Unfortunate Timing, Part #1121

Is it just me, or is it bad timing that Tropic Thunder is one of the primary movies of choice right now, when Hurricane Gustav is hammering Cuba, then bearing down on the Gulf Coast?

Make a Date with Johannes Brahms and My Friends

A dozen or so years ago, the department head while I was in grad school was Dr. Peter Cooper, an accomplished performer and educator.  Peter taught me conducting, theory, and several other subjects, often on a one-to-one basis.  (I was the star pupil and the class dunce all at the same time.)  He mentored me in many ways, and approved the meager stipends that, along with much heftier loans from Uncle Sam, allowed me to make ends meet while pursuing my degree.

A few years before that, I studied horn (that’s French horn to you) with the CSO’s principal, Gordon James.  Gordon, out of the four professional horn instructors who taught me over the years, was the one who helped me really “get” what the instrument is all about.  If I have any tone at all, it is thanks to Gordon’s patient guidance and creative illustrations.

Now the two of them will appear on stage together, at the first concert of UTC’s season, in an all-Brahms program.  Joining them is an ensemble collaborator of mine from many years ago (I’d say, but it might be considered rude), Laurie Redmer Minner; and a superb violinist with whom I am somewhat acquainted, Mark Reneau; among still others.

I can’t not be there, given this historic (to me) collaboration, and given that the Brahms Horn Trio will be performed.  I hope you will consider it, because it promises to be an excellent performance.  Thursday, September 4, 7:30 p.m.

Oh, and one final thing ties this all together: the excerpt chosen by Peter for the analysis portion of my comprehensive exam was the first movement of Brahms’ Symphony No. 4 in E Minor.

Finches Are Bullies

If pigeons are winged rats, then the common house finch needs its own vermin analogue, albeit one that is more aggressive.

Every day, I see gangs of female finches at the feeders, scrapping with one another and chasing away any other type of bird that comes by.  And they can go through some bird seed.  I’m out already, and that means that the nuthatches, woodpeckers, titmice, cardinals and chickadees will have to wait until tomorrow.  What the squirrels haven’t managed to shake out of the “squirrel-proof” feeders has been gobbled up by the many house finches.

What are your feeder pests?

Side note: my first ever paying gig was a job playing Horn in an early American structure known by then as the “Bulfinch Church,” aka the Meeting House in the town square of Lancaster, Massachusetts.  The architect, Charles Bulfinch, also designed the Massachusetts State House and oversaw completion of the U.S. Capitol.

Big Announcement Afoot

So, some guys found what they claim is the long-sought “Bigfoot” (aka “Sasquatch”) in the mountains of northern Georgia.  (The state, not the country.  Gotta differentiate these days.)  And today, at 3:00 p.m. Eastern time, they will announce that they possess DNA evidence showing that this ape-like creature is real.

Do we need this kind of tomfoolery when there are so many serious problems yet to solve?  Or are diversions like these useful for maintaining sanity in the face of grisly, maddening reality?

Whatever the case, Newscoma has all your Bigfoot goodness.

Be my guest! Or, on second thought, kindly refrain.

I’ve come to realize that I care not for hospitality.  I don’t like being a guest.

This sense is fed by my adherence to the so-called Golden Rule, along with an unhealthy dose of what the shrinks call “projection”: since having guests myself makes me uncomfortable (to put it mildly), therefore I do not wish this discomfort on others — even, and this is odd, if I’m paying for it.

I do okay in a chain hotel, where check-in and -out are performed by anonymous, bored desk clerks, but even there I cringe whenever I encounter one of the housekeeping staff.  I feel guilty when someone else cleans up after me.  Just show me where the supplies are, and I’ll scrub and vacuum and change the linens.  Um, and you can lower my bill, too, please.

Just now I am attempting to venture into the strange world of VRBO — that’s Vacation Rentals By Owner.  Some enterprising couple owns a cabin or a condo or a tiki hut igloo, and they hire it to strangers — guests — by the day, week, or month.  Lovely.

So “Danny and Shirley” put up a website with a phone number, and I’m supposed to call these people and arrange a vacation on their property.  In principle, it’s not that different than the aforementioned Wingate Inn or whatnot; but in practice, I can’t help the enormous amount of trepidation that I must toss and turn through tonight until their office opens in the morning at eight.

I should stop here and clearly state that my aversion to having guests does not spring from a dislike of the people themselves, nor from a necessarily selfish mindset.  I’m just particular about my space and my routine, and even the most wonderful and meek guests as there could ever be will inevitably crowd one and obliterate the other.  It follows that I stand no chance of avoiding doing the same when the situation is reversed, even if I am the meekest.

How do I vacation at all?  Museums, amusement parks, theatres, restaurants, and so many other places require one to be a guest.  The one exception I can name is national public land.  As a citizen, I belong to it and it belongs to me.  In the wilderness, I am a guest of the creatures, and we give each other space.  Routines are made of seasons and tides; and I could not disturb them if I tried.

However, to get close to the only places I feel comfort outside my own piece of real estate (bonus: no neighbors), I must visit an established guesthouse of some sort.  Backcountry camping is not an option for my wife and toddler.

Of course I know that staying in a VRBO is not inversely analogous to having people stay in one’s home.  The owners aren’t there at the time (at least, yikes, I hope not).  So, in the morning I will call “Danny and Shirley” and see if they will let me be yet another in a long line of human intrusions that they allow to stomp all over their idyllic plot of Earth.  And I will pay for some poor soul to mop up my greasy, slovenly mess.  And I will be polite and I will enjoy my surroundings and I will relax and have fun.

But I know that I will be glad to get back home.

Prohibition is almost over!

Sangria is now legal in the Commonwealth of Virginia.  Prior to this month, Virginians could not have beverages that mixed spirits with wine or beer.  (So, that weird concoction served at some Chattanooga Theatre Centre cast parties would have been outlawed—although perhaps it should remain so.)

And restaurants soon might be able to start serving fruity frozen beer on a stick.  Not my thing; but, hey.  If the people want it, they should have it.

Shortening a URL has never been easier

Of course you know tinyurl.com.  And Rex Hammock, faithful follower of goodly wired things, told us about urlzen.com.  I’ve seen a twurl.nl in tweets now and then.  Ping.fm has its own URL scruncher built-in.

And today, blogging guru Dave Winer introduced me to a company he’s part owner in called bit.ly.

I’ll have to keep comparing urlzen to bit.ly to TinyURL!, because each offers different things.  One of my favorite TinyURL! features is that the tinyurl is copied into my memory as soon as I hit the bookmarklet.  There’s no dragging, no clicking, no Apple-C, no nothing.

But the others offer all kinds of tracking goodies, and stuff I haven’t even learned yet.

I may not develop the technology, but I sure do like it.

(By the way: whatever happened to the idea that we were all going to start calling them URIs instead of URLs?)

Forever to return

From an email tip:

Classic fusion group Return to Forever (Chick Corea, Stanley Clarke, Al DiMeola, Lenny White) is back together and touring.  They’ll be in the Atlanta area on August 2.

Send “Jezebel James” back whence she came

Sally and I made a point of watching a new show on the FOX network last evening. It’s called The Return of Jezebel James, and we wanted it to be a good one because we like both Lauren Ambrose (from watching reruns of Six Feet Under on Bravo) and Parker Posey (mostly from Christopher Guest movies, but also from her role on Will & Grace).

Alas, it was not a good one. Two episodes aired back-to-back, and each was stilted, forced, contrived…you get the idea. The scenes between Posey and her character’s almost-boyfriend were the worst, but there were plenty of bad ones from which to choose.

The second episode was slightly better than the first, and that was in large part due to Dianne Wiest. As Sally put it, Wiest was the only one who seemed comfortable in her own skin. I’d chalk it up to experience, but the other actors didn’t just start last week. Lauren Ambrose gets runner-up; I don’t know what happened to Parker Posey. Maybe she’s better at quirky, supporting roles than at playing the “normal” one? That’s an oversimplification, but I’m not an entertainment critic.

Perhaps this show will grow, and go somewhere, and actually become funny or something. After the first two episodes, though, I’m not holding my breath.

I only thought I got up early

This is my annual complaint against Daylight Savings Time, especially now that they (that’d be Congress) have made it last even longer each year.  Give me my hour back — now, as I don’t want to wait until November.