My family had a daylight savings ritual we followed for a number of years: my father would take me and my brother out to a local hockey game, to watch the farm teams duke it out on the ice. If this sounds like modest fun, bear in mind we all had to be in church the next morning.
I was thinking about this last night as I drove my wife and daughters home from a family do. The girls were fighting sleep. I glanced at the clock on the dash -- 7:42, 7:46, 7:49, etc. The minutes were as painful for me as they were for my girls. At this rate, I figured I could just about count on a very early wake-up. Somehow we covered the right conversational material to keep them awake until we got home, but the sanity of my father's tactic became impressively clear.
Sunday, November 04, 2007
Saturday, November 03, 2007
The Reverently Befuddled Aesthete, Continued
Sometime in High School I got the impression that if I wanted to play in a rock and roll band, playing bass guitar was the fastest, easiest route. I had no empirical evidence of this. The bass players I could name had genuine musical chops — Geddy Lee, John Entwhistle, even Michael Anthony from Van Halen. Anthony sure jumped around a lot, though. Maybe that's where the idea took hold.
A friend of mine generously took me on a tour of the city’s music shops, to give me a few tips and keep me from making a completely disastrous purchase. I loved walking into all these places, even the pawn shops. It felt like I was entering the pantheon of some exotic house of worship, where the elements gleamed and beckoned to be picked up and played. I lived in hope that I’d someday be worthy of just such an honor. My friend would take down a Les Paul, hook it up to a Peavey amp and coax all manner of incredible music from it. I, on the other hand, would reach for a cheap Ibanez knock-off, plug it in and ... well, even in 1981 when everybody and their gerbil could play the opening bass riff to “Turn Me Loose” or “My Sharona” I clearly marked myself as an infidel in the House of Music.
I bought the knock-off and farted around with it for a few months, but never got anywhere close to actual proficiency. I sold it a year later and gave up on my rock and roll dreams.
For the last 20 years I’ve owned and played a simple acoustic guitar. I’ll happily strum it at any bonfire; I even know a couple of scales. But I don’t know it nearly so well as to prompt me to buy anything so sweet as this stuff (same friend, BTW). Still, I love to look at it. These are the doors that grant the true disciple access to such terrific sounds. And for that I revere it.
Post-Script: since I'm talking bass guitarists, it behooves me to link to at least one interview with Lemmy from Motörhead. "Q: Is it true you tried to teach Sid Vicious how to play bass?" "A: Yeah. It was all uphill. And he still couldn’t play bass when he died, I mean, ****ing hell."
A friend of mine generously took me on a tour of the city’s music shops, to give me a few tips and keep me from making a completely disastrous purchase. I loved walking into all these places, even the pawn shops. It felt like I was entering the pantheon of some exotic house of worship, where the elements gleamed and beckoned to be picked up and played. I lived in hope that I’d someday be worthy of just such an honor. My friend would take down a Les Paul, hook it up to a Peavey amp and coax all manner of incredible music from it. I, on the other hand, would reach for a cheap Ibanez knock-off, plug it in and ... well, even in 1981 when everybody and their gerbil could play the opening bass riff to “Turn Me Loose” or “My Sharona” I clearly marked myself as an infidel in the House of Music.
I bought the knock-off and farted around with it for a few months, but never got anywhere close to actual proficiency. I sold it a year later and gave up on my rock and roll dreams.
For the last 20 years I’ve owned and played a simple acoustic guitar. I’ll happily strum it at any bonfire; I even know a couple of scales. But I don’t know it nearly so well as to prompt me to buy anything so sweet as this stuff (same friend, BTW). Still, I love to look at it. These are the doors that grant the true disciple access to such terrific sounds. And for that I revere it.
Post-Script: since I'm talking bass guitarists, it behooves me to link to at least one interview with Lemmy from Motörhead. "Q: Is it true you tried to teach Sid Vicious how to play bass?" "A: Yeah. It was all uphill. And he still couldn’t play bass when he died, I mean, ****ing hell."
Friday, November 02, 2007
The Reverently Befuddled Aesthete
In the 80s I used to hang out in my friend’s garage, listening to FM radio and watching him take things apart. He was a gear-head, and keen to look deep into any crap vehicle that left an oil patch in its wake. Whenever he needed a third hand I’d step in, but beyond that I wasn’t much help. I could rattle off the basic components of a combustion engine, but couldn’t reassemble one to save my life.
He finally turned to me and said, “You’ve got no head for this, so why do you bother?”
“It’s not about being practical,” I told him. “I like looking at engines. I think they’re works of art.”
He gave me a queer look, and returned to his work. After a few minutes curiosity finally got the better of him, and he broke the silence. “What do you mean, ‘Works of art?’”
“I mean I think they’re beautiful. They have this terrific balance between function and form. All these meticulously crafted geometric shapes put together for optimal mechanical performance; in the process they attain an aesthetic balance as well.”
He snorted. “You’d probably surprise a few engineers with that thought.”
“Would I? Just look at the block of a V-8 engine and tell me someone wasn’t concerned about it actually looking nice. It’d be one thing if it were just a hunk of metal with 8 holes bored into it, but it’s actually a smooth hunk of metal, with well-defined edges. The holes are perfectly round, evenly spaced. It’s very tidily designed. I’m telling you, if you shone the right light on it and photographed it from the right angle, you would think it’s beautiful.”
I still believe that to be true. In fact, someone with the right talent could make quite a snazzy coffee-table book out of photographing the guts of a car (hey, JD: you listening?). But my fascination is spurred by more than some Platonic sense of perfect balance. I can remember the awe I felt when I saw my first motorcycle dismantled, staring into the tabernacle of those combustion chambers and thinking, So this is where it all happens.
It’s a little like looking inside the human body. I sort of know how it all works, and in the case of the combustion engine, I have some glimmer of the reasoning applied to its design. And of course the way an engine “goes” isn’t in the same league of mystery as the way recombinant DNA “goes.” But still: wow!
Reverence — that’s the word I’m looking for. I actually revere this stuff. Tomorrow I'll post another example from my youth.
He finally turned to me and said, “You’ve got no head for this, so why do you bother?”
“It’s not about being practical,” I told him. “I like looking at engines. I think they’re works of art.”
He gave me a queer look, and returned to his work. After a few minutes curiosity finally got the better of him, and he broke the silence. “What do you mean, ‘Works of art?’”
“I mean I think they’re beautiful. They have this terrific balance between function and form. All these meticulously crafted geometric shapes put together for optimal mechanical performance; in the process they attain an aesthetic balance as well.”
He snorted. “You’d probably surprise a few engineers with that thought.”
“Would I? Just look at the block of a V-8 engine and tell me someone wasn’t concerned about it actually looking nice. It’d be one thing if it were just a hunk of metal with 8 holes bored into it, but it’s actually a smooth hunk of metal, with well-defined edges. The holes are perfectly round, evenly spaced. It’s very tidily designed. I’m telling you, if you shone the right light on it and photographed it from the right angle, you would think it’s beautiful.”
I still believe that to be true. In fact, someone with the right talent could make quite a snazzy coffee-table book out of photographing the guts of a car (hey, JD: you listening?). But my fascination is spurred by more than some Platonic sense of perfect balance. I can remember the awe I felt when I saw my first motorcycle dismantled, staring into the tabernacle of those combustion chambers and thinking, So this is where it all happens.
It’s a little like looking inside the human body. I sort of know how it all works, and in the case of the combustion engine, I have some glimmer of the reasoning applied to its design. And of course the way an engine “goes” isn’t in the same league of mystery as the way recombinant DNA “goes.” But still: wow!
Reverence — that’s the word I’m looking for. I actually revere this stuff. Tomorrow I'll post another example from my youth.
Thursday, November 01, 2007
Launching Into NaBloPoMo With A Post-Halloween Tidy
Curious how each Halloween is different from the last. There have been years when we've run out of goodies. This year we've got a heap of leftovers, so it's Rockets galore for this family. Last year I gave away Coffee Crisp, and was left with nothing. Looks like I picked the wrong year to cheap out.
My wife took the girls out begging; she had the impression this was one of the busier years. Hordes of kids and parents, trolling up and down the different drags. Nevertheless, at one of the girls' last stops, the lady of the house gave them mounds of candy. "I can't be trusted with this stuff," said she, "so I'm trusting you with it."
The police paid the town a visit, but didn't see fit to flash their lights or hit the siren. Our village had a quiet Halloween, by police standards. Even our family jack-o-lanterns, which I pointedly leave out overnight close to the sidewalk curb, were left intact. I'm disappointed. No doubt if I kept them there over the weekend, I'd be obliged, but that's not the way it works. As soon as I've posted this, they'll be going into the compost.
On second thought, why don't I just bite the bullet and take care of it now?
Aah! Now on to November...
My wife took the girls out begging; she had the impression this was one of the busier years. Hordes of kids and parents, trolling up and down the different drags. Nevertheless, at one of the girls' last stops, the lady of the house gave them mounds of candy. "I can't be trusted with this stuff," said she, "so I'm trusting you with it."
The police paid the town a visit, but didn't see fit to flash their lights or hit the siren. Our village had a quiet Halloween, by police standards. Even our family jack-o-lanterns, which I pointedly leave out overnight close to the sidewalk curb, were left intact. I'm disappointed. No doubt if I kept them there over the weekend, I'd be obliged, but that's not the way it works. As soon as I've posted this, they'll be going into the compost.
On second thought, why don't I just bite the bullet and take care of it now?
Aah! Now on to November...
Tuesday, October 30, 2007
Halloween Dis-Ease
I think it's fair to say that, in my Mennonite prairie-town circa 1974, my family's relationship with Halloween was ... conflicted. On the one hand: dressing up the kids, walking door to door and getting tasty treats was good, innocent fun. On the other hand: wizards, ghosts, goblins, witches ... doesn't God take a dim view of such things? (Deut. 18:9-14, 1 Cor. 10:21, etc.)
I suspect my parents, like most parents (including myself) followed an intuitive moral line in this regard. The kids were allowed to dress up and get candy, but usually in sweet, good-natured costumes (the "Hobo" being a frequent motif). When I was a kid, nothing would have given me more pleasure than dressing up as Batman, but that was just a step or two over the wrong side of the line. I was smart enough not to complain; I was still getting the candy, and I had friends who were denied that pleasure, too.
Cut to the present. My girls plan all year for Halloween. Thanks to their actress (and seamstress) mother, their costume whims are fully indulged. Three years ago, the elder daughter knew how to tug at the old man's heartstrings when she requested a Princess Leia costume.
This year she's an all-too-convincing punk (no picture, sorry. Rest assured she'll come to your door). Her younger sister, meanwhile, is a mommy mummy:
That costume is probably the trickiest one my wife has yet assembled. The picture was taken in our church basement, by the way: we held a big Halloween party, and lots of kids from the community attended. I thought it was a super idea, and quickly retrieved my old motorbike leathers and Greasy-Kid Stuff to make myself up like Squiggy.
Notice the ceiling. The tile was smoke damaged from the firebomb, so it's gone. The nursery has been gutted and thoroughly cleaned. The supporting timbers remain sound, and the nursery will be rebuilt. But I have to admit: even though the kid who was chiefly responsible for all this damage is in custody, I'm still more than a little nervous.
There is at least one house in the neighborhood that freely admits to doing voodoo-type activities on Halloween night. One doesn't have to believe in the existence of a paranormal occult world* to acknowledge that if a person is angry, or desperate, or just plain foolish enough to summon something Dark, they will be obliged. It may only be manifest in a person's character, but the daily news should convince anyone that that is phenomenon enough to do a great deal of harm to a great many people.
I'm not sure what else to add to that. It's a hokey thing to say, but I do believe we have to work at bringing what light we can to our particular corner of the world. Since the fires, I've pushed myself out of my own comfort zone by pointedly smiling and saying hello to every sullen youth who slouches across my path. I'm not sure that's enough to counter anyone's dark impulses, but it'll have to do until I identify the next discomfort-zone I need to breech.
*Although you should count me among the believers, I expect that most adolescents drawn to experiment with the occult wind up experiencing something similar to Bobby Hill in The Witches of East Arlen.
I suspect my parents, like most parents (including myself) followed an intuitive moral line in this regard. The kids were allowed to dress up and get candy, but usually in sweet, good-natured costumes (the "Hobo" being a frequent motif). When I was a kid, nothing would have given me more pleasure than dressing up as Batman, but that was just a step or two over the wrong side of the line. I was smart enough not to complain; I was still getting the candy, and I had friends who were denied that pleasure, too.
Cut to the present. My girls plan all year for Halloween. Thanks to their actress (and seamstress) mother, their costume whims are fully indulged. Three years ago, the elder daughter knew how to tug at the old man's heartstrings when she requested a Princess Leia costume.
This year she's an all-too-convincing punk (no picture, sorry. Rest assured she'll come to your door). Her younger sister, meanwhile, is a mommy mummy:
That costume is probably the trickiest one my wife has yet assembled. The picture was taken in our church basement, by the way: we held a big Halloween party, and lots of kids from the community attended. I thought it was a super idea, and quickly retrieved my old motorbike leathers and Greasy-Kid Stuff to make myself up like Squiggy.
Notice the ceiling. The tile was smoke damaged from the firebomb, so it's gone. The nursery has been gutted and thoroughly cleaned. The supporting timbers remain sound, and the nursery will be rebuilt. But I have to admit: even though the kid who was chiefly responsible for all this damage is in custody, I'm still more than a little nervous.
There is at least one house in the neighborhood that freely admits to doing voodoo-type activities on Halloween night. One doesn't have to believe in the existence of a paranormal occult world* to acknowledge that if a person is angry, or desperate, or just plain foolish enough to summon something Dark, they will be obliged. It may only be manifest in a person's character, but the daily news should convince anyone that that is phenomenon enough to do a great deal of harm to a great many people.
I'm not sure what else to add to that. It's a hokey thing to say, but I do believe we have to work at bringing what light we can to our particular corner of the world. Since the fires, I've pushed myself out of my own comfort zone by pointedly smiling and saying hello to every sullen youth who slouches across my path. I'm not sure that's enough to counter anyone's dark impulses, but it'll have to do until I identify the next discomfort-zone I need to breech.
*Although you should count me among the believers, I expect that most adolescents drawn to experiment with the occult wind up experiencing something similar to Bobby Hill in The Witches of East Arlen.
Monday, October 29, 2007
Turn And Face The Strange
I've been somewhat unsettled to note a gradual slip in my blogular standards ("Cooking With Pooh," fer crying out loud!). Coincidentally, here I am at this mid-lifey moment, with a brain intent on worrying over the standard set of failing biological applications. In the past I've found mental stimulation on this mighty worldwide web, but here too I've been trading stimulation for distraction ("Cooking With Pooh" ... sheesh!). My consciousness seems reluctant to leave its cluttered attic of dusty divertissements, and almost determined to avoid any search for the coveted Third Way through -- art, spirituality, mental health, community, what have you. Yah, you old bum, get out and look fer a job already! "Cooking With Pooh," ... mutter, mutter.
Add to this my own personal Monster In A Box -- a heap of paper in which there are some truly beautiful moments, but mostly a collection of embarrassments that I simply do NOT want to burden my daughters with. I need to cull the beauty into a smaller, cohesive form, and drop the rest through a shredder. As my former aikido sensei once admonished, a person has to choose their particular discipline and learn to let go of the distractions.
With regards to this blog, I believe two roads have diverged. Route 1: frequent, shorter postings of lesser quality. Route 2: fewer postings, but (hopefully) better quality. Being the amiable, indecisive guy I am, I believe I'll give 'em both a try. November is, I'm told, National Blog Posting Month and we in the blogosphere are encouraged to post every day for that month. But once December hits, I believe I'll slow that down to once a week (every Thursday sounds doable).
Add to this my own personal Monster In A Box -- a heap of paper in which there are some truly beautiful moments, but mostly a collection of embarrassments that I simply do NOT want to burden my daughters with. I need to cull the beauty into a smaller, cohesive form, and drop the rest through a shredder. As my former aikido sensei once admonished, a person has to choose their particular discipline and learn to let go of the distractions.
With regards to this blog, I believe two roads have diverged. Route 1: frequent, shorter postings of lesser quality. Route 2: fewer postings, but (hopefully) better quality. Being the amiable, indecisive guy I am, I believe I'll give 'em both a try. November is, I'm told, National Blog Posting Month and we in the blogosphere are encouraged to post every day for that month. But once December hits, I believe I'll slow that down to once a week (every Thursday sounds doable).
Friday, October 26, 2007
Friday Night Headphone Music
Rhino Records is slowly moving to the head of the class as my CD label of choice. I clear my throat and shuffle my feet a bit when I say this, because Rhino trades almost exclusively in nostalgia. My first glance over their list of Rhino Music Artists I quickly realized I didn't come here to discover the next Marah or Galactic: I came to re-collect all those old LPs I threw away, the ones I listened to with headphones, after midnight, on a Friday, in a vain effort to ignore what a loser I was for not finding a party to crash.
*Cough* But what music that was! I'm particularly drawn to the reissues of the early X, Ramones, Talking Heads and Television, but when I scroll down their list I wind up clicking all sorts of unexpected names. What's John Coltrane doing here? Or Little Feat? Say, is that The Blasters? And the BoDeans? Suddenly I'm reveling in memories of Friday nights pleasantly spent being out and about.
Now that my Friday nights are taken up with Daddy Duty, I typically close the night with a splash of scotch, a comfy chair next to the glowing stereo and ... headphones. I've come full circle, so why not embrace it? I figure I'll start with Donald Fagen's forthcoming Nightfly trilogy.
Speaking of which, Mr. Fagen seems taken with this Music Video Interactive rig. Having neither the required SurroundSound outfit or the desire to travel down that road, I'm sure I'll be entirely oblivious to its better qualities. Have you exposed your ears to this format at all? What do you think?
*Cough* But what music that was! I'm particularly drawn to the reissues of the early X, Ramones, Talking Heads and Television, but when I scroll down their list I wind up clicking all sorts of unexpected names. What's John Coltrane doing here? Or Little Feat? Say, is that The Blasters? And the BoDeans? Suddenly I'm reveling in memories of Friday nights pleasantly spent being out and about.
Now that my Friday nights are taken up with Daddy Duty, I typically close the night with a splash of scotch, a comfy chair next to the glowing stereo and ... headphones. I've come full circle, so why not embrace it? I figure I'll start with Donald Fagen's forthcoming Nightfly trilogy.
Speaking of which, Mr. Fagen seems taken with this Music Video Interactive rig. Having neither the required SurroundSound outfit or the desire to travel down that road, I'm sure I'll be entirely oblivious to its better qualities. Have you exposed your ears to this format at all? What do you think?
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