Today is the sixth commemoration of the date upon which Hubbers and I were Eternally United.
So far, so good.
So far, so good.
Saturday, August 4, 2007
NPR Song of the Day
Among NPR's many wonders is the Song of the Day. Today's selection is remake of Tom Waits' Day After Tomorrow (I wasn't familiar--listening-wise--with Waits' style or substance), whose simple melody beautifully serves the poignant lines of a (any) young soldier. The lyrics haunt me, particularly in light of my own brother's experiences as a soldier in Iraq and Kosovo. Here they are (but will be immediately removed, if requested by copyright holder):
I got your letter today
And I miss you all so much, here
I can't wait to see you all
And I'm counting the days, dear
I still believe that there's gold
At the end of the world
And I'll come home
To Illinois
On the day after tomorrow
It is so hard
And it's cold here
And I'm tired of taking orders
And I miss old Rockford town
Up by the Wisconsin border
But I miss you won't believe
Shoveling snow and raking leaves
And my plane will touch tomorrow
On the day after tomorrow
I close my eyes
Every night
And I dream that I can hold you
They fill us full of lies
Everyone buys
About what it means to be a soldier
I still don't know how I'm supposed to feel
About all the blood that's been spilled
Look out on the street
Get me back home
On the day after tomorrow
You can't deny
The other side
Don't want to die
Any more than we do
What I'm trying to say,
Is don't they pray
To the same God that we do?
Tell me, how does God choose?
Whose prayers does he refuse?
Who turns the wheel?
And who throws the dice
On the day after tomorrow?
Mmmmmmm...
I'm not fighting
For justice
I am not fighting
For freedom
I am fighting
For my life
And another day
In the world here
I just do what I've been told
You're just the gravel on the road
And the one's that are lucky
One's come home
On the day after tomorrow
And the summer
It too will fade
And with it comes the winter's frost, dear
And I know we too are made
Of all the things that we have lost here
I'll be twenty-one today
I've been saving all my pay
And my plane will touch down
On the day after tomorrow
And I miss you all so much, here
I can't wait to see you all
And I'm counting the days, dear
I still believe that there's gold
At the end of the world
And I'll come home
To Illinois
On the day after tomorrow
It is so hard
And it's cold here
And I'm tired of taking orders
And I miss old Rockford town
Up by the Wisconsin border
But I miss you won't believe
Shoveling snow and raking leaves
And my plane will touch tomorrow
On the day after tomorrow
I close my eyes
Every night
And I dream that I can hold you
They fill us full of lies
Everyone buys
About what it means to be a soldier
I still don't know how I'm supposed to feel
About all the blood that's been spilled
Look out on the street
Get me back home
On the day after tomorrow
You can't deny
The other side
Don't want to die
Any more than we do
What I'm trying to say,
Is don't they pray
To the same God that we do?
Tell me, how does God choose?
Whose prayers does he refuse?
Who turns the wheel?
And who throws the dice
On the day after tomorrow?
Mmmmmmm...
I'm not fighting
For justice
I am not fighting
For freedom
I am fighting
For my life
And another day
In the world here
I just do what I've been told
You're just the gravel on the road
And the one's that are lucky
One's come home
On the day after tomorrow
And the summer
It too will fade
And with it comes the winter's frost, dear
And I know we too are made
Of all the things that we have lost here
I'll be twenty-one today
I've been saving all my pay
And my plane will touch down
On the day after tomorrow
Friday, August 3, 2007
First Thursday People
Wanting to feel cosmopolitan, I made the jaunt into town last evening to attend First Thursday, the monthly unveiling of new art works at area dealers. There was some lovely and playful stuff, particularly at the Augen and Froelick Galleries. One of the most arresting pieces was at the Elizabeth Leach: a pair of gigantic (12') banners with the image of a nuclear smoke-stack traced from composite pictures of fiery clouds; not that I would want that in my house, but as a social statement the piece definitely worked. There was also some crap, including Jeremy Iverson's "collection" of grey-scale collages...WHICH WERE ALL THE SAME!!!
But even more inspiring than the art itself were those who thronged out to see and be seen. Oh, of course there were Bluehairs a-plenty, smacking their gums each time they bent over their half-inch thick lenses to read the title plates, smilingly winding their rubber-wheeled walkers through the crowds. Then there were the Prettypeople: severely skinny women dressed Too-Cool-For-School in short-skirted beachy-bohemian dresses as brightly colored as the art around them, the men in white alligator shoes and black cashmere socks who refused to take off their $$$unglasses indoors. And then there were the Art-isans themselves: a man dressed in cropped pants made from an old canvas sail, tied with sailor's knots and topped off with yellow high-heeled sandals; a woman in a paper-mache dress with a large pink peony in her hair; a chubby dude discussing surrealism on the streetcorner, the several braids of his purpley-blue hair strung up through the top of a doll's head. These are people for whom "art" is not a thing, but a way to interact with the world.
But somehow, they just make me laugh.
But even more inspiring than the art itself were those who thronged out to see and be seen. Oh, of course there were Bluehairs a-plenty, smacking their gums each time they bent over their half-inch thick lenses to read the title plates, smilingly winding their rubber-wheeled walkers through the crowds. Then there were the Prettypeople: severely skinny women dressed Too-Cool-For-School in short-skirted beachy-bohemian dresses as brightly colored as the art around them, the men in white alligator shoes and black cashmere socks who refused to take off their $$$unglasses indoors. And then there were the Art-isans themselves: a man dressed in cropped pants made from an old canvas sail, tied with sailor's knots and topped off with yellow high-heeled sandals; a woman in a paper-mache dress with a large pink peony in her hair; a chubby dude discussing surrealism on the streetcorner, the several braids of his purpley-blue hair strung up through the top of a doll's head. These are people for whom "art" is not a thing, but a way to interact with the world.
But somehow, they just make me laugh.
Thursday, August 2, 2007
Wednesday, August 1, 2007
Fuzzy Math
Isn't this kind of math just as comforting as a new puppy?
From Salon.com's War Room blogger Tim Grieve:
From Salon.com's War Room blogger Tim Grieve:
Asked today about a new Congressional Budget Office report that puts the price tag of the war on Iraq at more than $1 trillion, White House Press Secretary Tony Snow said: "Well, if you take a look at what happened on September 11th, 2001, it's estimated that the aftershocks of that could have cost up to $1 trillion."
As the Boston Globe notes today, former Bush budget advisor Lawrence Lindsey was fired back in 2003 after he suggested that the war in Iraq might cost as much as $200 billion.
Followed up by a good comment from a Salon reader:
"A" has nothing to do with "B", just as the cost of the war in Iraq has absolutely nothing to do with the price tag attached to the 9/11 attacks. Write this on a White House blackboard 100 times, Mr. Snow: "IRAQ HAD NOTHING TO DO WITH THE 9/11 ATTACKS!"
Incredible. This from an administration that keeps lobbing the claim that Democrats will raise taxes and increase spending.
Incredible. This from an administration that keeps lobbing the claim that Democrats will raise taxes and increase spending.
Monday, July 30, 2007
The Avalanche Continues!
Dearest Blatherscopians, the Summer thus far has been unkind to me--Sickness has been the chasm dividing Me from My Best Self (aka, all the crap I've been waiting to do when the weather got better). Like so many dark times in my life, I have been heartened by a glimmer: the light of books. As I have vowed since the time of this blog's inception (nigh on four months), I shall discharge my full Reflections herein.
1) Brideshead Revisited by Evelyn Waugh--A wistful, yet unsentimental, remembrance of an Age with which modern Americans have little-to-no shared history: the dwindling life of the English Aristocracy in the days between WWI & II. Waugh's bitingly funny and skilled descriptions of this too-recent time of yore succeed when dealing with Humanity, but due to my ignorance of the aristocracy, I am afraid that I missed many of Waugh's intended reflections upon the workings of Grace in such a family. I found the prose elegantly tight, but the story felt lumpy to me--the dichotomy of narrator Charles' love for brother and sister Sebastien and Julia was misshapen , at times under-emphasized only to come to the fore with staggering zeal, then be shunted off again, barely worth commenting on. In this way, his characters were not so much dynamic as re-written every few chapters.Definitely worth the read, but overall it felt more like a visit to a museum than a transforming experience.
2.) Outlander by Diana Gabaldon--This is Book #1 of a (so-far) 7 book series combining historical romance, adventure, and a hint of sci-fi. And the series is HUGELY popular--Over 1,200 folks have taken the time to give their recommendation of this book on Amazon.com, averaging 4.25 stars. But I'm here to tell You, intelligent Readers, this is horrible shite.
General complaints: cardboard characters whose motives are paper-thin, belabored dialogue (alternating between ridiculously flowery and just plain ridiculous), overly descriptive scene setting that veers away from plot propulsion, and a wasteful (not to mention unbelievable) plot.
Specific complaints: I don't know about You, but I, for one, have a hard time believing that (a) a married WWII nurse sucked backed to mid-1700s Scotland could keep her wits in such a situation, so much so that can "move on" with her life, and four weeks later marry another man, and that (b) despite loving her first husband, she can gleefully abandon herself to her new husband (resulting in--I'm not kidding!--over 200 pages of sexual encounters, just during the honeymoon phase), feeling no twinge of regret or pain or loss, and that (c) this so-called marriage is held up to be the union of two souls in a Grand Passion, particularly when new husband is "forced to discipline" her; she fights, but the book graphically describes him overpowering and beating her, and that (d) this "modern" woman understands that this violence is only the result of the clash of two time-cultures, and so she forgives new husband and a day after the beating they are back in the sack; the plot only gets better from here. Suffice it to say, there's a lot of rape and attempted rape and then "healing" by way of cathartic-reenactment-of rape. Oh, yes.
What the popularity of these books means to society: we are all doomed, and too stupid to realize it. How in the hiz-ell can anyone be attracted to this kind of book as an entertainment, a wishful romance of a different life? WHAT IS SO WRONG WITH WOMEN THAT THEY THINK THIS IS THE HEIGHT OF ROMANCE? I think Natural Selection has some work to do.
1) Brideshead Revisited by Evelyn Waugh--A wistful, yet unsentimental, remembrance of an Age with which modern Americans have little-to-no shared history: the dwindling life of the English Aristocracy in the days between WWI & II. Waugh's bitingly funny and skilled descriptions of this too-recent time of yore succeed when dealing with Humanity, but due to my ignorance of the aristocracy, I am afraid that I missed many of Waugh's intended reflections upon the workings of Grace in such a family. I found the prose elegantly tight, but the story felt lumpy to me--the dichotomy of narrator Charles' love for brother and sister Sebastien and Julia was misshapen , at times under-emphasized only to come to the fore with staggering zeal, then be shunted off again, barely worth commenting on. In this way, his characters were not so much dynamic as re-written every few chapters.Definitely worth the read, but overall it felt more like a visit to a museum than a transforming experience.
2.) Outlander by Diana Gabaldon--This is Book #1 of a (so-far) 7 book series combining historical romance, adventure, and a hint of sci-fi. And the series is HUGELY popular--Over 1,200 folks have taken the time to give their recommendation of this book on Amazon.com, averaging 4.25 stars. But I'm here to tell You, intelligent Readers, this is horrible shite.
General complaints: cardboard characters whose motives are paper-thin, belabored dialogue (alternating between ridiculously flowery and just plain ridiculous), overly descriptive scene setting that veers away from plot propulsion, and a wasteful (not to mention unbelievable) plot.
Specific complaints: I don't know about You, but I, for one, have a hard time believing that (a) a married WWII nurse sucked backed to mid-1700s Scotland could keep her wits in such a situation, so much so that can "move on" with her life, and four weeks later marry another man, and that (b) despite loving her first husband, she can gleefully abandon herself to her new husband (resulting in--I'm not kidding!--over 200 pages of sexual encounters, just during the honeymoon phase), feeling no twinge of regret or pain or loss, and that (c) this so-called marriage is held up to be the union of two souls in a Grand Passion, particularly when new husband is "forced to discipline" her; she fights, but the book graphically describes him overpowering and beating her, and that (d) this "modern" woman understands that this violence is only the result of the clash of two time-cultures, and so she forgives new husband and a day after the beating they are back in the sack; the plot only gets better from here. Suffice it to say, there's a lot of rape and attempted rape and then "healing" by way of cathartic-reenactment-of rape. Oh, yes.
What the popularity of these books means to society: we are all doomed, and too stupid to realize it. How in the hiz-ell can anyone be attracted to this kind of book as an entertainment, a wishful romance of a different life? WHAT IS SO WRONG WITH WOMEN THAT THEY THINK THIS IS THE HEIGHT OF ROMANCE? I think Natural Selection has some work to do.
Sunday, July 29, 2007
Freaky Animals Gettin' It ON: Another Sign of the Pending Apocalypse
Q: What does one call the foal of a mule?
A: No one knows--there's never been one before!
[Cue "impending doom" music.]
If this IS some kind of devil-donkey from demonic regions, I think I'm OK. I met Satan (or at least one of his closest followers) last weekend; he was really nice. I met him at the outdoor cafe of Ringler's Annex, just up the street from Powell's; some friends and I were sobering up when SatanMan sat down next to us with his gigantic black bulldog. His dog immediately curled up on my feet, so we got to talking. SatanMan has two large conical protuberances under the skin of his forehead (á la barely concealed horns), a long black goatee, and a floppy black plastic mustache inserted at the base of his nose. Also, his ears had been pierced so that the auditory canal was protected by a pentagram. No tail was visible, but he had lots of chains and spikes projecting from random parts of his clothing. Sweet dude, SatanMan.
A: No one knows--there's never been one before!
[Cue "impending doom" music.]
If this IS some kind of devil-donkey from demonic regions, I think I'm OK. I met Satan (or at least one of his closest followers) last weekend; he was really nice. I met him at the outdoor cafe of Ringler's Annex, just up the street from Powell's; some friends and I were sobering up when SatanMan sat down next to us with his gigantic black bulldog. His dog immediately curled up on my feet, so we got to talking. SatanMan has two large conical protuberances under the skin of his forehead (á la barely concealed horns), a long black goatee, and a floppy black plastic mustache inserted at the base of his nose. Also, his ears had been pierced so that the auditory canal was protected by a pentagram. No tail was visible, but he had lots of chains and spikes projecting from random parts of his clothing. Sweet dude, SatanMan.
There's No Place Like...Prison?
Former Philippines First Lady Imelda Marcos was personally responsible for capturing 4,000+ pairs of shoes; it appears that, like Dorothy, the legacy of Imelda's outlandish footwear has Transformative Powers. How else to explain Prison!: The Musical, complete with 1.9 million YouTube following?
Yes, that's right: the prisons are turning everyday into a musical for the murderers, rapists, thieves and their ilk. And that's a Good Thing. Everyday free exercise time is now poured into three hours of intense dance rehearsal, featuring songs from Sister Act, Michael Jackson, and others. Prison officials report a marked decline in violent behavior and greater success by former inmates once released back into society. Who says The Arts aren't important for the health of Society?
Yes, that's right: the prisons are turning everyday into a musical for the murderers, rapists, thieves and their ilk. And that's a Good Thing. Everyday free exercise time is now poured into three hours of intense dance rehearsal, featuring songs from Sister Act, Michael Jackson, and others. Prison officials report a marked decline in violent behavior and greater success by former inmates once released back into society. Who says The Arts aren't important for the health of Society?
Saturday, July 28, 2007
Comic-Con(fusion)
I'd just like to give a Shout Out to MGF* Deeluxegal, currently braving the tens of thousands of comic-crazed fans at Comic-Con '07. She is there to reprise her 2006-premiered role of "Barrista Girl," the saucy heroine of the opera based on Shannon Wheeler's cult comic Too Much Coffee Man. I hope she is seeing lots of Vulcans and Caped Wonders and Aliens, but with five shows in three days, I doubt she has time for much. But, golly, wouldn't it be exciting if she meets Joss!
Speaking of comics, I've read quite a few in the last month, and now, as is my due, I should like to reflect upon these story-vessels.
Hellboy, the collected comics, v.1-4 by Pdx dude Mike Mignola--Long ennobled with the title "Masterpiece", the Hellboy series is a much beloved (and awarded!) industry fave.
What I loved: the art--arresting and evocative, magnificent use of a very limited color scheme.
What I liked: the concept--a deformed imp adopted into mainstream American life; as per traditional comic lore, Hellboy (our lovable demonic hero) comes equipped with untold Powers and Possibilities--will they save the world? Or bring on Armageddon?
What I disliked: the shortcuts taken in both character development and general narrative; sometimes a picture is NOT worth a thousand words. Or a mere hundred. If they are the right hundred.
What this all means: Solid, engaging tale, but I prefer to reserve the title of "Masterpiece" for things that not only outstrip their current competition, but that elevate every aspect of the work.
Alias**, the collected comics, v.1-4 by Brian Michael Bendis--In 2002, Marvel Comics launched its first-ever "R-Rated" series about your average ex-superhero-turned-P.I., Jessica Jones. In truly subtle comic book form, Marvel announces the rating-raise from the first word: "Fuck."
What I loved: the character of Jessica was nuanced, tough yet womanly, and drawn fairly realistically (i.e. her boobs were relative to the size of her body). Also, wonderful use of a variety of art techniques to highlight different times/experiences in Jessica's life.
What I liked: characters were dynamic, and the stories spun traditional superhero mythology into a totally believable world.
What I disliked: the art--particularly when trying to convey deep, penetrating glances, but the faces just looked frozen or hung-over--sometimes left me a bit confused.
What this all means: a mature take on the superheros of childhood; very worthy way to kill some time.
Fray by Joss Whedon--Continuing the saga of Slayers vs. Vampires 500 years after viewers last left Buffy.
What I loved: Um, well...I'm a bit prejudiced when it comes to all things Buffy-Joss. So, despite the comic's many flaws, it was kind-of impossible for me not to love it. C'mon. It's JOSS.
What I liked: the art and story complemented each other well. I also loved how Joss kinda wipes the slate clean--because of Buffy's Season 7 actions, the world is a very different place for our new heroine. And to save the world, Fray has to face her own past. Ya gotta love a hook like that (at least if You're into pseudo-psychology, like Freud-lite).
What I disliked: some plot developments are a leeetle tooo obvious--we don't have any nifty music or camera pans to offer any Red Herrings.
What this all means: I heart Joss. And his mighty creations. Heart. Them. So. Much.
*My Good Friend, 'natch.
**No relation to J.J. Abrams' awesome-then-stupid TV show of the same name.
Speaking of comics, I've read quite a few in the last month, and now, as is my due, I should like to reflect upon these story-vessels.
Hellboy, the collected comics, v.1-4 by Pdx dude Mike Mignola--Long ennobled with the title "Masterpiece", the Hellboy series is a much beloved (and awarded!) industry fave.
What I loved: the art--arresting and evocative, magnificent use of a very limited color scheme.
What I liked: the concept--a deformed imp adopted into mainstream American life; as per traditional comic lore, Hellboy (our lovable demonic hero) comes equipped with untold Powers and Possibilities--will they save the world? Or bring on Armageddon?
What I disliked: the shortcuts taken in both character development and general narrative; sometimes a picture is NOT worth a thousand words. Or a mere hundred. If they are the right hundred.
What this all means: Solid, engaging tale, but I prefer to reserve the title of "Masterpiece" for things that not only outstrip their current competition, but that elevate every aspect of the work.
Alias**, the collected comics, v.1-4 by Brian Michael Bendis--In 2002, Marvel Comics launched its first-ever "R-Rated" series about your average ex-superhero-turned-P.I., Jessica Jones. In truly subtle comic book form, Marvel announces the rating-raise from the first word: "Fuck."
What I loved: the character of Jessica was nuanced, tough yet womanly, and drawn fairly realistically (i.e. her boobs were relative to the size of her body). Also, wonderful use of a variety of art techniques to highlight different times/experiences in Jessica's life.
What I liked: characters were dynamic, and the stories spun traditional superhero mythology into a totally believable world.
What I disliked: the art--particularly when trying to convey deep, penetrating glances, but the faces just looked frozen or hung-over--sometimes left me a bit confused.
What this all means: a mature take on the superheros of childhood; very worthy way to kill some time.
Fray by Joss Whedon--Continuing the saga of Slayers vs. Vampires 500 years after viewers last left Buffy.
What I loved: Um, well...I'm a bit prejudiced when it comes to all things Buffy-Joss. So, despite the comic's many flaws, it was kind-of impossible for me not to love it. C'mon. It's JOSS.
What I liked: the art and story complemented each other well. I also loved how Joss kinda wipes the slate clean--because of Buffy's Season 7 actions, the world is a very different place for our new heroine. And to save the world, Fray has to face her own past. Ya gotta love a hook like that (at least if You're into pseudo-psychology, like Freud-lite).
What I disliked: some plot developments are a leeetle tooo obvious--we don't have any nifty music or camera pans to offer any Red Herrings.
What this all means: I heart Joss. And his mighty creations. Heart. Them. So. Much.
*My Good Friend, 'natch.
**No relation to J.J. Abrams' awesome-then-stupid TV show of the same name.
Friday, July 27, 2007
I'll Take Passion Over Perfection Any Day of the Week
What captivates me in this video is the audience response. Here is a man with a moderate amount of talent (note: not a great talent, and little skill) risking it all for the chance to sing "Nessun dorma*" on Britain's Got Talent. You can see the judges and audience brace themselves when Mr. Potts announces that he is there to sing opera. By the time he is halfway through his selection, however, members of the audience are visibly weeping, others are cheering, whistling, and clapping, the deliciously snippy Simon Cowell is beaming. It is thrilling.
Opera (like all Serious--aka "Classical"--music) is said to be dying. Despite sexy marketing schemes aimed to "widen" the support base, audiences consist of old, white people. The general public doesn't seem to give a damn. Yet time and time again, I have witnessed a profound awakening when people are exposed to the raw emotion of Serious music, so often hid behind Hype and Hyperbole.
Hubby and I grew up in households that cherished Serious music, and these traditions were lovingly shared with us by our parents. Others of our friends did not. 15-year-old Hubby once brought home a school friend who had been raised on 70s & 80s metal; while they were hanging out, Hubby's father turned on some background music. It was Beethoven's Appassionata Sonata. Hubby noticed his friend had grown quiet; his friend's face was covered with tears. "Why didn't anyone ever tell me?" Friend asked. "How could there be this kind of beauty in the world and no one ever told me?" Later, in college, Hubby had a neighbor heavily into rap. After turning on Coolio's latest album, Neighbor burst out of his room, hollering to any one who would listen, "Man, are you listening to this shit?! Coolio is a fuckin' genius, man! I'd like to see someone else come up with this shit!" The song was "C U When U Get There," with Coolio rapping his own text over Pachelbel's Canon in D**.
So what is The Problem? Is it the Mystification of Serious music? Is it Snobbery on the part of over-zealous guardians? Is it the Disdainment of "Intellectualism" on the part of an ostracized public? How can we cut through the Bullshit and get straight to the Passion?
*"Nessun dorma" is THE most famous Tenor aria, period. It comes from the final act of Puccini's Turandot, when the character of Calaf battles wits with the princess, who attempts to discover her suitor's true identity. Translation (via the score):
No one shall sleep! Even you, o Princess, in your cold room, watch the stars, that tremble with love and with hope. But my secret is hidden within me, my name no one shall know... No!...No!... On your mouth I will tell it when the light shines. And my kiss will dissolve the silence that makes you mine!...You, I will win!
**You know, the one that always gets played at weddings.
Opera (like all Serious--aka "Classical"--music) is said to be dying. Despite sexy marketing schemes aimed to "widen" the support base, audiences consist of old, white people. The general public doesn't seem to give a damn. Yet time and time again, I have witnessed a profound awakening when people are exposed to the raw emotion of Serious music, so often hid behind Hype and Hyperbole.
Hubby and I grew up in households that cherished Serious music, and these traditions were lovingly shared with us by our parents. Others of our friends did not. 15-year-old Hubby once brought home a school friend who had been raised on 70s & 80s metal; while they were hanging out, Hubby's father turned on some background music. It was Beethoven's Appassionata Sonata. Hubby noticed his friend had grown quiet; his friend's face was covered with tears. "Why didn't anyone ever tell me?" Friend asked. "How could there be this kind of beauty in the world and no one ever told me?" Later, in college, Hubby had a neighbor heavily into rap. After turning on Coolio's latest album, Neighbor burst out of his room, hollering to any one who would listen, "Man, are you listening to this shit?! Coolio is a fuckin' genius, man! I'd like to see someone else come up with this shit!" The song was "C U When U Get There," with Coolio rapping his own text over Pachelbel's Canon in D**.
So what is The Problem? Is it the Mystification of Serious music? Is it Snobbery on the part of over-zealous guardians? Is it the Disdainment of "Intellectualism" on the part of an ostracized public? How can we cut through the Bullshit and get straight to the Passion?
*"Nessun dorma" is THE most famous Tenor aria, period. It comes from the final act of Puccini's Turandot, when the character of Calaf battles wits with the princess, who attempts to discover her suitor's true identity. Translation (via the score):
No one shall sleep! Even you, o Princess, in your cold room, watch the stars, that tremble with love and with hope. But my secret is hidden within me, my name no one shall know... No!...No!... On your mouth I will tell it when the light shines. And my kiss will dissolve the silence that makes you mine!...You, I will win!
**You know, the one that always gets played at weddings.
Thursday, July 26, 2007
The "W" Stands For "Wow"
One week ago, our President was schmoozing in Nashville, TN, the glitzy, trailer-park home of Country, when a question about music surprised him:
Q: Mr. President, music is one of our largest exports the country has. Currently, every country in the world -- except China, Iran, North Korea, Rwanda and the United States -- pay a statutory royalty to the performing artists for radio and television air play. Would your administration consider changing our laws to align it with the rest of the world?
THE PRESIDENT: Help. (Laughter.) Maybe you've never had a President say this -- I have, like, no earthly idea what you're talking about. (Laughter and applause.) Sounds like we're keeping interesting company, you know? (Laughter.)
Look, I'll give you the old classic: contact my office, will you? (Laughter.) I really don't -- I'm totally out of my lane. I like listening to country music, if that helps. (Laughter.)
Better Than "Co-lonoscopy Pie"
I heart the Wunderteam of Red State Update. Having grown up in the Hoosierland, these characters are near and dear to me. (Thank you to VideoDog!)
An Avalanche Of Books
For those of You who don't know, I've had this nasty sicko thing going on for quite a while now; I haven't been able to sing for 4 weeks, and am due to perform next week. Being the Neurotic Singer that I am, I went straight to the doc, who then confined me to vocal rest for the next few days. She also assigned steroids, enough that I might have to start waxing my chest.
In the meantime, I thought now might be a nice bit of time to, je ne sais pas, actually blather in my Blatherscope. So here goes: BOOKS!!!!
1. True History of the Kelly Gang by Peter Carey--Cutting to the chase, I adored this book. This is very close to that most illusive of all art-forms: a Perfect Book. Winner of the 2001 Booker Prize, Carey gives us Lucky Readers the "autobiography" of 19th-century Australia's most notorious outlaw, Ned Kelly. Accounting his life for his baby daughter, Ned begins, "I lost my own father at 12 yr. of age and know what it is to be raised on lies and silences my dear daughter you are presently too young to understand a word I write but this history is for you and will contain no single lie may I burn in Hell if I speak false." Carey sweeps the Reader away in the wonderfully athletic language, phrasing, and punctuation (or lack thereof) of a man on the run because of following his own honor. At the age of 14 1/2, Ned is arrested:
"Did I know he [the constable] asked me what were the penalty if I were convicted.
No.
It is death by hanging you little eff.[*]
Many more times would death be pronounced over me but on this 1st occasion I were least prepared I could hear some boys playing cricket in the yard across the road also the regular chink chink chink of a nearby blacksmith at his forge. My legs must of give way beneath me but I didnt realise I were sitting down till I felt the crib's cold hard cleats behind my knees.
Then I heard the mongrel laugh I couldn't see him properly no more than the white of his teeth the reflection in his big bug eyes but as he laughed I knew him weak and thus were comforted."
Carey, however, packages his narrative in documentary detachment, describing each of Ned's "parcels" (conveniently used as chapter divisions) of writing scraps by type of paper used, presumed writing utensil, and how (if) it was bound, followed by a brief, clinical summation of the parcel's contents. "PARCEL ONE: His Life until the Age of 12. National Bank letterhead....There are 45 sheets of medium stock (8"x10" approx.) with stabholes near the top where at one time they were crudely bound....Contains accounts of his early relations with police including an accusation of transvestism....A story explaining the origins of the sash presently held by the Benalla Historical Society. Death of John Kelly." Other "documents" form the untitled pro- and epilogues, giving the epistles the surreal tinge of bureaucratic filing, adding a thick sense of horror to how government deals with life.
An amazing feat of fiction. But be sure to brush up on your Australian slang:)
2. The Worst Hard Time by Timothy Egan--Haunting, infuriating, passionate, inspiring: this is the story of The Dust Bowl, those who survived it, and those who did not. Egan's heartrending prose justly earned him the National Book Award for non-fiction last year. This book was humbling--how could I not know about this disaster? I mean, I knew It was a part of The Great Depression (from which we are less than 80 years removed, Blatherscopians!), I knew some of America's land was extra dusty for a while, and I knew John Steinbeck wrote his searing The Grapes Of Wrath ** about a family escaping from It, but....I had no idea the magnitude of the actual disaster; I am appalled and in awe. "A Sunday in mid-April 1935 dawned quiet, windless, and bright. In the afternoon, the sky went purple--as if it were sick--and the temperature plunged. People looked northwest and saw a ragged-topped formation on the move, covering the horizon. The air crackled with electricity. Snap. Snap. Snap. Birds screeched and dashed for cover. As the black wall approached, car radios clicked off, overwhelmed by the static. Ignitions shorted out. Waves of sand, like ocean water rising over a ship's prow, swept over roads. Cars went into ditches. A train derailed....
That was Black Sunday, April 14, 1935, day of the worst duster of them all. The storm carried twice as much dirt as was dug out of the earth to create the Panama Canal. The canal took seven years to dig; the storm lasted a single afternoon. More than 300,000 tons of Great Plains topsoil was airborne that day."
The story of The Dust Bowl is Homeric tragedy: how Human Ingenuity turned to Hubris and stripped millions of acres of earth bare within two generations; the earth has just to recover as thousands of acres of the former Great Plains remain a drifting desert of sand. Oh....ARG!!! There are so many amazing parts of this history, but I don't want to spoil any of it. This book is both Good and Important (how often do those two adjectives coincide, eh?); I highly recommend it (on the High-O-Meter, it gets an 11/11).
Exclamation point!
Aww, crap, I have to leave for rehearsal soon. I will continue with the Avalanche of Books when I return. Until then, gentle Readers, meditate on balloon animals. Or whatever.
*Because the memoir is writing for his daughter, Ned refuses to use the actual swear words; instead, he says things like, "Get away from my adjectival horse, you b------d!" His faithfulness to this convention endeared him to me--that bit of stubborn protection made the character all the more human.
**Steinbeck's masterpiece has recently been turned into an opera by Ricky Ian Gordon. And I cannot believe it is any good--Steinbeck's story is already operatic, it doesn't need the extra schmaltz of Gordon's over-cooked melodies. Gordon is essentially a Musical Theater composer who wishes he had the grandiose vision for opera--but he doesn't.
In the meantime, I thought now might be a nice bit of time to, je ne sais pas, actually blather in my Blatherscope. So here goes: BOOKS!!!!
1. True History of the Kelly Gang by Peter Carey--Cutting to the chase, I adored this book. This is very close to that most illusive of all art-forms: a Perfect Book. Winner of the 2001 Booker Prize, Carey gives us Lucky Readers the "autobiography" of 19th-century Australia's most notorious outlaw, Ned Kelly. Accounting his life for his baby daughter, Ned begins, "I lost my own father at 12 yr. of age and know what it is to be raised on lies and silences my dear daughter you are presently too young to understand a word I write but this history is for you and will contain no single lie may I burn in Hell if I speak false." Carey sweeps the Reader away in the wonderfully athletic language, phrasing, and punctuation (or lack thereof) of a man on the run because of following his own honor. At the age of 14 1/2, Ned is arrested:
"Did I know he [the constable] asked me what were the penalty if I were convicted.
No.
It is death by hanging you little eff.[*]
Many more times would death be pronounced over me but on this 1st occasion I were least prepared I could hear some boys playing cricket in the yard across the road also the regular chink chink chink of a nearby blacksmith at his forge. My legs must of give way beneath me but I didnt realise I were sitting down till I felt the crib's cold hard cleats behind my knees.
Then I heard the mongrel laugh I couldn't see him properly no more than the white of his teeth the reflection in his big bug eyes but as he laughed I knew him weak and thus were comforted."
Carey, however, packages his narrative in documentary detachment, describing each of Ned's "parcels" (conveniently used as chapter divisions) of writing scraps by type of paper used, presumed writing utensil, and how (if) it was bound, followed by a brief, clinical summation of the parcel's contents. "PARCEL ONE: His Life until the Age of 12. National Bank letterhead....There are 45 sheets of medium stock (8"x10" approx.) with stabholes near the top where at one time they were crudely bound....Contains accounts of his early relations with police including an accusation of transvestism....A story explaining the origins of the sash presently held by the Benalla Historical Society. Death of John Kelly." Other "documents" form the untitled pro- and epilogues, giving the epistles the surreal tinge of bureaucratic filing, adding a thick sense of horror to how government deals with life.
An amazing feat of fiction. But be sure to brush up on your Australian slang:)
2. The Worst Hard Time by Timothy Egan--Haunting, infuriating, passionate, inspiring: this is the story of The Dust Bowl, those who survived it, and those who did not. Egan's heartrending prose justly earned him the National Book Award for non-fiction last year. This book was humbling--how could I not know about this disaster? I mean, I knew It was a part of The Great Depression (from which we are less than 80 years removed, Blatherscopians!), I knew some of America's land was extra dusty for a while, and I knew John Steinbeck wrote his searing The Grapes Of Wrath ** about a family escaping from It, but....I had no idea the magnitude of the actual disaster; I am appalled and in awe. "A Sunday in mid-April 1935 dawned quiet, windless, and bright. In the afternoon, the sky went purple--as if it were sick--and the temperature plunged. People looked northwest and saw a ragged-topped formation on the move, covering the horizon. The air crackled with electricity. Snap. Snap. Snap. Birds screeched and dashed for cover. As the black wall approached, car radios clicked off, overwhelmed by the static. Ignitions shorted out. Waves of sand, like ocean water rising over a ship's prow, swept over roads. Cars went into ditches. A train derailed....
That was Black Sunday, April 14, 1935, day of the worst duster of them all. The storm carried twice as much dirt as was dug out of the earth to create the Panama Canal. The canal took seven years to dig; the storm lasted a single afternoon. More than 300,000 tons of Great Plains topsoil was airborne that day."
The story of The Dust Bowl is Homeric tragedy: how Human Ingenuity turned to Hubris and stripped millions of acres of earth bare within two generations; the earth has just to recover as thousands of acres of the former Great Plains remain a drifting desert of sand. Oh....ARG!!! There are so many amazing parts of this history, but I don't want to spoil any of it. This book is both Good and Important (how often do those two adjectives coincide, eh?); I highly recommend it (on the High-O-Meter, it gets an 11/11).
Exclamation point!
Aww, crap, I have to leave for rehearsal soon. I will continue with the Avalanche of Books when I return. Until then, gentle Readers, meditate on balloon animals. Or whatever.
*Because the memoir is writing for his daughter, Ned refuses to use the actual swear words; instead, he says things like, "Get away from my adjectival horse, you b------d!" His faithfulness to this convention endeared him to me--that bit of stubborn protection made the character all the more human.
**Steinbeck's masterpiece has recently been turned into an opera by Ricky Ian Gordon. And I cannot believe it is any good--Steinbeck's story is already operatic, it doesn't need the extra schmaltz of Gordon's over-cooked melodies. Gordon is essentially a Musical Theater composer who wishes he had the grandiose vision for opera--but he doesn't.
Monday, July 23, 2007
Debussy Lives!
Arguably the ONLY Impressionist composer, Claude Debussy (1862-1918) created scads of heavily notated and editorialized works. Yet like so many hypocrites (and I mean You!), it turns out he did not Practice What He Preached. Tsk, tsk, Monsieur. Je ne comprends pas pourquoi on écritons la musique que on ne voulons pas suivre. Bien, c'est l'emploi de l'imagination, n'est-ce pas?
Sunday, July 22, 2007
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