Every morning I take a shower. Not just because I want to be nice to be near, but even more because if I don't, my hair (what there is left) stands out in all directions and flatly refuses to lie flat. This gives me the "gray hedgehog" appearance that reminds me of Dagwood, or even worse, of a porcupine in full fright.
Every morning, I find myself singing little snippets of whatever I can remember of songs from various artists. I have read that the reason we sing in the shower is that as the water droplets are forced through the shower head, they create negative ions much in the way that waves crashing upon a beach result in a freshness that you can feel in the air. You can't help yourself. You feel like singing!
Of course, another reason may be the acoustics. The shower produces white noise, which muffles the whiny overtones in my morning voice, and convinces me that I could have had a career in the music industry if only I could have vanquished the stage fright.
Last week, it was Stompin' Tom Connors. More particularly, it was the lines:
"Tonight I'm due to bushwhack Sue
And take her to the Gumboot Cloggeroo
And do a little gumboot cloggin' (repeat 3)"
This week, Joni Mitchell :
"Don't it always seem to go
That you don't know what you've got till it's gone?
You pave paradise, put up a parking lot."
You might think it would more thematically appropriate to sing something like "Singin' in the Rain" or "Gonna wash that man right outta my hair". But you'd be wrong. Why? Because I don't decide consciously what to sing. It just happens, the way dreams happen.
I don't choose what I sing with this in mind. Like dreams, the mental pictures come to me, and I respond to them, not even knowing why I sing what I sing, or even why I sing.
It would be interesting to hear the songs that emanate from other people's shower stalls, if this theory has any substance to it, and then compare their selections with how they coped with their day.
I think the Stompin' Tom song may have been calibrating some purpose or goal that I wanted to accomplish that day, but since I don't remember which day it was, my theory remains unproven.
The Joni Mitchell is different. I had seen her on YouTube a couple of days back, and the lines I quoted above were apparently the ones that stuck with me.
Perhaps it was a reflection that as an Old Guy My Age, I'm not maybe quite as appreciative of people as you might think I should be for an Old Guy My Age. That thought percolated for a couple of days until it suddenly popped out on the Morning Shower Mantra Show.
So if there's anything to it, I plan to listen to my musical selections with a little more intention. Who knows? Someday I might be vocalizing a refrain from the Moody Blues , like:
"I've decided to do what I can and to find the kind of man I really am."
And then maybe that very same day, I'll find me!
Footnote: Do dreams have a purpose?
Tuesday, January 30, 2007
Monday, January 29, 2007
This idea's a sleeper!
FINALLY! They’re recommending that you take a nap at work. Man! I’ve been saying this for ages, ever since I turned 40. In fact, some days I’ve been able to put it into practice.
I’ve considered dotting my closed eyelids with a big marking pen so I’d look more awake at meetings, but everyone knows I have eyes of different colors, so that would never work.
Of course, what they want is greater productivity. Well, maybe. But I’d settle for the memory benefits. Like being able to remember what it was I was going to do before I went to sleep.
People who work with computers have an obvious advantage over those who work in public service at a library information desk. And it’s unfair. If you’re a computer programmer, you can sit in front of a monitor for hours at a time without moving anything more significant than your index finger. It was programmers who invented the BOSS key, which is a shortcut that flips up a spreadsheet or something that looks like you're really busy as the boss goes by.
But that doesn’t do you much good if you’re in REM. So they came up with the timed boss key that allows you to set a timer so that your computer is browsing even though you are snoozing.
None of this subtle subterfuge would be necessary if employers were to read the news article above before it disappears (although Google or the Internet Archive will likely keep it around).And for my colleagues on the Information Desk: Brace yourselves! Try these ! That way you won’t fall backwards when you doze off.
Sunday, January 28, 2007
Architectural conservancy
The house of the future will not need a kitchen
Since kitchens are places where people make meals,
And life is so fast now that people are switching
To restaurants, fast food and two-for-one deals.
Gone are the vignettes of Mom at the sink,
Scraping the carrots and slicing the beets
For now all you need is an internet link
And you get to go out for those homestyle cooked treats.
Follow those links to find special cuisine
Or take-outs that take merely minutes to serve
Or new, unknown bistros where no one has been
So you can be first, and ahead of the curve.
The fridge is unneeded except for your beer.
Your stove? Toss it out! It’s irrelevant now,
But you might need the microwave if you are here
To heat up your leftover restaurant chow.
Friends coming over? There’s a deli nearby.
You’ll have nothing to wash when the party is done.
Up early? Give donuts and coffee a try:
If the waistline’s an issue, remember… just one!
You’ll be doing a favor for those who depend
On consumers at drive-ins who eat in their cars
By closing your kitchen and taking your friend
To sample the goodies at diners and bars.
“Where’s for dinner,” must now be your rallying cry
As you scour the web for the less well-known venue,
And ferret out places and dishes to try
To understand every french phrase on the menu.
“Kitchen’s closed!” is the sign of a new generation.
For kitchens date back to when choices were few;
When a drought meant a time of severe deprivation,
When the veggies were local and farmers were too.
Since kitchens are places where people make meals,
And life is so fast now that people are switching
To restaurants, fast food and two-for-one deals.
Gone are the vignettes of Mom at the sink,
Scraping the carrots and slicing the beets
For now all you need is an internet link
And you get to go out for those homestyle cooked treats.
Follow those links to find special cuisine
Or take-outs that take merely minutes to serve
Or new, unknown bistros where no one has been
So you can be first, and ahead of the curve.
The fridge is unneeded except for your beer.
Your stove? Toss it out! It’s irrelevant now,
But you might need the microwave if you are here
To heat up your leftover restaurant chow.
Friends coming over? There’s a deli nearby.
You’ll have nothing to wash when the party is done.
Up early? Give donuts and coffee a try:
If the waistline’s an issue, remember… just one!
You’ll be doing a favor for those who depend
On consumers at drive-ins who eat in their cars
By closing your kitchen and taking your friend
To sample the goodies at diners and bars.
“Where’s for dinner,” must now be your rallying cry
As you scour the web for the less well-known venue,
And ferret out places and dishes to try
To understand every french phrase on the menu.
“Kitchen’s closed!” is the sign of a new generation.
For kitchens date back to when choices were few;
When a drought meant a time of severe deprivation,
When the veggies were local and farmers were too.
Saturday, January 27, 2007
We need more music and less noise.
The current evolution of the World Wide Web, popularly known as Web 2.0, is all about collaboration. There are new ways of using the new technology that weren't possible before the development of new programs such as Ajax and Active-X.
The days when authoring internet content was limited to those who knew how to write HTML code are behind us. The first stage was the development of forms: scripts that allowed a web page to actually collect responses to surveys and guestbooks and the like. The next major breakthrough was the invention of the weblog, which obviated the need to be an HTML expert in order to express yourself. And then, we had the collaborative weblog, where groups can post entries, not just comments in response to one person's blog.
Email groups have a long history. But then email is still the next biggest use of the web, right up there after spam. And there came the Open Source movement, through which amazingly useful and complex programs are written by people who do it for the love of it, and for the challenge of fixing problems in each other's code. This resulted, for example, in OpenOffice, a free Microsoft-compatible office suite, and several others of the type.
Under Web 2.0, though, office programs are migrating to the web. Microsoft may be planning to lease its next release, but the competition is free, and so is the storage space.
We hardly need to mention Google, do we? But you can look at Google Labs for insights into what is coming under Web 2.0. And let's not forget internet telephony and free calls to any internet-connected person in the world, and online video webcams.
Web 2.0 is most notable for social networking, with all its joys and perils. The internet dating services that charge for their meet market activities are not in danger yet, but through services like YouTube and the many photo sites, it is a simple matter to identify things to do, places to go and people to see. Meetups are common: people get to know each other before they attend one. The blind date is eliminated by the webcam.
Not too many years back was Napster where music was a steal. Then came MP3.com, a place where you could find any kind of music you love, for free, but also a place that got sued out of existence because of a copyright slipup. It's back, but there's not much there for The Old Guy's taste.
MySpace started out as a place for independent bands to store and serve their music, although now it has become something of a voyeur's paradise, but still, it attracts musicians and filmmakers and audiences of many kinds. Many artists get recording contracts as a result of this exposure.
Soundclick and Live365 and Last.FM and Freeplay and Shoutcast are just a few of the new sites that provide music. Pandora is unique in the way they try to discern what kind of music you like from the kind you play, thereby introducing you to new stuff that won't jar you, but that you might like to investigate (and potentially, of course, buy).
Gnod is a site that doesn't actually play what you suggest, but uses an interactive graphic approach to mapping the universe of music that begins when you enter one title you like. It plays music for your when you become part of its social network, by signing up.
Thus the web has become a place where you can expand your particular universe to include things that expand your universe.
We need more music. We need more harmony. And who but we ourselves can be the musicians? With Web 2.0 we are also the producers, distributors and customers. But that's not a new thing. It's just a different way of being present.
Yehudi Menuhin said that the purpose of music is essentially to entune us to the vibrations of the universe. Deep in us there must be an Essential Tuning Fork: the perfect pitch that keeps us centered and able to recognize that harmony in others. We speak of "overtones" as a negative, as in "there were overtones of mistrust in his remarks", but it is the overtones that create the unique timbre of a sound. You can distinguish a harp from a flute by their overtones, subtle vibrations that are created even as the universe is moved by our own moving.
The days when authoring internet content was limited to those who knew how to write HTML code are behind us. The first stage was the development of forms: scripts that allowed a web page to actually collect responses to surveys and guestbooks and the like. The next major breakthrough was the invention of the weblog, which obviated the need to be an HTML expert in order to express yourself. And then, we had the collaborative weblog, where groups can post entries, not just comments in response to one person's blog.
Email groups have a long history. But then email is still the next biggest use of the web, right up there after spam. And there came the Open Source movement, through which amazingly useful and complex programs are written by people who do it for the love of it, and for the challenge of fixing problems in each other's code. This resulted, for example, in OpenOffice, a free Microsoft-compatible office suite, and several others of the type.
Under Web 2.0, though, office programs are migrating to the web. Microsoft may be planning to lease its next release, but the competition is free, and so is the storage space.
We hardly need to mention Google, do we? But you can look at Google Labs for insights into what is coming under Web 2.0. And let's not forget internet telephony and free calls to any internet-connected person in the world, and online video webcams.
Web 2.0 is most notable for social networking, with all its joys and perils. The internet dating services that charge for their meet market activities are not in danger yet, but through services like YouTube and the many photo sites, it is a simple matter to identify things to do, places to go and people to see. Meetups are common: people get to know each other before they attend one. The blind date is eliminated by the webcam.
Not too many years back was Napster where music was a steal. Then came MP3.com, a place where you could find any kind of music you love, for free, but also a place that got sued out of existence because of a copyright slipup. It's back, but there's not much there for The Old Guy's taste.
MySpace started out as a place for independent bands to store and serve their music, although now it has become something of a voyeur's paradise, but still, it attracts musicians and filmmakers and audiences of many kinds. Many artists get recording contracts as a result of this exposure.
Soundclick and Live365 and Last.FM and Freeplay and Shoutcast are just a few of the new sites that provide music. Pandora is unique in the way they try to discern what kind of music you like from the kind you play, thereby introducing you to new stuff that won't jar you, but that you might like to investigate (and potentially, of course, buy).
Gnod is a site that doesn't actually play what you suggest, but uses an interactive graphic approach to mapping the universe of music that begins when you enter one title you like. It plays music for your when you become part of its social network, by signing up.
Thus the web has become a place where you can expand your particular universe to include things that expand your universe.
We need more music. We need more harmony. And who but we ourselves can be the musicians? With Web 2.0 we are also the producers, distributors and customers. But that's not a new thing. It's just a different way of being present.
Yehudi Menuhin said that the purpose of music is essentially to entune us to the vibrations of the universe. Deep in us there must be an Essential Tuning Fork: the perfect pitch that keeps us centered and able to recognize that harmony in others. We speak of "overtones" as a negative, as in "there were overtones of mistrust in his remarks", but it is the overtones that create the unique timbre of a sound. You can distinguish a harp from a flute by their overtones, subtle vibrations that are created even as the universe is moved by our own moving.
Thursday, January 25, 2007
Porch: chance to dream
Older Brother (OB) and I used to sleep on the back porch in the humid nights of Toronto summers. This remarkable sanctuary was build of flagstone and cement up to about three feet, with a wide cement top along the tops. On top of this, Dad framed up 2 by 4s to hold screen and storm windows, and over the top he put stringers of the same to hold a slanted roof.
The whole area was just big enough to accommodate a couple of rollaway beds, and a small kitchen table and wooden chairs. Over time, a huge wisteria vine covered the side of the porch that faced our next door neighbor, thus affording beautiful and fragrant privacy in the spring of the year.
Dad put rolling blinds at the top of each window, but it was more fun to leave them up when we crawled into bed. That way, our eyes had access to the moon and our imaginations to the shadows. There was a huge Manitoba maple tree right along the fence line, overhanging the porch. Under the right conditions, the swaying branches would scrape the porch roof, leading us to snuggle further into our respective coverings (usually kapok-filled sleeping bags) for safety.
Occasionally a plane would drone overhead and the odd car would come to the stop sign at the corner and then move on. Sometimes we would hear someone talking almost inaudibly, and no amount of ear-straining would allow comprehension. For a couple of summers, a bullfrog croaked under the lilypads in the fishpond in our back yard. Dad had captured the big fellow while its mind was on something else, and brought it back from the cottage to keep the goldfish company.
Funny, though. I can't remember any conversations that the OB and I had, although we must have talked. Put two children, even five years apart, into a private room with that much audio-visual diversion, and they're bound to talk. But I do remember the pleasure of just being there together instead of the winter-bound stuffy upstairs of our one and a half storey house.
We did many things together. We read under the covers by flashlight. We climbed up onto the shed roof of our garage and leaped down into what eventually became a raspberry bed. In later years, we performed gymnastic moves on tumbling mats that Dad produced from somewhere (possibly cast off from the school where he taught). Where? From the livingroom into the diningroom, of course.
When Dad finally bought a heavy slate pool table for the basement, it quickly became a family tradition to leave the Mum with the dishes and head to the basement for a game of Boston before it was time to do homework. In our defense, I should point out that in those days, the pool game was often delayed as Dad washed the dishes, and Mum dried, so she was not totally abandoned, but drying took longer. She didn't seem all that interested in pool. Domestic arrangements by Jack Sprat.
I was reading today in the NY Times about families on the Upper East Side of New York who have their children driven by chauffeured S.U.V.s to their preschools and kindergartens, and how this is creating traffic jams as the hired drivers double-park to let the little dears descend from their carriages.
Yes, I would have enjoyed being chauffeured, but then, we lived right across the street from our public school, so early on that taught us the virtues of depending on our own two feet to carry us ever forward. We were NEVER late. How could we be? We were the offspring of two teachers.
The whole area was just big enough to accommodate a couple of rollaway beds, and a small kitchen table and wooden chairs. Over time, a huge wisteria vine covered the side of the porch that faced our next door neighbor, thus affording beautiful and fragrant privacy in the spring of the year.
Dad put rolling blinds at the top of each window, but it was more fun to leave them up when we crawled into bed. That way, our eyes had access to the moon and our imaginations to the shadows. There was a huge Manitoba maple tree right along the fence line, overhanging the porch. Under the right conditions, the swaying branches would scrape the porch roof, leading us to snuggle further into our respective coverings (usually kapok-filled sleeping bags) for safety.
Occasionally a plane would drone overhead and the odd car would come to the stop sign at the corner and then move on. Sometimes we would hear someone talking almost inaudibly, and no amount of ear-straining would allow comprehension. For a couple of summers, a bullfrog croaked under the lilypads in the fishpond in our back yard. Dad had captured the big fellow while its mind was on something else, and brought it back from the cottage to keep the goldfish company.
Funny, though. I can't remember any conversations that the OB and I had, although we must have talked. Put two children, even five years apart, into a private room with that much audio-visual diversion, and they're bound to talk. But I do remember the pleasure of just being there together instead of the winter-bound stuffy upstairs of our one and a half storey house.
We did many things together. We read under the covers by flashlight. We climbed up onto the shed roof of our garage and leaped down into what eventually became a raspberry bed. In later years, we performed gymnastic moves on tumbling mats that Dad produced from somewhere (possibly cast off from the school where he taught). Where? From the livingroom into the diningroom, of course.
When Dad finally bought a heavy slate pool table for the basement, it quickly became a family tradition to leave the Mum with the dishes and head to the basement for a game of Boston before it was time to do homework. In our defense, I should point out that in those days, the pool game was often delayed as Dad washed the dishes, and Mum dried, so she was not totally abandoned, but drying took longer. She didn't seem all that interested in pool. Domestic arrangements by Jack Sprat.
I was reading today in the NY Times about families on the Upper East Side of New York who have their children driven by chauffeured S.U.V.s to their preschools and kindergartens, and how this is creating traffic jams as the hired drivers double-park to let the little dears descend from their carriages.
Yes, I would have enjoyed being chauffeured, but then, we lived right across the street from our public school, so early on that taught us the virtues of depending on our own two feet to carry us ever forward. We were NEVER late. How could we be? We were the offspring of two teachers.
Monday, January 22, 2007
Dale's Cone of Experience
The Son-In-Law (SIL) and GrandDaughter #1(GC1) made a snowman yesterday. This morning when I went out, its little stick arms were pointing in abject supplication to the sky.
"Oh, please! Please! I don't wanna go!"
But by this afternoon, he had lost his head.
"Frosty the Snowman" is a hot number with GC1 right now, and since this was the first substantial snow (3 inches) and the temperature was just above freezing, conditions were ideal for making, if not keeping, a snow-person out front for at least a day.
Like so many of life's ephemeral experiences, the fun is in the making, not the keeping. For example:
Back when we had a cottage in the lake country of Ontario and a couple of grandmothers we lugged around with us, the pair of them would go into battle over generosity.
"I'll pay for the ice cream this time, " said one.
"I won't hear tell of it, " argued the other. "It's my turn."
And so on.
On this one hot trip to the north woods, we pulled in to a gas station (now known as a "service center") and while the car was being refueled, Dad went in to get ice cream for all of us. When he came out and began to distribute the goods, the standard rivalry arose.
While the grannies rummaged in their purses to beat each other to the reimbursement, one held her cone out at an odd angle with one hand.
Did I forget to mention the dog? Oh, darn. I never could tell a story right. Anyway, up jumped the family pet, and scored the big white ball on top.
By the time Granny recovered her senses and realized that her moment of generosity had cost her her moment of refreshment, the ice cream was visiting the kibble.
I forget whether Dad went back and got her a replacement. It seems unlikely because Granny would have been a little reluctant to shell out for a second treat (even though in those days it would have cost less than 25 cents for a substantial serving). These dear old ladies were all too familiar with the boom and bust cycle of the 20s and 30s, and would have thought twice about wasting money on themselves.
These are the moments in which family legends are born. Depending on which Granny it was, the story would get retold with either humor or denial. But there was no denying that the family dog came out a winner.
P.S. If you draw a blank with the title of this post, look here. I'll guarantee that Granny remembered at least 90% of what she did that time.
"Oh, please! Please! I don't wanna go!"
But by this afternoon, he had lost his head.
"Frosty the Snowman" is a hot number with GC1 right now, and since this was the first substantial snow (3 inches) and the temperature was just above freezing, conditions were ideal for making, if not keeping, a snow-person out front for at least a day.
Like so many of life's ephemeral experiences, the fun is in the making, not the keeping. For example:
Back when we had a cottage in the lake country of Ontario and a couple of grandmothers we lugged around with us, the pair of them would go into battle over generosity.
"I'll pay for the ice cream this time, " said one.
"I won't hear tell of it, " argued the other. "It's my turn."
And so on.
On this one hot trip to the north woods, we pulled in to a gas station (now known as a "service center") and while the car was being refueled, Dad went in to get ice cream for all of us. When he came out and began to distribute the goods, the standard rivalry arose.
While the grannies rummaged in their purses to beat each other to the reimbursement, one held her cone out at an odd angle with one hand.
Did I forget to mention the dog? Oh, darn. I never could tell a story right. Anyway, up jumped the family pet, and scored the big white ball on top.
By the time Granny recovered her senses and realized that her moment of generosity had cost her her moment of refreshment, the ice cream was visiting the kibble.
I forget whether Dad went back and got her a replacement. It seems unlikely because Granny would have been a little reluctant to shell out for a second treat (even though in those days it would have cost less than 25 cents for a substantial serving). These dear old ladies were all too familiar with the boom and bust cycle of the 20s and 30s, and would have thought twice about wasting money on themselves.
These are the moments in which family legends are born. Depending on which Granny it was, the story would get retold with either humor or denial. But there was no denying that the family dog came out a winner.
P.S. If you draw a blank with the title of this post, look here. I'll guarantee that Granny remembered at least 90% of what she did that time.
Sunday, January 21, 2007
Is this thing on?
When I lived in Leaside, a patch of Toronto on the north-east side, I once strung a tin-can telephone across to the neighbour's kid's house, and we talked shouted at each other from the upstairs windows. We seldom actually got to see the kids next door, partly because their house was on the corner. We had no common views except across from the bathroom and bedroom windows 14 feet above the driveway.
Of course it wasn't difficult to understand the party to whom you were connected over this primitive instrument. The clarity came from the volume it took to speak into the can: you could be heard without using the device anyway. But that did not diminish our pleasure in pretending to hear by holding the can up. When you wanted to talk, you took the can away from your ear, which the other person (15 feet away) would notice and stop talking. Positions were changed, and you had your say.
Today I had the pleasure of a free conversation with my younger son (YS) who lives in western Canada. We talked for an hour and ten minutes about this and that, sharing a common interest in all things technological.
We used Skype, a free Internet telephony program that uses peer-to-peer networking to provide crystal-clear communication. Recently, they added video. YS has a Mac computer with a built-in video (eyeball) camera. Since I don't, it was two-way audio and one-way video.
I was thrilled by the quality of the video. I can't remember when the last time was that I saw YS, but today there he was, older, more mature, and definitely better looking than The Old Guy. And since the camera is almost at eye level, it gave me the distinct impression of being there in the room with him.
Everything was so natural. It seemed as though we were just picking up where we left off. Well, at least he was picking up his laundry, actually, and putting it in the washer, thanks to an exceptionally long headset cord.
I now have made a strong resolution that when I have a chance this week, I'm off to buy one of these miraculous little eyeballs and affix it firmly to my monitor, so that, for better or worse, he can see me when we Skype.
Back in the day, when YS was nearly brand new, we had a video camera that I bought used from some person who had moved up from it to a better, lighter model. This thing weighed at least 10 pounds, had a black & white viewfinder and a battery that lasted for a full half hour after charging for twelve. If you moved too fast, or your subject did, the image would be blurred and cloudy. The color was weak and pastel, which was a great disappointment to those of us who had grown up with the exotic reds and mystic blues of Kodachrome movie film. But it had what no other of my previous film gear had: sound!
The camera recorded some amazing times, including first days at school, birthday parties and the secular and the sacred. Eventually it was superceded by an S-VHS subcompact camera that boasted a much clearer picture. In a few years, it too was relegated to a cupboard, and since there were no moving objects (kids) to record, it was replaced by a digital still camera.
It seems to me that the web-based camera is the ideal marriage of both technologies. My sons and I are older now, separated by considerable linear geography, but still having many things in common.
It was good to see YS, and perhaps in the not too distant future I will see OS again, when he gets his gear working. In fact, I bet that even if we all lived next door to each other, we'd use webcams to communicate. Except on special occasions, like when the power was off.
Of course it wasn't difficult to understand the party to whom you were connected over this primitive instrument. The clarity came from the volume it took to speak into the can: you could be heard without using the device anyway. But that did not diminish our pleasure in pretending to hear by holding the can up. When you wanted to talk, you took the can away from your ear, which the other person (15 feet away) would notice and stop talking. Positions were changed, and you had your say.
Today I had the pleasure of a free conversation with my younger son (YS) who lives in western Canada. We talked for an hour and ten minutes about this and that, sharing a common interest in all things technological.
We used Skype, a free Internet telephony program that uses peer-to-peer networking to provide crystal-clear communication. Recently, they added video. YS has a Mac computer with a built-in video (eyeball) camera. Since I don't, it was two-way audio and one-way video.
I was thrilled by the quality of the video. I can't remember when the last time was that I saw YS, but today there he was, older, more mature, and definitely better looking than The Old Guy. And since the camera is almost at eye level, it gave me the distinct impression of being there in the room with him.
Everything was so natural. It seemed as though we were just picking up where we left off. Well, at least he was picking up his laundry, actually, and putting it in the washer, thanks to an exceptionally long headset cord.
I now have made a strong resolution that when I have a chance this week, I'm off to buy one of these miraculous little eyeballs and affix it firmly to my monitor, so that, for better or worse, he can see me when we Skype.
Back in the day, when YS was nearly brand new, we had a video camera that I bought used from some person who had moved up from it to a better, lighter model. This thing weighed at least 10 pounds, had a black & white viewfinder and a battery that lasted for a full half hour after charging for twelve. If you moved too fast, or your subject did, the image would be blurred and cloudy. The color was weak and pastel, which was a great disappointment to those of us who had grown up with the exotic reds and mystic blues of Kodachrome movie film. But it had what no other of my previous film gear had: sound!
The camera recorded some amazing times, including first days at school, birthday parties and the secular and the sacred. Eventually it was superceded by an S-VHS subcompact camera that boasted a much clearer picture. In a few years, it too was relegated to a cupboard, and since there were no moving objects (kids) to record, it was replaced by a digital still camera.
It seems to me that the web-based camera is the ideal marriage of both technologies. My sons and I are older now, separated by considerable linear geography, but still having many things in common.
It was good to see YS, and perhaps in the not too distant future I will see OS again, when he gets his gear working. In fact, I bet that even if we all lived next door to each other, we'd use webcams to communicate. Except on special occasions, like when the power was off.
Saturday, January 20, 2007
To sleep, perchance to dream
Every fall in Alaska the grizzlies gather along the McNeil River to participate in a banquet that they probably call "The Fillet Fest". We've all seen it on TV. Big brown bears, gorging on salmon until they can't hold any more. Soon, they go to sleep for the winter, except for the ones that can't sleep because it's too warm.
I guess I'm like that. When I go to sleep, it's usually after I've had my fill of fruits and vegetables and nuts and berries. And then I'll hibernate from about 11:30 p.m. until about 3:30 a.m. when I awake because the electric blanket is too warm. It was too cold when I started.
I think what I'm gonna try is one of those timers that lets you set multiple hours for on and off. In other words, crank the thing on at 11:00, and off at midnight. Then on at 1:00 and off at 2:00. Maybe that intermittence would cure or at least confuse whatever is in my body thermostat that makes me fluctuate into wakefulness.
Maybe if I dreamed I was a bear, watching for salmon and scooping them out and chowing down on them until I could hold no more, I'd sleep through the night, just like they sleep through the winter. But I've never been able to program my dreams. Some people can do this, and others remember (and many recount) every detail. I can't. Besides, I don't like sushi.
I think the dreams that matter are the ones you have when you are awake. They're the ones about which you can consciously say, "I have a dream..." rather than "I dreamed..."
I guess I'm like that. When I go to sleep, it's usually after I've had my fill of fruits and vegetables and nuts and berries. And then I'll hibernate from about 11:30 p.m. until about 3:30 a.m. when I awake because the electric blanket is too warm. It was too cold when I started.
I think what I'm gonna try is one of those timers that lets you set multiple hours for on and off. In other words, crank the thing on at 11:00, and off at midnight. Then on at 1:00 and off at 2:00. Maybe that intermittence would cure or at least confuse whatever is in my body thermostat that makes me fluctuate into wakefulness.
Maybe if I dreamed I was a bear, watching for salmon and scooping them out and chowing down on them until I could hold no more, I'd sleep through the night, just like they sleep through the winter. But I've never been able to program my dreams. Some people can do this, and others remember (and many recount) every detail. I can't. Besides, I don't like sushi.
I think the dreams that matter are the ones you have when you are awake. They're the ones about which you can consciously say, "I have a dream..." rather than "I dreamed..."
Friday, January 19, 2007
Growing pains
The Old Guy has many memories of a childhood spent as a younger sibling. Some of them are more enjoyable than others, for competition between unequals is always a painful thing to watch. One that springs to mind is a kind of paradigm for all the others: The Incident of the Bookcase.
Being five years older than I, the Older Brother was naturally a more capable person inmost many respects. Nevertheless, he generally tolerated the ability gap quite well and we shared our living quarters with only sporadic difficulty.
During one summer vacation, however, he decided to build a kind of bookcase/utility shelf for the area beside his bed. He found some 1-by-2 inch lumber strips from somewhere in the basement, and collected a number of identical empty cardboard boxes which I think had been used in some school Christmas-card fundraiser to hold the merchandise.
The 1-by-2s he nailed together so as to form an open vertical frame into which he dropped the empty cartons on their sides with their flaps cut off. Thus he constructed a series of five enclosed shelves. The whole unit stood about six feet tall when finished.
Placing it beside his bed, he filled it with various treasures that had hitherto occupied the floor.
Up to that time I cannot recollect having felt so visceral a pang of jealousy, but I could not help myself. I was transfixed by envy. I vowed to build a better unit than his.
For all my obsessive efforts at discovery, I could not locate similar, let alone superior pieces of wood. What proved most devastating,- the matched set of cardboard cartons had been depleted. There was only one left, which I assume he elected not to use because of his intuitive awareness of the principle of "center of gravity". (Understand, dear reader, that this was in the Jurassic Era, long before Red Green and The Handyman's Secret Weapon -- Duct Tape).
Many years later, in going through the attic, I discovered that same cupboard. This time, however, my feelings were quite different. I admired the ingenuity of its construction: light, strong, capacious and dirt cheap.
There were several other achievements by the Older Brother, appropriate to his scientific engineering curiosity and mathematical aptitude. For example, I have a picture of him standing on a ladder helping me to put rafters on a shed in Thunder Bay. He calculated the exact angles for the pitch of the roof using trigonometry. I probably would have wasted several dozen pieces of 2-by-4 in an attempt to cut matching angles by eyeball.
It's all in the perspective. A talent that once provoked jealousy now evokes admiration. Could this be a sign that I'm growing up? We can always hope.
Being five years older than I, the Older Brother was naturally a more capable person in
During one summer vacation, however, he decided to build a kind of bookcase/utility shelf for the area beside his bed. He found some 1-by-2 inch lumber strips from somewhere in the basement, and collected a number of identical empty cardboard boxes which I think had been used in some school Christmas-card fundraiser to hold the merchandise.
The 1-by-2s he nailed together so as to form an open vertical frame into which he dropped the empty cartons on their sides with their flaps cut off. Thus he constructed a series of five enclosed shelves. The whole unit stood about six feet tall when finished.
Placing it beside his bed, he filled it with various treasures that had hitherto occupied the floor.
Up to that time I cannot recollect having felt so visceral a pang of jealousy, but I could not help myself. I was transfixed by envy. I vowed to build a better unit than his.
For all my obsessive efforts at discovery, I could not locate similar, let alone superior pieces of wood. What proved most devastating,- the matched set of cardboard cartons had been depleted. There was only one left, which I assume he elected not to use because of his intuitive awareness of the principle of "center of gravity". (Understand, dear reader, that this was in the Jurassic Era, long before Red Green and The Handyman's Secret Weapon -- Duct Tape).
Many years later, in going through the attic, I discovered that same cupboard. This time, however, my feelings were quite different. I admired the ingenuity of its construction: light, strong, capacious and dirt cheap.
There were several other achievements by the Older Brother, appropriate to his scientific engineering curiosity and mathematical aptitude. For example, I have a picture of him standing on a ladder helping me to put rafters on a shed in Thunder Bay. He calculated the exact angles for the pitch of the roof using trigonometry. I probably would have wasted several dozen pieces of 2-by-4 in an attempt to cut matching angles by eyeball.It's all in the perspective. A talent that once provoked jealousy now evokes admiration. Could this be a sign that I'm growing up? We can always hope.
Wednesday, January 17, 2007
How Frank Martin killed my career
Back in Jurassic time "when I was single and life was fun" (a witty clause I owe to Paul Simon), I wanted to be a disk jockey. I phoned CHUM-FM for an audition in Toronto because they were a classical station at the time. In my youthful snobbery, I thought that any other kind of music was detrimental to human development. I also thought that I had the precision of diction and clarity of tone that would fit right in with their announcers' style.
They gave me a time and place for an audition. I arrived at the studio well in advance, and was ushered into a dingy, yellow room where Sjef Frenken was currently on air. He ultimately became a member of the CRTC, the regulatory body in Canada that governs the use of FM frequencies, but at the time was an erudite-sounding, mellow-voiced announcer, sitting across the table from me in an acoustically-isolated studio with a very large microphone and a very obvious clock on the wall.
I sat, quieter than a crypt, fearing to scratch my nose in case the act was broadcast to the world. He turned down the monitor volume and handed me a script to read while the turntable in the control room was finishing a movement of Mozart's Clarinet Concerto.
I cleared my throat and commenced to read a paragraph which seemed to be a news item out of Montreal that I had heard not too long before. My eyes caught the intentional repetition of simple words, like "the the" in the typescript, and I successfully elided them.
Sjef pointed out another paragraph, gave me a moment to scan it, and then said, "Read it!" It made no sense. It seemed to be a news item that had been garbled in transmission. I immediately faced an internal dilemma: did a news announcer read exactly what was in front of him or did he try to make sense of it? I chose the latter, and to this day cannot say whether that was the right choice.
At that point, on cue from the control room, Sjef punched up his microphone and offered a segue into the next track that would have left me gasping in admiration had it not been for my being transfixed by the ON AIR sign on the wall and feeling a stuporous obligation to be silent.
The music commenced. He moved his mic aside once more and handed me a third sheet with a playlist on it. I was to introduce these items as though they were cued up in the control room.
In my best, most mature 20-year old voice, I mellowed my way through several well-known composers. "Volfgahng Ahmohdayoos Mote-zart", I intoned, and brought all my private-school modern languages savvy to bear upon "Say-zar Frahnk".
But then it happened. Luck forsook me as I announced that the next selection was the "Ode a la musique by Frank Martin".
You see, I had an uncle with the same last name and a cousin with the first but unfortunately neither man was Swiss in origin. How could I know that the composer should have sounded something like "frahnk mahr-TAN"?
Thus ended my career in radio. And a good thing, too. CHUM-FM went through a sea-change over the next few years. Had I made the cut, I would have ended up spinning the very kind of tinnitus-inducing ruckus that I so seriously despised.
They gave me a time and place for an audition. I arrived at the studio well in advance, and was ushered into a dingy, yellow room where Sjef Frenken was currently on air. He ultimately became a member of the CRTC, the regulatory body in Canada that governs the use of FM frequencies, but at the time was an erudite-sounding, mellow-voiced announcer, sitting across the table from me in an acoustically-isolated studio with a very large microphone and a very obvious clock on the wall.
I sat, quieter than a crypt, fearing to scratch my nose in case the act was broadcast to the world. He turned down the monitor volume and handed me a script to read while the turntable in the control room was finishing a movement of Mozart's Clarinet Concerto.
I cleared my throat and commenced to read a paragraph which seemed to be a news item out of Montreal that I had heard not too long before. My eyes caught the intentional repetition of simple words, like "the the" in the typescript, and I successfully elided them.
Sjef pointed out another paragraph, gave me a moment to scan it, and then said, "Read it!" It made no sense. It seemed to be a news item that had been garbled in transmission. I immediately faced an internal dilemma: did a news announcer read exactly what was in front of him or did he try to make sense of it? I chose the latter, and to this day cannot say whether that was the right choice.
At that point, on cue from the control room, Sjef punched up his microphone and offered a segue into the next track that would have left me gasping in admiration had it not been for my being transfixed by the ON AIR sign on the wall and feeling a stuporous obligation to be silent.
The music commenced. He moved his mic aside once more and handed me a third sheet with a playlist on it. I was to introduce these items as though they were cued up in the control room.
In my best, most mature 20-year old voice, I mellowed my way through several well-known composers. "Volfgahng Ahmohdayoos Mote-zart", I intoned, and brought all my private-school modern languages savvy to bear upon "Say-zar Frahnk".
But then it happened. Luck forsook me as I announced that the next selection was the "Ode a la musique by Frank Martin".
You see, I had an uncle with the same last name and a cousin with the first but unfortunately neither man was Swiss in origin. How could I know that the composer should have sounded something like "frahnk mahr-TAN"?
Thus ended my career in radio. And a good thing, too. CHUM-FM went through a sea-change over the next few years. Had I made the cut, I would have ended up spinning the very kind of tinnitus-inducing ruckus that I so seriously despised.
Tuesday, January 16, 2007
Keynotes
At all times, dangling from my belt, I have at least 15 keys. About four are for the house and cars. I think the rest have something to do with work.
Downstairs, in a plastic small parts tray, I have about as many more. None of them fits anything of which I have any recollection. At some point, though, they must have been important enough to keep. Some of them are keys to old cars, and others might have been keys to houses or apartments; keys that should have been turned in to landlords but were the last thing on my mind at the time.
It's even probable that one or more of these keys was from a previous generation, meaningful to my parents and kept because they were in an interesting jar.
My parents were raised in small towns in Ontario where locking the house was considered the symptom of paranoia. I doubt if either of them ever carried a house key. Why would they need it? If their parents weren't home, the house was open, or, if not, there were relatives nearby where they could stay until the folks returned. Of course, things changed when they grew up and got on their own. Our front door had a deadbolt which I couldn't even turn until I was about ten years old. And it had two buttons inset into the edge of the doorframe to prevent anyone from being able to turn the keylock from the outside when they were inside. Paranoia flowered.
The car I pull up beside in the parking lot at work doesn't have keys. Along the upper lip of the door panel is a series of five numbered buttons. I have no idea how these are sequenced, or if you have to press more than one at the same time. I would surmise that in the unlikely event of an electrical failure, you might be walking home.
One website explains that for any given model and year of any car, a key for that car can open one in 50 of them. Given a parking lot big enough, there could be many cars that could be opened without breaking in. Some of us have had the experience of walking up to a car, putting in the key, and finding that it won't turn. Then we step back and realize, "That's not my car!"
Keys are a powerful metaphor. They are readily understood as symbols of power, permission and privilege. Lose a key and you are bereft of possessions and progress until you find it again. Find a key that is not labeled or familiar, and you have found a useless chunk of metal. Call a locksmith and you'll find out how much a key is actually worth.
And so, I am chained to my keys. There are so many they jingle with every step I take, which may explain how Kaboodle knows it's me after all. I only use one or two of them, only two or three times a day. The others are there to make noise: to let me know that I'm fully dressed. If you don't hear me coming, it's because I've had to go back again. I forgot my keys.
Downstairs, in a plastic small parts tray, I have about as many more. None of them fits anything of which I have any recollection. At some point, though, they must have been important enough to keep. Some of them are keys to old cars, and others might have been keys to houses or apartments; keys that should have been turned in to landlords but were the last thing on my mind at the time.
It's even probable that one or more of these keys was from a previous generation, meaningful to my parents and kept because they were in an interesting jar.
My parents were raised in small towns in Ontario where locking the house was considered the symptom of paranoia. I doubt if either of them ever carried a house key. Why would they need it? If their parents weren't home, the house was open, or, if not, there were relatives nearby where they could stay until the folks returned. Of course, things changed when they grew up and got on their own. Our front door had a deadbolt which I couldn't even turn until I was about ten years old. And it had two buttons inset into the edge of the doorframe to prevent anyone from being able to turn the keylock from the outside when they were inside. Paranoia flowered.
The car I pull up beside in the parking lot at work doesn't have keys. Along the upper lip of the door panel is a series of five numbered buttons. I have no idea how these are sequenced, or if you have to press more than one at the same time. I would surmise that in the unlikely event of an electrical failure, you might be walking home.
One website explains that for any given model and year of any car, a key for that car can open one in 50 of them. Given a parking lot big enough, there could be many cars that could be opened without breaking in. Some of us have had the experience of walking up to a car, putting in the key, and finding that it won't turn. Then we step back and realize, "That's not my car!"
Keys are a powerful metaphor. They are readily understood as symbols of power, permission and privilege. Lose a key and you are bereft of possessions and progress until you find it again. Find a key that is not labeled or familiar, and you have found a useless chunk of metal. Call a locksmith and you'll find out how much a key is actually worth.
And so, I am chained to my keys. There are so many they jingle with every step I take, which may explain how Kaboodle knows it's me after all. I only use one or two of them, only two or three times a day. The others are there to make noise: to let me know that I'm fully dressed. If you don't hear me coming, it's because I've had to go back again. I forgot my keys.
Monday, January 15, 2007
Greetings, earthlings!
I have the good fortune to live within driving distance of my work. This affords me the chance to come home for lunch and still get back in time to give the taxpayers full value for their money.
Every time I come home, whether it's lunch, dinner or a trip to the local home improvement store, there is one faithful family retainer who invariably greets me at the door. She talks to me and hovers near me until I acknowledge her presence with a brief backrub or an ear scratch. It's Kaboodle, our genuine Ohio adopted stray cat. Sometimes she stands on her hind legs briefly to cadge a response. I think she does not do this for other people in the family.
What little we know of her story has been documented elsewhere by My Wife. But the wonder of it is that she is the only one of our four felines who seems genuinely interested in my return. She may well be the only female of four in the household (soon to be a fifth) that affords me this pleasure, but there are good and sufficient reasons why the others pass up the opportunity.
How does she know it is I?
My Wife thinks that she hears and recognizes the particular sounds of my 1998 Neon, Neona. I prefer to think that she and I have an intuitive bond: of all The Women, she understands me best. A little flattery at the door and I melt for the night. (I call her My Wife in this blog to protect her privacy, but she's pretty obvious when I link to her website, so let's just say it's a literary convention and move on. At least it isn't "The Wife".)
When Kaboodle was still an abandoned kitty with a litter in the Appalachians of Ohio, she first came to me while coaxing her firstborn son, Butterball, down the hill to our house. Perhaps she remembers those days of the promise of safety and acceptance (even though we were only renting at the time from an ailurophobic landlord).
In our "computer room" I wall myself off from all assaults by a folding child gate which locks into a bookcase. The other cats have violated this space from time to time, but never or at least seldom to my knowledge has Kaboodle. Neither has the "Mighty Fluffy Huntress" (My Wife's engaging term) ever dragged one of her infrequent avian conquests into my space.
Debates rage over the relative intelligence of cats, and vast numbers of web pages recount their individuality. "Cat blogging" or posting pictures of your pet has become a Friday tradition on the Web.
So why cats?
Once the Cats had conquered the minds and hearts of the ancient Egyptians, they built on their success, and have passed down their species-specific learnings to those little strays who tug at our hearts and adopt themselves into our households at the sound of a can-opener. It is a long and worthy heritage. We worship them no less than did the Egyptians, those of us who can relate to this aphorism: "Dogs have masters. Cats have servants."
Every time I come home, whether it's lunch, dinner or a trip to the local home improvement store, there is one faithful family retainer who invariably greets me at the door. She talks to me and hovers near me until I acknowledge her presence with a brief backrub or an ear scratch. It's Kaboodle, our genuine Ohio adopted stray cat. Sometimes she stands on her hind legs briefly to cadge a response. I think she does not do this for other people in the family.
What little we know of her story has been documented elsewhere by My Wife. But the wonder of it is that she is the only one of our four felines who seems genuinely interested in my return. She may well be the only female of four in the household (soon to be a fifth) that affords me this pleasure, but there are good and sufficient reasons why the others pass up the opportunity.
How does she know it is I?
My Wife thinks that she hears and recognizes the particular sounds of my 1998 Neon, Neona. I prefer to think that she and I have an intuitive bond: of all The Women, she understands me best. A little flattery at the door and I melt for the night. (I call her My Wife in this blog to protect her privacy, but she's pretty obvious when I link to her website, so let's just say it's a literary convention and move on. At least it isn't "The Wife".)
When Kaboodle was still an abandoned kitty with a litter in the Appalachians of Ohio, she first came to me while coaxing her firstborn son, Butterball, down the hill to our house. Perhaps she remembers those days of the promise of safety and acceptance (even though we were only renting at the time from an ailurophobic landlord).
In our "computer room" I wall myself off from all assaults by a folding child gate which locks into a bookcase. The other cats have violated this space from time to time, but never or at least seldom to my knowledge has Kaboodle. Neither has the "Mighty Fluffy Huntress" (My Wife's engaging term) ever dragged one of her infrequent avian conquests into my space.
Debates rage over the relative intelligence of cats, and vast numbers of web pages recount their individuality. "Cat blogging" or posting pictures of your pet has become a Friday tradition on the Web.
So why cats?
Once the Cats had conquered the minds and hearts of the ancient Egyptians, they built on their success, and have passed down their species-specific learnings to those little strays who tug at our hearts and adopt themselves into our households at the sound of a can-opener. It is a long and worthy heritage. We worship them no less than did the Egyptians, those of us who can relate to this aphorism: "Dogs have masters. Cats have servants."
The Beat Generation
At the encouragement of a friend, my wife joined a drum circle. And at the encouragement of my wife, I eventually joined as well.
Under the guidance and unflagging encouragement of the circle's leader, we are beginning to think we actually can play some of the "standard" African rhythms that we practice endlessly, week to week.
This Sunday we participated in a community celebration of the life of Martin Luther King, Jr. Drumming was a part of the program. I banged on the balafone and shook a gourd and danced a bit and felt a little less incompetent as I got caught up in the rhythms and the vibrations of the group and the crowd.
The urge to bang on things is born in us, I think. Lots of us discovered the joy of banging on pots and pans with various kitchen implements until the grownups learned to lock the cupboards. And even after some of us were formally trained in music, the "jam" session afforded more general enjoyment than the recital.
When I was in public school, our best friends had a family orchestra. The father had made his own violin, which I remember as being an odd sort of white pine color. That's because he never got around to shellacking it. Maybe he didn't know that it was the secret formulas of the shellac that Stradivarius and Guarneri brewed up that largely accounted for the excellence of their instruments. At any rate, I played clarinet, my brother piano, my friend played clarinet as well, his sister violin, and their brother cello. There were no drums. Sometimes "harmony" was not a word that would precisely describe the renderings of Mozart and Schubert and Gilbert and Sullivan. But there was unmistakable energy.
Yehudi Menuhin said that the purpose and the effect of music is to harmonize our vibrations with those of the universe. Drumming, loud and obnoxious though it may seem to some in the confines of a coffeehouse, releases endorphins that move us into states of happiness and elation. What the drum circle affords us is the experience of communicating and creating pleasure, and the bigger the group, the greater that effect.
There are virtuosi amongst the world of percussion. The great Buddy Rich. Usted Allah Rakha (Ravi Shankar's tabla player). Animal (from the Muppet Show). But when you are out there banging your heart out on something that really sounds half decent and seeing your fellow players smiling as though the world was new, you begin to be a virtuoso in your own right. You make your vibrations and the universe welcomes them.
Under the guidance and unflagging encouragement of the circle's leader, we are beginning to think we actually can play some of the "standard" African rhythms that we practice endlessly, week to week.
This Sunday we participated in a community celebration of the life of Martin Luther King, Jr. Drumming was a part of the program. I banged on the balafone and shook a gourd and danced a bit and felt a little less incompetent as I got caught up in the rhythms and the vibrations of the group and the crowd.
The urge to bang on things is born in us, I think. Lots of us discovered the joy of banging on pots and pans with various kitchen implements until the grownups learned to lock the cupboards. And even after some of us were formally trained in music, the "jam" session afforded more general enjoyment than the recital.
When I was in public school, our best friends had a family orchestra. The father had made his own violin, which I remember as being an odd sort of white pine color. That's because he never got around to shellacking it. Maybe he didn't know that it was the secret formulas of the shellac that Stradivarius and Guarneri brewed up that largely accounted for the excellence of their instruments. At any rate, I played clarinet, my brother piano, my friend played clarinet as well, his sister violin, and their brother cello. There were no drums. Sometimes "harmony" was not a word that would precisely describe the renderings of Mozart and Schubert and Gilbert and Sullivan. But there was unmistakable energy.
Yehudi Menuhin said that the purpose and the effect of music is to harmonize our vibrations with those of the universe. Drumming, loud and obnoxious though it may seem to some in the confines of a coffeehouse, releases endorphins that move us into states of happiness and elation. What the drum circle affords us is the experience of communicating and creating pleasure, and the bigger the group, the greater that effect.
There are virtuosi amongst the world of percussion. The great Buddy Rich. Usted Allah Rakha (Ravi Shankar's tabla player). Animal (from the Muppet Show). But when you are out there banging your heart out on something that really sounds half decent and seeing your fellow players smiling as though the world was new, you begin to be a virtuoso in your own right. You make your vibrations and the universe welcomes them.
Saturday, January 13, 2007
Of Change and Changers
My father used to marvel at the speed at which things were changing in his era.
We'd be sitting in the rocking chair, I perhaps 9 years old or less, on his lap in the evening darkness in the living room. I would drape myself over him so that I could be hypnotized by the small red "pilot light" on the bottom of the high-fidelity console that our family had had for a number of years. In the changer was about ten pounds of Tchaikovsky's ballet, Swan Lake, in the form of half a dozen 12-inch diameter, 78 rpm records.
He would release the changer, and with a "whamp" the first disk would land on the turntable, and the arm would jerk feverishly to the left and then lower with reasonable precision on the lead-in grooves. The speaker would respond with a thump and a click, and some noises that I later learned were dust particles. Soon, an orchestra guided by Sir Thomas Beecham or some other notable would begin the overture, and I would settle back as the rocking began, my eyes rooted on the red button light which created pinkish fading streaks on my retina as the chair moved.
My dad had long ago learned that when you sat in a rocker, it moved too fast, and took too much effort. So he locked one leg in an outstretched position for as much as ten to fifteen minutes at a time, which changed the geometry and the physics of the entire movement to something more gentle and amenable to the ballet. Then he would change legs.
It must have taken considerable engineering and musical skills to shoehorn those great orchestral works into the limitations of a 78 rpm album. Some of our albums had one record, the last, on which the second side had only a single, abrupt groove in a sea of polished plastic. Its purpose was to lead the stylus to the end so that it would lift and shut off without going astray, since the musical opus ended on the other side. I do remember one record where the orchestra warped to hyperspeed in order to complete the work before the needle kicked off.
As he sat there listening to the music and the changer, Dad would inevitably comment, "My oh my. If my Dad were here he would be astounded at the sound of this hi-fi." And later, when hi-fi became stereo and albums changed from 78 rpm to 33 1/3 with entire works on one side, he would comment on "If only Dad were here to hear this symphony." Of course, when a record warped so that the next one slipped on the surface below it and the music didn't get up to the proper speed, it was not thrown out, but relegated to a heavy green footstool box that could only be moved by a forklift.
At one point, as a surprise gift for Mother, Dad recorded his own tenor rendition of a song whose title is lost to me now but might have been "My Blue Heaven", on a ten-inch 78 with a piano accompaniment. I believe this performance may have taken place at the school where he taught, but wherever, we were enthralled. He belonged to a men teachers' choir for many years on the strength of his musicality and his attendance record.
So now I find myself looking at the iPods and the MP3 players and the online music sites, and thinking, "Man. If Dad were here today, he'd be blown away by the sound of this computer system."
And some day my sons will sit in their rockers and shout, "Too bad The Old Guy never had one of these nifty Dolby 5.1 micro-implants. They rock!"
So what has really changed? Technology? Certainly. Rocking chairs? Mainly in price. Music? For sure. But what I can't figure out is how my dad locked his knee for so long without feeling fatigue. Believe me, I've tried, and found it difficult to walk afterwards. He did it into his 80s without ever revealing the secret.
Dad, you lock!
We'd be sitting in the rocking chair, I perhaps 9 years old or less, on his lap in the evening darkness in the living room. I would drape myself over him so that I could be hypnotized by the small red "pilot light" on the bottom of the high-fidelity console that our family had had for a number of years. In the changer was about ten pounds of Tchaikovsky's ballet, Swan Lake, in the form of half a dozen 12-inch diameter, 78 rpm records.
He would release the changer, and with a "whamp" the first disk would land on the turntable, and the arm would jerk feverishly to the left and then lower with reasonable precision on the lead-in grooves. The speaker would respond with a thump and a click, and some noises that I later learned were dust particles. Soon, an orchestra guided by Sir Thomas Beecham or some other notable would begin the overture, and I would settle back as the rocking began, my eyes rooted on the red button light which created pinkish fading streaks on my retina as the chair moved.
My dad had long ago learned that when you sat in a rocker, it moved too fast, and took too much effort. So he locked one leg in an outstretched position for as much as ten to fifteen minutes at a time, which changed the geometry and the physics of the entire movement to something more gentle and amenable to the ballet. Then he would change legs.
It must have taken considerable engineering and musical skills to shoehorn those great orchestral works into the limitations of a 78 rpm album. Some of our albums had one record, the last, on which the second side had only a single, abrupt groove in a sea of polished plastic. Its purpose was to lead the stylus to the end so that it would lift and shut off without going astray, since the musical opus ended on the other side. I do remember one record where the orchestra warped to hyperspeed in order to complete the work before the needle kicked off.
As he sat there listening to the music and the changer, Dad would inevitably comment, "My oh my. If my Dad were here he would be astounded at the sound of this hi-fi." And later, when hi-fi became stereo and albums changed from 78 rpm to 33 1/3 with entire works on one side, he would comment on "If only Dad were here to hear this symphony." Of course, when a record warped so that the next one slipped on the surface below it and the music didn't get up to the proper speed, it was not thrown out, but relegated to a heavy green footstool box that could only be moved by a forklift.
At one point, as a surprise gift for Mother, Dad recorded his own tenor rendition of a song whose title is lost to me now but might have been "My Blue Heaven", on a ten-inch 78 with a piano accompaniment. I believe this performance may have taken place at the school where he taught, but wherever, we were enthralled. He belonged to a men teachers' choir for many years on the strength of his musicality and his attendance record.
So now I find myself looking at the iPods and the MP3 players and the online music sites, and thinking, "Man. If Dad were here today, he'd be blown away by the sound of this computer system."
And some day my sons will sit in their rockers and shout, "Too bad The Old Guy never had one of these nifty Dolby 5.1 micro-implants. They rock!"
So what has really changed? Technology? Certainly. Rocking chairs? Mainly in price. Music? For sure. But what I can't figure out is how my dad locked his knee for so long without feeling fatigue. Believe me, I've tried, and found it difficult to walk afterwards. He did it into his 80s without ever revealing the secret.
Dad, you lock!
Friday, January 12, 2007
Everything I needed to know I'm learning from somebody else
Guru. A teacher. A guide. A pipeline to the spiritual. A lightbulb in the darkness.
Who is your personal guru, the one who inspires you most to look deeply inside, or deeply outside your immediate situation to make sense of it?
Who have been your teachers along the way, and how have they influenced you?
Both my parents worked as public school teachers in Toronto, Canada. They didn't confine their teaching to the classroom. I turned out to be an early reader, and an early writer. But they couldn't pass along everything. I never understood math of any kind, and this blocked me from many avenues of potential greatness, including managing personal finance. Yet, from my dad, I learned enough about measurement ("measure twice and cut once") to help build cottages, coat racks, cupboards and closets.
For all the years I subsequently spent in getting a certificate, a diploma and a couple of degrees, I can't say that I remember many of "guru" quality. Several of my teachers scared the shit out of me. The ones for whom I had to work the hardest motivated me with fear and loathing. I feared them and they loathed me.
My ancient shop teacher, apparently afraid to allow students anywhere near a power tool, assigned us to construct a pull-toy out of a pine board. Fortunately, wheels were supplied. I presented the finished product to the class: a cat with an arched back and a long, curved tail, meticulously produced with a coping saw, attached to a block.
The Master drew a bony finger along its spine.
"This cat has fur! What grade of sandpaper did you use?" Amidst the general mirth I struggled to remember having seen a number on a sheet.
"Is this thing glued?" He poked and prodded at the two spots where I had anchored the beast with obvious globs which were just now drying. Moving on, he commented on the unevenness of the chamfer and the tiny misalignment of a back wheel.
Then he tossed the pine plaything on my workbench. In that instant a miracle took place: a change of species from Maine Coon to Manx.
In the course of time, I became a teacher, for a short time until I realized what a demanding profession it really is. Then I learned to appreciate the relative sanctuary of the library. Oddly enough, part of my job now is teaching. So I guess my parents really did sow a persistent seed.
Why do we remember the idiots, the unkind, the tyrants so easily? Did they have the greatest influence? Was it they who shaped us in our formative years? Is it their unthinking or intentional abrasiveness that we struggle to overcome as we follow our own path? As the poet said, "I am a part of all that I have met". Did he have a shop teacher?
I owe the title of this entry to Robert Fulghum, of course. His website isn't always up, but when it is, it's a thoughtful and funny and inspiring place. I wish I could claim I guru up with him.
Who is your personal guru, the one who inspires you most to look deeply inside, or deeply outside your immediate situation to make sense of it?
Who have been your teachers along the way, and how have they influenced you?
Both my parents worked as public school teachers in Toronto, Canada. They didn't confine their teaching to the classroom. I turned out to be an early reader, and an early writer. But they couldn't pass along everything. I never understood math of any kind, and this blocked me from many avenues of potential greatness, including managing personal finance. Yet, from my dad, I learned enough about measurement ("measure twice and cut once") to help build cottages, coat racks, cupboards and closets.
For all the years I subsequently spent in getting a certificate, a diploma and a couple of degrees, I can't say that I remember many of "guru" quality. Several of my teachers scared the shit out of me. The ones for whom I had to work the hardest motivated me with fear and loathing. I feared them and they loathed me.
My ancient shop teacher, apparently afraid to allow students anywhere near a power tool, assigned us to construct a pull-toy out of a pine board. Fortunately, wheels were supplied. I presented the finished product to the class: a cat with an arched back and a long, curved tail, meticulously produced with a coping saw, attached to a block.
The Master drew a bony finger along its spine.
"This cat has fur! What grade of sandpaper did you use?" Amidst the general mirth I struggled to remember having seen a number on a sheet.
"Is this thing glued?" He poked and prodded at the two spots where I had anchored the beast with obvious globs which were just now drying. Moving on, he commented on the unevenness of the chamfer and the tiny misalignment of a back wheel.
Then he tossed the pine plaything on my workbench. In that instant a miracle took place: a change of species from Maine Coon to Manx.
In the course of time, I became a teacher, for a short time until I realized what a demanding profession it really is. Then I learned to appreciate the relative sanctuary of the library. Oddly enough, part of my job now is teaching. So I guess my parents really did sow a persistent seed.
Why do we remember the idiots, the unkind, the tyrants so easily? Did they have the greatest influence? Was it they who shaped us in our formative years? Is it their unthinking or intentional abrasiveness that we struggle to overcome as we follow our own path? As the poet said, "I am a part of all that I have met". Did he have a shop teacher?
I owe the title of this entry to Robert Fulghum, of course. His website isn't always up, but when it is, it's a thoughtful and funny and inspiring place. I wish I could claim I guru up with him.
Thursday, January 11, 2007
Cud-chewing
You know, one of the neat things about cows is that they have four stomachs. I just came back from a Mexican restaurant here in Greater Cincinnati and let me tell you folks, I can see a great disadvantage in the way we're designed. I ate enough for three. Three enchiladas and a 22-ounce draft... Thin people aren't built for that kind of intake. It was good, and it got me to thinking.
I don't know, not being a farmer, whether cows can overeat or not. They certainly turn digestion into a cottage industry. At some point, they regurgitate the grass, hay and whatever else they've ingested, and that's when you'll find them contentedly grinding that initial load, usually for a considerable time, until with a final gulp or two, they send it on its way to the other three. And we all know how that comes out.
I was teaching a class today of seniors using computers, and the subject of email abuse came up (e.g. forwarding dumb jokes to people and thereby displaying their addresses to everyone else, rather than using the BCC to maintain their privacy). That led to the mention of failure to attach items (like pictures) that you've stated are attached. So I suggested that the simplest way to prevent that is not to address your email until you've written, checked and attached.
Email is the symptom of a culture that has no time to ruminate.
Sure, it's efficient, and sometimes effective, but somehow the bulk of it is just that. Bulk. No time to chew on what we've written: little time to digest what's been read. Hit reply all and you're done. Move along... nothing to see here.
Consider the cows of the field. They eat, they repeat, they digest. Those big eyes follow the farmer as he, their slave, cleans up after them, feeds them, milks them, breeds them, and ships them off to their fate which they most likely don't give much thought to, unless one of them dies in a field, or they lose a calf.
Are cows the philosophers of the phields?
And so, following along these lines, I decided to waste some electrons on some of my own stomach rumblings, if only to compel myself to sit down and consider timeless questions, such as, "Is this the good life, and am I living it?" Or maybe some more trivial pursuits, such as "Why am I still working at 65 when all the successful people are floating around the Bahamas, some of them in boats?" I realize that blogging is injurious to your health. It eats time that you could have spent walking.
It is in the nature of blogs that you start out all a-quiver with creative juices gushing, and after not too long, it melds from a Serious Beginning through a Daily Obligation and finally becomes Orphaned File. Well, fine. Everything has a beginning and to everything there is a season. Or, as my dad used to say, "Your grandfather never criticized anyone, but if he did say something sharp about someone, he'd end with, 'There! I've said it, and I'm glad'".
And so, when this blog has no more cud to chew, I'll have said it. I hope I'll be glad. And I hope you will be too.
I don't know, not being a farmer, whether cows can overeat or not. They certainly turn digestion into a cottage industry. At some point, they regurgitate the grass, hay and whatever else they've ingested, and that's when you'll find them contentedly grinding that initial load, usually for a considerable time, until with a final gulp or two, they send it on its way to the other three. And we all know how that comes out.
I was teaching a class today of seniors using computers, and the subject of email abuse came up (e.g. forwarding dumb jokes to people and thereby displaying their addresses to everyone else, rather than using the BCC to maintain their privacy). That led to the mention of failure to attach items (like pictures) that you've stated are attached. So I suggested that the simplest way to prevent that is not to address your email until you've written, checked and attached.
Email is the symptom of a culture that has no time to ruminate.
Sure, it's efficient, and sometimes effective, but somehow the bulk of it is just that. Bulk. No time to chew on what we've written: little time to digest what's been read. Hit reply all and you're done. Move along... nothing to see here.
Consider the cows of the field. They eat, they repeat, they digest. Those big eyes follow the farmer as he, their slave, cleans up after them, feeds them, milks them, breeds them, and ships them off to their fate which they most likely don't give much thought to, unless one of them dies in a field, or they lose a calf.
Are cows the philosophers of the phields?
And so, following along these lines, I decided to waste some electrons on some of my own stomach rumblings, if only to compel myself to sit down and consider timeless questions, such as, "Is this the good life, and am I living it?" Or maybe some more trivial pursuits, such as "Why am I still working at 65 when all the successful people are floating around the Bahamas, some of them in boats?" I realize that blogging is injurious to your health. It eats time that you could have spent walking.
It is in the nature of blogs that you start out all a-quiver with creative juices gushing, and after not too long, it melds from a Serious Beginning through a Daily Obligation and finally becomes Orphaned File. Well, fine. Everything has a beginning and to everything there is a season. Or, as my dad used to say, "Your grandfather never criticized anyone, but if he did say something sharp about someone, he'd end with, 'There! I've said it, and I'm glad'".
And so, when this blog has no more cud to chew, I'll have said it. I hope I'll be glad. And I hope you will be too.
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