Brigham's Blog: March 2012

30 Mar 2012

I “enjoyed” this “article.” It has always been a matter of “surprise” to me, the way people “misuse” “apostrophes.”

The jaw-droppingly detailed Miniature Wonderland - Germans!

During my lunch break walk yesterday I listened to the Blue Oyster Cult's first Lp, self-titled Blue Oyster Cult, released in 1972. I have always liked this band; I have blogged about them before. I was, once again, curious about the back story of one of their more film noirish songs, "(Then Came the) Last Days of May," about a drug deal gone bad, resulting in murder. Written by lead guitarist Donald "Buck Dharma" Roeser, it is based upon a true story. What's the when, who and where?

A search on the Internet turned this up: "According to Buck Dharma, '(Then Came The) Last Days Of May' is the true story of three collegiate drug dealers who went to Tucson to score for the fall semester. They were ripped off and shot. While two of the guys died, the other survived to testify against the perpetrators, who were two young men from a notorious wealthy local family. They apparently served about ten years in prison before being released." Names! I want names! What interests me is a commenter's suggestion that the song is narrated by the murderer - I'll have to listen to it again!

(If you are not familiar with this song, you can listen to it on youtube. It is justly famous for its guitar work, in addition to its intriguing story.)

I have always associated the last days of May with this band because of this song and because what is arguably their best album, Agents of Fortune (the one with "Don't Fear the Reaper" - surely you have heard that!), was released in late May 1976. Coincidence?

The Blue Oyster Cult has always been labeled as a heavy metal band for the thinking set, mainly because of the claimed sophistication of their lyrics. I don't find their lyrical content especially sophisticated - that's not the word I'd use - but, rather, deliberately enigmatic and somewhat occult. In a pleasantly creative way. Odd phrases pop up in their songs which stick in the mind: "Gardens of Nocturne," "Silverfish Imperetrix," "By Salamander Drake and the power that was undine, Rise to claim Saturn, ring and sky," "Queenly Flux," "Fixed and Consequent..." What does it all mean? Probably nothing at all - but it sounds cool.

Every now and then they rise to the level of fairly decent poetry. I have always liked this passage from their self-titled song "Blue Oyster Cult":

I am becalmed in virtue
Lost to nothing on a bay of dreams
Warm weather and a holocaust
The tears of God flow as I bleed

Left to die by two good friends
Abandoned me and put to sleep
On a shore where oyster beds
Seem plush as down
And ripe enough for the Luxor dream

This is from a concept album entitled Imaginos, which describes...well.. it's hard to say. A secret history of the two World Wars? Best to cite the wikipedia page.

In the popular mind, the Blue Oyster Cult are known for three things: 1.) Their glyph, which looks somewhat like the symbol for the plant Saturn or the sickle of the Grim Reaper (seen on Buck Dharma's tee shirt in the phot above), 2.) The umlaut - or is it a diaeresis? - over the "O" in "Oyster," and, 3.) The famous Saturday Night Live "Cowbell" skit. The last time I saw the BOC live after the concert the lead singer Eric Bloom changed into a tee shirt which said "More Cowbell." Ha!

Last night I watched a pleasant, underrated and little known Britnoir,Dual Alibi (1946). The plot was novel: identical twins, who are trapeze artists, commit murder after a femme fatale double crosses one of them. But which one committed the murder? Herbert Lom plays a double part as the twins; the French courtroom scene was especially good.

I must admit that I was disappointed with Angry Birds in Space, which I recently uploaded to my iPhone. I finished it in no time. It's fun - I liked predicting what the planetary gravitational fields would do - but there are nowhere as many levels as there are in the original game or even the Angry Birds in Rio variant. Boo!

Weight loss: I lost 2.2 pounds last week, for a total of 23.4 pounds in the last twelve weeks. Technically I have fulfilled that part of my two New Year's Resolutions, "Lose some weight." My other, "Write an article about your Volkswagen Beetle Stories," I can't seem to get started.

Yard sales tomorrow! And maybe even a good book at the library sale at the place next door to where I work (it's a Friday lunchtime thing). Last Friday I found a really cool book about the history of my favorite musical instrument, the National Symphony Orchestra.

Have a great weekend!

29 Mar 2012

Happy Birthday Meredith! My baby is 22 today... tempus keeps on fugiting. I shall repeat every parent's refrain, "It seems like yesterday..." and post this link to Meredith's blue chair photos. That's my baby. I like to call the very first one, "The cell hasn't been made that can hold me, Warden!"

We had management training at work yesterday, which involved yet another go-around with the famous Myers-Briggs "test." ("It isn't a test - there are no right or wrong answers - it's an assessment tool to help you..." etc.) This is the fourth time I have taken this in my post collegiate career. Generally when people ask me what Myer-Briggs type I am, I say "Taurus with Capricorn ascendant," because I tend to regard corporate exercises like this as a sort of pseudo-science.

As with the prior tests, the results I get are that I'm a ESTJ. (Click the link if you care at all what that means.) In a nutshell, I'm a "judgement" type - although Myers-Briggs seem to misuse the word to really mean an organized planner - which is certainly me. According to the test I'm also extroverted, but I don't believe this, looking at the criteria. I think my "energy" is primarily inwardly-focused, therefore I am an introvert - granted, with some wildly extroverted characteristics. The other stuff - the "S" and the "T" - aren't worth discussing, frankly.

We were given the opportunity to correct the test results for what we think we really are; I think I'm really an ISFJ. I find it amusing to learn that Robert E. Lee was supposedly a Myers-Briggs ISFJ type.

My salient characteristics are a sense of humor, introversion, organization, a concern with the passage time and boundless creativity. There.

One of our exercises, to determine how we view things, was to look at a colorful "Happy Birthday" hat and write about it. We were given about two minutes. I immediately got into my wildly creative, stream of consciousness Blog Mode and it was off to the races. Here's what I wrote: "My childhood friend was Sheriff John. He had an afternoon kid's show on a local Los Angeles television channel. One of the highlights of the show is that he'd sing the "Happy Birthday Polka" to kids whose birthdays it was. I can still sing the song and I know all the words. That's what the hat makes me think of. I miss local television; corporate network broadcasting is so slick and bland. I miss the regionalism of old time television. I'll take a cable access show any day over..." time's up. We each read what we wrote; my little essay was completely different than anyone else's.

Hey, look at this: "Civil War re-enactor causes lockdown at schools." In our post-Columbine world, it was sad but inevitable. The effect, of course, will be to discourage reenactors from hazarding such instructional shows for the sake of education.

I did this uniformed and armed show and tell thing three times in the public schools for each child; I forget what grades. For Ethan I did a Civil War show and tell, for Julie a Revolutionary War one, and for Meredith a Civil War one. Each time I made sure I had a note from the teacher and/or Principal that I was authorized to carry a reproduction musket and bayonet onto the school grounds, and each time I was very discreet about carrying same onto the property.

The kids absolutely love this kind of thing! I got quiet, respectful attention and a ton of questions afterwards - and, best of all, my kids felt special. Would I do one again? No, not in the current climate. I'd be afraid of having my musket confiscated, harassment form the police, being charged with carrying weapons onto school grounds, etc. (I may be willing revisit this with a grandchild, however.)

I feel sorry for Rebs. It's bad enough trying to smuggle a reproduction musket onto school grounds for a show and tell - can you imagine the brou-ha-ha among the teachers - a notoriously liberal set - if you're spotting carrying a Confederate battle flag in addition to the rifle? Racism! J'accuse!

(Actually, if you know a thing or two about Confederate vexillology you can fly a Reb flag pretty much without comment. How many Americans recognize the Bonny Blue Flag as being Confederate? Yet it was. Or the celebrated Stars and Bars? Yes, I know... the Confederate Naval Ensign is usually misnamed this. Education is power.)

Too Young the Hero (1988) with Ricky Schroder was quite good; I watched most of it last night and enjoyed it. Recommended for all interested in World War II naval history (I am looking at you, Don Tracey). As I have learned, there are SO MANY compelling stories associated with World War II...

28 May 2012

I'm proud of my son Ethan; he won a jury award for his student artwork at the Woodbury Art Museum (UVU)!

Last night in Webelos we went over requirements for the Readyman activity pin; this is essentially first aid. We discussed the various scenarios - shock, profuse bleeding, heart attack, snake bite, etc. - using the cub scouts to play out being injured and rendering aid. The verisimilitude was astonishing. Deep within the psyche of the ten year-old male is a fascination with injury. It explains much... the Three Stooges and Jackass, for instance. As you grow up and experience being injured yourself and in pain, it becomes far less fascinating, and you learn avoidance. But not so with young men. It's what makes war possible, I suppose.

Speaking of war... I got another "Sgt. Grit" Marine Corps merchandise catalog; I suppose I got on their mailing list because I donated money to the Marine Corps Memorial Museum in Quantico. They have a collection of bumper stickers, each with an eagle, globe and anchor on them. My favorites:

"Except for ending slavery, fascism, Nazism and communism, war never solved anything"
"Cold Warriors: They took one look at us and didn't want to fight"
"Do not wish ill for your enemy - PLAN IT."
"In the face of TERROR and MURDER the call for peace is NOT PATRIOTIC, IT'S COWARDICE!"
"Screw Jane Fonda"
"You're making the wrong assumption that a Marine by himself is outnumbered"
"I was a Vietnam Vet before it became popular"
"Pacifism in a luxury paid for by warriors"
"Give War a Chance"

(Wiping away a tear): I'll tell ya, those sentiments - it gets me right here, ya know? I just wish I had a nasty old truck with a rusty bumper and gate to put these on. Hey - maybe a few in my garage... Hmmm...

I might get myself a USMC watch... they have a few a like. My favorite item is a vinyl wall decal for the home. Most of the ones I see say things like "Home is where the heart is," "Happiness, Family, Friends" and stuff like that. This one says "SEMPER FI" - ha!

I entered my newly-acquired 67 marker YDNA data onto ysearch.com, a public database, in an effort to find some matches. I found 24 at various degrees of genetic distance, all surnamed Clark, about 4 of whom I have already corresponded with. My plan is to make a template e-mail with my Clark line and e-mail these out to these folks and see if anything turns up. It could be that one of these folks knows something about the "brick wall" ancestor I have been trying to get past for the last thirty years.

I am now watching a Ricky Schroder TV movie, Too Young the Hero, the true story of Calvin Graham (shown above), a twelve year-old who managed to enlist in the Navy during World War II and serve in combat at Guadalcanal. Yes, he is only twelve in that photo. Read the wikipedia link I provided - an amazing story.

27 Mar 2012

We watched The Last King of Scotland last night, about that adorable big teddy bear of a man, Idi Amin, or, as he once styled himself, "His Excellency, President for Life, Field Marshal Al Hadji Doctor Idi Amin Dada, VC, DSO, MC, Lord of All the Beasts of the Earth and Fishes of the Seas and Conqueror of the British Empire in Africa in General and Uganda in Particular."

It is worth noting that the VC is not the Victoria Cross (which is awarded by Great Britain), but the Victorious Cross, a Ugandan award. And in actuality he was awarded neither the Distinguished Service Order (DSO) or Military Cross (MC), which are British awards. And yes, he officially declared that he was the uncrowned King of Scotland - which I sure was news to the Scots.

The film was... okay. The reviewers seem to focus on Forest Whitaker's portrayal of Amin, calling it "towering," "staggering," "epic," etc. While it won him the Best Actor Academy Award, I was not especially staggered nor towered over. He was... good. But then, I appreciate the Sir Alec Guinness type of acting more, where subtlety is emphasized.

Did you know Idi Amin played rugby? True! From my entry for him in my "Famous Ruggers" article:

Idi Amin, the brutal dictator who ruled Uganda 1971-79, was a "splendid type," good at rugby but decidedly stupid, according to 1964 records released by Britain's Dominions Office, which oversees relations with former British colonies. "Idi Amin is a splendid type and a good rugby player," wrote a British official identified only as J.S.C. He went on to describe Amin as "virtually bone from the neck up and needs things explained in words of one letter." According to my video-reviewing pal Buzz McClain: "Last night I was reviewing a self-portrait movie (General Idi Amin Dada: A Self-Portrait by Barbet Schroeder) of Uganda's cannibalistic, murderous former dictator Idi Amin and was astonished to hear this in one of his speeches: 'As you know I am a rugby player. I am second row, so I know how to push. I am very big. You don't want to push against me. And I also play wing three-quarter and I am very fast. I can run one hundred meters in nine point five seconds (applause). If you tackle me, you will try, and you will hurt only yourself. So to everyone who is a boxer, I say this, do what you have to do to knock out your opponent.'"

Ran the 100 meters in 9.5 seconds, huh? From wikipedia's entry for the 100 meter sprint: "The current men's world record is 9.58 seconds, set by Jamaica's Usain Bolt, while American Florence Griffith-Joyner holds the women's world record of 10.49 seconds." Right.

Oh, the cannibalism? Probably a myth.

I also watched an enjoyable quickie RKO film noir, The Clay Pigeon (1949), starring noir's prototypical cinematic sailor, Bill Williams. Williams looks like the kind of guy you'd pick out as a Navy man, but in real life, before taking up acting, he was in the Army. It's worth noting that he's the father of the "Greatest American Hero" William Katt, Katt being Williams' real surname. It was an entertaining way to while away just over an hour. As is the case with a number of films noir, amnesia was an important plot element. I sometimes wonder if the producers of these things thought that half the American public was head injured and walking around in a daze, not remembering their identities...

In retrospect, my decision to sign up for WTOP news alerts on my iPhone may have been a mistake, as I keep getting messages about things I'm unconcerned with. For instance, last night a "silver alert" went out for a missing delusional 77 year-old in Maryland. This morning I got another alert indicating that she had been found. Can you imagine if people in Noir City were getting alerts for all the amnesia victims wandering around? Nobody would have time to plan any heists or commit any crimes; they'd be too busy deleting messages.

I am still poring over the implications of my 67 marker YDNA classification upgrade. Running the numbers, it appears that the great-great-grandfather of my great-great-grandfather and the great-great-grandfather of another's Clark's great-great-grandfather have about a 90% probability of being the same person. That is, if I'm interpreting things correctly. This is not a smoking gun, nor is it entirely helpful as we're probably talking about sometime in the 17th century. Documentation from those days is hard to come by. But a picture is beginning to slowly emerge, piece by piece. More genetic data - hopefully from people with good documentation - is needed.

26 Mar 2012

On Friday I discovered that the building in which I work, which is fully leased to the U.S. government, has a "secret" passage directly into the Irish pub next door. We had lunch there and went back to work via the passage. If I were a Guinness drinker I would say that it just doesn't get any better than that.

I mentioned Chuck E. Cheese last week and got an interesting response via Facebook. This is from my Civil War reenacting pal Bob Fleming, who is one of the best storytellers I know:

"Some years ago at a local Chuck E. Cheese here in New Jersey there were three birthday parties going on at the same time. One of the parties invited a Batman impressionist. Of course the kids from the other two parties couldn't help but join in on the fun. The mother sponsoring the party tried to forbid the other kids from approaching Batman because - well she had paid for his services. Anyway, indignation led to an all out slugfest between the mothers and their consorts. None of the kids understood why Batman stood aside and allowed the fight to ensue but he remained unscathed to fight crime in other areas of Gotham and New Jersey."

My Burbank pal Mike tells me that in Southern California, Chuck E. Cheese has apparently upped the level of their food quality. He says that he has seen congregations of adults dressed in business attire show up at the places for lunch! Can you imagine a business lunch at a Chuck E. Cheese? Bleah.

It was rainy all day Saturday, so there were no yard sales. But I made a three minute video showing the pretty colors seen on the trees in Northern Virginia. (I became well versed in the Sibelius piece I used for music while editing it.) It is worth noting that these colors don't last long. In fact, almost all of the blossoms of the trees shown at the beginning have fallen due to the rain; the trees don't look anywhere as pretty as they did. I'm glad I took the video when I did... I also included some shots of when Cari and I visited the National Cherry Blossom Festival around the Tidal Basin in D.C. We took a paddle boat out for an hour and took pictures from there - it was fun!

My YDNA upgrade from 37 markers to 67 markers is finished. I haven't had a chance to compare notes with others yet to figure out what new data is saying, but one Clark researcher posted a Clark "Peach" (my genetic branch of the family) web site. It still shows the 37 marker data for me; I'll have to have him upgrade it. Basically what it's doing is relating the various people who have submitted data to a Clark genetic forbear, to show levels of mutation away from the common ancestor.

In this process I have also learned that I am a member of haplogroup R1b1a2 - I knew I was an R1b1 before. King Tut (shown above) was an R1b1a2. To quote Pigpen in Peanuts (when he points out the possible antiquity of the dirt he habitually wears), "...kind of makes you want to treat me with a little more respect, doesn't it?" No? All right, then.

Helpful note: I do not live in a condo made of stone-a.

Talk about a man who had to make hard decisions... I watched a special about Winston Churchill and the agonizing decision he had to make in July 1940, when he gave orders to a British fleet at Mers-al-Kebir in French Algeria to destroy a French fleet, lest the Nazis get their hands on the ships (with consequent disastrous results to the Royal Navy). There were nearly 1,300 dead French sailors - his allies - as a result.

And did Winston Churchill allow Coventry to be bombed without prior evacuation in order to not give away the fact that British Intelligence could read enciphered German messages? Another agonizing decision! I used to think this was the case, but perhaps not. (The Churchill Centre is especially adamant about debunking this.)

I thought the phrase "Sent to Coventry" (meaning to shun or ostracise one) perhaps came from this, but no - the origin of the phrase is far older than World War II.

23 Mar 2012

I'm starting to feel better now. Yesterday I got up, showered, got dressed and ate breakfast, then began to feel lousy - so I called in sick and went back to bed.

Sometime last night I began to feel the crazy energy I always get when getting over a cold, and took a 51 minute walk, listening to the excellent 1967 Monkees Lp Pisces, Aquarius, Capricorn and Jones, Ltd. on my iPhone. This morning I can feel that I've certainly turned a corner. I still wheeze, but it's not bad. And while the coughing gives me headaches, that's why God gave us ibuprofen. Organ recital over.

I have seen a number of documentaries on nerdy subjects: Trekkies (I and II), about those obsessed with Star Trek, Darkon (2006), depicting the lives and mock battles of those who gather in public parks dressed as Tolkien types to attempt to speak in Stan Lee-esque flowery language and hammer away at each other with wooden swords, and The King of Kong: A Fistful of Quarters (2007), about those who play video games competitively. I also watched Special When Lit (2009), a look at the world of pinball machines and competitive play. Just for the heck of it, I've even suffered through the wooden acting in a fan-produced Star Wars short, despite the fact that I pretty much dislike the entire Star Wars franchise.

You know what all these have in common? Overweight males with goatees age 19-30 wearing tee shirts.

Nothing I have seen yet, however, comes close to the subject matter of The Rock-afire Explosion (2008), which I saw while sick.

I can hear you now, Gentle Reader: "Rock-afire Explosion... am I supposed to know what that is?" Have you ever been in a Showbiz Pizza Parlor or a Chuck E. Cheese? These places are so crass that nobody over the age of about eleven goes there willingly, but there have been times when the parents of your kid's friend decides to have a birthday party at one of these places and you go. I spent the evening of my thirtieth birthday at one, April 27th, 1986. My enduring memory of that occasion was, 1.) The total mediocrity of the pizza (frozen is better), 2.) the noise, 3.) The fact that my shoes frequently stuck to the floors, and 4.) The mind-numbing rock and roll cover music "played" by an audio-animatronic group of animals.

The Rock-afire Explosion was the house band of robots in a Showbiz Pizza joint from the early Eighties to... I forget when. 1990? I don't care. Anyway, as weird as it sounds, this "band" has a fan base - and that's the subject of the documentary.

The documentary is mainly based on two people, the perky Floridian inventor who came up with the idea for the animatronic band and a fellow who is so obsessed with the Rock-afire Explosion that he bought one, set it up in a bespoke shed in his backyard and runs the thing to entertain himself. He is - how do I put this? - Southern. He has beach towels as drapes and drinks a two liter bottle of Mountain Dew every day. (You get to see him take a mouthful, slosh it around in his mouth a bit and swallow.) However, and this was a bit of a surprise, he has a wife who shares his interest. "An ass for every saddle," as my friend's father used to say. I have to admit that I kind of liked the fellow as the documentary progressed. But as he's describing the characters in the band and which one is his personal favorite, and why, I did find my jaw dropping a bit.

He lives in Phenix City, Alabama, which, interestingly enough, used to be known for sin and vice, situated as it was near an Army base. There was even a good 1955 film noir made about the place, The Phenix City Story. The city has since been cleaned up, the brothels and backroom casinos closed, and today is the home of (I think) the nation's only functioning Rock-afire Explosion show. I should grant that this is an improvement... but I'm finding that hard to do.

There are other fans. One has the inevitable goatee and actually wears a Showbiz Pizza employees shirt. Another - and this was a real surprise - is an attractive young woman.

Anyway, fascinating documentary, but, wow, is it ever nerdy.

And, yes, I admit, I reenact Civil War battles, an endeavor which certainly contains more than a trace element of nerdliness.

Say... jonesing for new Rock-afire Explosion media? Look no further than youtube. Here's a recent production, in honor of the late Davy Jones of the Monkees.

Funny Check E. Cheese story: I know a woman who actually had a teenage job portraying the pizza hustling rodent. Her tale: "Worst. Job. Ever. The Chuck E. costume would be WET after the big, hairy dude got out of it after a three hour shift. It was so gross! And the kids would pull my tail and try to look into my mouth where the screen was where I could see out. Those annoying animatronic animals sang Beatles and Elvis songs round the clock. It was absolute agony." Hahaha! What makes this even funnier is that she's the cultural type who likes and dances ballet.

It isn't very often that I come across a cute film noir, but I saw one yesterday: Key Witness (1947). An affable inventor is twice (!) accused of murders he didn't commit. Why cute? He invents talking clocks (a door opens and a little figure pops out which says "It's ten o'clock!/Time to turn in!/Mama and Papa shouldn't argue!/To fight is a sin!") and kissing couple light switches (you move the boy into a position where he's kissing a girl to turn on the room lights). And, at the end, Smiley the Hobo, whom you finally discover is why the film is named as it is (SPOILER), thrusts his face through a paper clock face and recites a charming little poem to wrap things up. Wow. My noir pal Michael Keaney, from whom I got this rare gem, thinks this film was a stinker and gives it only one star. I think it was brilliantly unique! Five stars!

Hey, I lost 1.8 pounds last week, for a total of 21.2 pounds in eleven weeks. I told myself that once I had hit the twenty pound mark I'd buy myself a banana split as a reward. So...

Have a great weekend!

22 Mar 2012

No update today; I still feel lousy. Back to bed.

21 Mar 2012

Whoa, do I ever feel crappy this morning. I've got my annual early spring bronchial crud that is accompanied by a slight temperature and draginess. There's also a interesting wheezing component to this that keeps me awake at night. The pattern is that I feel awful all morning, then start to feel about normal in the afternoon and early evening, then drag again just before I go to bed.

And that was today's organ recital. Did you enjoy it?

I'm almost done with a neat documentary, The Art of the Steal (2009), about how moneyed interests and multi-million dollar charitable trusts in Philadelphia more or less legally swindled a small art school (the Barnes Foundation) in nearby Marion, PA out of an art collection worth 25-50 billion dollars. Well, that's the take of the filmmakers, anyway - and they make a convincing case for themselves.

Professional art world types - museum curators, art critics, academics, collectors and appraisers - are not like you and I. They're kind of weird. For instance, at one point a woman is describing moving a Van Gogh piece. She takes it off the wall, becomes overcome by emotion, gently sets it down somewhere and then cries her heart out. There were a number of places in the first twenty minutes or so, where the Barnes collection is being described in rapturous terms, where I found myself rolling my eyes and thinking, "Oh, get a hold of yourself!" But once you get past that and watch the political types do their thing - power plays, glad handing, inserting themselves - it gets interesting. Good doc.

I also watched a nice concert DVD of a favorite piece of music, Bela Bartok's Concerto for Orchestra (1943), one of the undisputed musical masterworks of the Twentieth Century and one of Bartok's last works. I was first made aware of it by 1973 a quadraphonic recording of it by Pierre Boulez and the New York Philharmonic. In that, the orchestra was spread about the conductor in a fashion calculated to show off four channel "surround sound" techniques. The concert DVD I watched was filmed in a Lisbon cathedral, with the orchestra set up in the conventional way. The mix, however, was in DTS, and so there was all sorts of reverberant sounds coming from the rear channels... it was nice to hear that whole quadraphonic recording thing finally done right!

I have a gripe about the video production, however. At the beginning of the fifth movement, there's a horn call and then the strings start playing a furious passage of sixteenth notes - it's very stirring to hear and see. But where was the camera during this part? Up in the rafters, showing the ledge of a balcony. Boo! Who wants to see that? We want to see the string players playing their little hearts out! (You can watch a decent performance of the fifth movement here - and you should. It's one of the most glorious noises composed in the 20th century.)

Boulez made had an interesting comment about this movement. He said that Bartok, living in New York, had a respect for the major American orchestras, who, under the likes of Stokowski and Mitropolous, had achived a virtuosity rare in Europe. The difficult pattern of notes were written for the American orchestras, whom Bartok knew could play them well. That's right: a Frenchman said that in the 1940's, major American orchestras were better than the European ones!

Oh, check out the clever computer animation done by the Nostradamus Channel (aka The History Channel) for the Ford's Theatre Museum. Video here. It breaths new life into those rather stodgy old engravings we've seen countless times before in Civil War books.

And that's all the text I can generate at the present time. Excuse me while I reach for a Kleenex.

20 Mar 2012

Washington D.C. has many well-known sports teams: the Redskins, the Nationals, the Capitals, D.C. United and also local rugby clubs who usually do well in their divisions. But have you ever heard of the Washington Generals?

The other day on the radio, a sportscaster, in conjunction with a piece about the famous Harlem Globetrotters, referred to the "hapless" Washington Generals. "That seems a bit harsh. Who are they?" I wondered, revealing my utter cluelessness about all things basketball-related. One of the Globetrotters mentioned that they had some good players, and that it was by no means a given that they'll defeat the Generals.

Well... yeah, it is. I looked up the Generals in my favorite quick resource, wikipedia, and learned that, yes, they are indeed truly hapless. From wikipedia: "From 1953 until 1995, the Generals played exhibitions against the Globetrotters, winning only six games, the last in 1971, and losing more than 13,000." Apparently everyone other than me knows that the Washington Generals are a team constructed solely for the purpose of being defeated by the Globetrotters.

More fun (read "Washington Generals" for "Reds"): "The Reds defeated the Globetrotters 100-99 on January 5, 1971 in Martin, Tennessee. It ended a 2,495-game winning streak. (Louis) Klotz credits the overtime win to a guard named Eddie Mahar, who was team captain. ... While the Globetrotters were entertaining the crowd that day, they lost track of the game and the score. They found themselves down 12 points with two minutes left to go. Forced to play normal basketball, the Globetrotters rallied but could not recover. The Reds secured their victory when Klotz hit the winning basket with seconds left. Then Meadowlark Lemon missed a shot that would have given the game back to Globetrotters. The timekeeper tried to stop the clock and couldn't. When the final buzzer sounded, the crowd was dumbfounded and disappointed. Klotz described the fans' reaction: 'They looked at us like we killed Santa Claus.' Some children in the stands cried after the loss. The Reds celebrated by dousing themselves with orange soda instead of champagne. Lemon was furious, saying 'You lost, I didn't lose,' but still visited the opposing team’s locker room to congratulate the Reds." Hahaha!

Who would want to play on such a team as the Generals/Reds? Like everyone else they have a website, and on it is this pitch: "The WASHINGTON GENERALS basketball team is seeking quality players of outstanding character to tour within the United States and the world with the famous Harlem Globetrotters. This is an outstanding opportunity to break into professional basketball while playing for a 60 + year nationally recognized organization. ... The Generals serve an important role in the Globetrotters tours and realize the final score does not always define winners." Well, that's putting a spin on it! I see there are no links to buy Washington Generals logo swag on the website. What a pity. I think I'd like something, just to be perverse. And go to a Globetrotters game and cheer like mad when they come out. The Sole Fan.

I close by noting that the Generals got their name in reference to General Dwight D. Eisenhower, who was the President when they were formed. Some honor!

Hey, check out this article about Photoshopped historic "then and now" shots. I get a kick out of the one with Hitler and the Eiffel Tower. Makes me want to visit, find that spot (Jardins du Trocadero Esplanade, I think), and take a photo myself. Can you imagine asking a Frenchman (in a loud American voice)? "Excusez moi, ou est le spot historique est-ce que Hitler posed pour une photographe en 1940? I want to get my photo taken there." Actually, what I really want to do is to drive under the Eiffel Tower in my VW - top down - and look up. Or, even better, drive under it in my friend Mike's son's WWII Jeep.

The Great Adventure, 1963! This was such a cool show... it was based on episodes about American history. I remember the one about the Underground Railroad best. I've been waiting for this title sequence and march to appear on youtube for years. Music by Richard Rodgers. I remember it vividly, and always liked how it ended with a space ship launching. In America in 1963, you see, there was the promise of adventure. Now we have... well, a host of ills. Can anyone say we are a greater nation now than we were then? And reality TV. And I won't get started on that...

You come across striking music in the oddest places... I've been playing Bejeweled Butterflies lately (I've blogged about it before - it's that heartless game where a spider eats butterflies if you're not careful), mostly with the volume off. But if you turn it on you hear this theme played over and over. It sounds epic and cinematic to me - which, I suppose, is a trait good video game music should have. With an orchestral arrangement it sounds like music that would accompany a shot of Mel Gibson or Sean Connery riding a horse across some Scottish glen or something like that. Is it pentatonic? Perhaps I'll try picking it out on my piano and see if it fits within one of the pentatonic scales. It sounds Celtic to me. Does it to you?

From wikipedia: "The game's soundtrack was composed by Peter Hajba and Alexander Brandon." Maybe I'll just write them and ask!

19 Mar 2012

Per example of my son, I uploaded an app called iMotion HD to my iPhone. It allows me to make time lapse videos. Here are my first two (they are 30 seconds each): Clouds, Cari knitting. I'm waiting for the perfect sunset for the next one...

Saturday, by the power invested in me by myself, I declared the yard sale season opened, and here is my three minute video about that. What did I get? Watch the video - it's at the end.

Afterwards we donned green attire for St. Paddy's Day and had lunch at the Irish pub - Samuel Beckett's - next to the building where I work in Shirlington. They had the Ireland vs. England RBS Six Nations rugby match on the televisions. It was certainly a festive occasion; the place was packed. When England sang "God Save the Queen" at the beginning, the guy running the audio played an Irish jig loudly in its place, which I thought was ungallant. But England left Irish eyes unsmiling as they won 30 to 9. To add insult in injury, Ireland got crushed in the scrum from the opening whistle. Wales won the Six Nations championship with a Grand Slam (in other words, they beat everyone they played); England took second place.

I completed Angry Birds Rio over the weekend with at least two stars on every level. I feel so proud. Next up: Angry Birds in Space.

I selected three DVDs form the library to watch over the weekend, to see which one was best.

Cache (2005): A French psychological thriller. The idea (adapted, I think, from an idea in David Lynch's Lost Highway) is promising: Somebody is frightening a Paris couple with videos of their home and unsettling drawings. Who is it? Well... you never explicitly find out. You have to piece it together yourself based on subtle visual clues. A good film, but, as it turned out, not my favorite of the three.

I Have Found It (2000): A Bollywood adaptation of Jane Austen's Sense and Sensibility. I found the narrative action utterly boring in this two and a half hour film and quickly fast forwarded through it, but I liked the song and dance numbers. I always do in Bollywood movies - they're fun. (Note for purists: This was actually called a Kollywood film, as it's from the south of India.) Nope, this wasn't the favorite, either.

And the Ship Sails On (1983): An under-appreciated Federico Fellini film about 1914 arts world aristocrats on board a luxury liner to spread the ashes of a famous soprano in the waters around the island where she was born. But, being a Fellini film, there's a whole lot more to it than that. (For instance, one of the passengers is a lovesick rhino.) It was a delight to watch. One of my favorite scenes: A Russian basso - who claims to be able to produce the deepest tones in the world - hypnotizes a hen by singing a series of low notes at it: F sharp 2, F2, D sharp 2. But wait! I can hit a C2 - sometimes, a B2. Is the joke that this guy isn't the basso he claims to be - or is my piano merely out of tune in its lower register? Anyway, I liked this film best.

I also watched a juvenile delinquents flick on the advice of a friend who knows I like that kind of thing, High School Hellcats (1958). It was... okay. As it turned out, most of the hellcats seemed kind of prim, except for the head troublemaker and her switchblade-totin' deputy. It needed more guys with black leather jackets and greasy hair, loud cars and rumbles. You know, the daddy-o factor. (NOTE: The amusing marquee image above is very deceptive - there isn't a scene like that in the film and the blonde is depicted as being much vampier then she was in the film. Typical 1950's visual come-on.)

Finally, in absolute contrast to high school hellcats, are the Osmond Brothers. While casting about on youtube for Bollywood musicals I stumbled across
this video - figure out the search engine logic behind that. It's their song "Yo Yo," from a September 1971 broadcast of the Flip Wilson Show. I have watched it a number of times. Now, I have never liked the Osmonds. My Mormon friend once sneered, "They're song stylists." And becoming Mormon myself and being culturally identified with them, I got to like them even less. But, I have to admit, this is an absolutely classic Seventies clip. The set (I like the way the circles move apart), the hair, the Elvis jumpsuits (designed by the same guy who did Elvis', by the way), the song and, especially, the choreography, are all perfect. These guys could move! I liked the synchronized side step thing... it looks clever and unique. How thoroughly drilled and rehearsed they are!

It is worth noting that Jay Osmond did the choreography for the brothers, and that while "Yo Yo" was written by Joe South, they could and did write songs and serve as their own instrumentalists. Some belated Monkees-style respect is due, I think.

Hmmm. Perhaps I owe Mr. Donald Clark Osmond a blog entry of his own someday.

16 Mar 2012

The great thing about being married to Cari Clark is not just the baked goods she makes (yesterday she made frosted St. Patrick's Day shamrock cookies), but also the fact that she, too, likes good grammar. In the course of writing this blog and citing names of films, TV shows, art and other material, I have run into problems concerning when to use italics and when to use quotation marks. I was never sure. So Cari pulled out her trusty 1982 edition of The Chicago Manual of Style and looked things up for me.

Book and magazine names are in italics. Short pieces, like magazine articles, are in quotation marks (e.g. "Where is Che Guevara?" in the August 1967 Paris Match). The same sort of logic holds for music. Operas and long form pieces are in italics (Rimsky-Korsakov's Le Coq d'Or, Prokofiev's Fifth Symphony) but short form pieces like Bach's "Jesu, Joy of Man's Desiring" or songs like the Flamingos' "I Only Have Eyes for You" are in quotation marks.

Films (Black Narcissus is a favorite) are italicized; television shows are in quotation marks. (I loved "Green Acres" as a kid; I still do!) Book titles and works of art - such as Edvard Munch's The Scream - are in italics. It gets tricky with foreign phrases. I thought all foreign phrases were properly rendered in italics, but not so. If they're familiar, like au revoir, they are not. If they are generally unfamiliar, they are. Napoleon said, Du sublime au ridicule, il n'y a qu'un pas ("From the sublime to the ridiculous is but a step") - and truer words were never spoken, as any attendee of Civil War reenactments well knows.

Believe it or not, I try to maintain the highest standard of grammar on these blog entries... so this was appreciated information. Henceforth I shall try to be consistent insofar as the use of italics and quotation marks are concerned!

The other day I mentioned circuses and grocery store parking lot carnivals; my friend Mike sent me an e-mail about his memories of school carnivals. I had forgotten about those! I attended a couple in elementary school. My most profound memory of one in 1966 was an incredible earworm I got from the music used in a sort of musical chairs game, played in a chalk-drawn circle. I was hearing it in my head for days afterward. Given that it was 1966 it must have been on an Lp, played on a Wollensack turntable. It began with a spoken prelude: A fatherly voice asks, "Did you have fun at the school carnival, Susie?" "I sure did Daddy, except we haven't yet played the Musical Ring." "Well, then, let's play it now!" And then this annoying deedle-dee music would play and everyone would walk in a circle until the music abruptly halted. The poor teacher must have been driven nuts by that music. It's been 46 years for me and I can still remember that maddening spoken part, played over and over...

The 1966 school carnival was also notable in that it was the one and only time in my entire school career that my parents ever contributed to a PTA activity. Mom brought a crock of baked beans.

For some reason yesterday I was thinking about the coffee shop where my mother worked from the 1950's until about 1967, "Toppy's," in Hollywood on the corner of Hollywood and Western. Thanks to the wonder of the Internet I can see that the building is still there, naked men in hats and all. (I always thought that was a curious artistic feature.)

Apparently I am the only person contributing anything to the Internet about Toppy's - it seems to have been forgotten. I have a photo of Mom working the cash register at Toppy's - a rarity, I guess. Every now and then Mom would find it necessary to go in to work on an odd schedule, and she'd take me. Three memories of this place emerge: 1.) The delicious large (about five or six inches in diameter) shortbread cookies with a dollop of chocolate on top. These were simply heavenly. 2.) The then current Rolling Stones' hit "I Can't Get No (Satisfaction)" was played on the radio incessantly during one visit (it must have been in 1965), and 3.) On one occasion I was reading one of those wonderful cookies and reading a Herbie comic book.

As a kid I used to read comic books constantly, and had a collection of over 1,200 of them. By far the weirdest title I can remember was Herbie. They were just plain bizarre. Entertaining, but bizarre. You can read how in detail here, but, in general, he was a fat kid of indeterminate ethnic origin (I always thought he looked like an Eskimo) who defeated evil-doers by "bopping" them with lollipops. His usual threat: "You want I should bop you with this here lollipop?" (Perhaps he was a Jew from Brooklyn.) From wikipedia: "Deriving some of his powers from genetics and some from magical lollipops from 'the Unknown,' Herbie can talk to animals (who know him by name), fly (by walking on air), become invisible, and (once he got his own title), travel through time. Herbie is emotionless, terse, irresistible to women, consulted by world leaders, and more powerful than the Devil." Okkaaayy.

My piano teacher was sick last night, so she canceled the lesson. A reprieve!

The trailer for the upcoming Tim Burton Dark Shadows movie. To quote my son, with whom I agree, "Hoo boy, this looks awful." I'm guessing that when the dust settles the best update/reimagining/reboot of the original series was the one shown on television in 1991.

I lost 1.2 pounds last week. Eh. I was hoping for better. That represents 19.4 pounds lost in ten weeks. I would have preferred an even twenty pounds in ten weeks but I have to take what I get. Slow and steady gets it in this racket.

St. Patrick's Day tomorrow. I am toying with the idea of taking Cari to the Irish pub located next to where I work and watching the England vs. Ireland Six Nations rugby match on TV. Or not.

Have a great weekend!

15 Mar 2012

The problem with having your own website that has any sort of traffic on it is that from time to time you get e-mails like this:

Hi,

I'd like to start by saying I love wesclark.com - it's awesome.

I'm interested in contributing an article to wesclark.com - I can select a topic that matches the tone and theme of your site, or if you prefer, I can write about something of your choosing. The article will be unique and interesting to read. In return, I ask that I be able to subtly include a link to my site barstools.net within the article.

If you are not interested in the article, I am also willing to offer you a one time donation for a permanent link to barstools.net in a prominent place on your website.

Hope you are having a wonderful week!

Thanks,
Rob

barstools.net. A subject matter that is exactly in keeping with the content on wesclark.com, developed by a Mormon. Makes perfect sense.

The other thing to avoid if you don't want junk mail is incorporating something. In my case it was a rugby club, back in 2000. To this day I get catalogs for industrial cleaners and solvents, office supplies, corporate logo pens, etc., all addressed to the guy who was the president of the club twelve years ago in care of my address. The only thing that keeps me from having USPS forward this stuff to him is the fact that I like the guy.

The city from whence I hail, Burbank, California, rightfully calls itself the media capital. Everyone is media savvy, including churches. Check it out: Westminster's no cell phones video. Is it just me, or does the laughing guy with the red shirt walking down the aisle at the end seem somewhat satanic? Hahaha! I've captured another soul at Westminster!

I watched a wonderful documentary last night (in stark contrast to the two I didn't like last time): Circo (2010), about a struggling Mexican family circus. It was one of those slices of life - but the lives were more or less unfamiliar to me. (Do you know any circus people?) It was quite engrossing. A bit sad, but engrossing.

I have never been to a circus, ever. (Does a television taping of Bozo the Clown count? I think not.) What's more, I have never wanted to see one. But nowadays I think I probably ought to catch one before I take a swing on that Great Trapeze in the Sky. Cirque de Soliel recommends itself - but that's hardly a traditional circus, is it? That's tarted up and Frenchified. I mean one with unfunny clowns and a woman in tights standing on a galloping horse.

The closest I have ever gotten to a circus was a grocery store parking lot carnival, in my case the local Ralph's on the corner of Buena Vista and Victory in Burbank. It was Spring, 1965, and I was turning nine. It was the kind of attraction run by dodgy looking guys with tattoos and adult-looking teenagers with rolled-up sleeves and cigarettes hanging out of their mouths. I rode the Ferris Wheel - I recall being interested in seeing all the air conditioning equipment atop Ralph's roof - and walked though a supremely unfrightening House of Horrors. I remember looking at the various lit devil masks and gags and thinking how I'd improve on them. The attraction that caused the most interest among we kids, however, was The Hammer.

It was a ride that looked dangerous: One was locked into a noisy, rickety steel cabin and flung around first in arcs, then upside down. The kid lore was that you couldn't ride it without vomiting profusely. Looking back on it as an adult I wondered why, if this were the case, that the thing didn't smell to high heaven and kids didn't emerge besoiled. But nine year-olds don't always think deductively. Subject to multiple dares, I finally rode the Hammer, and much like Peggy Lee in her song Is That All There Is?, musing upon disappointment with a circus, I too, wondered, is that all there is to the Hammer?

My next great realization about fear took place when I was in the Marines. We once had to arrange ourselves and our wall lockers for an excruciating inspection. It was heralded by our NCOs as being one of the great events of our enlistment, a judgment by those in power to see who was squared away and who was not. When the great day had finally come we were duly marched out on a hot day to stand on the tarmac in ordered ranks, awaiting God with newly dry cleaned uniforms, spit-shined shoes, polished brass and fearful demeanor. We were all apprehensive; you could feel the tension in the air.

An hour and a half later under the hot sun the tension had entirely disappeared, replaced by exasperated impatience and anger. Where in the hell were these guys? We were ready to bayonet our own mothers. When the inspecting party had finally arrived (a gaggle of neat-looking officers accompanied by a Sergeant Major with a mean scar on his face), we perked up a bit. At last! The inspection was far from exacting: the party just sort of moved past me without asking any difficult questions save where I was from. "Burbank, California, sir!' "Oh, local boy, huh?" And that was it. The great sifting had taken place. Afterwards we all compared notes in the barracks and called it "A Lifer Scare" ("Lifer" being our derogatory term for a career Marine). Afterwards, when threatened, we would ask ourselves, "Is this just another Lifer Scare?"

I have had many Lifer Scares since that occasion, each one having less impact and potential than the previous. Now that I am 55 I don't scare easily. Oh, sure, the fundamentals - crippling health ailments, deaths of children, financial ruin - still have considerable potential for unease, but there is a sense that having come along this long in life, somehow things will sort themselves out. And if they don't, they don't, and we cope. Life goes on until it doesn't.

This week's Lifer Scare is my piano lesson tonight, for which I am rather unprepared. It hasn't been an especially good week to practice. The unexpected warmth and the change to daylight savings time has made me kind of logy, irritable and careless.

14 Mar 2012

I tried watching a couple of documentaries the other day.

The Greatest Movie Ever Sold (2011) - In this, Morgan Spurlock, who achieved notoriety, poundage and increased blood pressure by eating like a pig at McDonald's in his 2004 documentary SuperSize Me, takes on the practice of filmmakers accepting product placement in movies and television productions. It's a promising idea, and while I applaud the idea of an expose on the subject (I think filmmakers should have to show who paid them for product placement in the credits mainly because they get so sanctimonious about "art") - this doc is dull. I gave up after 42 minutes. Extended footage of Spurlock pitching his movie for promotional consideration to execs just isn't very compelling.

One curious scene: Seeking funding for this documentary, Spurlock meets with Ban deodorant ad executives and asks, "What does the Ban brand signify to you?" Silence. After a time one fellow suggests that "fresh" comes to mind. What? A bunch of Ban deodorant execs aren't immediately spitting out words and phrases like "hygiene," "etiquette," "social responsibility," "pleasantly scented," "appeal," "green, bright" (after the color of the Ban containers), etc.? Do these folks spend much time thinking about their product?

Regarding Super Size Me, I shall point out that another filmmaker, Tom Naughton, made a documentary entitled Fat Head (2009) which refutes most of what Spurlock asserts about McDonald's food - and fat in general. He also questions Spurlock's calorie numbers. You should watch both to get the whole story. As for myself, I shall mention in passing that I have lost nearly twenty pounds while having lunch - usually a quarter pounder - at McDonald's with my friend Chris every nearly Monday, and have not declined foods like hamburgers. (In 2007 I lost 55 pounds the same way.) I'm convinced that it's not what you eat so much as it is how much you eat - in other words, portion control.

But forget the burgers: There's nothing like Che Guevara apologia to send my blood pressure rocketing, and the other documentary I tried watching, Chevolution (2008), did just that. It's nominally an account of the famous photograph of Che that fashion photographer-turned-revolution-photojournalist Alberto Korda took which he titled "Guerrillero Heroico" ("Heroic Guerrilla Fighter").

As far as being an account of the circumstances of the photo being taken and of its subsequent history, fine, I can handle that, and this part of the documentary was historically valid and interesting. Where it becomes a fellow traveler puff piece is when the likes of Sinn Fein bomb-thrower Gerry Adams gas on about how the image and Che himself represented liberty and freedom for the oppressed. Naturally there's a Hollywood celebrity mewling platitudes as well - in this production it's Antonio "Puss in Boots" Bandaras.

I assert that if you are going to claim that Che represented freedom for the oppressed, you must imagine a asterisk behind every such assertion containing the phrase, "Except for those peasants and others whom he murdered, massacred or ordered to be murdered." It is the height of ignorance and intellectual dishonesty to cite Che's quote, "The true revolutionary is guided by a great feeling of love" (as this documentary does) without also citing his less celebrated quotes, "Crazy with fury I will stain my rifle red while slaughtering any enemy that falls in my hands! My nostrils dilate while savoring the acrid odor of gunpowder and blood. With the deaths of my enemies I prepare my being for the sacred fight and join the triumphant proletariat with a bestial howl!" Some love.

How about, "Hatred as an element of struggle; unbending hatred for the enemy, which pushes a human being beyond his natural limitations, making him into an effective, violent, selective, and cold-blooded killing machine. This is what our soldiers must become… " Are you feeling the love there too, comrade? There is only one end of such direction, and it is not liberty. It is tyranny, as many post 1959 Cuban refugees well know.

Well. (Composing myself.) After watching about as much as I could stand - about 40 minutes - I popped the DVD out. I will mention in passing, however, that the image's iconic vogue is due, in large part, to the French via an August 1967 Paris Match article "Where is Che Guevara?" which reproduced Korda's photo on an entire page. I might have guessed. That's the French for you... they can recognize a gripping, charismatic image faster than anyone.

One last Che observation, this time an aesthetic one, not a political or historical one: In the course of watching this documentary and of documenting the fact that Che was once a rugby player, I have seen many photos of the man. He was not especially handsome. His beard was unkempt and scruffy, his usual sloppy militant clothing did nothing to improve his looks and he was developing a gut. He was not at all what one would call photogenic, except - and this is the amazing thing - for perhaps what was 1/60th of a second for Korda's photograph. There the gaze, the beard, the stylishly long hair, the zipped jacket and the starred beret all look made to order. Parfait, as the Paris Match editors surely said.

It is one of the great unfair visual cheats in world political history. It's a bit like claiming that Adolph Hitler had pretty blue eyes, or that Joe Stalin's mustache was nicely trimmed... yeah, but!

I sincerely wish Korda's camera lens had fogged on that occasion.

13 Mar 2012

My daughter alerted me to this: View of musical instruments from the inside. The one of the violin looked like the interior of a room until I realized what it was I was looking at. Interesting...

I watched one of the most tense films noir I have ever seen the other night, The Steel Trap (1952). Why tense? Joseph Cotten, who is bored out of his mind by his day to day domestic grind, decides to rip off a million dollars from the bank where he works. His plan is to flee to Brazil, where he has determined that the United States has no extradition treaty. (I bet it's not that way now, if it ever was.) But his plan requires that things run correctly all the way until he gets on the plane to Brazil - and this includes a connecting flight. How dependable are flight logistics for you? I worry every time. All through this he lugs a 110 pound suitcase containing the money. 110 pounds! Then there's his wife, who has a bit of a problem with the idea of her husband being a thief when she finds out about it. A real nail-biter... it seems that the Fates conspire against him at every turn.

My wife is currently watching episodes of the 1967 Desi Arnaz sitcom The Mothers-in-Law. Written by the same writers who penned the gags for I Love Lucy, it's zany and way over-acted. I started watching an episode last night and, as much as I like Eve Arden, I gave up - the humor is too broad for my taste. BIG set ups. BIG reactions.

(Wilbur Hatch's frenetic theme song is a maddening earworm; typical 1960's sitcom music.)

I also watched a British comedy that was the polar opposite to the Mothers in Law: Lamp in Assassin Mews (1962). The plot: a kindly old couple murder salesmen and those planning to replace their cherished Victorian gas lamp with a modern lighting fixture. Having seen what passes for 1960's British architecture, I don't blame them one bit. A pity they didn't murder the architect who came up with the Centre Point.

While the Mothers in Law was almost slapstick, this movie was understated to the point of being a quasi-drama.

Lamp in Assassin Mews co-stars Ian Fleming, but, not the one who wrote the James Bond novels. That was a different Ian Fleming. Did you know there were two? This is Ian Fleming the James Bond writer. This is Ian Fleming the actor. His image is hard to find because he's buried by all of the image hits for the writer... His real name was Ian MacFarlane; he should have gone by that!

By the way, walking in London I have observed that a "mews" there has a specific meaning. Starting in about the 1980's, when American real estate developers strained their brains trying to make their properties seem quaint or unique, the word has been drafted for use as an alternative for "street" or "neighborhood." In the U.K. it's a sort of alleyway of former stables. See wikipedia definition.

I have a Webelos scouts den meeting tonight. I'm not teaching - I'm the attention enforcer/noise reduction adult. But perhaps that won't be needed as the subject matter is the Readyman activity pin, which involves first aid. Talking about fractured bones and spurting arteries always puts the average ten year-old male into a state of rapt attention. It also provokes exciting non sequiturs: "My cousin got bitten by a dog; he got blood all over his shirt!" etc.

12 Mar 2012

Cari and I had fun on Saturday; we drove out to Highland County, Virginia, to attend the Maple Festival. The county - called "Virginia's Switzerland" by the local Chamber of Commerce - has a maple syrup industry. (Virginia is a neat state: not only does it have a wine industry like California, it has a maple syrup industry like New Hampshire!)

Well, that is, it would seem like Switzerland if the Swiss were in the habit of wearing cammo clothing and hats with hunting slogans instead of lederhosen...

Not boring 6:40 minute video here.

We took off late Friday afternoon and drove up the Shenandoah Valley. (The river flows from south to north, so when you proceed south you are moving up the river. That always confused me in Civil War books.) We spent the night at the Comfort Inn in Staunton. Among the amenities was an active train line which we could see (and hear) from our window. A train went by as we were in our car after getting our stuff, and against my better judgement we stayed and asked the clerk at the desk, "Are we going to hear that?" He assured me we wouldn't. We did at various times through the night. At about 5 AM I thought, "This sucks. I'm asking for a refund." Which I got.

As I'm fond of asking, So, what did we learn? I now have a new protocol as I check into a motel: I'll ask if a train is anywhere nearby.

(Note to my son who encourages me to use online guides: The Yelp one listed six reviews for this hotel. Incredibly, none of them mentioned the deal-breaker train.)

What motel chain builds a multi-million dollar building next to an active train track?!?

We got breakfast pancakes (with Highland Co. maple syrup, of course) at a place built in 1811 where Stonewall Jackson and wife once stayed. And at the sugar maple orchard in a line for a porta-potty, I talked to a guy who does Civil War reenacting. Old times in Highland County are not forgotten...

We visited a Virginia Civil War battlefield I haven't yet seen, a highway turnoff which represented McDowell. (Part of Stonewall's Spring 1862 Valley Campaign.) A few photos here. You don't see these much anymore. And I saw the biggest piles of cordwood I have ever seen.

All in all, it was a great Saturday!

Just so you know, the History Channel is crap. For some time now, among history buffs, it has become known as “the Hitler Channel” due to the extreme over-emphasis upon the events of 1939 to 1945. Documented human history extends back over about 5,000 years – why focus on six of them? But whereas they used to address what could be covered under the general heading of history, they have recently run far astray from the subject. The other day - against my better judgment - I started watching a production with the familiar Roman capital “H” on a DVD: Lost Book of Nostradamus (2007). What complete rubbish! I quit after about twenty minutes.

The production concerns a manuscript in the Italian National Library, supposedly hidden away in the Vatican for centuries (conspiracy!), which features fanciful illustrations and a rather poorly substantiated attribution to Nostradamus. In this, luminaries like the president of the “Nostradamus Society of America” gas on about the so-called prophet’s continued relevance into the 21st Century, and others make absurd assertions like, “9/11 was the most important event in world history.” What? More significant than the assassination of the Archduke Franz Ferdinand which led to World War I, or the rise of militant German National Socialism and Japanese imperialism which led to World War II? Or the mutation of the H1N1 influenza virus which accounted for the global pandemic of 1918? Or the development of the microchip? Etc. etc. etc.

Over the years I have noticed an interesting phenomena about Nostradamus. Prior to 9/11 his most celebrated quatrains (cryptic verse in patterns of four lines) were interpreted as having to do with things like Hitler, the Soviet Union and the assassination of John F. Kennedy. But there’s no more Soviet Union and that whole apocalyptic/nuclear Eagle and the Bear thing turned out to be a non-starter. Will the real candidate situation for World War III please rise? And please tell me how JFK’s murder is relevant to global history? It wasn’t. (Unless you get your history lessons from the likes of Oliver Stone, in which case it’s why the war in Vietnam was escalated and why the industrial-military complex runs things in the United States.) But then you have to explain how the Vietnamese conflict is relevant to global history.

So what has happened recently in the popular mind that has the same gloomy impact that JFK’s assassination had after 1963? You guessed it, 9/11, and the Global War on Terror. But hold. How many have died as a result of this conflict? Comparatively speaking, not many. Has it an impact as profound as World Wars I or II? No way – at least, not yet. And I’m guessing that it won’t.

It doesn’t matter. Nostradamus’ proponents would point out that his prophecies concern the great and the small scale. The forecasts are safely couched in language of such variability and indeterminacy that literally any interpretation is possible. The Great Bear falls. Russia is represented by a bear… this could mean the 1991 fall of the Soviet Union. Or wait! Berlin, Germany is represented heraldically by a bear… it could mean that the city is invaded by the Allies in 1945. Or the Bear refers to Ursa Major, and, by extension, could mean the North. Oh, wait! The North won American Civil War… it must mean something else. How about the political decline of the Northeastern states with the population move to the Sunbelt in postwar American politics? You get the point.

Really, is this worthwhile? Why am I wasting valuable ASCII characters making fun of the likes of these History Channel telecasts about Nostradamus? As some real prophet used to say, “Argue long enough with an idiot and people will fail to discern the difference.”

9 Mar 2012

I listened to disk two of the Essential Weird Al collection on the drive into work this morning. I was about halfway through his epic eleven plus minute song Albuquerque when it occurred to me that if any musician deserved to become a millionaire, it was Weird Al.

The lyrics defy description; suffice to say that it incorporates a plane crash, marriage to a gal with hair the color of strained peaches and two subsequent children named Nathaniel and Superfly.

My friend Mike with Weird Al.

Oh, yeah, the other music I listened to recently while driving was Bela Bartok's Sting Quartet #6. The notable thing about that piece is that there a passage in one of the movements that reminds me of nothing so much as the fiddling found in a country-western or bluegrass song! The Hungary-Nashville Connection. Surprising as all get-out.

Getting back to Weird Al, he and I have something in common (aside from being raised in Southern California). From wikipedia: "Yankovic began kindergarten a year earlier than most children, and he skipped the second grade." I began kindergarten at the right time, I suppose, but, I, too, skipped second grade - for a time. I think the case was I started it, but was advanced up to third because I was precocious. That didn't work out well, apparently. (This was at Micheltorena Elementary school in Los Angeles, where Back to School Nights are now held in Spanish.) I was in the schoolyard when an Asian teacher came up to me, pulled some change out of his pocket and asked me how much there was in his hand. I had no idea, guessed, and he put the change back in his pocket and walked away. Shortly thereafter I was dropped back into the second grade. I suspect he may have been a school administrator of some kind, and administered a quick test. At least that's the impression I got at the time... kids look for cause and effect.

At any rate that seemed to have been the start of a rough road in elementary school for me. I took some flak from the other second grade children about being slow, and later on got pulled from the starring part as John Sutter in a play about the California Gold Rush, due to poor behavior. That really upset me. When we moved to Burbank I wound up repeating fourth grade for some reason - I think I was labeled as immature - and fifth and sixth grades were just total trainwrecks. By the time I was finishing sixth grade I was in trouble all the time, had frequent bad heartburn and was neurotic, according to a doctor my mother took me to.

I developed what I suppose was an anxiety-produced ulcer in seventh or eight grade. I recall sitting in Spanish class just before gym, suffering through heartburn and stomach pains. Almost forty years later a gastroenterologist knocked me out and looked down my throat. When I came to, he asked, "Did you know you once had an ulcer?" No - but it was no surprise. And... oh, never mind. Let's just say that until I got into high school my school years kind of sucked.

Uh-oh. I bought Angry Birds Rio.

Last night I watched another excellent British production about World War II: Theirs is the Glory, about the British airborne action at Arnhem, part of the failed Market Garden operation. This was filmed on the actual battlefield sites. From wikipedia: "All of the actors portraying the paratroopers were actual Airborne soldiers who fought in the battle and it remains a magnificent testimony to those men. The film also features local people like Father Dyker (a Dutch civilian priest who conducts the service in the movie) and Kate ter Horst (who reads a psalm to the wounded men in the cellar) re-enacting their roles and what they did for the Airborne troops during the battle." An amazing cinematic documentation!

(Note: Like the American Korean War film Cease Fire!, this features soldiers, not actors. The acting is wooden, but perhaps not quite as bad as with the American soldiers. But who can fault combat veterans for being unaccomplished actors? It is certainly the case these days that almost no accomplished actors in Hollywood were ever soldiers, combat or otherwise.)

About this film, the director, Brian Desmond Hurst, said, "The film is my favourite because of the wonderful experience of working with soldiers, and because it is a true documentary reconstruction of the event. I say without modesty it is one of the best war films ever made." I cannot disagree.

I lost 1.8 pounds last week, for a total of 18.2 pounds in nine weeks. I think I'll have a big old meal to celebrate when I hit 20.

Have a great weekend! We plan to... more about that on Monday's blog entry...

8 Mar 2012

I posted a recollection of Burbank's 1976 not so Quiet Riot at the Union Hall here. I have fond memories of that building... It bugs me that I do not have a photo of it for Burbankia. It was torn down years ago.

Seen on I-395 this morning.

Good news! Today I got an automated email notifying me about a recent twelve marker YDNA Clark surname match from a fellow named Harry Richard Clark. (This signifies that we share a common ancestor, presumably named Clark or Clarke.) The "Harry" is significant as it runs through my own documented family tree. He didn't post any genealogical data so I don't know anything about his lineage, but I have an e-mail out to him. We shall see.

Adventures in Middle-Age: A few weeks ago I was chewing gum at church when a gold crown popped off - I replaced it with a tooth-colored crown. It was in place since 1995. This also happened some years ago, so I had a gold crown left over from that as well. So what does one do with a couple of unneeded gold crowns?

On the way to the dentist I saw a sign for a guy in Fairfax who buys gold of all kinds, including what I have, "dental scrap." I made some inquiries and did some online research... as it turns out, gold crowns are partially gold and partially other material (such as palladium), an alloy designed to hold up under the rigors of chewing. (I had a small hole in my last gold crown.) I finally decided to try cashfordentalscrap.com. The deal there is you contact them via their website and they sent you a "scrap pak." You send in your gold and they send you a check, "within 24 hours" (which suggests that their usual customers are in the position of having to quickly pay back that gambling debt to Big Louie). Figuring what the heck?, I mailed in my two rather large crowns. (I'm a big guy with big teeth.) I got a check yesterday. How much do you think I got? My wife and I figured perhaps $20 to $40, tops.

I got a check for the lordly sum of four dollars and eighty-four cents.

I am displeased - this will barely buy a McDonald's meal. And I have never become used to the idea of being gypped. I think I'd rather fit the crowns onto a plastic skull for Halloween than sell them for $5. Another part of the deal is that I can request my dental scrap back if I contact them within ten days. I have done so, returning the check by mail. Stay tuned. I think I'm going to try the guy in Fairfax, just for fun. If he offers me five dollars or so, I think I'm going to take up some amateur metallurgy and see how I can repurpose the gold!

At the advisement of a friend, last night Cari and I watched Little Dieter Needs to Fly, Werner Hertzog's 1997 documentary about the jaw-droppingly amazing escape from a Vietcong prison of Navy flyer Dieter Dengler. There is also background on Dengler's childhood in a war-ravaged Germany. Normally Hertzog inserts a lot of himself into his documentaries - which is what makes them so amusing - but in this one he more or less just lets Dengler talk, which is fascinating. It got two thumbs up from the Clarks.

I saw a cool, more or less unknown vampire flick last night, The Vampire's Ghost (1945). The date puts in firmly in the classic Universal monsters or RKO Val Lewton era, but it's a film of less than an hour produced on a scant budget by Republic, who specialized in Westerns. Get this: it's set in the interior of Africa, and the vampire in question is an urbane, well-spoken English fellow who lived in 1588 who runs a tavern, like Rick's in Casablanca. So it has uniqueness going for it. It also has actor John Abbott, who has just the right presence for the part of the world-weary, regretful vampire. He's sort of the proto-Barnabas Collins in that respect. Anyway, nice film!

I don't use this phrase easily because I think it's kind of silly, but I do believe Weird Al Yankovic is a national treasure. He's celebrating thirty years in show biz (was it really 1982 that "Another One Rides the Bus" came out?) and to celebrate, an L.A. art gallery had some posters made - click here. My favorite is the "Like a Surgeon" one - clever! I've also been listening to his two CD "Essential" set recently. This morning I rolled into work to The Biggest Ball of Twine in Minnesota - HA!

I think I mentioned this before, but I really think he ought to be the one doing the next Superbowl Halftime Show.

7 Mar 2012

Yesterday I mentioned a composer with an unsurpassable name, Carl Ditters von Dittersdorf. But as impressive as that is, I have reflected about it and concluded that he is not, in fact, the coolest composer. That would be Johan ("Jean") Julius Christian Sibelius (1865-1957).

True, Sibelius does not enjoy the foundational regard which Beethoven enjoys, or the utter compositional brilliance of Mozart or even the looks, bass-playing skill and monetary success of Paul McCartney. But Sibelius is cool for a number of reasons, which I shall now list for your edification.

1.) He had a big, impressive, bald Nordic head and piercing blue eyes. He must have been striking in person.

2.) There is a website devoted to describing in detail what booze Sibelius liked. (Like Gene Autry, he was a recovered alcoholic.)

3.) The monument to his memory in Helsinki looks like something out of a Terminator film. (You know, those liquid metal T3 killer robots?) That’s Sibelius' face, at the bottom.

4.) He named his home after his wife, "Ainola". In 1972 his surviving daughters willed it to Finland and it is open to the public. I have always wanted to visit; perhaps some day I shall.

5.) During his career his music elicited strong responses both pro and con. "If Sibelius is good, then the musical criteria that have been applied from Bach to Schoenberg (…) are invalid." - Theodor Adorno 1938. Even better, "Sibelius, the worst composer in the world" - René Leibowitz 1955.

6.) Did this worry him? Not a bit. He is often quoted: "Never worry about what the critics say. Nobody ever built a statue to the memory of a critic."

7.) He kept the concert music world guessing for thirty years at the end of his life when he didn't write any major music at all. This was called “the Silence at Jarvenpaa” (after the location of Ainola).

8.) Sibelius wore white jackets, vests and trousers like Mark Twain (see above). And like Ulysses S. Grant he smoked cigars. There is a website describing in detail what cigars he liked. And one of them was named in his honor.

9.) I think what I like best about Sibelius - besides his second and fifth symphonies - are the photos taken of him. Especially this one: No! I wasn't asleep! Just resting my eyes!

10.) Last, but certainly not least, nature itself prognosticated Sibelius' demise. One day, after one of his forest walks, he excitedly announced to his wife that the cranes were coming, the "birds of his youth." As they flew overhead, one broke off from the group and slowly and majestically circled Ainola. Sibelius died two days later.

Now, I don't care what kind of music you prefer - that's cool.

I voted in the Virginia primary yesterday, and affixed my "I Voted" sticker to the CD I was listening to at the time. (Normally I stick it in the book I'm reading, but this is one of those rare periods when I'm not reading a book.) It received national attention that the names of two of the four GOP candidates, Rick Santorum and Newt Gingrich, did not appear on the ballot - and by law a voter is not allowed to write in a candidate's name. There was much complaint about this, that perhaps Virginia's process is too unwieldy. I see it differently. Running the United States is an unimaginably complex job, requiring much staff work. How is a candidate supposed to be able to do that if his campaign cannot get his name on the ballots of all fifty states? I view it as a sort of intelligence or credibility test.

I watched an excellent British World War II espionage film last night, The Man Who Never Was (1956). Even Clifton Webb, who normally ruins films with his old queen demeanor, was good in this. It's the true story of how, in 1943, British Intelligence used a corpse to plant disinformation, "Operation Mincemeat." They created official-looking documentation describing a main attack upon Greece, and arranged for the Germans to get it. The Germans believed it and reorganized their forces expecting an attack upon Greece; the Allies then attacked Sicily. The plan was credited with saving thousands of lives.

There is a scene of real pathos in this, when a naval officer visits the father of a recently departed son and requests permission to use his body without being able to tell the father why. After a sad conversation, the father agrees. It reminded me of the best scene in Troy, when a heartbroken King Priam (Peter O'Toole) requests the return of the body of his son Hector from the vengeful Achilles (Brad Pitt).

For many years the real identity of "Major Willie Martin" (as the corpse was named) was a closely guarded secret, but it finally came to light that the body was that of a Welshman who committed suicide, Glyndwr Michael. His grave in Spain carries both his fictional and real names.

World War II: There is no end to the fascinating stories generated by that terrible conflict...

The movie starts and ends with an otherworldly Scottish poem from 1550:

Last night I dreamed a deadly dream
beyond the Isle of Skye
I saw a dead man win a fight
and I think that man was I

6 Mar 2012

A funny tale about an old cabinet and a long lost wallet (some Burbank photos supplied by me and my friend Mike). I guess you might call this everyday archeology.

Last night I watched Ironclad (2011), which, this Friday being the 150th anniversary of the epic battle of the U.S.S. Monitor vs. the C.S.S. Virginia (aka Merrimack), you might think is about Civil War era naval warfare, but, no, you would be wrong. What are ironclad are men, and this movie takes place in England in 1215, just after a group of fed-up barons forced King John to sign Magna Carta. That's the most authentic history you get in this hack and slash flick, which was made apparently to show extended sequences of men slicing into each other a la 300. The (halting) tag line for this movie is "Blood. Will. Run." Does. It. Ever.

The history utterly stinks. There is one sequence where King John, played by Paul Giamatti, has a major hissy fit and goes on about how he's the product of thousands of years of kings. Thousands? Uh, closer to about 61. He also describes Rochester Castle (an impressive stone keep in the 12th C. style) as having been built by his great grandfather. Wrong again. Okay, perhaps John was a colossal liar; that's in keeping with the usual wretched depiction of him. I'll give the filmmakers that.

But the biggest howler was how, in the film, Rochester keep was held by only a handful of men against the (Danish mercenary) forces of King John; in fact, it was surrendered to John. No Danes. Especially no Danes wearing blue woad as in Braveheart. From wikipedia: "Producer Rick Benattar strove to make the film as historically accurate as possible..." They always say that, and when they do, you can be assured that it won't be historically accurate at all.

But one doesn't watch a film like this to learn about history, one watches it to see gobbets of CGI blood flecked onto the camera lens and to learn what people mean when they say somebody is going to "get medieval" on somebody else. Off with his hands!

It was a fairly ridiculous movie.

The other day I was pondering how many composers I know whose symphonic output I'm familiar with in entirety. That is, if you dropped the tonearm somewhere in the middle of a random symphony by one of these, I'd be able to tell you the who and what (after some thought). Here they are: Beethoven (9 symphonies), Brahms (4), Sibelius (7), Tchaikovsky (6), Vaughn Williams (9), Rimsky-Korsakov (3), Stravinsky (4), Borodin (2 1/2 - the third was unfinished).

Few people know all of Haydn's symphonies; he wrote 104 or 106 (it depends...) of them. Bruckner wrote a Symphony #0; it was harshly criticized, so Bruckner withdrew it - hence the number. Even odder, however, is his Symphony #00 (I kid you not), an early work. One critic said, "It is not very inspired" (which is what I thought of the Bruckner Sixth when I heard it last year). #00 - were I a music critic I'd call it the "Buckshot" Symphony - appears to have been an academic piece, like homework.

My favorite-named composer, Carl Ditters von Dittersdorf (1739-1799, shown above - no, that's not Mozart), was probably the Symphonic Quantity King, having written at least 120. I have never heard a one of them.

Symphonies are funny things. There are great ones and there are lesser ones, and the ones you like might describe who you are to some extent - although I wouldn't want to do the analysis. Perhaps my very favorite is a minor piece lasting only about fourteen minutes long and written in one movement, Myaskovsky's 21st in F sharp minor. It's the one I would like to have played at my funeral. (Sigh not - I'm only half serious, Cari.) For some reason it has connotations and meaning for me far deeper than those aroused by the more ambitious works. So what does it say about me? That I am minor and unknown, perhaps?

Brigham's Blog