I Dig My Yard!

No, seriously: I am digging my yard. The previous owners left a stunted jumble of grass, mis-matched stepping stones, river rock, shale rock, a mold-covered wood pile, wood chips mixed into the grass and shale, and the whole shee-bang was rimmed with railroad ties. Oh, and 3-3' strange metal poles cemented into the ground.

Thanks to the miracles of a Craig's List posting, total strangers came to grab all the railroad ties and river rock their grubby little trucks could carry. It is amazing what people will do when you put the word "free" in front of Crap. It was sooo easy*, I got lulled into thinking this whole re-landscaping project would be easy. Ha!

One of the exciting things I've discovered: the bed of shale rock/wood chips is supported by old miscellaneous stones sunken in mud. Who knows what else lurks beneath the bedraggled surface of my yard? It's an adventure! A really hot, sweaty, muddy, groady, blister-making adventure.

*But occasionally annoying. I received more than 300 phone calls in a week and a half--it's a good thing I specified calling hours (9am-9pm), otherwise WHO KNOWS what ungodly hours I would have heard the phone ring.

You Have Been Listening To...

...The sound of one hand clapping. In a forest. With chickens. Or eggs (we're not really sure which).

Pausa e fini, certo.

La Recipe Du Jour

How To Cook A Conductor*

INGREDIENTS

1 large conductor, or two small assistant conductors
Ketchup
Crisco or other solid vegetable shortening (lard may be used)
26 large garlic cloves
1 cask cheap wine
1 lb. alfalfa sprouts
2 lbs. assorted yuppie food, such as tofu or yogurt
1 abused orchestra

First, catch a conductor. Remove tail and horns. Carefully separate the large ego and reserve for sauce. Remove any batons, pencils (on permanent loan from the Principal Second Violin), long articulations and discard. Remove the hearing aid and discard (it's useless as it never really worked anyway).

Examine your conductor carefully - many of them are mostly large intestine. If you have such a conductor, you will have to discard it and catch another. Clean the conductor as you would a squid, but do not separate the tentacles from the body. If you have an older conductor, such as one from a major symphony orchestra or summer music festival, you may wish to tenderize by pounding the conductor on a rock with timpani mallets or by smashing the conductor between two large cymbals.

Next, pour 1/2 of the cask of wine into a bath tub and soak the conductor in the wine for at least 12 hours (Exceptions: British, German and some Canadian Conductors have a natural beery taste which some people like and the wine might not marry well with this flavor. Use your judgment.)

When the conductor is sufficiently marinated, rub conductor all over with the garlic. Then cover your conductor with the Crisco using vague, slow circular motions. Take care to cover every inch of the conductor's body with the shortening. If this looks like fun, you can cover yourself with Crisco too, removing clothes first.

Next, take your orchestra and put as much music out as the stands will hold without falling over, and make sure that there are lots of really loud passages for everyone: big loud chords for the winds and brass, and lots and lots of tremolos for the strings. (Bruckner might be appropriate). Rehearse these passages several times, making certain that the brass and winds are always playing as loud as they can and the strings are tremolo-ing at their highest speed. This should ensure adequate heat for cooking your conductor. If not, insist on taking every repeat and be sure to add the second repeats in really large symphonies. Ideally, you should choose your repertoire to have as many repeats as possible, but if you have a piece with no repeats in it at all, just add some, claiming that you have seen the original, and there was an ink blot there that looked like a repeat to you and had obviously been missed by every other fool who had looked at this score. If taking all the repeats does not generate sufficient heat, burn the complete set of score and parts to all of the Bruckner symphonies which should do the trick.

When the heat has died down to that of a medium inferno, place your conductor on top of your orchestra (they won't mind as they are used to it) until it is well tanned, the hair turns back to its natural color and all of the fat has dripped out. Be careful not to overcook or your conductor could end up tasting like stuffed ham.

Make a sauce by combining ego, sprouts, and ketchup to taste, placing it all in the blender and pureeing until smooth. If the ego is bitter, sweeten with honey to taste. Slice your conductor as you would any turkey. Serve accompanied by the assorted yuppie food and the remaining wine with the sauce on the side.

WARNING: Due to environmental toxins present in conductor feeding areas, such as heavy metals, oily residue from intensive PR machinery manufacture, and extraordinarily high concentrations of E.coli, cryptosporidium, and other hazardous organisms associated with animal wastes, the Departments for conductor Decimation (DCD) recommend that the consumption of conductors be limited to one per season. Overconsumption of conductors has been implicated in the epidemiology of a virulent condition known as "Bataan fever." Symptoms of this disorder include swelling of the brain, spasms in the extremities, auditory hallucinations, excessive longevity, and delusions of competence.

*Copied from Sounds & Fury.

Sexy 6

Today is the sixth commemoration of the date upon which Hubbers and I were Eternally United.

So far, so good.

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

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.

Hmmm....

Read. Discuss.

Fuzzy Math

Isn't this kind of math just as comforting as a new puppy?
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.

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.

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.

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?

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.

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.

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!)