I don't much like being around people my own age. They make me feel old. I didn't attend my high school class 50th anniversary reunion in Indiana and can't recognize those old people in the fuzzy group picture they sent me. At my school I'm used to being around younger people, and it feels just fine. Folks in nursing homes make me feel young and fortunate. My family are all at least ten years younger. But people my own age--especially men--make me feel old. I must see myself in their appearance, and I don't like the way we look: old as sin and twice as ugly.
Over Thanksgiving break our fam all went to Publix for a few groceries, and while the rest cruised the aisles, I went out front to a bench to wait. Pretty soon an old guy wobbled his bike up to my bench, dismounted awkwardly and tumbled himself down on the bench next to me. "Howdy," he greeted. I could smell the liquor on his breath like a slap in the face. He pulled out a 12-pack of Bud Light from a fridge pack and popped open a can. "Hey, I'm Jimmy. Have a drink. You're an old man, I'm an old man. Let's enjoy the day." He took a deep swig. "No thanks," I smiled. When he lit a cigarette, I'd had enough and got up. "Better find my family," I said. Jimmy took umbrage. "What? Well, do what'cha want," he piped after me indignantly, "but I'd advise ya to pull yer pants up."
He was right. My jeans were sagging down again, and I hitched them up. Damned if I wanted to look like Jimmy. It's one thing to be old, quite another to be reminded of it. I try to avoid situations like that.
Monday, December 03, 2007
Friday, November 30, 2007
Methinks they doth protest too much
"Kill her!" screamed Islamic protestors in the Sudan, marching and waving machetes and knives, "No mercy!" Her unspeakably heinous offense? Letting Islamic schoolchildren name a teddy bear "Mohammed." Apparently it's okay to name many males after the Prophet, but to name a toy so was taken as an unforgivable insult to Islam and sufficient cause for execution. Only international pressure reduced her punishment to a few days' arrest and deportation.
Good grief. I've noticed that the more wrong and unreasonable people are, the louder they carry on. It's as if notching up their grimaces, their volume, and their violent gestures justifies their position. These protests everywhere in the name of this or that cause--sometimes I think the protesters themselves may not even know what they're shouting against but just like a good communal vent--are beginning to sound to me like a child's tantrum. Like children, they don't seem to know how to advance their position by any reasonable or peaceful means, so they just scream till they get their way. And if people try to ignore them or reason with them or calm them down, they just scream all the louder.
It seems like people make the biggest fuss to defend their position when they're dead wrong. When they're right, they don't have to state it hysterically, for it is usually evident. And I know of no instance when people in general have become convinced of the rightness of a cause just because it's been passionately screamed and menaced at them.
Good grief. I've noticed that the more wrong and unreasonable people are, the louder they carry on. It's as if notching up their grimaces, their volume, and their violent gestures justifies their position. These protests everywhere in the name of this or that cause--sometimes I think the protesters themselves may not even know what they're shouting against but just like a good communal vent--are beginning to sound to me like a child's tantrum. Like children, they don't seem to know how to advance their position by any reasonable or peaceful means, so they just scream till they get their way. And if people try to ignore them or reason with them or calm them down, they just scream all the louder.
It seems like people make the biggest fuss to defend their position when they're dead wrong. When they're right, they don't have to state it hysterically, for it is usually evident. And I know of no instance when people in general have become convinced of the rightness of a cause just because it's been passionately screamed and menaced at them.
Thursday, November 15, 2007
Good Lord, Marvin, Get on the Beat!
We saw Marvin Hamlisch in concert last night at Ft. Lauderdale's Parker Playhouse. We were both excited about the chance to actually watch one of our favorite entertainers live. We'd played his "I Love A Piano" ragtime cd, and the cassette tape before that, going back to the early '80's on all our family vacation travels and often at home as well. Here was the composer of "A Chorus Line," "The Sting," "The Way We Were," and many other hits--an oscar winner and winner of several emmys, composer of over forty film scores.
I didn't know if he would bring a band with him, or at least a bass and drums, but he worked solo onstage at the Steinway and Sons concert grand. He did bring Stephen Lehan, a very fine tenor who sang several numbers for variety.
But the big surprise of the evening for Barb and me was Marvin's piano performance itself. From the first notes to the final ones some ninety minutes later, he rushed through song after song with no rhythm, no discernible beat, no chance to hum along in his crabbed-motion flurries, and it was a challenge to even recognize "Night and Day" and other standards in his frenetic renditions. Only on a few occasions did he fall into any meter--notably when he accompanied Lehan. It would have been impossible for any singer to sing along with the way he murdered everything else. It was a huge disappointment, partly saved only by his extensive and witty comments between the songs.
Why, Marvin, why would anyone with such obvious musical capabilities and talents do such a thing? It was baffling. After ten seconds everyone in the theatre was looking around at others helplessly, nervously, just as confused as we were. I wondered if several who left discreetly at the first chance couldn't take it anymore. It reminded me of the 1913 Paris premiere of Stravinsky's revolutionary ballet, The Rite of Spring (Le Sacre du Printemps) when the audience, accustomed to traditional tonal melodies, meters and comfortingly predictable harmonic progressions, actually rioted and threw seats and trash, stopping the debut performance, because they felt so assaulted by the polymetric, dissonant strained music they couldn't get ahold of any beat, anything familiar. That's what Marvin's jumble of notes and chords sounded like. Barb looked at me and scowled.
He's a composer, I said. He's not a musician, not a pianist. He's a Juilliard-educated, classically trained composer, and like many composers from Moussorgsky to Irving Berlin, that's how they often play. It's like they have this fabulous store of musical ideas that just spills out faster than they can control. It's the way the late George Burns used to scatter a song lyric at breakneck speed before returning to a puff on his ubiquitous cigars. There's no way anyone could sing along, with Burns or with Hamlisch--unless he deliberately imposed a meter on his musical rant, which he apparently didn't wish to do very often. For the first few bars of "The Way We Were" he actually did, but then sped ahead through the rest of it, leaving us all grasping at wisps of the famous melody he wrote for Streisand in his vortex. He knows how to play to the audience, but prefers not to. Why?
His selections had no titles; the program said he'd annouce them from the stage. They included a "Tribute to Richard Rogers," a "Tribute to Cole Porter," another to Scott Joplin, and music from Chorus Line and The Way we Were, which he composed. I'm wondering if his stylings and quotes, taking swipes at these songs rather than playing them straight, might have been for legal considerations and copyright/royalty performance requirements rather than due to his choice--though I think it unlikely. He did the same treatment to his own compositions as well.
Despite my disillusionment and initial disappointment at the program, however, I was still very glad to see and hear one of my musical idols live, in my lifetime. It in no way diminished the great regard I hold for his talents and works. As a former club keyboard performer myself, one who picks up the melody and harmony of most tunes after only one or two hearings as easily as breathing, I spent quite a bit of time trying to work through the harmonies of "One Singular Sensation" from A Chorus Line. I even bought the cd and marvelled at his virtuoso skills as a composer and librettist. The guy's clearly a genius. But I have to say, as a soloist performing the American Songbook, his renditions are almost unlistenable--extremely eccentric and discomforting. Like most genius, he has some glaring gaps in his musical psyche.
I didn't know if he would bring a band with him, or at least a bass and drums, but he worked solo onstage at the Steinway and Sons concert grand. He did bring Stephen Lehan, a very fine tenor who sang several numbers for variety.
But the big surprise of the evening for Barb and me was Marvin's piano performance itself. From the first notes to the final ones some ninety minutes later, he rushed through song after song with no rhythm, no discernible beat, no chance to hum along in his crabbed-motion flurries, and it was a challenge to even recognize "Night and Day" and other standards in his frenetic renditions. Only on a few occasions did he fall into any meter--notably when he accompanied Lehan. It would have been impossible for any singer to sing along with the way he murdered everything else. It was a huge disappointment, partly saved only by his extensive and witty comments between the songs.
Why, Marvin, why would anyone with such obvious musical capabilities and talents do such a thing? It was baffling. After ten seconds everyone in the theatre was looking around at others helplessly, nervously, just as confused as we were. I wondered if several who left discreetly at the first chance couldn't take it anymore. It reminded me of the 1913 Paris premiere of Stravinsky's revolutionary ballet, The Rite of Spring (Le Sacre du Printemps) when the audience, accustomed to traditional tonal melodies, meters and comfortingly predictable harmonic progressions, actually rioted and threw seats and trash, stopping the debut performance, because they felt so assaulted by the polymetric, dissonant strained music they couldn't get ahold of any beat, anything familiar. That's what Marvin's jumble of notes and chords sounded like. Barb looked at me and scowled.
He's a composer, I said. He's not a musician, not a pianist. He's a Juilliard-educated, classically trained composer, and like many composers from Moussorgsky to Irving Berlin, that's how they often play. It's like they have this fabulous store of musical ideas that just spills out faster than they can control. It's the way the late George Burns used to scatter a song lyric at breakneck speed before returning to a puff on his ubiquitous cigars. There's no way anyone could sing along, with Burns or with Hamlisch--unless he deliberately imposed a meter on his musical rant, which he apparently didn't wish to do very often. For the first few bars of "The Way We Were" he actually did, but then sped ahead through the rest of it, leaving us all grasping at wisps of the famous melody he wrote for Streisand in his vortex. He knows how to play to the audience, but prefers not to. Why?
His selections had no titles; the program said he'd annouce them from the stage. They included a "Tribute to Richard Rogers," a "Tribute to Cole Porter," another to Scott Joplin, and music from Chorus Line and The Way we Were, which he composed. I'm wondering if his stylings and quotes, taking swipes at these songs rather than playing them straight, might have been for legal considerations and copyright/royalty performance requirements rather than due to his choice--though I think it unlikely. He did the same treatment to his own compositions as well.
Despite my disillusionment and initial disappointment at the program, however, I was still very glad to see and hear one of my musical idols live, in my lifetime. It in no way diminished the great regard I hold for his talents and works. As a former club keyboard performer myself, one who picks up the melody and harmony of most tunes after only one or two hearings as easily as breathing, I spent quite a bit of time trying to work through the harmonies of "One Singular Sensation" from A Chorus Line. I even bought the cd and marvelled at his virtuoso skills as a composer and librettist. The guy's clearly a genius. But I have to say, as a soloist performing the American Songbook, his renditions are almost unlistenable--extremely eccentric and discomforting. Like most genius, he has some glaring gaps in his musical psyche.
Monday, November 12, 2007
Comfortable with it, thank you
As James Brown sang, "Ifeeeel good/Like Iknew I would." Here it is in the early throes of the holiday crazies already, and we're luvin' it. Just got a call from the Geek Squad, "Saving the universe, one PC at a time," as they bragged. Ha. Well, for a service they're set up pretty well, and they do show up when they say they will. Though they couldn't save me from my PC follies, their suggestions sent me to another solution that worked, which I wouldn't likely have thought of otherwise.
Re: my previous blog, how do I feel about it? [the not knowing]--hey, I'm not Faust. I'm content with my ignorance, if not blissful, and comfortable accepting my limits. It relieves me of the existential responsibility some feel when they sense they must achieve their "destiny." At some point in everyone's life he either accepts constraints or launches mighty battles to do more, be more, have more, know more, etc. As for myself, I made my peace at about age twenty-one when I sensed I probably wasn't going to set the world on fire, despite some talents and aptitudes in my favor. I simply didn't love money that much, or fame, or public admiration, and didn't have the drive it takes to reach great heights as defined by others. So I decided a nice family campfire would generate about the right amount of light and heat for my resume. Don't get me wrong; I still admire those who achieve great things by public definition, but I don't desire to be like them. One of my colleagues told me they thought I was "self-actualized."
My perspective wasn't shaped by accident. I've had a lot of help. Literature, the most formative area of my education, art, music, philosophy, history, and religion have all shaped it dramatically, as have life experiences, love, family, friends, travel, and a wide variety of careers. In a way I actually pity the doctors, lawyers, moguls and movers and shakers who never had the chance to step off their breakneck-speed success tracks and look around. I tend to most enjoy the chance to sit on a rock and think (and join my sons for late-hour bull sessions we call patio parties--did you know a hippopotamus has twenty-four teeth?}
"I've been around the world/From London to the Bay-- ".
Re: my previous blog, how do I feel about it? [the not knowing]--hey, I'm not Faust. I'm content with my ignorance, if not blissful, and comfortable accepting my limits. It relieves me of the existential responsibility some feel when they sense they must achieve their "destiny." At some point in everyone's life he either accepts constraints or launches mighty battles to do more, be more, have more, know more, etc. As for myself, I made my peace at about age twenty-one when I sensed I probably wasn't going to set the world on fire, despite some talents and aptitudes in my favor. I simply didn't love money that much, or fame, or public admiration, and didn't have the drive it takes to reach great heights as defined by others. So I decided a nice family campfire would generate about the right amount of light and heat for my resume. Don't get me wrong; I still admire those who achieve great things by public definition, but I don't desire to be like them. One of my colleagues told me they thought I was "self-actualized."
My perspective wasn't shaped by accident. I've had a lot of help. Literature, the most formative area of my education, art, music, philosophy, history, and religion have all shaped it dramatically, as have life experiences, love, family, friends, travel, and a wide variety of careers. In a way I actually pity the doctors, lawyers, moguls and movers and shakers who never had the chance to step off their breakneck-speed success tracks and look around. I tend to most enjoy the chance to sit on a rock and think (and join my sons for late-hour bull sessions we call patio parties--did you know a hippopotamus has twenty-four teeth?}
"I've been around the world/From London to the Bay-- ".
Friday, October 19, 2007
Yes, I know?
I'm afraid I don't know very much, despite the advantages I've had in education and experience. I've learned a lot of names of things and read a lot of books, but the things I feel I know best aren't the things my head has learned. They are the things my heart has learned. I trust my reason most of the time, but I probably trust my feelings more when it comes to knowledge of things that reason or science hasn't yet proven.
It is said that man's distinct advantage over other animals is language, yet many animals have complex communication skills like us (whales, dolphins, even ants and bees, for example). It is also said that man alone can reason. Well, maybe. We can try to confirm our hunches and to avoid known fallacies through Greek logic, inductive and deductive (and I don't think whales and dolphins, ants and bees have had the pleasure). But what is invented by man to try to organize our thoughts logically is, well, still invented by man, isn't it. It's not really knowing.
The Eastern mind relies much less on rational thought and much more on intuitive grasp, on perceptive rather than reasoned truth. In that sense, Zen and Tao are much closer to what I mean by "knowing" things with my heart, or "trusting my feelings." As creatures we can reason, but we can also feel. Surely there is a function for each faculty as part of our biological and survival equipment; neither ought to be totally suppressed by the other.
But again it is said, reason must ultimately be the master over feeling, for the latter can mislead. Our feelings are after all based on our perceptions, which can be faulty--even dead wrong. To follow our feelings blindly can lead to disastrous actions. Well, maybe that's true. Many's the time I've found out my "take" on a situation was really wrong, especially when I thought I knew someone's intentions or motives but totally misread them. And the most insidious thing about strong feelings is that they tend to be self-justifying: "I feel so strongly that such and such is true, so it surely must be so." That's when reason and evidence needs to assert itself. Feelings are the result of what we interpret to be true, not the evidence, and not the cause. But reason, similarly, can be incomplete or faulted. It is at least limited, for all our faith in it. I suspect we as creatures simply cannot really Know much of anything, absolutely.
Since neither reason nor feelings are totally reliable all the time. I guess each has to be tempered with the other, and if reasons can't always be found for feeling a certain way, it doesn't mean they don't exist, only that they're not yet discovered. Similarly, if reasons or evidence for a certain conclusion aren't supported with the feelings of the heart, it doesn't mean that the heart's response isn't valid, only that caution is needed. The important thing, I think, is to try to keep the mind--and the heart--open to change, and to recognize that what we think we know isn't always the full story. We all see through a glass darkly. And when we close the circle on truth and don't permit change, that's when we get into trouble.
It is said that man's distinct advantage over other animals is language, yet many animals have complex communication skills like us (whales, dolphins, even ants and bees, for example). It is also said that man alone can reason. Well, maybe. We can try to confirm our hunches and to avoid known fallacies through Greek logic, inductive and deductive (and I don't think whales and dolphins, ants and bees have had the pleasure). But what is invented by man to try to organize our thoughts logically is, well, still invented by man, isn't it. It's not really knowing.
The Eastern mind relies much less on rational thought and much more on intuitive grasp, on perceptive rather than reasoned truth. In that sense, Zen and Tao are much closer to what I mean by "knowing" things with my heart, or "trusting my feelings." As creatures we can reason, but we can also feel. Surely there is a function for each faculty as part of our biological and survival equipment; neither ought to be totally suppressed by the other.
But again it is said, reason must ultimately be the master over feeling, for the latter can mislead. Our feelings are after all based on our perceptions, which can be faulty--even dead wrong. To follow our feelings blindly can lead to disastrous actions. Well, maybe that's true. Many's the time I've found out my "take" on a situation was really wrong, especially when I thought I knew someone's intentions or motives but totally misread them. And the most insidious thing about strong feelings is that they tend to be self-justifying: "I feel so strongly that such and such is true, so it surely must be so." That's when reason and evidence needs to assert itself. Feelings are the result of what we interpret to be true, not the evidence, and not the cause. But reason, similarly, can be incomplete or faulted. It is at least limited, for all our faith in it. I suspect we as creatures simply cannot really Know much of anything, absolutely.
Since neither reason nor feelings are totally reliable all the time. I guess each has to be tempered with the other, and if reasons can't always be found for feeling a certain way, it doesn't mean they don't exist, only that they're not yet discovered. Similarly, if reasons or evidence for a certain conclusion aren't supported with the feelings of the heart, it doesn't mean that the heart's response isn't valid, only that caution is needed. The important thing, I think, is to try to keep the mind--and the heart--open to change, and to recognize that what we think we know isn't always the full story. We all see through a glass darkly. And when we close the circle on truth and don't permit change, that's when we get into trouble.
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