on Van Morrison's songwriting. That seems to be true to the extent that Morrison's lyrics, like Yeats's, are saturated with symbols and references, especially on this album. Trains, ribbons, rain, oceans, horses, stars, and avenues combine to form a world which could be seen in a million different ways depending on how you interpret the symbols. Regardless, the same themes are there, of love and loss, only he doesn't come right out and tell you about it. Instead he immerses you in his world and forces you to try to find your own way out.
In the eight songs on this album, Morrison reaches a beauty and a transcendence which is unmatched in any of his later albums. After all, when you are singing at 23 years old that "I ain't nothing but a stranger in this world, I got a home on high," where can you go from there? The answer is in "Sweet Thing," when he sings "And I will never grow so old again." He has already done his most mature songwriting, and all his future albums, in comparison, seem empty of meaning and emotion. Sure, he comes close at times, in songs like "Into the Mystic." But even then, what happens? He starts to work up to a climax, then when it just starts to get good, "Too late to stop now," and he cuts it off, seemingly right in the middle. He can't go back, can't face those emotions again. It's endlessly frustrating to listen to after you've heard what he's capable of on Astral Weeks.
If you're looking for a new favorite album, one that you won't ever get tired of hearing, I would highly recommend any of these three. Right now, Astral Weeks is my favorite, but that will probably change. If you want to know more about it, I loved this review by Lester Bangs (who, after seeing Almost Famous, I can't imagine as anyone else but Philip Seymour Hoffman).
Saturday, February 25, 2006
Wednesday, February 22, 2006
Cue the lights
I was sitting in the trombone studio around 9:00 pm one night last week with my quartet, reading through some new pieces, when suddenly and for no reason, the lights went out in the room. My first thought was that there was a power outage on campus. But the others new better. It had never happened to me before, but apparently the lights in the classrooms tend to spontaneously turn off from time to time, especially late at night. I found this kind of strange, but took no notice of it then.
Yesterday afternoon, around 4:30 pm, I had an audition for a summer festival. The audition was going well, I made it through my solo piece and two excerpts and had played rather well, I thought. Then it came time to play Ride of the Valkyries. In the second full measure, I went too high for the F sharp, and missed it badly, then came back down and cracked the next D as well. I recovered and kept going, but figured the damage had been done. Then it happened. Not before I reached the downbeat of bar four, the lights went out. I kept playing for a moment, not sure what else to do, but the guy hearing the audition stopped me. He seemed as perplexed as I had been the week before. I managed to explain that it happened sometimes for no reason, found the lightswitch and flipped it back on. So, everything settled again, I restarted the excerpt, and made it through without incident.
I couldn't have planned it better if I had tried. I'm talking about a matter of maybe three seconds between my mistake and the lights cutting out. It was bizarre. And strangly enough, my first thought as I was leaving the room was of my mother, who always says before every audition that she will be praying for me. When she says this, I usually respond "Okay, thanks" in an appreciative but sarcastic tone. Of course, despite my doubts, it does have its benefits. Just knowing that someone is praying for you can have a big impact. The fact that someone would stop what they are doing to think of you and send their good wishes and intentions is quite comforting in some way, whether or not you believe that they are affecting your fortune by petitioning some higher power. But who's to say?
When I told my mother what happened, she naturally saw it as a sign from God. And what else would you call it? I've always been wary of the idea of a pure coincidence, things falling nicely into place through the workings of chance alone. I think that comes from adding up lots of experiences such as this one, moments which I somehow feel I will never be able to fully explain or understand.
Yesterday afternoon, around 4:30 pm, I had an audition for a summer festival. The audition was going well, I made it through my solo piece and two excerpts and had played rather well, I thought. Then it came time to play Ride of the Valkyries. In the second full measure, I went too high for the F sharp, and missed it badly, then came back down and cracked the next D as well. I recovered and kept going, but figured the damage had been done. Then it happened. Not before I reached the downbeat of bar four, the lights went out. I kept playing for a moment, not sure what else to do, but the guy hearing the audition stopped me. He seemed as perplexed as I had been the week before. I managed to explain that it happened sometimes for no reason, found the lightswitch and flipped it back on. So, everything settled again, I restarted the excerpt, and made it through without incident.
I couldn't have planned it better if I had tried. I'm talking about a matter of maybe three seconds between my mistake and the lights cutting out. It was bizarre. And strangly enough, my first thought as I was leaving the room was of my mother, who always says before every audition that she will be praying for me. When she says this, I usually respond "Okay, thanks" in an appreciative but sarcastic tone. Of course, despite my doubts, it does have its benefits. Just knowing that someone is praying for you can have a big impact. The fact that someone would stop what they are doing to think of you and send their good wishes and intentions is quite comforting in some way, whether or not you believe that they are affecting your fortune by petitioning some higher power. But who's to say?
When I told my mother what happened, she naturally saw it as a sign from God. And what else would you call it? I've always been wary of the idea of a pure coincidence, things falling nicely into place through the workings of chance alone. I think that comes from adding up lots of experiences such as this one, moments which I somehow feel I will never be able to fully explain or understand.
Tuesday, February 14, 2006
What day is this again?
So it came to my attention recently that, just as February 14 has come to be known as Valentine's Day, a similar significance has been attached to the day before, mostly by online greeting card companies. February 13, it seems, is from here on to be known as "I Value Our Friendship Day."
Is that not the worst idea for a holiday ever? And that being said, couldn't they have come up with a better name? I mean, February 14 is not "I Value Our Committed and Lasting Romantic Relationship Day," it's fucking "Valentine's Day." I mean, a little creativity, people.
Is that not the worst idea for a holiday ever? And that being said, couldn't they have come up with a better name? I mean, February 14 is not "I Value Our Committed and Lasting Romantic Relationship Day," it's fucking "Valentine's Day." I mean, a little creativity, people.
Monday, February 06, 2006
Itzhak Perlman plays Mozart, conducts Tchaikovsky
Wow. Okay. So I wanted to write about last night while it was happening, right after it happened, and then again when I woke up this morning. But various things kept me from doing so until now, at which point I'm not sure how to best get it all down.
I'll start with the necessary background. So last night there was a concert, no wait, a "Gala event," celebrating the 30th anniversary of the Shepherd School of Music. The idea was to charge oodles of money for seats, to get lots of donors to open their wallets and help fund the school's scholarships, which are significant (after this concert, I think tuition will be basically free for all graduate students). The program looked like this:
The Infernal Machine by Christopher Rouse, Larry Rachleff conducting
Violin Concerto No. 17 by Mozart, Itzhak Perlman, violin, Larry Rachleff conducting
Intermission
Symphony No. 4 by Tchaikovsky, Itzhak Perlman conducting.
Needless to say, the night was a success. The school raised a total of 3 million dollars. That's not a typo. The cheapest seats were $500 a pop. I found out later that the lucky donors who sat at Perlman's table for dinner after the concert paid upwards of $500,000 each for the privilege.
So here's the thing. This concert is a big deal. I want to see it. The Rouse and Tchaikovsky both have trombones, but I am not assigned to play on either one. There are seats in the gallery behind the stage reserved for musicians while they are not playing, but are only for musicians who are actually playing in the concert (they made sure to specifically mention this). To make matters worse, there is a free buffet after the concert at a Mexican restaurant uptown called Ninfa's, which is, again, intended only for musicians specifically playing on this concert. What was I to do? Tickets started at $500, so scratch any legitimate attempt at getting a seat. I can't sneak in, security will be too tight for such an event. But why sneak? I'm a musician. If I show up in a tuxedo, look like I'm there to play, and walk up to the reserved musician seats, who would stop me? And as long as I got that far, I might as well attend the buffet afterwards, right?
What could possibly go wrong?
So that you can fully appreciate the events that followed my decision to crash this concert, I have provided a detailed description of the evening, classic Sports Guy-style, in diary form. Since I was not actually keeping a diary during the night, the times are approximate. But you get the idea.
Saturday, February 4, 2006
7:00 pm - Emily and Lilly are getting dressed and ready to go actually play in the concert. Time for me to put on my tux and get my game face on. For tonight, I'm crashing a $3,000,000 event, and nothing can stop me.
7:10 pm - Arrive at Alice Pratt Brown Hall, home of the Shepherd School. Patrons of the concert are driving their cars right up to the building's entrance, where a red carpet and valet service awaits them. We, lowly musicians (well, myself excluded) park ourselves and walk.
7:13 pm - The lobby of the building is full of people, and we have to push our way through. First pangs of panic when I brush right past one of the music school administrators, but calm down again when I realize he has no idea who plays in what piece. In fact, pretty much nobody has any idea who plays in what piece, except for Larry, the conductor, who I can easily avoid by avoiding the backstage area, and possibly Marty, the orchestra manager who sends out casting and rehearsal emails. But even Marty will have too much going on to notice. My confidence is beginning to grow.
7:15 pm - Okay, through the lobby. Need to kill some time, look busy. Head to the bathroom.
7:18 pm - That didn't kill enough time. Concert starts at 7:30. I don't want to sit down to early, be the only one there. Run into Emily. She says nobody is up there yet, that I should wait. But waiting increases my panic level with each minute. Someone's going to see me. Pace the hall.
7:22 pm - Momentary panic. Ms. Speziale, the trumpet teacher, is heading towards me. I freeze. I can't avoid her. She knows, she's going to ask why I'm dressed up. She knows I don't play. Too late, here she comes, she's smiling, waving to me, "Play pretty!" she says. Wait, what? Play pretty?!!! I fooled her! I fooled Ms. Speziale. This is too easy. I'm going to go sit down.
7:30 pm - In my seat. Concert's about to start. I begin to ponder possible strategies. I should at the very least change seats for the second half, so that nobody will notice that I am up here the entire concert. Finalize my plan to go down after the Mozart and chill briefly in the stairwell before quickly circling around to the other side and entering a different door and taking a different seat. Should I change my wardrobe somehow, take off my bow tie? Muss up my hair? Trade contacts for glasses? No, too late. Just relax, you're fine. The concert's starting.
7:40 pm - Okay, Rouse is over. It was pretty good. The orchestra sounds amazing, as always. I can't wait to hear the rest. The orchestra members not playing in the Mozart begin to file up to the musician seats to hear Itzhak. I start to feel guilty because I stole a seat. But it's okay, I'm here for a reason, I'm playing this concert, stay in character, Chris, stay in character. I'm sitting next to Mark, another trombone player who will be playing in the Tchaikovsky. He asks something to the effect of "How did it go," implying that he thought I had played in the Rouse. I explained my situation to him, and he seemed completely shocked. I mean, this is a trombone player! He knows the castings, that I don't play, and I fooled him! Man, I'm untouchable now. I mean, think about it, who would ever show up to a concert in a tux and claim to be playing in the concert if they weren't? What kind of person would do something like that? It's insane! Confidence rising.
7:42 pm - Another scary moment during the change for the Mozart, an usher (Ushers? Shit.) comes up to our row and says that nobody is supposed to be here. I say nothing. Someone next to me says they are playing in the second half, and explains that we are allowed to be here. Ten minutes ago, I would have panicked. But now I'm untouchable. I'm playing. I'm allowed to sit here. Prove me wrong.
8:10 pm - That was amazing. It takes Itzhak so much effort to get across the stage to the podium, due to a childhood case of Polio, but when he picks up the violin and starts to play, it's completely effortless. It's like he's talking, or breathing. It's an extension of him. Intermission time now. Forget the plan, I'm going down to see some of my friends.
8:12 pm - Run into Wayne, who is auditioning on French Horn and staying with me for the weekend. He asks how my plan is working, and I tell him the good news. He asks if it might be possible for him to get some of the free wine they are handing out in the lobby. "There's free wine?" is my response. We head towards the lobby. Wayne is wearing jeans, a sweatshirt, and sneakers. "I can't go in there," he says when we first see the lobby full of dresses and tuxedoes. "No, I guess you can't," is my first response. But then, seconds later, "Wait. Why can't you?" We walk in.
8:15 pm - Find my friend Larry, who plays trumpet, and others, drinking in the lobby. Oh, they're drinking, that means we can drink. The only difference, of course, is that they actually play on this concert. But that distinction has disappeared for me by now. After a glass of white wine and a glass of champagne each (Larry thought the champagne was a little dry, but we both agreed the wine was top of the line), we begin to wonder out loud whether we might be able to find Wayne a seat with the musicians. I mean, what could stop us?
8:30 pm - Back in the balcony, waiting excitedly for the Tchaikovsky to start. Larry and Wayne are next to me, Larry in his tux for the right reasons, me in mine for no reason, and Wayne in street clothes. No problem. I am sitting in exactly the same seat as before, not on purpose, but I think it's fitting. Yeah. I'm back. So what.
8:50 pm - Whew. My God. First movement just ended. "I need a cigarette after that," says Larry. This has to be one of the most electric performances I have ever seen. It sure doesn't sound like a student orchestra.
9:30 pm - The Symphony is over. I'm completely spent at this point. What a performance, the energy was unbelievable. I've never heard anything like it. We stand for three curtain calls, then make for the exits. After all, free Mexican food awaits.
9:40 pm - Go backstage to congratulate the musicians. Forget about avoiding the conductor. It's over now, anyway, what could he do? On the way back out, pass by him as he is shaking hands. Make eye contact. He knows, he must know. Keep looking at him anyway. Remember, I'm untouchable. "Nice playing," he says to me. Complete disbelief. Just keep walking. Did I fool him? I have to know. Look back at him again. He's giving me that look, a look that says, "I know what you did." But not a disapproving look. Yeah, he knows. But it makes no difference. It never did. I was up there in the balcony for a reason, just like everone else, it just wasn't the same reason. I had gotten away with a series of small transgressions, all too slight to be noticed on their own. But he knows. He continues to give me the look. "Thanks!" I say, and smile. I'm also here for a reason. I was meant to hear that concert.
10 pm to 1 am - Party at Ninfa's. The fajitas are fantastic, and the margaritas are potent. Everyone is there, plenty of people who didn't even play, including myself, Wayne, significant others of orchestra members, and more. Still, I'm willing to bet that I was the only one who thought to crash the concert, as well. Emily says this part of the night was like the end of a cheesy 80's movie, when the entire cast gets together at a restaurant and parties, people who didn't know each other meet and have fun, loud music is playing, then the credits roll. That's what it felt like. Everyone we knew was there.
1:08 am (that time is exact) - After leaving Ninfa's my watch stops. I don't realize until this morning. It's a nice watch, it's strange that it just decided to stop. What's the significance? I'm not sure, but I don't think it's a coincidence. What a strange and wonderful night.
So that's the story. My success in fooling everyone makes me think I have a bright future to look forward to in crashing weddings. But this may always remain my crowing achievement.
I'll start with the necessary background. So last night there was a concert, no wait, a "Gala event," celebrating the 30th anniversary of the Shepherd School of Music. The idea was to charge oodles of money for seats, to get lots of donors to open their wallets and help fund the school's scholarships, which are significant (after this concert, I think tuition will be basically free for all graduate students). The program looked like this:
The Infernal Machine by Christopher Rouse, Larry Rachleff conducting
Violin Concerto No. 17 by Mozart, Itzhak Perlman, violin, Larry Rachleff conducting
Intermission
Symphony No. 4 by Tchaikovsky, Itzhak Perlman conducting.
Needless to say, the night was a success. The school raised a total of 3 million dollars. That's not a typo. The cheapest seats were $500 a pop. I found out later that the lucky donors who sat at Perlman's table for dinner after the concert paid upwards of $500,000 each for the privilege.
So here's the thing. This concert is a big deal. I want to see it. The Rouse and Tchaikovsky both have trombones, but I am not assigned to play on either one. There are seats in the gallery behind the stage reserved for musicians while they are not playing, but are only for musicians who are actually playing in the concert (they made sure to specifically mention this). To make matters worse, there is a free buffet after the concert at a Mexican restaurant uptown called Ninfa's, which is, again, intended only for musicians specifically playing on this concert. What was I to do? Tickets started at $500, so scratch any legitimate attempt at getting a seat. I can't sneak in, security will be too tight for such an event. But why sneak? I'm a musician. If I show up in a tuxedo, look like I'm there to play, and walk up to the reserved musician seats, who would stop me? And as long as I got that far, I might as well attend the buffet afterwards, right?
What could possibly go wrong?
So that you can fully appreciate the events that followed my decision to crash this concert, I have provided a detailed description of the evening, classic Sports Guy-style, in diary form. Since I was not actually keeping a diary during the night, the times are approximate. But you get the idea.
Saturday, February 4, 2006
7:00 pm - Emily and Lilly are getting dressed and ready to go actually play in the concert. Time for me to put on my tux and get my game face on. For tonight, I'm crashing a $3,000,000 event, and nothing can stop me.
7:10 pm - Arrive at Alice Pratt Brown Hall, home of the Shepherd School. Patrons of the concert are driving their cars right up to the building's entrance, where a red carpet and valet service awaits them. We, lowly musicians (well, myself excluded) park ourselves and walk.
7:13 pm - The lobby of the building is full of people, and we have to push our way through. First pangs of panic when I brush right past one of the music school administrators, but calm down again when I realize he has no idea who plays in what piece. In fact, pretty much nobody has any idea who plays in what piece, except for Larry, the conductor, who I can easily avoid by avoiding the backstage area, and possibly Marty, the orchestra manager who sends out casting and rehearsal emails. But even Marty will have too much going on to notice. My confidence is beginning to grow.
7:15 pm - Okay, through the lobby. Need to kill some time, look busy. Head to the bathroom.
7:18 pm - That didn't kill enough time. Concert starts at 7:30. I don't want to sit down to early, be the only one there. Run into Emily. She says nobody is up there yet, that I should wait. But waiting increases my panic level with each minute. Someone's going to see me. Pace the hall.
7:22 pm - Momentary panic. Ms. Speziale, the trumpet teacher, is heading towards me. I freeze. I can't avoid her. She knows, she's going to ask why I'm dressed up. She knows I don't play. Too late, here she comes, she's smiling, waving to me, "Play pretty!" she says. Wait, what? Play pretty?!!! I fooled her! I fooled Ms. Speziale. This is too easy. I'm going to go sit down.
7:30 pm - In my seat. Concert's about to start. I begin to ponder possible strategies. I should at the very least change seats for the second half, so that nobody will notice that I am up here the entire concert. Finalize my plan to go down after the Mozart and chill briefly in the stairwell before quickly circling around to the other side and entering a different door and taking a different seat. Should I change my wardrobe somehow, take off my bow tie? Muss up my hair? Trade contacts for glasses? No, too late. Just relax, you're fine. The concert's starting.
7:40 pm - Okay, Rouse is over. It was pretty good. The orchestra sounds amazing, as always. I can't wait to hear the rest. The orchestra members not playing in the Mozart begin to file up to the musician seats to hear Itzhak. I start to feel guilty because I stole a seat. But it's okay, I'm here for a reason, I'm playing this concert, stay in character, Chris, stay in character. I'm sitting next to Mark, another trombone player who will be playing in the Tchaikovsky. He asks something to the effect of "How did it go," implying that he thought I had played in the Rouse. I explained my situation to him, and he seemed completely shocked. I mean, this is a trombone player! He knows the castings, that I don't play, and I fooled him! Man, I'm untouchable now. I mean, think about it, who would ever show up to a concert in a tux and claim to be playing in the concert if they weren't? What kind of person would do something like that? It's insane! Confidence rising.
7:42 pm - Another scary moment during the change for the Mozart, an usher (Ushers? Shit.) comes up to our row and says that nobody is supposed to be here. I say nothing. Someone next to me says they are playing in the second half, and explains that we are allowed to be here. Ten minutes ago, I would have panicked. But now I'm untouchable. I'm playing. I'm allowed to sit here. Prove me wrong.
8:10 pm - That was amazing. It takes Itzhak so much effort to get across the stage to the podium, due to a childhood case of Polio, but when he picks up the violin and starts to play, it's completely effortless. It's like he's talking, or breathing. It's an extension of him. Intermission time now. Forget the plan, I'm going down to see some of my friends.
8:12 pm - Run into Wayne, who is auditioning on French Horn and staying with me for the weekend. He asks how my plan is working, and I tell him the good news. He asks if it might be possible for him to get some of the free wine they are handing out in the lobby. "There's free wine?" is my response. We head towards the lobby. Wayne is wearing jeans, a sweatshirt, and sneakers. "I can't go in there," he says when we first see the lobby full of dresses and tuxedoes. "No, I guess you can't," is my first response. But then, seconds later, "Wait. Why can't you?" We walk in.
8:15 pm - Find my friend Larry, who plays trumpet, and others, drinking in the lobby. Oh, they're drinking, that means we can drink. The only difference, of course, is that they actually play on this concert. But that distinction has disappeared for me by now. After a glass of white wine and a glass of champagne each (Larry thought the champagne was a little dry, but we both agreed the wine was top of the line), we begin to wonder out loud whether we might be able to find Wayne a seat with the musicians. I mean, what could stop us?
8:30 pm - Back in the balcony, waiting excitedly for the Tchaikovsky to start. Larry and Wayne are next to me, Larry in his tux for the right reasons, me in mine for no reason, and Wayne in street clothes. No problem. I am sitting in exactly the same seat as before, not on purpose, but I think it's fitting. Yeah. I'm back. So what.
8:50 pm - Whew. My God. First movement just ended. "I need a cigarette after that," says Larry. This has to be one of the most electric performances I have ever seen. It sure doesn't sound like a student orchestra.
9:30 pm - The Symphony is over. I'm completely spent at this point. What a performance, the energy was unbelievable. I've never heard anything like it. We stand for three curtain calls, then make for the exits. After all, free Mexican food awaits.
9:40 pm - Go backstage to congratulate the musicians. Forget about avoiding the conductor. It's over now, anyway, what could he do? On the way back out, pass by him as he is shaking hands. Make eye contact. He knows, he must know. Keep looking at him anyway. Remember, I'm untouchable. "Nice playing," he says to me. Complete disbelief. Just keep walking. Did I fool him? I have to know. Look back at him again. He's giving me that look, a look that says, "I know what you did." But not a disapproving look. Yeah, he knows. But it makes no difference. It never did. I was up there in the balcony for a reason, just like everone else, it just wasn't the same reason. I had gotten away with a series of small transgressions, all too slight to be noticed on their own. But he knows. He continues to give me the look. "Thanks!" I say, and smile. I'm also here for a reason. I was meant to hear that concert.
10 pm to 1 am - Party at Ninfa's. The fajitas are fantastic, and the margaritas are potent. Everyone is there, plenty of people who didn't even play, including myself, Wayne, significant others of orchestra members, and more. Still, I'm willing to bet that I was the only one who thought to crash the concert, as well. Emily says this part of the night was like the end of a cheesy 80's movie, when the entire cast gets together at a restaurant and parties, people who didn't know each other meet and have fun, loud music is playing, then the credits roll. That's what it felt like. Everyone we knew was there.
1:08 am (that time is exact) - After leaving Ninfa's my watch stops. I don't realize until this morning. It's a nice watch, it's strange that it just decided to stop. What's the significance? I'm not sure, but I don't think it's a coincidence. What a strange and wonderful night.
So that's the story. My success in fooling everyone makes me think I have a bright future to look forward to in crashing weddings. But this may always remain my crowing achievement.
Monday, January 30, 2006
Results!
It's been nearly a week, and I think the results of my vote are definitive enough now to close the polls. So I received seven votes total (two were sent in via email), five for Blue Man Group, and two for American Idol.
Those who voted Blue generally had very good justifications for their votes. Allison rightly says that "any job where you get to cover yourself in paint on a daily basis is an opportunity you can't pass up." Matt pointed out that Blue Man Group is "karaoke, for your body." And Anne seemed to take a page from the "Anyone but Bush" book on voting technique, placing her vote with Blue Man Group simply because "American Idol is stupid." And, really, she does have a point.
So what do we hear from the minority leaders? Mostly, they saw fit to point out the possible humor factor involved in an appearance on the show. Josh thought that "[I,] on [my] own, in any setting, including singing in front of a national televised audience, would be way the hell funnier than Blue Man Group." And Hannah agreed, employing the excessive use of alternating question marks and exclamation points to express how excited she is at the prospect of seeing me sing in falsetto and dance on television.
However, the people have spoken. To those of you who voted for Idol, though, do not give up hope. There may still be time, after my Blue Man career has run its course, for me to take part in American Idol XXXVII.
For now, my next goal in life: Become a marginally famous celebrity, so that I can appear on "Dancing with the Stars."
-----
In other news, I just received two emails, both of which contained quotes that I found so hilarious that I had to share them with you all. The first was from Josh in Japan, who writes:
"I'm writing songs now dude, it's awesome! I'm like Paul Simon. Or that other guy. Bach."
And the second was from my mother, who likes to insert little pearls of dubious wisdom into her emails. She was telling my sister and me that we should write thank you notes to our family. This was her reasoning:
"This is an important part of adult life. Formally saying thank you is what separates us from the animals."
Cue hilarious mental image of a gorilla sitting down to write a thank you note, then becoming frustrated when he realizes he doesn't know how to read or write.
Those who voted Blue generally had very good justifications for their votes. Allison rightly says that "any job where you get to cover yourself in paint on a daily basis is an opportunity you can't pass up." Matt pointed out that Blue Man Group is "karaoke, for your body." And Anne seemed to take a page from the "Anyone but Bush" book on voting technique, placing her vote with Blue Man Group simply because "American Idol is stupid." And, really, she does have a point.
So what do we hear from the minority leaders? Mostly, they saw fit to point out the possible humor factor involved in an appearance on the show. Josh thought that "[I,] on [my] own, in any setting, including singing in front of a national televised audience, would be way the hell funnier than Blue Man Group." And Hannah agreed, employing the excessive use of alternating question marks and exclamation points to express how excited she is at the prospect of seeing me sing in falsetto and dance on television.
However, the people have spoken. To those of you who voted for Idol, though, do not give up hope. There may still be time, after my Blue Man career has run its course, for me to take part in American Idol XXXVII.
For now, my next goal in life: Become a marginally famous celebrity, so that I can appear on "Dancing with the Stars."
-----
In other news, I just received two emails, both of which contained quotes that I found so hilarious that I had to share them with you all. The first was from Josh in Japan, who writes:
"I'm writing songs now dude, it's awesome! I'm like Paul Simon. Or that other guy. Bach."
And the second was from my mother, who likes to insert little pearls of dubious wisdom into her emails. She was telling my sister and me that we should write thank you notes to our family. This was her reasoning:
"This is an important part of adult life. Formally saying thank you is what separates us from the animals."
Cue hilarious mental image of a gorilla sitting down to write a thank you note, then becoming frustrated when he realizes he doesn't know how to read or write.
Wednesday, January 25, 2006
I had a hard time ruling out America's Next Top Model, as well
So after watching nearly two hours of American Idol on television tonight, I have come to two conclusions:
1) I am going to throw out our antenna, because there is no reason anyone should ever watch television, and
2) I could totally be on American Idol.
Seriously, each passing year when they truck out hundreds more people to audition for this show, the standard necessary to pass the first round is significantly lower than the year before. I mean, you should have heard some of these people who made it. I can sing that well. Which is why, in a couple of years, after I get some formal voice training, and the bar has been lowered even more, and Simon is just flat out telling all the bad singers that they don't deserve to live and should kill themselves (he gets more sarcastic and mean every year), I'm totally auditioning.
Of course, this may be in conflict with my other dream, which is to be a member of the Blue Man Group. I could totally be a Blue Man. Sure, I would need to become a more reliable drummer, and probably get into better shape than I am currently in, but I don't see how they could possibly turn me down after that. So the real problem is, which one do I go for, American Idol or Blue Man Group? Because we all know that you can only pursue one dream at a time. Well, there is the whole "becoming a professional trombonist" thing, too. Maybe you can pursue two dreams at a time? But definitely not three. So one of these has to go, and seeing as I have almost six years of higher education invested in my trombone dream, I should probably nix one of the other two.
Here's where you come in, my loyal base of readers. I need advice. Help me choose between becoming the next American Idol, or the next Blue Man. Cast your vote. I'll present a list of pros and cons of each. Oh, and for the sake of voting, let's just assume that I could easily achieve either one of these, so don't vote for one just because it seems more likely that I could do it. Go with your instinct. Which would you rather see me do, for whatever reason? I'm counting on you.
American Idol:
Pros:
-Get to basically sing karaoke, one of my great loves, except instead of a smoky room full of drunk people, I would be singing to a national television audience.
-Promise of a record contract when I undoubtedly win, leading to possible fame, fortune, and eventual VH1 Behind The Music documentary feature.
-Possibility of appearing on national television.
Cons:
-Being famous might not agree with me. Maybe I would rather blend in with the crowd, you know, like being a Blue Man.
-As a musician, associating myself with American Idol would probably blacklist me from any serious musical pursuits afterwards. Auditioning for a professional orchestra would be sort of like running for Congress as a Communist in the 1950s.
-Possibility of appearing on national television.
Blue Man Group:
Pros:
-Being able to combine two things, drumming and acting, which I have always loved.
-Being part of a rogue troupe of players all looking exactly alike in a hip new show.
-Getting to cover myself in blue paint.
Cons:
-I would have to get into shape, which would kind of conflict with my inherently lazy lifestyle.
-Possibility of being forced to catch 50 marshmallows in my mouth at one time.
-Having to cover myself in blue paint.
Okay, that's the info, now get to voting (by leaving a comment, of course)!
1) I am going to throw out our antenna, because there is no reason anyone should ever watch television, and
2) I could totally be on American Idol.
Seriously, each passing year when they truck out hundreds more people to audition for this show, the standard necessary to pass the first round is significantly lower than the year before. I mean, you should have heard some of these people who made it. I can sing that well. Which is why, in a couple of years, after I get some formal voice training, and the bar has been lowered even more, and Simon is just flat out telling all the bad singers that they don't deserve to live and should kill themselves (he gets more sarcastic and mean every year), I'm totally auditioning.
Of course, this may be in conflict with my other dream, which is to be a member of the Blue Man Group. I could totally be a Blue Man. Sure, I would need to become a more reliable drummer, and probably get into better shape than I am currently in, but I don't see how they could possibly turn me down after that. So the real problem is, which one do I go for, American Idol or Blue Man Group? Because we all know that you can only pursue one dream at a time. Well, there is the whole "becoming a professional trombonist" thing, too. Maybe you can pursue two dreams at a time? But definitely not three. So one of these has to go, and seeing as I have almost six years of higher education invested in my trombone dream, I should probably nix one of the other two.
Here's where you come in, my loyal base of readers. I need advice. Help me choose between becoming the next American Idol, or the next Blue Man. Cast your vote. I'll present a list of pros and cons of each. Oh, and for the sake of voting, let's just assume that I could easily achieve either one of these, so don't vote for one just because it seems more likely that I could do it. Go with your instinct. Which would you rather see me do, for whatever reason? I'm counting on you.
American Idol:
Pros:
-Get to basically sing karaoke, one of my great loves, except instead of a smoky room full of drunk people, I would be singing to a national television audience.
-Promise of a record contract when I undoubtedly win, leading to possible fame, fortune, and eventual VH1 Behind The Music documentary feature.
-Possibility of appearing on national television.
Cons:
-Being famous might not agree with me. Maybe I would rather blend in with the crowd, you know, like being a Blue Man.
-As a musician, associating myself with American Idol would probably blacklist me from any serious musical pursuits afterwards. Auditioning for a professional orchestra would be sort of like running for Congress as a Communist in the 1950s.
-Possibility of appearing on national television.
Blue Man Group:
Pros:
-Being able to combine two things, drumming and acting, which I have always loved.
-Being part of a rogue troupe of players all looking exactly alike in a hip new show.
-Getting to cover myself in blue paint.
Cons:
-I would have to get into shape, which would kind of conflict with my inherently lazy lifestyle.
-Possibility of being forced to catch 50 marshmallows in my mouth at one time.
-Having to cover myself in blue paint.
Okay, that's the info, now get to voting (by leaving a comment, of course)!
Monday, January 23, 2006
Jolly Good Touchdown, Old Chap!
Wait a minute. What? American Football coverage on the BBC? Does this seem funny to anyone else? If not, try reading the article and imagining that the person writing it has no idea how the game of American Football is played. That's pretty funny. Wait! This is even funnier, I just found it: a guide written by British people to explain American Football to other British people. Notice how offense is spelled "offence." HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA
More funny stories about this strange foreign sport in the "see also" box to the right. My favorite is about Denver ending New England's "Hat-trick bid." Okay, so now they're confusing Football with Hockey.
And on the left, click on the different sports under "Other Sports" for all the information you could ever need about Badminton or Darts! At least American Football is above Badminton on the list.
More funny stories about this strange foreign sport in the "see also" box to the right. My favorite is about Denver ending New England's "Hat-trick bid." Okay, so now they're confusing Football with Hockey.
And on the left, click on the different sports under "Other Sports" for all the information you could ever need about Badminton or Darts! At least American Football is above Badminton on the list.
Friday, January 20, 2006
Oh My Poor Car
So I have not been writing here much lately, and my reason, I told myself, was that nothing really blogworthy had happened to me in a while. Careful what you wish for, I guess.
Yesterday afternoon, I was driving out to teach as usual. I was driving down the middle lane of a three lane road, with a line of stopped traffic in the right lane, when suddenly, a RotoRooter van pulled through the line of traffic to make a left turn onto the other side of the road. I slammed on the brakes, but there was nothing I could do, and I hit him. Hard.
I realized right away that I was fine, no injuries. The van pulled further to my left and out of traffic, then stopped a few feet away. My foot was still on the brake, because I wanted to avoid going any further and hitting any of the cars on the right. My hood was crumpled up and smoke was coming from the engine. When I collected myself, I decided to also move to the left and out of the two rightmost lanes of traffic.
I decided that the smoking meant I should turn off the car as quickly as possible. I had some trouble getting the gearshift into park, however, so I just turned the car off in neutral, then managed to force it into park. Before I could get out of the car (the driver's side door was difficult to open), a woman came up to the door. She was on the phone with the police. She had been driving right behind me and saw the accident, so she decided to stay as a witness, which was very nice of her. She even gave me her name and phone number before she left, which I didn't know I would end up needing later.
It took the policeman about a half hour to get to the scene. However, within five minutes of the crash, five tow trucks arrived, all waiting to carry my car to a body shop. These men were wreckers, who, in Texas, all have a chance of towing a wreck, as long as they arrive before the police. When the policeman arrives, they all put a small chip with a number on it in a hat, and the cop pulls one out. The driver who owns that chip gets to tow my car. This is quite a strange system, I think, but another of the many Texas quirks.
So the chip was chosen, the lucky winner hitched up my car and pulled it off the road. The policeman talked to the witness first to find out what happened, then asked both drivers for their licenses and proof of insurance. I gave him my license, but didn't have proof of insurance, so I called for my policy number and gave him that. He didn't talk to me again, however, he only concentrated on the other driver. Eventually he gave the other driver a citation, and me a card with the case number and information on it, and then left. I exchanged information with the other driver (which was fun because I didn't know which information I needed, but everyone was very helpful, the wrecker, the witness, and even the other driver himself, who reminded me that I might want to take down his license plate number and such things).
Then I was towed to the "collision center" of a Chevy dealership nearby. Fast forward past a few hours of phone calls, confusion, clarifications, and more confusion, and things finally started to calm down. That was when I went out to my car to get my things, and finally got to fully survey the damage. Here's what I saw:
Not a pretty sight. I waited at the dealership for Lilly to come and rescue me after she finished teaching. Finally, about seven hours after the accident itself, I was back home.
Now I've had a day to shake it off, get things arranged and squared away, give my statement and such, and I am now set up with a new rental car, a Mazda 3 no less! It has been roundly agreed that the collision was not my fault, that I had the right of way, and that the other driver was at fault, so his insurance will pay for all the costs, including the rental. All that remains to be seen is what will happen with the repairs. If the insurance company decides the repairs will cost too much, they will instead make me an offer for my car, and I will have to sell it to them and get another. If it's gone for good, that would be very sad. I'm going to miss you, car. I'm so sorry I crashed you.
But now hopefully things are settled down and I can breathe and relax again. It's been a hectic two days, and it will be nice to let things get back to normal again.
Monday, January 16, 2006
MAKE MONEY AT HOME $200/HR (help I am being held captive in Archangelsk, send backup)ENLARGE PENIS SIZE TODAY!
Ahoy!
So, in my blogging absence, I have also been in complete neglect of my blogging friends, who have recently been having many interesting adventures all over the world. Go read about Josh in Japan, Allison elsewhere in Japan, Hannah in the DR, and Jill's Family in London. That is, if you care. Which you should!
Returning to Houston was a little strange, kind of like traveling someplace new, only to find that all your stuff is there and you've been living there for months. It's a hard feeling to explain. But now I'm all depressurized and settled in, classes have started, and the busy semester is springing into full form.
One recent development: Emily, acting on an inside tip, tried plugging our antenna-less television directly into the cable in the wall (we are hell no not paying for cable), and, lo and behold, the cable itself acts as an (extremely weak) antenna, and we now get upwards of four highly garbled channels. So tonight I watched Alias for the first time. My favorite moment came when Jennifer Garner's character was reunited with a fellow agent and ex-boyfriend who disappeared suddenly a few years ago, apparently. She is mad because he disappeared and didn't say anything to her. He is mad, also, because apparently, he tried to contact her, told her to meet him somewhere, and she didn't show up.
"I never got any letter," she says.
"I didn't send a letter, I can't afford to give any information about my assignment, you know that." Well, yeah, of course, I've been watching for five minutes and I know that much. But here was the kicker: He then says, "I sent you an encoded message in a junk email. You should have been able to pick it out from the subject line."
Okaaaaaaaaaaay....but get this. Then she says, completely seriously, "Oh. I set my computer to filter out junk emails!"
Duh-duh-DUUUUUUUUUUUH! The plot thickens! Within the next half hour, including commercial breaks, the two of them are in a place called Archangelsk, or something, retrieving something called a core hard drive, which must be kept at a temperature "halfway to absolute zero." Halfway from where? Anyway, apparently -150 degrees Fahrenheit is sufficient, and just as Alias is getting the computer out of the cold room, she falls and her helmet cracks, and she begins to freeze (I'll just call her Alias, I'm sure that's not the name of the character). But, never fear, the guy breaks in and gets her, and revives her with some good old mouth-to-mouth. Hey everyone! New cure for hypothermia! Just administer CPR! The rest takes care of itself! Works in seconds!
So anyway, the show is completely ridiculous, but I watched it in its entirety, because, well, we get four garbled channels.
So the moral of the story is, never set your computer to filter out junk email, because you never know when your friend who is a CIA operative will attempt to contact you through a subject line. I will always be prepared for that possibility.
So, in my blogging absence, I have also been in complete neglect of my blogging friends, who have recently been having many interesting adventures all over the world. Go read about Josh in Japan, Allison elsewhere in Japan, Hannah in the DR, and Jill's Family in London. That is, if you care. Which you should!
Returning to Houston was a little strange, kind of like traveling someplace new, only to find that all your stuff is there and you've been living there for months. It's a hard feeling to explain. But now I'm all depressurized and settled in, classes have started, and the busy semester is springing into full form.
One recent development: Emily, acting on an inside tip, tried plugging our antenna-less television directly into the cable in the wall (we are hell no not paying for cable), and, lo and behold, the cable itself acts as an (extremely weak) antenna, and we now get upwards of four highly garbled channels. So tonight I watched Alias for the first time. My favorite moment came when Jennifer Garner's character was reunited with a fellow agent and ex-boyfriend who disappeared suddenly a few years ago, apparently. She is mad because he disappeared and didn't say anything to her. He is mad, also, because apparently, he tried to contact her, told her to meet him somewhere, and she didn't show up.
"I never got any letter," she says.
"I didn't send a letter, I can't afford to give any information about my assignment, you know that." Well, yeah, of course, I've been watching for five minutes and I know that much. But here was the kicker: He then says, "I sent you an encoded message in a junk email. You should have been able to pick it out from the subject line."
Okaaaaaaaaaaay....but get this. Then she says, completely seriously, "Oh. I set my computer to filter out junk emails!"
Duh-duh-DUUUUUUUUUUUH! The plot thickens! Within the next half hour, including commercial breaks, the two of them are in a place called Archangelsk, or something, retrieving something called a core hard drive, which must be kept at a temperature "halfway to absolute zero." Halfway from where? Anyway, apparently -150 degrees Fahrenheit is sufficient, and just as Alias is getting the computer out of the cold room, she falls and her helmet cracks, and she begins to freeze (I'll just call her Alias, I'm sure that's not the name of the character). But, never fear, the guy breaks in and gets her, and revives her with some good old mouth-to-mouth. Hey everyone! New cure for hypothermia! Just administer CPR! The rest takes care of itself! Works in seconds!
So anyway, the show is completely ridiculous, but I watched it in its entirety, because, well, we get four garbled channels.
So the moral of the story is, never set your computer to filter out junk email, because you never know when your friend who is a CIA operative will attempt to contact you through a subject line. I will always be prepared for that possibility.
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