william dehning

FLASH!!!

2012-01-27T09:32:00.002-06:00

Yesterday's spinal arteriogram revealed a hole in one of the blood vessels in the thoracic spine. Dr. Chan, who did the procedure, said he could have fixed the problem while in there if his probe had been a bit smaller (he went in from the groin) but, alas, that will have to wait.

Diagnosis: what I have is Foix Alajouanine Syndrome (in English, spinal dural arteriovenous fistula), a very rare condition discovered in 1926 by two Frenchmen that feels and acts like normal peripheral neuropathy but is instead the cause. My neurologist, Dr. Mulpur, has only encountered four such cases in his twenty-two years of practice. The progress of my condition can be halted by a surgical procedure going in from the back that will remove a section of the offending vein, returning the blood flow to normal, relieving the pressure on the spinal cord. This pressure is what has caused the problem from the beginning. The procedure will be performed by one of the finest specialists in the country, Dr. Dan Barrows at Emory University in Atlanta. Drs. Chan and Mulpur are working as I write to schedule an appointment that fits Erin's schedule so that we can get this done ASAP.

Prognosis: Symptoms that generally respond well to this treatment are walking difficulties and muscle strength, which believe me are my most serious problems. In other words, there is hope and a chance that I will walk unassisted again sometime in the foreseeable future (within about two years; it was slow in coming, it will be slow in leaving). I should sense improvement within several weeks after the procedure. I may not tap dance or run again, but I hope that I can at least return to shooting hoops (a whole-body endeavor, which is why I had to quit: I only had half a functioning body) and stand in front of a chorus again without leaning on the piano or using a stool. Maybe even yoga, if I can get off the floor smoothly.
***
I wish I could drive to Atlanta and have this done on Monday, but alas will have to wait on Barrow's schedule.
***
Profound thanks to Dr. Stephen Somerville in Green Bay, who saw me over Christmas, looked at all my medical records, and said "No, it's not neurological, it's spinal and it's in the thoracic spine." He was correct. Thanks to my wonderful GP, Dr. Ghanta, who ordered the MRI with contrast of the thoracic spine. Thanks to my neurologist, Dr. Mulpur, and the neuro-radiologists who read the MRI and definitively confirmed Somerville's diagnosis. Thanks to Dr. Alex Chan and Nurse Moss, who were not only professional but personable as well. Boos and hisses to the anesthesiologists, who put me out so fast that I didn't even get three seconds of '60's opiate euphoria. I had asked for thirty seconds and should have gotten it, given what those guys cost.

More anon. When I have news, you'll get it. Thanks to all the faithful: Xn, Katie, Bob, James, Pam, Joe.

Morning Briefing

2012-01-24T08:23:00.003-06:00

My condition has worsened considerably. I can barely walk even with the walker. Am undergoing a spinal arteriogram on Thursday, which is supposed to halt the progress and begin the long slow climb back. Neurologist and three radiologists are convinced it will work. Don't know that I am; I was fooled once a year ago. Am beginning negotiations to have myself checked into Vanderbilt medical center to confirm or refute this diagnosis/prognosis, or to possibly discern other causes. This will be my fifth surgery in the past year, though one was very minor. The good thing is the 30 seconds of opiate euphoria I experience while being wheeled into the OR; I should have done the 60's in a way other than grad school, lemme tell ya. Boy, I'm clever on that gurney! Erin and her parents have been wonderful throughout this mess.
*****
In other news, the Republican field of delegates is the most disgusting, frightening thing I have experienced in my long, full life. And why we have to be treated to debate after debate of this clown-show-turned-fecal-fest is way beyond me.

This just in! Have begun negotiations to e-publish my second book. By popular demand!

Stay tuned for more if you've a mind. Breaking news at 11:00!

Ellington Tunes

2011-10-03T12:06:00.005-05:00

Don't Get Around Much Anymore (Duke Ellington)

My mobility has actually worsened since my surgery in early February. Since that time, I have seen a neurosurgeon twice for a second opinion, a new neurologist twice, my orthopedic surgeon thrice, and a psychotherapist once (with, I suspect, many more times to come). I graduated from my walker to a cane during the trip to Spain in May, but recently have reverted to the walker more and more for both balance and support. Balance is especially bad, so cooking is a bitch (try slicing and dicing with one hand on the knife, the other on the counter), as is shaving and showering. And an MRI has proven that it's not my brain that's the problem, it's the weakening muscles and utterly deadened feet that cannot tell my brain where I am. In other words, neither surgery nor time has lessened the symptoms of the neuropathy; they have in fact grown worse, and there is no prognosis of where it will end, but I'm beginning to suspect it ends with a wheelchair. Oh, and I sold the pop-up camper because I simply cannot do the work anymore. (Just got back from the neurosurgeon, who said that cervical spine surgery will not correct the problem at all, and also said definitively that I will never walk normally again, no matter what I do. That's the first time that any of the professionals have confirmed what my body has known for a long time). Nevertheless, I will keep moving as much as possible, keep stretching, and keep up with leg raises and leg presses at the Y. (My upper bod looks great, btw!) And no one knows with any certainty what has caused this nor what I can do about it that I am not already doing. Nor do they know with certainty if things will improve at all, or what the prognosis is.

Things Ain't What They Used to Be (Mercer Ellington--Duke's son)

Speaking of upper bod, as long as I have a conductor's chair and the piano right in front of me, I am still a killer conductor from the waist up: Arms, ears, brain, wits, eyes all work fine, in some ways better than ever. Rehearsals with Erin's groups on MigraineDays have proven that. It's just that I seriously doubt that anyone wants a guest conductor who is held upright by his butt instead of his legs. I sure hope so, because I do love the guest thing; it's like being the grandparent--you get to have a lot of fun with the kid and then hand the little sucker back as you leave. And with a check in your hand to boot!

So anyway then, stairs are a big obstacle that can only be overcome slowly, curbs are tricky, travel of any kind is increasingly arduous (I always get a wheelchair in airports, and have since travel to Taiwan last December. Five dollar tips just fly out of my pockets!)

***

There you have it. My family has known this for a few weeks and now you do, too. You can help me by referring folks here, should they inquire as to my well being. I'd appreciate that very much. It's much simpler than numerous emails, and I'm damned if I'm gonna post this on Facebook. And I may alter and amend it from time to time, so stay tuned, will ya?

One final Duke Ellington tune:

I Got It Bad and That Ain't Good

Big Hot Rant

2011-08-16T15:35:00.008-05:00

Before I came to Huntsville I didn't have a lot of time for the news via the web. Since moving here I've had plenty of time. I look at THE Times, THE Post, MSNBC, CNN, sometimes even Fox, and the HuffPost just about daily. I know what I'm talking about here.

You know how it used to be: you'd get a half-dozen letters to the editor on the OpEd page of any newspaper in the country, and those would usually be evenly divided on an issue or just single shots at an issue. And some poor wretch had to sit in his smoke-clogged cubicle and edit them for spelling, grammar, punctuation, and the like.

It don't work that way electronically. You get sometimes thousands, usually hundreds, often scores of commenters on any article whatever. And they are not edited, nuh-uh, nossiree, Bob.

Used to be, in the days of newspapers and electric media, that I was disappointed in my people, based solely on reading--or listening to--the news. I'm no longer disappointed. I have fallen into utter contempt for the vast majority of my people. Their unedited posts reveal not only bad grammar, no punctuation/capitalization and bad spelling, but that they are brainwashed or ignorant (it's hard to be both), stupid and venal. And the dumber they are, the meaner they are. Most of these people are poor white Republicans who have swallowed the RightWing bromide that they might become rich any day now; all they need to do is work harder, God love 'em. These are the folks who are 'taking their country back' from that 'condescending,' 'arrogant,' 'narcissistic' 'man-child' in the White House. They don't care about spending or debts or 'houses in fiscal order' or taxes or anything; they just want that You-Know-What and his big-ass wife and that party run by Jezebel gone. And soon.

I've found that most of the letters to the Times are very well-written and well thought out, whether I agree with them or not. As are those written into the HuffPost, usually. But all other letters to all other outlets are truly something to behold, courtesy rules notwithstanding. And I gotta tell ya: in general, and by quite a margin, those on the Left spell, punctuate, and obviously think better than the represented Conservatives, who most often resort to name-calling ('Odumbo') and in many other ways just play with their own feces. Liberals are smarter than Conservatives, is what I'm saying; and conservatives don't have an original idea in their heads; they're quoting the same talking points that they hear from the air-heads on Fox or in DittoHeadLand. They're unquestioning--and obedient--as all get out, which of course is what the Lords of the coming, Renewed Middle Ages want: nice little serfs who know their place in the scheme of things.

Dredge up H.L. Mencken, P.T. Barnum, Bill Maher, George Carlin and Elmer Gantry on the state of the American soul and brain if you want. You could probably add a few of your own by now, too.

Among other things, the DebtCeiling Debacle revealed, though, that it isn't really the economy that's in trouble, it's the state of the collective American frontal cortex. By and large, this country is f****** stupid.

Coming soon to a weblog near you . . .

2011-08-07T08:09:00.002-05:00

. . . a post by me about the pernicious effects (on me) of comments by readers to news releases on the internet. It ain't pretty, folks.

(BTW, knee arthroscopic surgery to right meniscus (48 hours ago) went pretty well, but mobility severely hampered: I'm really slow, even with the walker. Today, though, I can put a bit of weight on the knee as I scrape around the house. Minor pain yesterday, none yet today, 48 hours later).

Politics Again . . .

2011-07-15T08:40:00.003-05:00

. . . and it's about time, say you, being tired of all that failing health crap you've been reading on these pages. Actually, its about politics and money.

***

So, see, my mind was wandering around the other day and I noted that most if not all of the rabidly conservative billionaires started with inherited money, the Kochs (pronounce any way you like) and Richard Scaife among them. In other words, they didn't earn their original wealth at all, but garnered it simply by being separated from the placenta and drawing a breath. The rest was easy. That's how the Bushies got their money, too.

The three most famous wildly liberal billionaires, on the other hand worked for their money, Bill Gates, Warren Buffet and George Soros among them.

Interesting, yes? Wish I could do some kind of survey and find out how many rich conservatives simply inherited (rich liberals, I've noticed feel a certain degree of noblesse oblige that most conservatives don't).

Anyway, I'll bet most of them. I've often said that the only way to riches is either through inheritance or theft. Simple thrift, competence, hard work, and morality will not get you there, yet skeendie seven million middle class and poor, brainwashed Republicans think that they, too, can become rich so they refuse to raise taxes on the rich, despite Warren Buffet's insistence on doing so ('Why should I be taxed at a lower rate than my secretary?')

One of the nice things about retirement is I don't have to withhold political opinions as I did while a professor. But even then, on a tour where to pass bus-time I allowed ten questions from the chorus, I was asked what my political party was and why. My response? Here:

'I'm a Democrat because I have observed that it is the party that truly cares about those of us who have to work for a living.'

That was in the early '80s, I think, during the reign of St. Ronnie (though his canonization by the Right Wing--for all the wrong reasons--came much later).

I was right then and I'm right now.

Last One, I Swear . . .

2011-06-24T15:16:00.007-05:00

I'm gonna be fine. I'm on a regulator, a beta blocker and an ACE inhibitor daily, which is a pain in the tail, but am reacting well to the meds, have been on them since the Summer Solstice. I'm diagnosed with atrial 'flutter,' as I said in the last post, but have lots of company: one in three men my age have it and they expect that number to go up, given the aging of the country. I must keep exercising; something I would have done anyway.

The good news: I can have up to 4000mg of salt/day (about the amount in a whole bag of chips). The cardiologist said that the average Bama Boy takes in about 8000/day; Sodium Nazis want it down to 2300. Phooey on that . . . Here's a man worth his salt, by golly.

***
Had a great time in Cali with Lib, Meg, Lee, and the Boys (7 and 5). Lib wangled us a great hotel room (great breakfasts) at about a 50% discount. Was especially great to see Meg again after two years; too damn long--won't do that again.

More Heart

2011-06-22T09:44:00.007-05:00

They were right in Spain: They diagnosed atrial fibrillation and the pain in my right upper thorax had nothing to do with my heart. This was confirmed in Green Bay. But when we visited the family in California, we all noticed much swelling in my ankles and feet, arrived home late on the 17th, went to the the emergency ward (at Erin's insistence) on the 18th and stayed until late on the 20th. I visit my official cardiologist tomorrow.

The upshot: it ain't A-fib, but rather its less dangerous cousin, atrial 'flutter.' I kept going in and out of that condition while in the hospital as they played with various heart meds, as well as diuretics to get rid of all the water in my bod. I will be on three maintenance meds for the rest of my life to keep the heart rate stabilized, the blood thin and the water down. I also gotta leave out most of the salt from my food, of course, which is the hardest part.

***

Sigh. It's been a helluva two years. I'm just damned glad I retired when I did; I want to be remembered the way I was, not this way.

Erin is holding up beautifully amidst all of this and has lost almost 50 lbs. following her gastric sleeve surgery of 21 March, so some of the news is actually good.

"You Gotta Have . . . "

2011-06-08T19:31:00.005-05:00

. . . Heart."

Yup, you do. I know that a few of you have heard that I had a cardiac incident my last night in Spain. I got up at 400 hours with a terrific pain in my RIGHT thoracic region, right under my right nipple. Hurt like hell, and scared the hell out of both of us so we went to the urgent care center and then were almost immediately referred to a major hospital's emergency ward in Madrid, where we spent the next fifteen hours, underwent many EKG's and blood tests, and saw three shifts of doctors, nurses, technicians and others. Bottom line (1): I did not have a heart attack, but they discovered atrial fibrillation, for which they gave us drugs and the admonition to consult a cardiologist immediately upon return to the US, which we did. We will pursue this further now that we are home, but I learned that I am part of a large cohort of men my age who have a similar problem. They could not explain my pain, nor could the cardiologist in Green Bay; I'm hoping someone here can get to the bottom of that. Bottom line (2): those fifteen hours in Madrid cost me nada, nothing. Hurray for 'socialist' medicine. And the accuracy and thoroughness of the care I received there was sheepishly acknowledged in Green Bay: Who knows what THEY will charge?

We missed our flight back to Chicago but the Madrid hospital staff rearranged the Iberia flight for us to the next day. We arrived in Green Bay on the third, and back here in Huntsville on the eighth. All is well and I have an appointment with my GP on Friday.

My two weeks in Spain were wonderful, though I was slow getting around with my staff (I was called a berger (shepherd) by the owner of the Bordeaux wine chateau we visited. I gave up the walker for obvious reasons involving cobblestones, omnipresent stairs, taxis and busses. I did OK, and Erin and her family were very patient with--and considerate of--me. It was a great vacation: I got to see Basqueland again and they all got to see it for the first time.

My legs are dishearteningly slow to respond. On Friday I will ask for referrals to a neurologist, an orthopedist (my right knee keeps wanting to give way), a cardiologist, and God knows what-all. 'Tis a bitch to get old, I'll tell ya; not for the faint hearted and certainly not for wusses of any stripe.

***

It ain't as though I've had thousands of cards, letters, emails, Facebook things, and phone calls, but I really thank those of you who have managed one of the foregoing. It's nice to know that someone out there is paying a bit of attention and is concerned about my welfare: I'm more grateful than I can say.

'Pastime with Good Company'

2011-03-15T10:41:00.008-05:00

Tom, Buddy, Lisa, Ethan, TJ, Jodi, Karen, Lauren, Dan, Chris, Rob, James, Shinnshill, Ariel, Chung-Uk: Saw more than a dozen former USC graduate students at ACDA in Chicago, some of which I may have forgotten to list here but can add from time to time. And of course too many former professional colleagues to list here. It was also fun seeing Bruce, Starr and Steve from the UOP days, not to mention Bill Bausano from NMU days. Not to mention former CCC singers Rich and Ginger Colla, as well as Hugh Davies and Don Brinegar.

It was also very gratifying to have strangers come up and introduce themselves as fans of my book and even of my recent Letter to the Editor of the Choral Journal, wherein my Blast from Bama got right up into the grill of my collegiate colleagues for the paucity of music before 1900 on their convention programs. In fact, the best program of the convention in that regard was that of Fountain Valley High School, conducted by Kevin Tison--my college friends (and enemies, of which there are many because of my big mouth) ought to take a close look at that one and draw a lesson or two from it.

I also enjoyed judging the student conducting competition finals along with Joe Flummerfelt, Sandra Willetts, Simon Carrington and William Hall.

It was all a wonderful reminder of why I did what I did for almost forty years and why I would do it all over again, given the chance.

But that chance won't come, now, will it? All the more reason to enjoy the present state of things.

***

Speaking of which, I got around fine with my walker but got tired really fast, especially after climbing stairs one at at time using more arm than leg power in the Chop House and Miller's Pub. Whew. I THINK I've improved a bit since my surgery of 8 February but it's hard to tell because things move so slowly. I do believe I move unassisted for longer distances now with only the occasional touch of something to maintain balance.

I resume upper body weights and begin gentle post-op physical therapy tomorrow.

(Just keep moving, Dehning).

ChristmasCard

2010-12-24T05:58:00.003-06:00

I remember exactly when I encountered this poem but won't relate the circumstances here because they really don't matter. What matters is the beauty of it, whether one believes or not. Sometimes belief--or lack of it--is best suspended at times and this may be one of those times: stoned out of my mind with jet lag after flying 16 hours east, awake way too early and looking forward to flying up to a White Christmas in Wisconsin with Erin and her family, while at the same time wishing I could also be with my daughters, son-in-law and grandsons.

***

Apparently there is/was an old English/Celtic/Anglo belief that on Christmas Eve at midnight all the animals in all stables and mangers throughout the world get on their knees in devotion to commemorate the birth of the Christ child. Who knows? Could be . . .

You will have to look up 'barton' and 'coomb,' but otherwise the piece speaks clearly beautifully to all of us, even those among us who doubt or don't believe at all.

The Oxen

Christmas Eve, and twelve of the clock.
'Now they are all on their knees,'
An elder said as we sat in a flock
By the embers in hearthside ease.

We pictured the meek mild creatures where
They dwelt in their strawy pen,
Nor did it occur to one of us there
To doubt they were kneeling then.

So fair a fancy few would weave
In these years! Yet, I feel,
If someone said on Christmas Eve,
'Come; see the oxen kneel,

'In the lonely barton by yonder coomb
Our childhood used to know,'
I should go with him in the gloom,
Hoping it might be so.

--Thomas Hardy

Taipei

2010-12-13T23:35:00.002-06:00

Am having an absolutely marvelous time here in Taipei with a superb chorus, the Formosa Singers. Their conductor, Julian Su, did a stunning job of preparation prior to my arrival, leaving only some Poulenc notes to fix and some harmonic minor seconds and major sevenths to get in tune. All the rest has been fun, though I still sweat. Have had three very productive three-hour (!) rehearsals with them, working primarily on phrase, musicality, drama, and English diction, of course. Four more rehearsals to go, then the two performances, the second of which is in the National Concert Hall, where I performed with the USC Chamber Choir in 2006 on our tour of East Asia. That was a mountain top experience and I am looking forward to another one in that wonderful hall.

The singers and accompanist/translator are great, the hotel is first-class (Ritz Landis), the food is fun, and all seem to be enjoying my work. There's even a big concert publicity poster of me in my hotel lobby, just to the right of the Christmas tree. I'm famous again.

They only put up the tree yesterday and I heard Christmas carols (ala quasi-techno-Euro-funk) in the dining room just this morning, so they don't work it to death here like they do in the US. Then, too, most of these people are doomed, godless Buddhists, so what do they care? Only three of the 32-member chorus are Christians. What a relief! Such a delightful contrast compared to the sanctimony of the US and even Korea. I know, I know: I'll burn in hell.

Julia Tai's mom and dad have already taken me out to dinner twice, and I'll have lunch with dad again on Friday. They have been really sweet to me. I guess they think I did OK with Julia during her master's degree work at USC.

Looking forward to the big concert on the 21st (winter solstice), then fly home to Bama, pay bills and repack, and fly up to Green Bay on Christmas day, joining up with Sam, Erin and her family.

Glad to be here; glad to have music in my life; glad that I'm still highly potent in front of a really good ensemble; glad to have so much to look forward to.

Merry Christmas, y'all.

Rolf . . .

2010-11-29T13:21:00.016-06:00

. . . died today of pneumonia in Stockton, California at 9:15 PST. He was my brother and he was 62. He had been hospitalized with mental illness--undifferentiated schizophrenia--since he was 16. Most who read this are unaware that I even had a brother. It wasn't that I was embarrassed or ashamed, far from it. It was simply very sad to talk about him at all, even sadder to visit him.

He was born of a manic-depressive/schizophrenic mother who only survived and managed to care for herself until her death thanks to the discovery of lithium. Most of her illness got passed on to him, I guess. In addition, he was born with a large birthmark on his upper left cheek that was clumsily removed while a patient at the University of Minnesota during the second time my Mom was hospitalized at the mental facility in Moose Lake. It left a large scar. As if that weren't enough, he was also born with a paralyzed seventh facial nerve, a condition that forced him to smile only on the right side of his face because the left side wouldn't move. So here's a boy with a scar and a strange smile whose brother and mom were gone (I left them when I was 13 and he was 8, not long before Mom got removed to the Ha-Ha Hotel again) and who'd been banged from pillar to post.

You'd go nuts, too. If you weren't already, that is.

He came to live with me, my dad and my stepmother in California when he was 10, which was immediately after the U of M incarceration. This was after a series of foster homes while my mom was at Moose Lake. He never really adapted out west, and though quite smart became more and more inward over the next 6 years, said crazy things, laughed at all the wrong times and at all the wrong things.

And so on.

I'm not going to give any more history here. He will be cremated in Stockton, and his ashes sent to Minnesota for interment next to his mother, grandparents and an uncle. There won't be an epitaph on his marker other than to say that he was the son of Hazel Dehning. What else should be on it but won't be?

Here, I'll tell you:

He Never Had a Chance.

Or maybe even, in the language I don't think he even knew I could speak,

Pace, Fratello; Finalmente, Pace a Te.

October

2010-10-29T07:39:00.003-05:00

Michigan's Upper Peninsula: Had a great time working with ca. 60+ selected high school kids from five schools for 2.5 days up in the glorious fall weather of the UP. We were in a great camp right on Big Bay of Lake Superior. We did only five pieces but did them well in Northern Michigan University's wonderful new recital hall. It was great to see the organizer of the event, Sharon Green, who was in the Arts Chorale there during my first year of collegiate teaching up there in Marquette, where I went exactly forty years ago to begin my career. Dang, time flies! Also saw Katie Gravelle and Kathy Nyquist, both of whom were also in the Arts Chorale during my brief two years in that northern paradise (of sorts). And as if that weren't enough, I had dinner with about nine of the original Marquette Choral Society that I and about a dozen community folks up there began in 1971 and that is still going and still about 100 strong. Talk about memories! I thought they and I would all be dead by now!

Rob Istad in Huntsville: Great to see him work with Erin's two groups on great music and to hear his superb presentation on the interpretation of Romantic music. He is bright, musical, hardworking, organized, talented, and a real charmer. He's also been Erin's best friend since they terrorized the choral department at USC during their years in graduate school. They're still unstoppable, and Erin's students loved hearing the two of them reminisce about foreign tours and mountain retreats over a table crowded with food, bourbon and beer at Chili's. As their primary professor and conductor in grad school, I'm very proud of both of them as people and professionals. You will continue to hear more of them as time goes by, and not just from me.

'Dehning Does It Again:' Yup. Another screed about my favorite professional topic, this time in the Letters to the Editor section of November's Choral Journal, which has been out for a couple of weeks. Been getting approving plaudits (is that redundant?) about it via email, which is nice of course. Just wonder what my colleagues who may disapprove might have to say. Then again, maybe I don't really wanna know. If you want to see it and don't get the magazine, email me and I can send it to you. It's really too long to post here and most of the folks who might read this thing probably really don't give a rip, anyway.

So. An enjoyable month, professionally. Now back to college football . . .

Labor

2010-09-06T07:59:00.002-05:00

The number of union workers in the private sector now stands at a pathetic 7%, the lowest since the murderous union busting days of the thirties. Taxes on the extremely rich (over 370k) now stand at only 35%, a mere 7% more than Erin and I pay. The capital gains tax stands at a laughably obscene low of 15%.

Those two facts--the first is more important--account for the demise and/or demolition of the American middle class, which was at its most numerous and well off for the 30 years from 1950-1980 (Truman-2, Kennedy/Johnson-8, Carter-4 = only 14 years of Democratic hegemony). In the 30 years since 1980, unions have been all-but destroyed except for those in service industries (teachers, firemen, police, SEIU, et.al), corporations have shipped our manufacturing jobs overseas rather than pay American workers a living (union) wage--thus those jobs are gone, baby, gone, and finally, governmental regulation of hi-jinks and greed by corporations is non-existent. All thanks to Reaganism and trickle-down economics: the rich drink the Champagne, it goes through the System, the resultant effluent trickles down to us and we are allowed to collect as much of it as we can! What's wrong with that? (Reagan-8, Bushes-12 = 20 years of Republican hegemony).

I really don't know where I'm going with this. I belonged to the Teamsters and the Steelworkers unions as a young man. It was backbreaking work, but I was paid very well, thanks to the unions and to the fact that there were only men on the jobs.

When I worked for banks and as a janitor one summer I was paid next to nothing because banks consisted mostly of women workers and janitors were mostly black. Hence: no unions! See how that works? I worked 35 years for private universities and was paid much less throughout than I would have been had I worked for state universities or the University of California branches. Unions! I was told at the private schools never to divulge my salary; the professors' salaries in CSU and UC are published. You could look 'em up. Still can.

Enough. It's not exactly accurate, but I gotta repeat Marx on this day because no one else will: 'Workers of the world, unite! You have nothing to lose but your chains.'

NewYearsEve IV

2010-09-03T10:15:00.004-05:00

I watched my recording of last night's USC/Hawaii game today and tonight will watch Arizona/Toledo--always a sucker for the Pac-10 and remember when it was the Pac-8 (all West Coast Schools). Now it is the Pac-12. Sigh. The only constant is change, or as Heraclitus said, 'all is flux.' (Neither 'Heraclitus' nor 'flux' is dirty, by the way, despite what Sarah Palin or any of her fans might think, should any of them read this).

Tomorrow's the annual Big Day, though--New Years Day for us academic types: the start of another college football season. This year for the first time I actually ordered ESPN Game Plan so that I can receive any of the Pac-12 broadcasts that aren't shown down here in the Deep, Dark South. UCLA/Kansas State, for example, will be replaced tomorrow by Kentucky/Louisville down here. I plan to pay for the service out of my Social Security check, which would REALLY piss off SP and her fans (!).

I've been addicted to college football since my senior year in high school (1959), when my buddy Dennis Butler and I were recruited for the band programs at both USC and UCLA, superb players that we were (!!). USC took us to their Washington game (ho-hum), but UCLA took us to their USC game. USC was unbeaten and ranked third but UCLA upset them 10-7 still running their single-wing offense (!!!).

Both of us thus went to UCLA for not-the-best of reasons, but there you are. The Y chromosome struck again and would strike many more times in the future, at least in my case. I'll let Dennis speak for himself. I rooted for UCLA against USC my entire life until Pete Carroll came, after which I switched. Don't know what I'll do now, really. Pete was the ultimate college coach and neither Lane Kiffen nor Rick Neuheisel is. We'll see, I guess.

Dennis is the one I bought the Unit from, by the way, the one you see below. He never rooted for USC and never will.

OK: U-C-L-A, Fight, Fight, Fight (!!!!); Fight On, Trojans, Fight On(!!!!!). And while we're at it-- I've always loved Cal and their wonderful old stadium in beautiful Strawberry Canyon since I first played there in the UCLA Marching Band in 1960 (our flight up there was my first time in a plane): Go, Bears (!!!!!!)

Unit

2010-08-17T07:48:00.008-05:00

After instructional set-up at my buddy's in Costa Mesa . . .

. . . first outing in Kings Canyon NP (that's a bear box Erin is hiding behind) . . . note slide-out diner . . .

. . . slumber party in Tahoe: Sam and Beck (grandson #2) . . .

. . . note fold-out galley . . .

. . . galley left, diner right, breakfast cook center in the coolest Gear Queer shirt ever . . .

. . . underway near Mt. Shasta, NorCal.

Birthday

2010-08-13T10:59:00.000-05:00

My first birthday present today to myself was to re-read all of my Politics posts and congratulate myself on a bunch of prescient (note the dates), cogently written, insightful, beautifully formed little essays. Dang, they're good. I kid you not. Go ahead, read 'em if you haven't already, you'll see what I mean; there are only eleven of them. You don't have to agree, simply admire. Time or Newsweek really ought to use me as a contract consultant, Don't you think?

Now that the Leo-nine narcissism is out of the way, the bad news is that I'm 68. The good news is that I may become 69 in a year. My brain doesn't feel that old but my bod increasingly does; I won't list my physical afflictions because no one really wants to hear about them, including my doctor. It's enough to say that I do my utmost to just keep moving, even though my 'wheels' seem to be progressively morphing from round to square. Or maybe oblong is more accurate. Sigh. It could be worse. (It can always be worse).

My second BD present to myself will be a dinner this evening at our best local Dago restaurant, Mezza Luna (yeah, the same chain where OJ and Nicole were last seen fighting). You used to could get Gulf oysters for half price (.50) during Happy Hour but no longer. Them days is over. Nowadays they get most of them off the coast of North Carolina. I like them better than Gulf oysters, actually, but they cost more. But after the first of two martinis, the taste doesn't really matter. After the second martini, I don't really care--on to the entree.

I resigned from my church job a few days ago. I gave it a good go for a season, but I'm afraid that kind of work just isn't for me anymore. There were good reasons I left that kind of work in 1985 and apparently those reasons haven't gone away in the interim. I will miss those few wonderful people, though, a few of whom I came to really love in my short time with them. My teacher Jim Vail just took a new church position not terribly long after resigning from the one he had held for forty years. He's 86, I think. Some people really do love it and I'm glad for him and his new church home.

***

I'm a lucky man as I begin my 69th year of adhering to the planet: families old and new that love me, two fine grandsons, a good woman, a good dog, enough money left after the Bush Debacle to live decently and travel a bit for a few more years, a fairly busy lineup of professional engagements to keep me both interested and involved, including a Christmas concert with a superb choir on Taiwan come December.

And I do love the slower pace of retirement; I am stunned by what I used to pack into a day for thirty-seven years.

Happy Birthday to me.

TravelSummer

2010-08-09T08:04:00.011-05:00

It was great to be back in Italy after twenty years; a gorgeous country with wonderful people. The national party that went on after Milan beat Munich for the European Cup (for the first time in 40 years) was not to be believed; we stayed with it until about 1:30 AM and then finally went to bed. It was also fun to speak that language again; it came back faster than I had imagined it would. Erin's tour was a smashing success, particularly for all of those Bama kids, many of whom had never been out of Bama, a few of whom had never been on a plane. And they performed an extremely difficult repertoire beautifully. Oh, and Patti and Gene Colwitz had a blast--they were the stars of the trip, especially on the bus.

***

And I was back in Bulgaria for the first time since 1999, but working and earning a few bucks this time at a choral/orchestral workshop. The six conductors worked with two teachers for two weeks on the Mozart Requiem and a Sinfonia Concertante, performing both in a final concert. They had a fine professional orchestra and a beautifully trained Bulgarian choir to work with, and I got to know Danail Rachev, who is the new conductor of the Eugene, OR Symphony. He and I worked together well with the six conductors. While everybody there (especially the young) now seems to speak a bit of English (it wasn't that way in '99), the second language was German in the resort village where we stayed, so I had no problems whatever with my second language, only the boorish tourists who spoke it--Germans have replaced us as the most despised, arrogant tourists around. With good reason. Wilkommen an unser Welt, Freunde. The hotel, food and folk dancing were great, by the way; Eastern Europe is a place all its own, especially around the Black Sea.

***

Then a month of camping in our 2004 Fleetwood Bayside Elite pop-up camp trailer with hot and cold running water, slide out diner, fold out galley, and heater that came on automatically when the temp went below 50F several times. We picked it up at my buddy's in Costa Mesa and drove to Kings Canyon NP. After that, Patti and Gene then joined us (two full king size beds) in Yosemite NP, Jedediah Smith SP, and Tahoe (Sugar Pine Point SP), where we all camped with Libby, Lee and the Boys, celebrating birthdays of the Boys (late), Lee, Libby, and me (early). It was a fantastic time and the best birthday present imaginable--we all just wished Meg could have been there.

Then to Glacier NP, where these pics were shot (the second entitled 'Man, Dog, Fire.' Grunt). I'd never been there and I'm delighted we went: spectacular beauty, Sam learned to swim in Lake MacDonald, Erin and I did a bit of minor whitewater rafting (nine in the raft, only I got wet), historic, picturesque lodges.

And finally, a week at the 11-acre Colwitz Estate in Wisconsin that is Valhalla to Sam: he rolls in the acres of grass, runs in the oat field with only his tail visible, poops where he wants, swims in The Lake That Gene Dug, and runs free without leash at all times. It was a fitting reward for the superb traveler and camper that he was; he's now a confirmed Western Mountain Dog.

RightStuff

2010-05-14T18:37:00.003-05:00

Went to hear Tom Wolfe at the UAH campus today (he's the commencement speaker tomorrow). Was thrilled: he's as brilliant as he seems to be in his books, all of which I love. Despite being a conservative and a supporter of Dubya, I like him anyway. But then, he's a millionaire several times over; of course he supported Dubya. Unlike Dubya, though, he actually learned something at Yale.

***

Speaking of millionaires, I'm a fan of a podcast called Blast the Right, run by a guy named Jack Clark. Words of wisdom and truth from him right here now that distills accurately what RightWing politicians are and do; a filter through which to run everything you hear from them:

"Everything the right-wing does is designed to accomplish one of two things: either (a) transfer wealth from everyone else to the already rich, or (b) distract everyone else from the fact that (a) is occurring."

God, that's good. And true. Just watch and listen to everything they support and everything they oppose. Don't pay any attention to their blather; keep the above italics in mind and you'll read them correctly.

***

We leave Sunday for Italy, where Erin works for two weeks and I do serious research on Italian food (I think this time osso bucco and gorgonzola); then to Bulgaria, where I work for two weeks and Erin lazes about on a Black Sea beach near Varna doing serious research on suntan lotion and Bulgarian booze. Things could sure be worse . . .

ThreeDot . . .

2010-04-01T09:04:00.005-05:00

I've been hearing via email and word of mouth from folks near and far recently that some out there actually read this stuff and occasionally enjoy it. Since I don't do Facebook, this is the only way anyone can find out what I'm thinking or if I'm thinking at all, and I didn't realize so many kept in touch this way because so few comment . . . Really funny that McCain promises no cooperation with the Democrats for the rest of the year; as if there was any cooperation from the Republicans during all of last year--you can't mourn for what you never had, you doddering PalinPanderer. Now what Obama should do is dig up Tiger's most graphic description of what Tiger wanted to do to one of his mistresses--that should be exactly his description of what he's gonna do to the Republicans--and then 'ram' some more stuff 'down their throats:' financial reform, immigration reform, cap and trade, climate change legislation, bring the Boys and Girls home. Ram away, Mr. Obama, and if they don't like that you're doing what you were elected by most of us to do--with or without them--tell 'em they can just kiss your black a** . . . I'm so happy for my daughters and grandsons that he found a pair with Pelosi's help, and that the RightWing is hysterically impotent; impotent except for the violence into which HanBeckBaugh goad their Crazies, who then accommodate them . . . Had fun with Erin's choruses (community and school) last week while she was in Boston working at Mt. Holyoke and then working late on the UAH musical--I worked with all three of them and it was fun to be back in the saddle again for awhile, though I'm glad I could get back off the horse and retire to the ranch house . . . Spring done come to Bama; lawns will be green again soon--the fields and hills already are; this is the nicest time of year 'round these here parts . . . Have taken up hatha yoga three times a week per the Doc's advice and dropped Tai-chi for the time being; still lifting and shooting hoop a couple of times per week . . . Enjoying the heck out of the NCAA Tournament. When are the college presidents gonna figure out that a playoff would be the best possible thing for football, too? . . . Just realized that 'incredible' and 'unbelievable' are synonyms . . . Sam has an ear infection. Again. Goldens are famous for allergies and it's spring, as I said. Sigh . . . The South has so many reversible names: Prescott Parker; Parker Griffith; Tyler Taylor; Foster Bailey . . . Incredibly gratifying to hear from former students back in LA who still remember me and actually miss me; and I even hear occasionally from former UOP students, a few of whom manage to remember me fondly--they're too old to miss me . . . Gonna make a late, unhealthy breakfast now of sausage, eggs and toast: yum, then do a bunch of stretching: groan--right hamstring, quads and both hip flexors are really tight . . . Lots of travel coming up soon: Italy with Erin's kids; Bulgaria for a conducting masterclass; a western camping trip with the new Unit . . . Miguel Felipe (or is it Felipe Miguel?) in town from Boston returning Erin's favor; he's a talented, funny guy, lots of fun to be with, talking shop and professional smut . . . Maundy Thursday service tonight with the Episcopalians, replete with foot-washing: DoubleGroan. Love the people in that choir, though . . . Hope y'all have a resurrection Come Sunday . . . No Foolin' . . .

Exceptional

2010-03-05T10:08:00.009-06:00

On Erin's Facebook this morning was a post from a local theatre star (don't know what his day job is): "Heard on Neal Boortz this morning: 'What if Americans spent less time expecting things and more time being exceptional?'"

First thing you need to know is that that latter word is a RightWing buzzword meaning that Amurrca deserves to do anything it wants because it has the best of everything in the world and never, ever makes mistakes. HateRadio/TV frequently blasts Obama thusly: "He doesn't believe in Amurrcan exceptionalism!!" It's in the DailyMemo from the RNC and Roger Ailes to FauxNews (Fair, Balanced and Blond), for example.

Second thing you need to know is that Neal Boortz kicks off the local HateRadio lineup here in Huntsville starting at 1000 AM. He is followed by Limbaugh, Hannity, Levin, and then a guy at night whose name is something like Schnitts. That's fifteen hours daily of vile, poisonous hate directed primarily at Obama, who is referred to as jerk, coward, man-child, idiot, fool, arrogant, narcissistic, and other euphemistic epithets that are code for uppity you-know-what. They hate him, of course, because he is so damned smart, cool-under fire, has utter control of issues and facts, tells the truth, can speak off the cuff without teleprompter, monitor or even notes (without repeating himself), and stops bullshit in its tracks. I have problems with his leadership so far, but that's because I'm more liberal than most, and would love to have seen him give those Dems several whacks upside the head, ála Johnson, and git 'er done. I think he's far too idealistic for his own good and underestimates Republican hatred for--and envy of--him. ('Bipartisan,' my ass, sir. You should have given up on those bozos long ago, kicked Democratic butt, and dragged this benighted, stupid society into the Land of Reason).

***

Enough prologue. To Erin's correspondent:

We are exceptional, dude, ipso facto. We don't have to spend any time trying to be. Among the most advanced societies in the world (I speak primarily of most of Western Europe and much of East Asia), we are utterly exceptional. Let me count the ways in which we lead:

We are the most obese, the laziest thus least fit, the dumbest (much of the reason for this is our rate of evangelical church attendance) , the sickest because of lack of decent health care, the least informed (see 'dumbest' and watch ClusterFox for ten minutes), and we have the smuggest, most uncaring, most sanctimonious, least tolerant Christians in the entire world; economically, we are shameless whores to big corporations and field more monopolies than 'socialist' countries (you think our health care industry wants 'free market principles?' Uh-uh).
We have far less public transport than other countries and the worst road conditions (I've driven/ridden on them all), we use more fossil fuels and eat more meat, we pollute more than anyone except the emerging giant of China, we are the most in debt to other countries--mostly to China, and we have the largest, most shameful financial gap between Haves and Have-Nots in the civilized world; we also have the least knowledge of--not to mention sense of--history (for most of us, history extends only to last Tuesday);
We make the worst cars, following a half-century head start on the rest of the world, recent Toyota problems notwithstanding, and our government bodies have the most disdain for intellectuals, artists, and the highly educated than any since those of Stalin and Pol Pot. Other than bad cars, by the way, we don't make anything else anymore, including sense;
Finally, we are approaching Italy in competition for the Lamest, Least Effective, Most Venal Government. And we also win the prize worldwide for Male Politicians with the Neatest Hair (many look like televangelists or Southern Baptist ministers, especially the Republicans), and we have already won the prize several times for Proudly Stupidest Person Ever Elected President.

There! See how Exceptional we are?! And without even trying! I am so proud of my country! Proud enough, at least, to have continued to try to help improve it my entire life. But I think I may join Kurt Vonnegut, who gave up trying at the end of his life. After reading the news daily, I am coming to that place, too. More and more, I find myself agreeing with Bill Maher, who has maintained our cultural stupidity for some time now, especially after witnessing the Palin/TeaBag phenomenon. His latest, after watching Republicans stall at the HC Summit, and seeing poll numbers about the health bill?

'This country sucks.'

Yeah, Bill, at times it do. Exceptionally so.

Platform

2010-02-13T14:38:00.009-06:00

Given recent events in Huntsville (four dead, all by handguns), I have decided to run for national office on a simple, two-part platform, to wit:

Outlaw civilian handguns, with outrageous fines for possession: Handguns are designed and used for only one reason--to make holes in humans, rendering them dead (forever);
Legalize 'illegal' drugs, taxed at least at the rate of tobacco and booze: Drugs have for centuries been used for only one reason--to make humans whole, through relief of either pain or anxiety, rendering them happy (temporarily).

Though simple, this platform has immense beneficial implications for the economy, the culture, health care, the public discourse, crime, education, foreign relations, congressional relations, labor relations, marital relations, sexual relations, literacy, personal contentment, childhood safety, eradicating political and social hypocrisy, and easing class warfare. The military? They know all this: soldiers of all varieties have been using drugs of one kind or another before and after battle since the dawn of time.

See? Easy.

A few small examples:

all spectators at NFL MNF games and at English Soccer matches should be issued several joints of marijuana at the outset, with orders to light up in the second half (beer should be banned throughout). Even those not using will benefit from second-hand MaryJane smoke--it's not easy to start assaulting people or ripping up the stands whilst pleasantly stoned; if utterly stoned, it's impossible--you'd fall asleep first;
Politicians should be forced to smoke a joint before commenting for reporters or appearing on talk shows;
All media talk show hosts should be given a mild dose of morphine before going on-air; it seems to be working for Glenn Beck.

There you have it. Oh, one more thing. My education agenda? Do away with all private schools, and all students until age 17 will study only two core things: music and gymnastics (with the addition of six 50-meter wind-sprints--run flat out for 50, walk for 50--daily).

Everything that humans need or care about springs from those two disciplines. And I do mean discipline.

Think about it.

Shooting

2010-02-12T17:21:00.005-06:00

Boy, are we famous!

And for all the right things! Not only are we the harbor that welcomed Werner von Braun and his Rocket Boys (this is a good thing); not only are we the place where Sean Hannity started his career for 18k/year on our local HateRadio station (this is a bad thing); but we are now also the home of a disgruntled professor who didn't get tenure and decided to solve her problems with a semi-automatic bequeathed to her by our Second Amendment!

And a number of students felt that things would be better if they were allowed to carry their registered guns on campus! Great idea!

And it happened in the Richard Shelby Center! Yep, he who is the Prince of Pork, yet decries all pork (but only if initiated by Democrats), and who held up the appointments of 70 people because he wanted more Bama pork! Wow! Am I ever proud of our Senators! And Jefferson Beauregard Sessions III is another! Another rich, privileged white peckerwood who made good in this state of only 4.5 million benighted, undereducated, repressed people. (BTW, the coach of the Bama football team makes one dollar for every man, woman and child in the state = 4.5 mil/year!)

And they charge the full 8% sales tax on FOOD!! Wow! Ain't that progressive?!?!

What a state!

K-Girls

2010-02-04T07:36:00.004-06:00

Last weekend we had a glorious time when Kelley O'Connor and Karen Schrock came to visit us, Kelley from Fresno en route to Birmingham, where she will perform Lieberson's Neruda Songs, and Hong Kong, where she will perform Mahler 3. Karen came in from New York, where she has lived since 2003, studying, working and partying. Both were four-year members of the the USC Chamber Choir and both traveled on THREE foreign tours with them. Pic above is from my retirement party in 2007: Karen at your left; Kelley at your right.

Karen now is an editor for Scientific American Mind, the premiere scientific mag in the country. She uses half of her USC double major and all of her NYU masters degree in her work. She is a whiz, writing and editing in the field of neuroscience, including an article about why men fall asleep after sex (I forget the reason; I think I fell asleep immediately after reading it, even without sex).

Kelley is now a citizen of the world; a superb mezzo-soprano in the prime of her career and in demand around the world as a soloist with orchestras and in the occasional opera. While here, she received news that John Adams wants to write an opera for her that will be performed several times here in the States and later around Europe. She is under fine management with IMG (so is Tiger, but that's another story), loves her agent and is busy literally every month of this year. You could look it up: www.kelleyoconnor.com.

The four of us had a great time together, including a Saturday Saturnalia at two of Huntsville's gay bars (don't ask, 'cause we won't tell) that featured the three women drinking ten Manhattans and eating forty pounds of barfood garbage at the first one, then watching drag queens cavort at the second. Oh, and Karen and I played a round of pool, which I won by a single ball.

They are both wonderful people, smart and talented, and are a joy to be around, no matter what we are doing. Sam loved them to death, of course, and they endured his attentions with aplomb.

Can't wait to be together with them again. Y'all are welcome anytime, darlin's.

***

And so would you be welcome. We have room, so y'all come see us now, y' hear?

Roman New Year

2010-01-07T08:26:00.008-06:00

Snowing today and the whole dang town is shut down: schools are closed and you can't find milk, bread or eggs in the stores. Buncha peckerwood wusses, lemme tell ya. We're supposed to get about two inches, which is a lot for Bama; people are already planning plots for their snow angels.

Speaking of snow, got back from Green Bay last Sunday eve, where there was plenty of the stuff; Sam loves snow and winter in Wisconsin--he can't get enough of it. So if it accumulates enough today, will take him out and let him roll around in it for one of his snow showers; there won't be enough for him to dig for last summer's detritus or shove his nose into, but he'll enjoy it anyway.

***

Had a great New Year week in Green Bay with the Colwitz family, especially with Patti and Gene and with Bro Andy and his wonderful live-in squeeze, Jennine ('Neenie' to me, 'Neener' to everyone else). Great food, fun taverns, exquisite NYE dinner in the 'Moose Room,' pool at Andy's Packer Bar, champagne and caviar at Midnight (a first for P and G, who were good sports and tried it). Erin and Fam played with the Wii until they were blind and/or staggering. Neenie just giggled and I just read while they played; I'm a lousy digital athlete, Andy is gifted, Erin and Gene are pretty good (sorry, Patti). Erin wants one for here, of course; that'll be the day . . . Picture of the six of us at a local wine bar above (fine company, bad wine to this Californian who has tasted it all in California and France). Ah, and we can't forget litte niece Olivia, who is a sweet little chunker.

***

End of my year tonight with the end of college football, then a long drought until my New Year's Day on 1 September broken only by the country's finest athletic event: the NCAA basketball tournament in March.

***

Back to work now for Erin; back to Husbandry of house, wife, dog, and body for me (stretching, Tai-Chi, weights, and hoops at the Y). Also back to church work, where the organist thinks I was on drugs while choosing Epiphany music: Brahms, Mendelssohn, Handel, Duruflé. Making Coq au Vin tonight from a recipe I got from the owner of the wine bar above. Looks pretty good, too.

***

Happy New Year to you Roman Calendar heathens; hope you Christians had an Epiphany yesterday. Thanks to all who responded to my digital Christmas Card and sent us real ones; love you all. Time for Tai-Chi . . .

Solstice

2009-12-21T10:05:00.003-06:00

Winter solstice has been celebrated by cultures all over the world for thousands of years and is of course the main reason that Christmas is celebrated at this time of year. The main motivation was the need for light at the darkest time of the year; the need to affirm life in the presence of nature's cyclical death. The main means was to party 'til you drop; dissipation was the order of the day and the season (see: Roman saturnalia). Still is, in a way: We need to party to keep the dark at bay and to forget all the money we're spending at this time of year. At least I do. And part of the reason we party and spend money is that we want to do anything we can to forget what this time of year represents: death.

We don't like to think about that and look for reasons that death exists by first of all wishing it didn't. But it does, and my long-time friend Larry Meredith has come up with a handle on it that moved me profoundly when I read it in his Christmas letter. That handle was hard to grasp at first reading; I thought he was paraphrasing the old 'life wouldn't mean as much if it went on forever' theme. He wasn't, though. It is much more than that. Here it is:

On Sunday morning, [we] gathered to remember those who had passed into the final adventure. It was a profound moment as we lifted up those who were no more. In gratitude and sadness we touched the inevitable dis-union. We faced death as the moral equivalent of the speed of light. We celebrated life, but we all sensed that death is the insistent measure of that life, its container, the marker of the edge of our universe, the quiet auditor of our precious gift of time.

I am utterly incapable of coming up with something like that and stand in awe of those who can. I thought it needed to go beyond Larry's friends and to a few of mine, however few there may be who read these digital pages.

Happy Solstice, Merry Christmas to all of you.

Fall

2009-11-23T09:31:00.004-06:00

Been fairly professionally busy for once since the last posting. For one thing, am enjoying our small Episcopal choir that is improving weekly, I think--incrementally, but improving. I really enjoy the people. The sopranos chewing and grinning at [i] vowels, especially up high, still present problems but we are working on it slowly. Other vowels are improving immensely as is breath control.

***

Went to the third NCCO conference at Yale. Never been to Yale: home of most of the early recruits for the beginning of Dulles's CIA; home of the Whiffenpoofs; home of the Legacy education of the troglodyte Shrub; home of damned fine music making and scholarship. Was great to see Aya Ueda, who got her Master's there and is more of a feather in their cap than Shrub. Was also great to see and have dinner with USC alums Buddy James, Lisa Graham, James Kim (whose ensemble gave a stellar performance), Charley Jurgensmeier, Keith Whitlock and TJ Harper. Also saw Hugh Davies and too many colleagues from around the country to remember. Bill Bausano got an Honorary Life Membership for being the organization's Godfather.

***

Closer to home, took a rehearsal of Erin's fine community chamber choir and had loads of fun with them, i.e., they laughed at all my jokes and worked very hard. Days later, started rehearsals with the First Ever UAH High School Honor Choir of 45 local kids. After the first eight seconds of Mozart Regina Coeli, wanted to go home and hide my head but couldn't because Erin is my wife and I had seven hours, fifty-nine minutes and fifty-two seconds of rehearsal to go. Sigh.

In the end, amidst much of my sweat and hair on the floor, the kids pretty much came through in a somewhat difficult program--even the Trash was a bit tricky. The main thing is that the kids enjoyed it and second, Erin scored some points with colleagues and local teachers. I got a lousy $37.50/hour, for which I am grateful because it was more than I expected. Following the Honor Choir, Erin's group gave a spectacular performance for the full house. She is doing truly great work here. The kids love her to death; colleagues respect her, one only grudgingly but that's normal.

***
So then to some Bama conference in Tuscaloosa come January, and finally to Memphis for ACDA southern division in March. Then no more. Enough with this Conference Ca-Ca for a while; it costs beaucoup bucks and you can't really get anywhere from here if you fly. We'll drive to Memphis.

***
So professionally, I'm really looking forward to working with that fine Taipei chorus and maybe a few good conductors at the Varna workshop in Bulgaria. Also looking forward to New Years in Green Bay; we can't leave until Xmas Day because of my church job. Sicut erat in principio . . .

Alpha/Omega

2009-09-28T14:32:00.004-05:00

Funny. I began in this business as a church musician in 1962 in a small Lutheran church in Baldwin Park, California. I made $90/month and managed to pay my share of food/rent and expenses with it. Imagine that. I kept up church work until 1985--while the girls were still young: 14 and 10--when I quit and vowed never to do it again.

So that was 24 years ago. Then last month I got a feeler for interest via a colleague from the Episcopal church in Decatur, which is 30 miles away. I interviewed with the rector and organist at the end of last month, auditioned with their small choir on the second of this one, got the job, and am now almost about to receive my second paycheck from them.

Never thought I'd see the day and, 24 years later, the day is here again. Not sure why I did it but am glad I did. It is most unlikely that I will have any mountain top aesthetic experiences with them: they are quite small (SATB = 5, 4, 4--2 women among them--, 3, when they are all there, that is, which has yet to happen in the 5 rehearsals and 3 services I have done with them); and they are of varied musical and vocal skill--from adept to, well, ahem. . . But as my buddy said, 'being a church musician is better than being a street musician,' and as daughter Meggie said when I told her about it, 'you've already had plenty of mountain top experiences, Dad. You've made your bones with that mob.'

And she's right, I have. (Though I made up the part about mob bones and ascribed them to her).
Besides, the rector is a great young man and a brief sermonizer--he'll go far; the soon-to-be-grizzled organist is talented and a very funny man--he's already gone far; and the choir has an assistant organist/librarian/female tenor/factota who is extremely helpful to this veteran of so many non-liturgical churches. Well, four of them. This is my fifth church job.

But the main thing for me is the wonderful people: devoted, willing to work, kind, and funny (though not many are all of the foregoing in one package, but who cares? I ain't, either). They are, all in all, a delightful group that manages to laugh at my humor, follow my instructions to the best of their abilities, remain patient with my few digressions, and stay true to my few rigid laws. And while I doubt that I will dip very far into my reserve of conducting skills, I am still quite a good teacher and it feels good to be employing those skills on a regular basis once again. I'm pleased that they hired me and are willing to tolerate me for awhile. I hope to give them some musical/vocal skills, personal satisfaction and a little joy in my time with them.

***

To end is to begin: I'm going to end my career the way I started it. That's true of the human being too, of course: we begin unable to walk and end the same way, relying on 'conveyances to carry us where our skinny shanks no longer can.' (Thomas Wolfe: Of Time and The River)

Jesus. That's depressing. But so was Thomas Wolfe: an incandescent talent who burned himself out in booze and depression at 37, I think. He was the subject of a novel, forget the title and author, but his famous editor, Maxwell Perkins, was also in that novel. Someone look it up, OK? I don't feel like it. I'm going to give myself over to a bit of depression but not booze.

You know the only thing I don't like about being a church musician again? I can't wear my academic gown in the service. Nossir. I have to wear a cassock and that pussy white surplice. With a cross around my neck. Makes me feel and look like a devout neutered peacock.

So I'll just attempt to strut down the aisle with my feathers folded, come Sundays. And avoid screeching.

Tahoe

2009-09-22T09:59:00.007-05:00

I've been called out by Megan for not doing a post about our family camping trip to Tahoe in mid-July. I have no explanation for it other than coming back to Bama and resuming duties of dog, meals, exercise, reading, naps, and of course appointments of various kinds. Anyway, it was a delight to be with my family in that gorgeous corner of the world; I've probably been to Tahoe at least twenty times during my fifty years of living in California and have always been entranced by it. This time (about the eighth or ninth time for me) we were at Sugar Pine Point, a state park that includes the mansion and grounds of the Hellman family of Best Foods fame and money, as well as large, gorgeous campsites. And a River Runs Through It. And we saw bears a couple of times, including two cute cubs. The Boys went nuts.

I rented a '91 VW Westphalia camper for the period for Meg and me to sleep in, she in the pop-top, I below. It was also used as a brief retreat from the noise for Libby and a short-term playpen for The Boys. The Girls grew up in VW vans--I drove two--a '72 and then an '81--for sixteen years. The '91 went up the mountain much easier than my old ones, in which Third Gear was known as Beer Gear--once we reached a certain point, it was third gear the rest of the way, and I would ask Meggie to get me a beer out of the cooler. She would open it and hand it to me.

Ah, the bad old days.

Anyway, the five of them had time at a mountain lake together one day while I showered and napped, and then they went to the Nevada side for the day on a friend's boat while I sat in the shade on the beach at the Hellman estate and snacked and read. We had great campfires together and even a few decent meals, camping veterans that we all are. I did ham hocks and beans one night. Yum. And for cocktail hour once we had Alaskan Salmon. Double yum. In all, it was great to be at 7000' with my family again. That hasn't happened in a long time. Making plans to do it in some form again next summer, Allah willing. Here are some pics from the Nevada side: one of Lib in the boat and then one of Meg's Killer Hawaiian Bod:

So there you go Muggs (got even with you with this pic, eh Babe? 'Tssst! Hot!!'). Hope you enjoy it, too, L and L. Maybe even show The Boys the pic of them drawing in the van. And those of you in Cali? For God's sake, if you ain't yet been to Tahoe, go! But camp. Make a day trip from the campground if you gotta gamble. Live in a tent or van and enjoy the cool (cold, at times) nights and gorgeous, dry days. Hope you get a Sierra storm (fun) and see bears, in other words--as Larry Meredith would say--'the whole experience.'

NewYear'sDay III

2009-09-01T16:49:00.004-05:00

College football season officially begins Saturday. It seems like forever since January. Jeez.

***

Since I wrote the above sentence, a few things have happened, including attendance last night at the Titans/Packers pre-season game in Nashville. We went with Ian Loeppke and his new wohman, Dana, who got great tickets in the top tier on the 50-yard line. I could see pass patterns opening up before the TV crews did. Was fun. Titans have one helluva fine rookie receiver who caught two TDs from Vince Young against the second string GB secondary. We left in the fourth quarter with the score at 27-10, Titans, in a game that didn't count, just lined the pockets of Titans management. At least the city of GB gets the money, not some rich guy with too much money and time on his hands. Gotta love 'em for that, at least. GB QB Rodgers played only one series. Ho hum.

(Oh, and 'ah ite ree-ubs' in the downtown Music Alley right across from Ernest Tubbs' shop. Parked the car right next to the Grand Ole Opry, which my Dad and his buddy Charlie used to watch religiously when I was a lad).

Funny, I lived in SoCal for 30 years of my life and only went to one Rams game in all that time. Lived 20 years in NoCal and only went to one 49ers game. Lived here a little over a year and have already been to two Packers games. (Think my GB wife and her family have something to do with that? She's a rabid fan, actually, and has Brett Favre at the top of her s**** list for going over to the hated Vikings).

But have been to plenty of UCLA and USC games in that half century, plus a boatload of UOP games in Stockton while I lived there; often took the girls, who left me immediately after kickoff and cruised for friends and boys. Sigh. I tried. But they turned out more than OK otherwise.

***

Fight on, Trojans; Go, Bears and Bruins; kick non-conference butt, Pac-10. I hate the corruption and exploitation of college ball, but I do so love the sport, God help (and forgive) me.

CherryCreek

2009-07-26T09:04:00.003-05:00

I didn't write about this adventure at the time because I was getting ready to travel and then the summer got away from me.

I did a residency at one of the finest high schools in the country: Cherry Creek High School in Englewood, Colorado. It was pure joy because of the superb training the ensembles received from Bill Erickson and Sarah Harrison, two of their three (!!) regular, full-time conductors. The women's chorus was especially responsive, adept and flexible, but even their beginning mixed chorus of 80 was a pleasure to work with. I had a wonderful time and truly enjoyed getting to know the staff there, including their versatile, gifted accompanist, Rob Lowe (real name). I even have medals to prove that I am now an honorary member of the choruses. If you'd like to hear the performances, go here. Believe me, I take no credit for their excellence at all, because all I did was have a great time for several days playing with superb, well-prepared, talented kids.

Late greetings and repeated thanks to Sarah, Bill and Rob.

Oh, and I got to see USC alum James Kim, who drove down from Ft. Collins to hear the performance, and who has also worked with these fine groups. You can hear the knockout work he is doing at Colorado State in November at the NCCO national conference--It will be his second appearance at that conference, since he also qualified for the first one in 2006. Don't miss a chance to hear what he does. Am I proud and prejudiced? Nah.

Hoops

2009-07-08T12:22:00.002-05:00

Went 45 for 75 (60%) from 15, 17, 19 feet the other day. And 24 of the 45 (53%) were DSP NBN musical snappers. All told, the best day I have had from those distances since I started this nonsense in August '04. At that time, the 75 included 13-footers that I abandoned long ago. And as with back then, I again shoot before I lift, so am not as tired.

Just thought you'd like to know all that.

***

Pics of new red Jetta will appear anon. Will be going to camp with the Girls and Boys at Tahoe next week, though, so don't hold your breath.

Europe

2009-06-12T07:37:00.013-05:00

Wow, that was fun.

We were a great quartet on the road through France (Alsace), Switzerland, Germany, Austria, and Cesky Krumlov in the Czech Republic. We majored in Munich and I think the other three are glad we did: had to major in something during the 12 days, might as well be Munich, thought I. Biggest hit there was the Viktualien Markt behind the Marienplatz: all manner of exotic food stalls and a biergarten. Well . . . Hofbraühaus was fun for all, too (I've managed to outgrow my innate snobbishness, but I did take them to a less well known beer hall first. Just to make sure . . . ). Only problem was that Erin and I seemed to be the only ones who knew words and tune to "Ein prosit . ." which the band played every twenty minutes--too damned many touring furrigners . . .

Biggest surprise to start with was an upgrade on the car from a Beemer 5 Series wagon to the Beemer X5 SUV with inline 6 turbo-diesel and an incredible navigation system. It held all of our luggage with even a little room to see out the back window and was very comfortable, even in the back seat. And did that sucker scoot: Gene got it up to 220 kph with pedal room left, but it seemed that every time I drove it there was either rain or a lot of construction so I only got to get it to 180. Sigh. Such travails.

Oh. And we did eat, drink and make merry, the highlight of which was a great Italian restaurant in Munich where we could watch the cook and sous chef work and listen to them holler at the waiters, the customers (all of whom seemed to be Italian) and each other. The chef/owner forced some very smooth grappa down my gullet for free during one of his smoke breaks at an outside table: he and his son-in-law thought I was the best American they'd ever met because I could speak both German and Italian. They may be right. The Colwitz's and I went through three bottles of wine and a dessert shot of grappa each. I had the worst hangover of the bunch the next morning. Groan. I'm back to asceticism, thank goodness.

So that's the important stuff to us guys: cars and food. Gene even liked the Munich beer and now he knows where Wisconsin got its brats. The unimportant lady piffle wasn't bad, either--city tours, quaint walled cities, experiencing the best social democracies outside of Scandinavia, museums, shopping for Bohemian crystal in CZ, and Munich's smooth, fast rapid transit. The highlight of the tour was High Mass on Pentecost Sunday at St. Stephens in Vienna. The resident Cardinal officiated, the chorus and professional orchestra did Haydn's Harmonie Messe (damned well, by the way), the air was suffused with smells and bells and the place was SRO (Pentecost is a big deal in Europe). All in all a real cultural thrill for the three Catholic Colwitz's and even for this lapsed Lutheran. Also in Vienna, it was great seeing USC Chamber Choir alums Melanie Heyn and Gabe Wyner, who have been there quite a while studying opera and voice; they showed us around the inner city and we had fun at dinner together talking about their studies and their lives as ex-pats in Deutscher Land.

For me, the most fun was using my German daily after over twenty years. It came back fairly quickly and I was never mistaken for American; if nothing else, my pronunciation is very good, guided as it is by my musician's ear. Gloat.

So cities, in order: Colmar, Bern, Geneva (with a short side trip to Montreux--Lord, what a beautiful location), Munich (including Dachau concentration camp), Salzburg, Vienna, Cesky Krumlov, Munich again, Dinkelsbühl (and Rothenburg), Frankfurt. Total of four nights in Munich, two each in Geneva and Vienna, one night each elsewhere, except Bern, which was just a morning stop-over from Colmar to Geneva. Hotels ranged from one 4-star (Vienna) to a cutesy B and B (Dinkelsbühl). The rest were great except for the second Munich one, which sucked despite the three stars it seemed to have earned somehow.

***

For more pics, see Viking Goddess's album at picasa.google.com. Since arriving home, Erin has been busy acquiring leadership of a fine community chorus here in town (three cheers for her), and running rehearsals for an opera and a musical most nights. I've been busy acquiring her birthday present: a new 2008 Wolfsburg Edition VW Jetta. Red. With the two-liter GTI turbo motor (200 bhp). Got ground effects all around, plus a lip spoiler on the trunk lid. Snakey little thing. Premium, 10-speaker sound system with Sirius radio, too. Only problem is some hail dimples on all horizontal surfaces from the last big winter storm, but that lowered the price mucho plenty. We'll leave them there for the time being, until we have enough money to get paintless dent removal. We donated Erin's nine-year-old Mitsubishi with 170k miles to our local NPR station for the tax deduction.

Bis nächstes Mal: wiedersehen.

MaidenVoyage

2009-05-20T08:13:00.005-05:00

So am in Wisconsin at the moment, in transit to Chicago for our flight on Saturday to the German-speaking countries, and two days ago Erin's parents Patti and Gene decided to what-the-hell-come-along. This will be their first trip abroad and we all are very excited. I will be the German speaking guide for them as well as historian-in-residence. This is going to be great fun, especially since I have been everywhere Erin wants to go, most notably my city-away-from-home, Munich. Will also visit German friends Klaus and Annette--who I met forty years ago--in Geneva, where they have lived for some decades now.

Have rented either an E-Class Mercedes wagon or a BMW 5 Series wagon. Won't know which until we arrive in Frankfurt. Either is fine but I'm hoping for the Beemer: that in-line six dohc fuel-injected engine can't be beat; couple it with a six-speed manual tranny and that spells fun in any language. Only ca. 185 horse but we can easily reach 120 on the autobahn, even with all that luggage and four passengers. Them suckers only begin to hunker down and get serious at 90.

Zowie!

Erin's must-see list includes Munich and Dachau, Salzburg, Vienna, and Germany's Romantic Road (three preserved walled medieval cities). Can do, but we'll have to hustle. Sigh. Poor us. Will spend our first night in Colmar, Alsace, where Patti can get her first taste of real Alsatian Riesling. Will meet Klaus early the next morning in Bern--where he will give us a city tour--then on to his home in Geneva, where Annette will give us a city tour. Then we go north and east for ten more days for more fun and food.

Yum!

Will let you know how it went some time after we return to Bama on 8 June.

Mayday . . .

2009-05-01T17:49:00.002-05:00

. . . is the military call for help in serious circumstances, such as a ship or plane going down, or a ground unit surrounded, outnumbered and under fire . . .

. . . is also a holiday celebrating spring, fertility, the disappearance of snow, and being alive in all of Europe. Maypoles are erected (no pun intended) in all villages, no matter how small, and young girls in ethnic costume grab ribbons attached to the immense phallic symbol and dance around it singing. I wish we celebrated it here but it is considered too Euro and socialist for us. Also too sexy ('Hurray, hurray for the first of May; outdoor ******** begins today!'). Why did it have to be renegade Puritans who settled this continent? Why couldn't we have had a few Catholics or Druids or somesuch come over here and start over in a lusty manner? No American Mayday is one of the main sources of our societal problems, I kid you not. Maybe a Yankee Mayday would help a few of us erect some formidable poles, put down a few of our guns, park our pickups, dance around and have some fun. . . I'm serious . . .

***

Cleaned, polished and waxed the 4Runner last weekend for only the second time in three years. Looks fantastic. It is now sitting outside under another southern deluge, getting the week's dust blasted off by the downpour. I let God wash my car whenever possible and around here it's often possible. She doesn't do rims, though, dang it.

Answer

2009-04-17T09:32:00.008-05:00

OK, so:

It's from a psychological profile of Adolf Hitler done by the Office of Strategic Services (OSS) during WWII. The OSS (Wild Bill Donovan's Boys and Girls--Julia Childs was one of them) is the wartime forerunner of the CIA. The quote I used is drawn directly from a page of Mein Kampf, almost verbatim. I was struck dumb by the similarity to the tactics used for eight years by the Axis of Evil: Bush-Cheney-Rove. When I read it to Erin and asked her who it was, that was her first guess. (Actually, Bush is not bright enough to qualify as evil; he was a failed college twit easily lead astray by the other two, but you get my point).

I think that they learned a lot from Paul Goebbels, Hitler's propaganda minister and the founder of modern mass propaganda. It was from him that George Orwell and Aldous Huxley got their main ideas for 1984 and Brave New World, respectively. I found the quote in the blog whilst googling Goebbels and ran across The Big Lie, Hitler's idea that people will question and forgive small lies but will most probably believe the Big One, especially if repeated often enough, which is what Goebbels did (as did Bush: Iraq, yellow cake; Cheney: WMD, 9/11 = Al Qaeda; Rove: the Kerry smears, and as do Limbaugh, Hannity, Beck, Tantaros/Malkin, Fixed News, Ingraham, et.al.: anything about Obama and the Democrats and their work-- 'never concede that there may be some good in your enemy'.

I mean, hell, even Hitler had two good ideas: the freeway and the Volkswagen. Is that what the TeaBaggers mean when they compare Obama to Hitler? Must be. 'Twould be laughable were it not so pathetic ('Note his elegant use of the subjunctive! Isn't he something, though?!').

One of my favorite lines from Huxley: 1,720,426 repetitions = One Truth. Sad but, I fear, true.

I came across the quote during my reading of The Kindly Ones by Jonathan Littell. Almost all of the characters in it are real Nazis from the period with major roles in the Holocaust, so I spent a long time with Wikipedia looking them up. The novel's protaganist is 'one sick puppy' who is with the SD/SS involved with killing squads in the Ukraine and is later involved with Auschwitz and Mauthausen. He is unrepentant.

I stayed with the book (almost 1000 pages) because of my interest in WWII, not because of style or plot, both of which are turgid (one paragraph ran four pages) and/or ridiculous. The French (original language) loved the book, naturally, while the Brits and Yanks gave it either an A or an F. For me it was fascinating as history (and very accurate), but as literature it sucked. Jonathan's daddy, Robert, is a far better writer (in the spy/espionage genre) and I have read all of his books. So in this case, as one reviewer put it, 'the apple falls galaxies from the tree.'

My recommendation: unless you are retired and interested in WWII history, give this one a pass.

Thanks to the three who responded, even though two cheated and got the answer through
Google! Tsk, tsk.

Hope spring is being good to y'all wherever you are.

Quiz

2009-04-12T16:28:00.003-05:00

"His primary rules were: never allow the public to cool off; never admit a fault or wrong; never concede that there may be some good in your enemy; never leave room for alternatives; never accept blame; concentrate on one enemy at a time and blame him for everything that goes wrong; people will believe a big lie sooner than a little one; and if you repeat it frequently enough people will sooner or later believe it."^{Hey, gang. Anyone have an idea who the above refers to? I'll give you the Answer and the source only if you either email me or make a guess in the comment section of the blog. You gonna be amazed. Then again, maybe not.}

April . . .

2009-04-11T08:34:00.002-05:00

. . . may be the cruelest month around here: tornado sirens again yesterday, followed by a 5-minute gully washer that included marble-sized hail. Knocked the phone out and it's still not back on. On the other hand, finally had two days in a row of warm, dry weather to finish the media unit for the bedroom. Never used gel stain before and it is marvelous stuff: you can use a disposable foam brush, second coat goes on with rags, not necessary to sand between coats; just used #250 sandpaper before I began. Results above. Beauty, eh? Gene Colwitz and I made the doors, I mounted the hardware (perfectly, of course). You can see how it matches the corner shelf (in mirror), the lamp wood and my silent butler. What you can't see is the bedspread and shams, which is where Erin got the accent color (called Java by the stain company, Espresso by designers after three Cosmos). We have the most beautiful bedroom in creation. And only Louis XIV had a bigger one. Oh, and that's the 26-incher LCD I bought for my Torrance apartment. Talk about perfect fit!

***

Take a look at my elder daughter's blogpage (www.loadedword.blogspot.com): great pic of me during my last visit instructing the boys on the finer points of hoops during that first weekend of March Madness. They actually listened. For ten minutes. Long enough to get the pic, anyway. Poor guys: it would be like me trying to keep track of the puck during televised hockey. Never could.

***

Milestone today: my 100th workout at the local YMCA since 1 July, when I joined. Have gone from 30,000 lbs./week to 41,500. I guess that's progress. Wish the Fitlinxx system could transfer; I had a year's worth of workouts in San Pedro and two year's worth in Torrance. But it doesn't matter: they don't give away T-shirts here for achieving the levels, anyway. I'm working on brown: already have white, yellow and red that I got from Peedro and Torrance. I need to bitch to the Bama manager about that.

***

Speaking of bitching: did I tell you that they tax food in this state? Unbelievable: that's the most regressive tax imaginable. On the other hand, property and income taxes are nothing around here, which of course helps the rich. Welcome to the Red-State South. Damned Republicans.

***

So this has evolved from ThreeDot journalism to ThreeAsterisk journalism. Thanks for the read, Buddy: that makes three. 'Preeshate it, as the coaches and car salesman say. Off to the Y and the dog park now; Erin off to an extra rehearsal. It's a long time until college football season; baseball is boring and golf is for tastelessly dressed Republicans. Sigh. How they must hate that the best in the game is buff, handsome, Stanford-educated, and half-black. Snicker. Neither is a sport, by they way, they're both games. And I'm not as hard-ass as Hemingway, who said that there were only three sports: bullfighting, boxing and rugby; all the rest are games.

ThreeDot . . .

2009-04-03T07:52:00.000-05:00

Thunder, lightening and tornado sirens going off around here (just heard about it on NPR), gutters raging with water, no exercise for Sam--Dog Park is a bog. Weather is a mess since I came back from a visit with L & L and DaBoys . . . Erin conducting the debut of a piece by her boss tonight--8 players, three singers, jazz combo that includes LocalBoyMadeGood . . . Erin's chorus doing fine with Bach 106--concert on the 18th and her mom and dad will come down from Green Bay . . . Found out yesterday that I've had a curved spine since I was about ten; only been bothering me in the early morning, at least until I get moving again. Only treatment is spinal injection of 'roids once or twice per year; will probably do it because they put you out with morphine--yum . . . also on BodyFront, had my replaced frontal implant (dental! dental!) mounted this week; will be able to smile without flipper in about four months . . . have paid for airfare to Frankfurt end of May; also two-week rental of C-class Mercedes--top speed: 135 mph--Munich to Salzburg in 45 minutes or less: double yum . . . looking forward to spending three days with a top-flight high school program (Cherry Creek) in Colorado in about a month . . . Christian keeps wanting me to post more (is he the only one?) but sometimes I can't think of pertinent, beautifully formed, one-word-title essays to write, hence this mess . . . got this formal idea from Herb Caen, former columnist for the SF Chronicle--he called it Three Dot Journalism--not an entirely bad idea--let's hear it for the ellipsis . . .

***

(Jeez, eh, even my emails are better than this) . . . reading The Kindly Ones by Jonathan Littel; have read everything by his daddy, Robert, an ex-pat who has lived in France for decades; a truly horrifying book--at almost 1000 pages, horrifyingly long, too; originally in French--too much to talk about here: Google it . . . need to eat oats and blueberries, go to the Y, shower, and start my day that includes more drugs for my peripheral neuropathy, paying CA taxes . . . really enjoying recorded HD movies on my Samsung LCD with sound piped through a five-speaker Panasonic sound system via HDMI cable--don't be impressed; it all cost less than you might think . . . stopped counting how many of my 75 shots/day go in--can't seem to get above 50%--so count only those that produce ThatPerfectSound--nuttin' but nylon: yum squared; used to be only about 12/75, on Monday was 20(!); today will concentrate on arch and wrist, hoping for 25 . . . speaking of hoops, tomorrow is the climax of March Madness: Final Four--really looking forward to two great games in America's Finest Sporting Event--yum cubed; the Final itself is always a bit of an anti-climax for me, rather like the Super Bowl . . . (enjoyment seems to decrease in direct proportion to the amount of hype something receives, know what I mean?) . . .

***

Talk about coincidence! I mention Herb Caen and I just heard on NPR's Poet's Almanac that today is his birthday. He died in 1997 but before he did, he coined this: Martinis are like breasts; one is not enough, three is too many. . . (Have I mentioned here that I consider NPR our country's second finest cultural asset? The first is jazz. The worst is RightWing talk radio) . . . Speaking of martinis, here is what Dorothy Parker said about them:

I love to have a martini
But always two at the most.
After three, I'm under the table,
After four, I'm under my host.

Ah, the golden age of the Algonquin . . . Happy Birthday, Rob . . .

Convening

2009-03-09T16:05:00.000-05:00

Went to the ACDA National Convention in Oklahoma City last week. The event itself? OK: best choral performance I heard in my opinion was a small British group, VOCES8--fantastic and artistic. I got chills for the first time in a long time. Truly. But did not hear UT or Hak-Won Yoon's Incheon City group from Korea. Heard they were stunning, especially the pros from Incheon.

New people: Debra Cairns, U. Alberta, Canada; Alec Harris, GIA Publishing; Mia Can't-Remember-Last-Name from Portland.

Was also great to see Hugh Davies (plus Tony and Christina), Kirke Mechem, Polly and Burt, Ginger and Rich, Mary Breden, Paul Salamunivich, Allan Petker, Jo from Daegu, Korean Deutsche Sprecher from Pusan, Patricia Corbin, and too many Korean acquaintances to remember much less pronounce. And of course waved and hollered at too many other folks to remember.

Wonderful to see former students In-Gi Min (Korea), Chung-Uk Lee, Soon-Jung Kim, Dominic Gregorio, Shawna Stewart, Charles Jurgensmeier, Bill Bausano, David Hughes, Aya Ueda (UOP), Michelle Jensen. The former students named here and below span three institutions and my entire 37-year collegiate career, starting with Bill B. (1970) and ending with Dominic (2007).

Great to have meals and martinis with former students Rob Istad, Ariel Quintana and TJ Harper. The latter two, Erin and I had an especially wonderful time together until 2:30 AM at the funkiest cowboy bar I've ever seen, the Wormy Dog Saloon (bar stools were saddles). Unfortunately, I lost my Louis Vuitton tie there that was a gift from the Chamber Choir and that cost a small car payment. Sob . . . Also had a meal with current Bama colleague, Ian Loeppky. (Still owe y'all $35, friend. Getcha back soon down here in Dixie).

The picture you see above is 32 years worth of all former conductors of the USC Chamber Choir except its founder, Charles Hirt. From left to right: Jo-Michael Scheibe (current), Paul Salamunivich (one-year interim following me), Rod Eichenberger (15 years--'76-91), James Vail (two-year interim following Eichenberger), Me (15 years--92-07). A lot of people commented on how good I look, all thanks to my own cooking plus 39,000 pounds and 225 hoop shots/week. Oh, and, uh, being personally happy doesn't hurt either, I suppose.

I don't really go much for the conventions themselves anymore but for the people. And what a great time it was, including a chance at the end to chat quite a while with former fan and current blog reader, Lori Marie Rios. She loves my derriere, I love her frontiere--actually, love all of ya, darlin'. Comment now, y'hear? Don't just read.

That goes for all of you: Comment so I know someone's out there. Sniff.

O-Bach-ma

2009-01-22T07:53:00.000-06:00

I finished Chapter Four of my new book a couple of days ago, a chapter that ends with the citation below. It is the chapter on Bach's motet, Singet dem Herrn ein neues Lied, for which I am somewhat famous in my professional circle because I've usually managed to perform it decently (they were always on their feet before I could even turn around). I will email the chapter to my publisher today. It's a book about interpretation, by the way, that my students have asked for: how I interpret music and why I make the choices I do. Rob Istad and his partner, Brandon Brack, came up with a title for me as we were going to dinner during their visit with us on New Year's Eve: A Matter of Choice: Interpreting Choral Music. Snazzy, eh? Thanks, guys. Coupla martinis help, don't they?

The main thing now is that we are at long last rid of what the latest issue of The Economist calls 'The Frat Boy' and James Lee Burke called 'that draft-dodging fraternity pissant.' Keith Olbermann called his departure from the Capitol 'the end of an error.' I'm nowhere near as clever as those people so I have nothing of that sort to add here.

But here's how my chapter on Bach's piece ends (I would say Happy New Year to y'all, but as you know, the New Year for me begins 1 September; I'm a college football heathen):

***

"It is fitting that I finish this chapter on this magnificent piece by an extraordinary man on American Emancipation Day: 20 January 2009; a day when another extraordinary man begins his leadership of this country and of what is called the free world. It is a glorious day that nevertheless heralds some very difficult times to come. And no one knows whether that man can marshal the personal, social and political forces necessary to overcome the obstacles of our collective stubbornness, innate selfishness, diverse expectations, and cupidity. But we do know that we are in the hands of a truly magnificent man, certainly one of the finest ever to be president of this country: intelligent, well-educated, compassionate, calm, street smart, balanced, open, and wise beyond his years. Handsome and athletic, too, which never hurts. Doesn’t play golf, either, thank goodness. And boy, does he have style, and I ain’t talking clothes.

And cool. Did I mention cool? It is so nice to be under the political sway of someone who is not a dweeb, wonk, bully, puppet, manipulator, skirt-chaser, crook, or combinations of all of the foregoing—all of which I have experienced in presidents during my years. Jimmy Carter and Gerald Ford stand alone in their utter integrity. And Ford had a golden retriever, as do I.

No, the man is cool. And I am so proud of 53 million of my people for electing such a man, though I remain disappointed in the 47 million of my people who could not see straight through to the core of the goodness, skill, honesty, brains, class and strength that emanate from that core for all to see. My hope for them is that their blindness dissipates quickly, and that they soon support him with all the ardor he so deserves.

Because so much of the welfare of the country and the world depends on what this man does.

My retirement portfolio included (talk about ‘innate selfishness!’)."

Christmas

2008-12-20T12:42:00.001-06:00

Here we are in Green Bay, Wisconsin. Sam loves the new-fallen snow; we are enjoying time with the Colwitz family.

Enjoying my first deep-fried cheese curd. Num.

Prozac Kitty: Mustachio (Colwitz Cat) with Sam's reindeer horns.

Sam frolics in the Wisconsin snow; he can't get enough of it.

Married

2008-12-11T09:33:00.000-06:00

Erin and I got married a week ago today. It was a short civil event at the county courthouse here in Huntsville. Our witnesses were two great men who are partners in life: Wilson and Ron. They both work for the library at the university and both are musicians--Wilson an organist and Ron a very accomplished, fine tenor who is in demand as a soloist hereabouts. The reason we chose them is that they were part of Erin's selection committee and it was love at first sight: they loved her and vice versa. They really lobbied her to take the job and move here. We are glad they did. You see above the wedding party at the courthouse, the pre-dinner bottle of Chateauneuf du Pape I bought (yum), and below, us at the wedding dinner. (Note the custom made, double breasted, double vented blazer that was built for my bod at the tailor shop in the expensive hotel where I stayed last time I was in Korea. Spiffy, eh. The tailor was a prizewinner in a Swiss international competition).

So Sam is no longer a bastard dog and has real parents, which is a genuine relief to him, poor thing; he was embarrassed at the city dog park when asked about his current situation by other dogs. They pointed at him and laughed.

No longer. And Erin can now refer to me as her husband instead of her partner--which sounded like she was a lesbian, or as her man--which sounded like she was trailer trash. As for me, I was accustomed to being referred to occasionally as Mr. Colwitz and I once referred to myself early on as her live-in lover to a couple of delivery men who just spluttered and went about their work without ever looking me directly in the eye.

Now we have all the certificates that make it legal, one of which has Holy Matrimony on it (this is Alabama, after all) even though God was not mentioned by the judge, who by the way signs his name as Tommy instead of Thomas, even though middle-aged and an official of the court (this is Alabama, after all). Only his mom should call him Tommy, for Pete's sake.

Oh, and we didn't have to get an AIDS test (Alabama . . . )

"Holy Matrimony, Batman!!" This has become our new expletive.

We are both very pleased with our new status, though it hasn't affected (NOT impacted!) our relationship a bit: it remains the happy, affectionate, easy, contented, and occasionally erotic one that it was before Tommy's sanction of it. We are both very grateful for that. Holy Matrimony!

Erin's family is very happy for us, as is what remains of mine. Not everyone knows about it yet, even though Erin blabbed it all over Facebook (we were supposed to wait until the printed announcements arrived and were mailed, which happened yesterday. But no, Colwitz has to put it up on to the Cyber Gossip Page. Jeez).

But now it is official, and you can go on-line to Target and/or Williams-Sonoma, where we are registered for a period of time yet, and buy something for us from our wish list. Don't do this for me, do it for Erin, who hasn't had this experience yet and who didn't have a big white dress that cost four figures nor a gaggle of bridesmaids. A few items from these places would sure help make up for that (you can tell which things she tagged (candle paraphenalia, for God's sake) and which are mine (Pig Stuff: tools and knives and cookpots and other things for aging far-sighted hunter-gatherers). Only a few are really expensive, but nothing is over $200.

Sorry it's Christmas, too, but we didn't really want to wait.

*****

Up to Packerland in a week or so we go. And Rob and Brandon will be here from Cali for New Years Eve.

All in all: a very happy time, especially for me.

Even in Alabama, where we are having a sub-tropical monsoon at the moment, so I think I'll cook sauerkraut and porkchops tonight to remind me of my Nordic roots.

Bird

2008-12-01T09:45:00.000-06:00

Here you see the Thanksgiving Extravaganza hosted by L and L. I was responsible for the bird, and I did a MagazineCover job, as you can see (click on the pic for a better view; I especially recommend this for a view of The Bird, to heck with DaBoys and their parents). Cooked it on the grill, as I have done since 1976--never have I shoved a bird in the oven. Imagine that. Most people east of the Rockies have no idea what I'm talking about. You want the recipe, give me a holler. Also note the supercool shirt I bought at CNN headquarters in Atlanta: my pro name is Petersen Hunter and I'm stationed in Kuala Lumpur.

Was great to be in Davis even though I got a cold and felt like hell much of the time. It was fun anyway. I already had met L and L's friends before, with some exceptions, but it was nice to see them all in one place and break bird with them.

You can see the spread set-up L and L laid on for the gang (who all brought side dishes--the German woman brought dressing and gravy, saints preserve us). They did a beautiful job and everyone loved everything, including the six kids at the Kid Table, where K is the blond Prince Valiant and B is the one looking right at you. Wonderful, smart kids (sometimes too smart) who are now 4.5 and 2.5, respectively. Took them shopping for a couple of hours one day and bribed good behavior with smoothies; they were great, despite the delay at Long's Drugs.

I am thankful for such a family and love them dearly. DaBoys love me, too, and squeal with delight when they see me at the airport. K dubbed me 'Bumpah' when he was two and the appellation has stuck, thank goodness--none of that 'Grandpa' stuff for me, nossir.

And now am back in my Sweet Home Alabama, where it is cold and trying to snow. In a couple of weeks we go to Packerland for Christmas with Erin's huge family. I will cook Coq au Vin, we will see the last Packer game of the season against the worst team in the league, we will exchange gifts, we will go to Doot's for breakfast one morning, we will watch bowl games until numb, Sam will play in the snow for the first time (not looking forward to the 12-hour drive with a 60-lb. retriever 'puppy').

All in all: I couldn't be either luckier or happier. Sam could, though: he lost his nuts last Tuesday.

(Groan).

Korea II

2008-11-06T08:19:00.000-06:00

I was in Korea for the second time this year from 5-19 October as guest conductor of the Pilgrim Mission Choir in Daegu. I was the first guest conductor this group has ever had. They are not a professional ensemble, though many of the 25 singers are professional; they just don't get paid to sing in this group. They have won prizes in a number of international competitions in Europe and Asia. They are a stunningly good ensemble, devoted to sacred music, their conductor and each other. I thoroughly enjoyed our nine rehearsals together and they thoroughly enjoyed their concert performance on the 18th in front of a full house of 1500. The meat of the program I chose for them included Poulenc's Four Christmas Motets, Verdi's Pater Noster, Pinkham's Easter Cantata, and a couple of settings of Cantate Domino by Schütz and Hassler. Except for the latter two pieces, this was a difficult program and they performed it beautifully. I was thrilled and apparently the audience was, too: I autographed dozens of programs in the lobby following the concert, especially for young people, who are the future of choral music.

It was fulfilling and fun (sorry, but that last is an f-word I can still live with).

Their conductor is Jae-Joon Lee, who got his MM in choral music from USC in 1999. He got it to improve his work with choruses because he is a former trumpet player and primarily an orchestral conductor. He conducts a professional orchestra in Daegu in addition to a youth orchestra that does Tchaikovsky and toured Spain. He also runs a music school in Daegu, conducts two choruses when at home. Oh, and a choral seminar for music teachers in August which is usually attended by almost 500. I was part of that seminar last August. Daegu is surrounded by mountains so it was hotter than the hinges of hell and the air was wetter than Rangoon. (I won't go anywhere near East Asia in August ever again. It's May or October or nothing. Jeez.)

He is famous in Daegu and raises money willy-nilly for the Pilgrim Mission and the music school. I had a number of dinners with his supporters while there. He earns his income, though, primarily by conducting opera orchestras in the Phillipines, Cuba and Russia. He has a British agent. He takes no salary from the Mission or the school. He does accept nice suits from his supporters, but nowhere near the level at which Sarah Palin did.

He also is very handsome and has gorgeous hair, very maestro hair.

He thinks I'm wonderful and I am happy to humor him. His singers loved my musicianship, rehearsal technique, conducting gesture, enthusiasm, and interpretation. They gave me a gorgeous, heavy lead crystal 'plaque' that says so. It sits on the top of my filing cabinet now.

And they thought I was funny, especially when I did my impression of a Korean businessman dealing on his cellphone. I can be a real hoot.

I stayed in the 6-star hotel in town (the country's third largest city), in the same suite that Guss Hiddink had in 2002. It had his pictures all over, as well as a bronze plaque on the door. Hiddink was coach of the South Korean World Cup team that damned near made it to the finals in 2002. I remember getting up at 430 in the morning in California to watch their matches. I was sad when they finally lost.

I ate like a prince and was ushered to and fro by J-J and a number of the singers, usually sitting in the Asian BigWig seat behind the passenger seat. Harumph. My tux and briefcase were carried to and from my dressing room by others. They bowed to me when I came into the rehearsal. Asians worship teachers and respect the elderly. I am both.

Sigh.

To them: thank you, friends. Hope you can get someone to translate this for you.

I will miss you.

"Free at last, . . . "

2008-11-05T07:03:00.000-06:00

. . . free at last. Great God almighty, we're free at last."

The most incompetent, devious, feckless, calamitous reign in U.S. presidential history is over. It wasn't the most corrupt; I honestly think Warren Harding has him beat there. The entire world rejoices that this 'draft-dodging fraternity pissant' no longer has sway over its fortunes (literally) and its fate. I wonder how it feels to be tied for worst of 43 presidents; to be the one who did the most damage to political freedom and social unity in one of the freer countries in the world; to be the second Republican president who gleefully unleashed the furies of unbridled capitalism, sending a strong economic system (and my retirement money) straight to hell for the second time in less than a century.

Know what? I don't think he feels anything at all. Why start now? He listened cluelessly to his handlers and his dad's golf buddies and did their bidding, because that's what he was hired to do eight years ago. Oh, and according to him, God helped with his decisions, too. Such blind arrogance! His only victories are the fact that the American people were duped into electing him not once, but twice, despite all evidence of stupidity, disconnect from the English language, unawareness of the world, and inability to manage anything, including the oil business and the baseball franchise that were handed to him. He was a cheerleader at Yale, for the love of heaven.

Obama was the first black editor of the Law Review at Harvard and wasn't handed anything. Despite being half black and raised by his grandmother, he ran an unparalled, astoundingly effective, upright campaign and succeeded in defeating the three strongest political forces in the country: the Clinton machine, the Rovian RNC and the Religious Right.

Most important for me--and the reason I have waited until now to do another post--is that he has restored my faith in the American people. My people, God love 'em. They had two strikes on them in the bottom--and I do mean bottom--of the ninth and smacked a double to LEFT field, pulling out the game, if not the Series.

They have six more games to play, but they have a manager they can trust to use discerning judgment and keep his cool in tough times, who knows how to trade and use players who keep their eyes on the ball, throw mostly strikes and field wicked grounders.

He is a man of intelligence, integrity, humor, straight thinking, and grace. We deserve him, foolish and fooled though we often can be; there was enough goodness and brains left in us to elect such a man.

I finish with a quote from the latest issue of the Economist (a subscription to which Erin gave me for my birthday):

"In terms of painting a brighter future for America and the world, Mr Obama has produced the more compelling and detailed protrait. He has campaigned with more style, intelligence and discipline than his opponent. Whether he can fulfil his immense potential remains to be seen. But Mr Obama deserves the presidency."

Dumps

2008-09-28T14:13:00.001-05:00

I know, I know. You've been waiting a whole month, poor you.

Well, I've been busy: finally began writing The New One on 1 September; visited DaBoys in California for a week; Saturdays fly by with wall-to-wall college football; and been spending far too much time reading politics on the Web. No blogs, though, only the liberal-biased, LeftWing, DriveBy publications and websites of the NYT, LAT, Newsweek, and Time.

You know: those. Plus listening to Limbaugh/Hannity to scout enemy territory and watching Keith Olbermann to keep myself sane. I'm going nuts and am down in the dumps because I'm losing faith in my people, bless their hearts (that's what they say down South here when they're talking about someone really stupid or feckless). I'm afraid H.L. Mencken was dead on (in an earlier post I attributed the following to P.T. Barnum, but he said, 'there's a sucker born every minute,' which works here, too): 'Nobody ever went broke underestimating the intelligence of the American people.' Palin, the entire Republican Party, the success and incredibly plump contracts of L/H and their ilk; all prove both Mencken and Barnum correct.

Add to that this latest economic nightmare (we won't talk about my retirement account) that the Republicans got us into for the second time in eighty years (2009-1929 = 80, just in case Biden is reading: say it ain't so, Joe--FDR and TV had nothing to do with it. Sigh. Motormouth.)

I am really blue, folks. The only thing that keeps me afloat is Erin and spending time with DaBoys and the always-wonderful L & L; they put things in perspective for me because they represent the future, not the miserable present.

Even USC let me down out in Corvallis. Sob. But Erin, the plucky wench, seems able to keep her spirits up by volunteering at local Democratic Party headquarters; actually DOING something about it, in other words, instead of pissing and moaning, as I do here. She brought home two T-shirts: Obama Y'All and Sweet Home AlObama. I shall wear one of them everywhere I go in this town from now until the election. When I get frowned or sighed at (and I will), I will say, 'oh, gosh, I'm so sorry, you must be rich or a fundamentalist Christian. Please forgive me for offending you.'

No kidding. I will. If the conversation goes further, my parting shot: 'What other reason could you possibly have to NOT vote for a superb, intelligent, self-made gentleman like Obama?"

I'll keep you posted, I promise. Or as Palin would say. 'I'll get back to ya!'

But here's what we need to do for DaBoys, who'll be paying for this second Republican mess long after we're dead: we need to put Democrats in office until they are old enough to vote, which will be in 16 years. That's four terms, two presidents to accomodate them both until they have a chance to speak for themselves, even though we wouldn't much care for what they have to say about us when they do start speaking. It's the least we can do, don't you think?

But can we do it for them? Get me out of the dumps; tell me we can. Tell me I'm wrong about my people. Please.

If you can't, wish me luck with my T-shirts, at least.

NewYear'sEve II

2008-08-31T08:44:00.002-05:00

Tomorrow is New Year's Day for anyone who has led the academic life and lived by its calendar as long as I did: rehearsals and classes begun, the clock reset, the air cooling off a bit (even here), the sun heading south and, most important of all, the college football season begun.

The first of twelve Holy Saturdays was yesterday and was celebrated in style: applewood smoked bacon ($8/lb. at the Why-Pay-Less Market!!), eggs, reheated french fries, and milk. Now THAT's a communion meal. And to top it off, USC's offense sliced and diced the Virginia defense while their defense took multiple meat tenderizers to the Virginia offense. Ah, joy. Tomorrow, UCLA tries its luck and new coach against Tinnissee (emphasis on the first syllable). I suspect the Pac-10 will not prevail in this case.

***********************

Erin is enjoying her job very much: two good groups to conduct (two others conducted by fine local people), very amenable colleagues, sweet (though conservative) students who love her, a course in diction, three voice students, and a team-taught conducting course. And time to prepare without spending two hours/day on the 91 and 405 freeways.

**********************

This is the first anniversary of this blog, too. Don't know how I feel about it though I gather that a few folks have enjoyed it, my daughters and some former students among them. I guess I'll keep going for a while.

Tomorrow also marks my first full year of retirement, during which I have done little besides cook, read, shoot hoop, lift weights, see my daughters and grandsons a number of times, help manage and answer tidal waves of email for NCCO, move across the country, establish a nice new home, do a boatload of handyman work, manage my retirement fund, keep track of insurance, medical and dental matters, turn 66, do a number of guest conducting and clinical things, and help train a very bright and athletic golden retriever (America's Favorite Dog!). A former student, Buddy James, commented that if a man had a good dog and a good woman (in that order), there wasn't much else he could ask for.

He may be right.

Nevertheless, tomorrow I also get back to writing, which I have not done at all since retirement except in these pages. It will be another book, though the form it will take and when it will be finished is anybody's guess. I need something in my daily schedule besides the YMCA, cooking and dog eliminations. Might as well be a book.

In a couple of weeks I go visit L and L and the grandsons for a week. Double Joy.

Time for another dog elimination.

Happy New Year, y'all.

Bama Boy

Groove

2008-08-16T09:18:00.000-05:00

At the Y yesterday I used one of their basketballs (that for some reason are lighter than mine) and shot my best percentages ever since I started this nonsense three years ago. Of the 75 shots (all from 17-19 feet) 50 went in and of those, 20 were Dead Solid Perfect Net Snappers, about half of them so perfect that the net ended up wound around the rim. That's 40% Perfection, friends.

Joy, pure joy. Bill done went and got his groove back. Part of the reason, too, (besides the lighter ball, allowing my wrist to do more of the work) is the fact that I no longer lift 12000 lbs. and then go shoot, all in a single day. I lift one day and shoot the next, thus am always fresh when I shoot the 75. The Y is minutes away--why not go almost every day (I take the Sabbath--Saturday--off)?

Speaking of Sabbath, it gets truly Holy on 30 August: The college football season begins with USC playing Virginia--I think for the first time ever.

More Joy. And all on my flat-screen, 26-inch Wonder in HD.

Lucky Me.

Opinion

2008-08-13T08:54:00.001-05:00

Editorial

(Click on the word 'Editorial.' My letter is the last on the page).

This letter to the editor of the Huntsville Times appeared in that paper on 11 August. I may have to activate our alarm system and teach Handsome Sam the 'kill' command.

Happy birthday to me . . .

Handsome

2008-08-10T08:24:00.001-05:00

'Messiah'

2008-08-01T07:47:00.000-05:00

So, see, what the Right is doing is calling Obama 'the Messiah,' 'Lord and Savior,' 'The Anointed One,' and even 'Jesus.' All the RightWingNut radio wackos are on the same page: Limbaugh, Hannity, Ingraham. Limbaugh and Hannity even read the same script on the same day: a quasi-biblical tale of Obama's 'life' that was a cross between those of Moses (see McCain's latest, laughable ad) and Jesus.

(Who sends them this stuff? You know damned well they don't think it up independently because they are all in unison and they're not that bright or creative--all they can do is read prepared scripts. Who's the script writer? Hmmmm. . . ?)

All of this is an effort to enrage the religious Right (and that part of it is working); they act as though Obama has made pretensions to divinity when he has not at all; it is being attributed to him as a form of slander by his attackers. They are overreaching because they have so little to say in a positive sense about McCain; all they can do is slime Obama's character and personality (not his policies) as much as possible.

And they have nothing to work with, McCain has nothing to work with, hence the other tack: comparing Obama to Spears and Hilton. (Which is it, guys, Savior or Slut? You can't have it both ways). What they can't stand is that there is nothing to attack: Obama is extremely bright, got into and through Harvard without help, and can string intelligible, intelligent sentences together on the fly without reading off cue cards a la Bush. He is also morally unassailable, unlike the BushBoys who have presided over the most corrupt, illegal, immoral, devious, financially irresponsible, cynical, arrogant (yes, RightWingers, ARROGANT), and criminal administration since Warren Harding. Even Nixon was a saint in comparison (never thought I'd say that).

And he coolly regards his slandering attackers--especially the increasingly desperate McCain folks--with pity. He refuses to play their game.

Imagine that.

But here's what they really can't stand: Obama is good looking, has a beautiful family, is a fine athlete (I do believe he's an even better shooter than I am from 18 feet), is utterly calm under fire, unlike the SplutteringGigglingChimp and the OldWhiteGuy, and he has a delightful sense of humor (which is all his latest 'race card' remark was--humor--but the Right has no humor, so wouldn't know). These latter attributes are unforgivable. The Right would give anything-- anything--to have such a candidate; they are green with envy, red with rage and cowardly yellow in their attacks as a result.

Obama is really cool, you see. Who would you rather shoot some hoop with and then suck up some suds afterwards? Who would you rather have a dinner conversation with? Who achieved what he has on his own, without inheriting it (Bush) or marrying it (McCain), making him very much like the majority of us?

*****

No, listen now:

The Right is all too aware that Obama is not Divine; that is not their problem. Their problem is that he is so beautifully human.

They hate him for that and that alone.

Huntsville

2008-07-21T07:57:00.000-05:00

The annoying stuff first: two churches in every block, mostly Baptist (the parking lots of which rival that of the Rose Bowl, and they have city cops direct traffic before and after services); opaque covers over magazines that show too much skin in grocery stores; the only talk radio station has Limbaugh, Hannity and Ingraham; humidity; libraries charge .50 for a hold on a book (budget too small); movie theaters ID anyone under 25 lest they get exposed to sex in R-rated movies (violence--Batman--is ok, of course); the cable service doesn't supply an automatic screen saver on Pause for my LCD monitor; no Trader Joes or IKEA; the YMCA doesn't give away T-shirts for achieving the fitness levels (I earned white, yellow and red in SoCal); many restaurants not open on Sunday, the library and the Y not open until 1:00 (you're supposed to be in church, dammit); my first electric bill was $96 because of air conditioning (headed for 100 degrees for the first time today); humidity; pretty lame Mexican food (white cheese in the enchiladas; cross-eyed stares followed by compliance when I ask for shredded beef in my tacos); the Sierras are too damned far away.

The good stuff: no traffic; you can get anywhere in 15 minutes; lovely rolling hills surround the town (locals call them mountains but this MountainMan knows better); lovely neighborhoods everywhere (even the Projects are nicely landscaped); enough competition to keep prices in line, especially in restaurants; wonderful grocery stores (I was surprised); no traffic; most people are polite and kind (my 84-year old neighbor invited us over for pecan pie the other night); the NASA Space Center (the House That Von Braun Built) is spectacular, thus every possible high tech industry is here--including some from Japan and Korea--which yields the stat that this town has more PhD's per capita than anywhere in the country, thus many Saabs, Range Rovers, Beemers, Mercs, Lexi--and Toyotas galore (unfortunately, many of these guys wear shorts and boat shoes without socks, which is only marginally better than sandals with black socks); no traffic; a fascinating hybrid culture (see the ad for the magazine I skimmed while at the vet shop and click on the picture above to see the Brag List more clearly); a wonderfully relaxed pace--ain't no hurry and it's too damned hot, anyway, though I AM adapting and no longer yell Whoof! upon walking outside; no traffic; a fine, cohesive choral community to which Erin has already been warmly welcomed and that I may come to know also; no traffic; a beautiful new 4-plex, single story condo that in LA would have cost three-four times what we paid for it (LA around here stands for Lower Alabama--a vastly different region from Northern Alabama)--I love my new digs. A lot.

*********************************
I can't describe the disbelief, scorn, pity, derision, and mute stares I encountered when announcing this move while still living in California. No surprise, I suppose. I was a cosmopolitan, educated, intelligent Liberal from somewhere else.

To my delight, I still am and have encountered quite a number of kindred folk here--many of them not even gay (!)--and will have no lack of spirited, like-minded discussions, with the only real bone of contention being the relative merits of Pac-10 and SEC college football. I suspect I will encounter more as time goes on. In short, I really like it here, and

I'm glad I came.

Exterior

2008-07-09T10:40:00.000-05:00

Surprise!

Sam

2008-07-09T10:30:00.001-05:00

Video of Sam attacking his Wooly.

He can be so sweet but also such a shit, much like his Master.

Video: playing in packing paper.

He is not particularly fond of precipitation.

His favorite sleeping position; airing it out.

Garage

2008-07-09T09:45:00.000-05:00

Some pictures of a Real Man's Garage after Gene and I did some male bonding.Note the wall shelving; good use of space, eh.

Gene and I also built a work bench that's on wheels: Gene's Genius.

SweetHomeAlabama

2008-06-29T12:32:00.002-05:00

Some pics of the interior our home here. (The only rooms not represented are Erin's study (the third bedroom) and the guest bath.)

I include pics of Patti and me cooking, as well as Patti planting amidst Male Bonding Sawdust and the finished workbench and storage shelves in the garage (all praise to Gene).

The guest bed is from my old apartment and the couches are from Erin's old apartment.

The new master bedroom stuff cost a King's Ransom. (Master Bath has TWO vanities, by the way).

The rugs we bought at a Wickes close-out auction in Torrance not long before we left (two Turkish, one Belgian)--cheaper than Sears, as it turned out, and more attractive to boot.

Dining room is included here only tangentially; it's between my study (the room with the three Office Depot pieces) and the kitchen.

Bill's study...view with the lovely rug.

The kitchen...with more cabinets than we need. Yea . . .

Y'All

2008-06-06T21:13:00.000-05:00

Actually, we were in the Land of Y'All as soon as we crossed the border into Texas and really knew it when we had Tex-Mex in Amarilla (pronounced like Missoura). That was the second night of our 2250-mile trip; the fourth was in Memphis, where Erin experienced Beale Street for the first time, and where we both visited the National Civil Rights Memorial for the first time. That last included the motel where MLK was shot forty years ago. Very sobering and in a way, moving.

Speaking of moving, our next day included the lower corner of Tinnisee, a part of Miss'ippi, and finally the lush, rolling green hills of northern Alabama (where we picked up our Official Redneck Cards), reminding us both of southern Minnesota and Wisconsin: fertile, pretty, clean country. Huntsville itself has higher hills--von Braun claimed it reminded him of his German Heimat, which is why he chose Huntsville to be Rocket City after the Texans tossed him out of El Paso. Too bad for El Paso: all they got left with was a dumb Bowl Game.

The deep southern accents are really quite few here in Huntsville; it is a very cosmopolitan city with a lot more furrin cars than I expected--though with plenty of Buicks--as well as restaurants of most persuasions, lacking only A-rab, of course, and a lot of people who are from everywhere but here. It has everything we--or anybody--could possibly want, including many intelligent people who don't talk funny at all. Sometimes it's hard for me to believe that I'm not back in the Central Valley, except the Sierras are a helluva lot farther away and there are actually fewer rednecks.

Our 'ranch' condo (meaning one floor) is lovely, even without furniture, which doesn't come until Sunday the 8th (the driver got the flu). It's also quite hectic at the moment because we bought a 9-week-old Golden Retriever who pees, poops, yelps, whines, eats, drinks, and pees. He's very smart and may have us outwitted already, though the vet doesn't think so. He has only one testicle, so instead of being a unicorn, he is a uniball. It will be snipped in 6 months or so, anyway, whether the other one drops or not. Poor guy.

His name is Sam, with perverted excursions into Sammy, Sam-I-Am, Samuel, and Asshole. He has feet the size of catcher's mitts; the vet thinks he is headed for 80 pounds. Jeez, eh. But he is a beautiful animal, and cute as only puppies can be--stay tuned for more pictures. He won all the hearts today at the vet shop and PetSmart, according to Erin, though he did manage to befoul the entrance to the latter with his second bowel movement of the day. Glad I wasn't there; I was home sweating and swearing, trying to put together a desk that I bought at Office Depot.

All in all, a very warm, expensive, busy week, but rewarding in most ways; we both get to begin a new chapter in our lives in a new culture and in a geographical area I have never experienced--Erin has great-aunts in Birmin'hayum, so has been in these parts before as a young'un.

Hell, she's still a young'un.

Her parents arrive Tuesday and will stay for a few days to help us get organized. Gene and I will make some sawdust, turn some wrenches, drill some holes, sweat (I bought us matching headbands), talk only to swear at the project-of-the-moment, and in most other ways be males together.

Whew!

Korea

2008-05-26T17:26:00.000-05:00

South Korea has around forty professional choruses, which is amazing if you think about it. How can fifty million people stuck on a penile extrusion jutting into the Yellow and East seas support that kind of professional choral activity?

With local taxes, that's how. I met the mayor of Bucheon just prior to performance last Thursday; he is very proud of his city's chorus and orchestra, believes they do a lot for the lives of his city's people--and he's right, they do. What an amazing thing that this small country that didn't have four connected standing walls left in 1954 has put together an economic powerhouse garnished with government-supported arts organizations in just fifty short years. What a sad thing that our immense, 250-year-old country does not boast one single government-supported arts organization, while we spend $5000/minute occupying Iraq and God Knows How Much money bailing out and/or supporting failing and/or corrupt corporations.
*******************************************
For some reason, Asians like me, especially Koreans. In fact, I was told by Sources Close to the Administration that Koreans in the Bidnizz consider me to be the finest American guest conductor.

Perhaps this is because they claim I look like Sean Connery and can do a killer James Bond imitation. Who knows?

This was my second time with the Bucheon chorus, and that was a result of the fact that the singers were polled as to who they would want to be their guest conductor for their 20th Anniversary Season, and that person was me. I was honored to be their choice and flattered that so many of the forty-eight singers remembered me fondly from my time with them in 2001. Their conductor had a bit to do with it also, of course, and he treated me like a visiting emperor, as did the teachers and students in the master classes I led. (The chorus gave me my flowers at the dress rehearsal rather than after the performance, which followed a couple hours later: see the pic above--also note the omnipresent sweat towel and ManPurse).

This is in part because teachers and the elderly are highly respected in Korean culture and I am both, so I get bowed to and served first in any crowd. I had a couple dozen young people--including two little boys who barely came up to my waist--clamoring for my autograph in the lobby afterwards. I gave it to them. Most of their English consisted of "how are you?" and "I love you." Boy, I can take that. What a change from a culture where teachers are either suspect or considered lazy fools. As for the elderly, well, ahem . . .

So it was great, but I was glad to come home to someone who loved me and to speak fast English secure in the knowledge that I would be understood, even by the Pakistani taxi driver who brought me home from LAX.

And I made a few shekels, too. I would probably do it for expenses only but I wouldn't want that word to get out there. I only have enough retirement money to last until I'm 90 or dead, for one thing, and for another, I almost consider my fees to be compensation for time spent in Economy on 10-12-hour plane flights. ( Korean Air is awfully nice, though. Sure beats United. Just don't want to spend my entire fee on Business Class in either. So I either charm desk staff into an exit row seat or endure. Groan).

But the twelve wonderful days on the ground more than make up for the two miserable days in the air.

Until next time, to my host, fellow conductor Sang-Hoon Lee, and to former students Soon-Jung Kim (my very adept translator, who appears in the pic above), In-Gi Min, Yoseob Lee, Soo-Jung Jung, and Eunsil Kim:

anyonghikeseo, kamsahamnida, friends.

Travel

2008-05-08T18:33:00.000-05:00

I can't seem to manage more of these than one a month recently, in part because I don't want this to be a diary or travelogue. So this one will be an excuse.

I'm spending more time on planes than I care to: went to Minneapolis in April, Hawaii in May and leave for two weeks in Korea on Sunday. Two of the foregoing involve work, the Big Island was Time With Meggie. On the 29th, I climb into the 4Runner instead of a plane and we follow I-40 to Memphis, then drop down a bit and wind up in Huntsville in Sweet Home Alabama.

Everything occasionally seems to happen at once.

Sigh. . .

. . . but at least something is happening, yes?

Yes.

Elite II

2008-04-16T11:14:00.000-05:00

It's happened again.

"Elite" has resurfaced as a dirty word in American culture and politics. Please see my first Elite posting, where I talk about this at length. Enough to say here that anti-intellectualism was at the core of American culture as soon as the founders of this country were all dead: now THEY were elitists. A number of them even spoke French.

Horrors.

Also see where I myself came from in my early blogs, especially Mom and Dad, just so you know that I came from even humbler origins than Obama, though not half black ("as far as I know," to quote Hillary).

Why is it that a feckless, barely literate chimp born with a silver spoon in his mouth, with an immense trust fund at his disposal, and who hasn't had to work a day in his life, isn't called an elitist? Because his elitism lies in money. That's OK in our country. If our elitism lies in brains, personal achievement or cosmopolitan awareness of the world, that's not OK. That's why Obama is not OK: he did it himself without using anyone else's money, especially his black daddy's. Talk about bootstraps!

How can a woman who owns half of a hundred and nine million dollars and who served on the board of Walmart call someone else an elitist? See above. How can a man who married rich the second time and no longer has to work for a living call someone else an elitist? See above.

Why is it that Obama offends so many so often? Because he is highly educated and much smarter than his current opponents, 90% of the Republican Party, and most of the presidents whom we have elected, with the exception of JFK, FDR, Lincoln, and Jefferson. And because he is unflappable, counterattacks with facts when assaulted, maintains his cool, and--most unforgivable of all--tells the goddamn-often-unpalatable truth again and again in the face of half-truth, innuendo and lies. He also has a conscience his enemies can't forget and for which they hate him all the more because they themselves are impotent in the face of its power.

And guess who volunteered for the marines and served in Vietnam while chicken hawks Bill and Dick (and I) were getting deferment after deferment and chicken hawk Dubya was drinking and malingering in Alabama while supposedly with the Texas Air National Guard (a post his daddy wangled to keep him out of the war)?

Jeremiah Wright, Obama's maligned minister.

Dass who.

And let the Republicans and sportscasters wear that stupid lapel pin, Barack. You keep it off. You're a better patriot than all of them put together without it.

So am I.

Retired?

2008-03-08T13:27:00.000-06:00

I was told by someone who retired from a large firm that the advice she received was to do absolutely nothing for six months.

Which is about what I have done in a professional sense except for continual work on NCCO, a week in Korea, a couple of clinics, a couple of private lessons, and attendance at the western division ACDA convention. Things are beginning to pick up this Spring, and I'm looking forward to working with many talented choirs.

Because even though I've retired from USC, I haven't retired from the profession, and the convention reminded me of how much I still love this business: the many wonderful choruses--especially the Australian one--two helpful interest sessions-- helpful in part because Ann Jones and Tim Seelig (who is howlingly funny) affirmed a whole bunch of things that I incorporated into my teaching over the years, as many of my former USC students nearby readily attested. The best part of any convention, though, is seeing people you know after long absences. I have been part of the western division since 1972, so I know a lot of people in it, including former students from UOP.

But I digress. Retirement has given me a stronger, fuller upper body, an utterly relaxed mind, vast improvement in my shooting (I shot all 15-footers on Tuesday and hit 70% of them, no lie. Zowee! Tomorrow: all 17-footers), scads of time to read, many naps, guilt-free time with my daughters and grandsons (I see Meggie on the Big Island in early May), time to cook and do email, which seems to be mostly business.

There you go. What do I miss? Rehearsing regularly with a group I know and that knows me. That's it, really. I certainly don't miss the stress, the pressure to recruit, the pressure to make the next performance better than the last. ACDA '05 is one reason I retired: ain't no way I could top that. Same with the '06 East Asia tour and the '06 Verdi Requiem. I went out like a rocket.

Speaking of rockets, I'll be moving to Huntsville, Alabama soon, the Town That Von Braun Built which is why it's called Rocket City. Once established there, I hope finally to get into the routine and discipline of writing daily, something I have been unable to do thus far in retirement. I'll have a nice, sunny home office, no traffic, all necessary shops nearby, including the YMCA. In short, I will gain plenty of time there that I spend in my 4 Runner here. If I write it will y'all read it?

Something I now have plenty of time for and really do enjoy are the guest conducting, residencies and clinics, even though those people don't know me nor I them, so they tend to be rather hit-and-run, flash-in-pan events. Nevertheless, I always have a good time (it's nice to be treated like royalty) and by all accounts I am usually very successful because folks ask me back. Last time I was in Bucheon, Korea, several sopranos wept when it was over. Even a couple basses shuffled their feet and couldn't say goodbye. No kidding. And high school and college students think I am funny even though I concentrate the whole time I am with them on the music and their discovery of it. Pros love my almost-mute efficiency, my courtesy toward them, my preparation and pace.

To know me is to love me, maybe. You know anyone whose ensemble might want to get to know someone with more energy than he had when working full-time, send 'em to this page, y'hear? (More energy, yes, but I still sweat like a stallion).

Besides, I'm much more fun in person, as anyone who has read my book AND heard me lecture or watched me rehearse can tell you.

When I finish this I think I'll go to the store, get a few things for tonight's dinner. Then read for awhile. And March Madness begins soon.

Tough life, eh? I can recommend it. It is something for all to look forward to, as long as one has interests outside the profession. Besides, I got my Social Security card when I was 15 and worked constantly for the next 50 years. Maybe I've earned it? As much as I "earn" or "deserve" anything, I guess, though my favorite minister of all time once made the point that we don't necessarily deserve anything that happens to us, whether good or bad. It's all in the hands of rather capricious gods, apparently.

So I wake up and am glad for the good things, try to ignore or overcome the bad things, deserved or not.

At least I have plenty of time to think about it.

'Bama

2008-01-28T16:58:00.000-06:00

I used to hate the Deep South and I never set foot in it until last December. Didn't want to. In my youth and well into my adulthood I would root against any southern college football team primarily because they had few blacks on their teams, most had none at all. The 60's--which John Updike referred to as "that sewer of a decade"-- did nothing to help my attitude. Easy Rider confirmed my prejudice, as did MLK's murder, not to mention George Wallace, church bombings, and the murder of civil rights workers.

But that was forty years ago. In the interim I have visited New Orleans, learned to enjoy soul food and grown up a bit (while growing older a lot). Most southern football teams now have more blacks than whites, just like everyone else's teams nowadays.

So what happened to me when I wasn't looking was Erin accepted a position at the University of Alabama-Huntsville, beginning next fall. We visited there together in December--I liked the city very much--and we move in early June. Today the seller accepted our offer on a 2050 sq. ft. ranch-style condo with hardwood floors, 9-ft. ceilings, a fireplace, laundry room, a lordly master bedroom suite, 2-car garage with attic, central air and heat, and a huge kitchen with at least an acre of counter space. Oh, and the development has a pool and clubhouse. (I be tellin' you the price only if you email and ax me). It's in an area of the city called Jones Valley that used to be a cotton farm owned by a white man named Mr. Jones, but that now has our development plus a mall within walking distance with a movie multiplex, Wellness Center (gag), Target, Home Depot, and a WhyPayLess food market where I can probably find most of the arcane things to cook with that my refined palate requires. No Trader Joes, though. Sob.

And it is fifteen minutes from Erin's work, work that I will help her with only if she axes, in part because most of what I have to say anymore is out of date anyway. Of course, a few simple truths endure in any realm of primate activity that only we silverback apes know well, and I will always be ready with those.

But it is her show; she has a chance to start her career running her own small shop with a fine boss and wonderful colleagues, most of whom are from somewhere else, just like here in LA. In fact, you could say that about a whole passel of folks there in Huntsville, including the Germans from the Werner von Braun era (Google the town, if'n you want).

And please, no banjo allusions, OK? We be goin' to Alabama, we don't be comin' from it. And Deliverance took place in the Appalachians, though it was filmed in Georgia. The Great Smokies are nearby and Atlanta is a four-hour drive southeast on country roads. Mobile and great crawfish are six hours due south. Yee-ha.

We look forward to a life together in a new environment, no more LA traffic, southern comfort food, and a spacious, comfortable brand new home (Erin's first house).

What have I learned yet again? Nevah say nevah.

Bah fur neow, y'all.

Packerland

2008-01-14T19:17:00.000-06:00

So.

On 26 December we flew to Green Bay, opened presents with Erin's parents, her sister and brother and their S.Os. Then we ate. (Speaking of which, I cooked two meals for the six of us that week and they seemed to like them.) A couple of days later, we did a round robin to two houses, eating breakfast and then dinner and playing games with Patti's (Erin's mom) very loud family; the decibel level was remarkable and they are a very funny family, including the 86-year-old patriarch. I learned the expression "kiss my squirrel" from one of Patti's sisters. This was the first time that Erin had seen her family as Dr. Colwitz, by the way. They didn't seem to give a rip, though excited for her about her job and her move. I include a picture here of Erin when we went to a great New York style steak house in Long Beach to celebrate her Doctorization. Just so her family can see it.

We watched college bowl games all week, of course, but the highlight of the week for us was going to the Packer-Lions game on the 30th at Lambeau Field with Andy, Erin's brother, and Karen Schrock, my favorite soprano of all time. Karen's parents were the ones who scored the tickets for us, which were on the 20 and halfway up--great seats.

Of course, the temp was about 19 degrees. We had on Gene's (Erin's dad) ski and snow gear and I bought a pair of camo long underwear, tres chic, so we were fairly warm until the fourth quarter. Our tailgate party was with Karen's dad's corporate lawyer, who had converted an ambulance to a Packermobile for pregame partying, complete with brandy, beer, sandwiches and chili with macaroni in it (!!), but the sauce wasn't bad, even though a bit wussy with the pepper-- this is still Wisconsin, remember.

Speaking of Wisconsin, a Packer tailgate parking lot is a cultural phenomenon possibly unlike any other. 74,000 people are waiting for season tickets and those who have them spare no effort in terms of costumes, lunacy and sheer fun. Only sixteen people got tossed out, only five arrested. This is remarkable, considering the amount of booze consumed from 9:00 AM until the start of the fourth quarter. People are very friendly; no one is a stranger. Especially to Erin, Karen and Andy, who drank beer and talked to everyone and peed for most of the afternoon. I refrained from beer because of the icy steps and the many layers of clothing that I didn't want to bother with. Even in the heated toilets.

A big part of what makes Packer culture unique is the fact that, unlike any other team in the NFL, the Packers are not owned by a single, obscenely rich man or woman, but by the city and a corporation set up by the city. Green Bay citizens are in many ways shareholders in their team. This makes the team and the town easy to love--they are the smallest market in the league, yet they not only survive, they prosper. When the Pack won the Super Bowl, the town shut down for three days: no school, no work. Not bad for a city of only about 150,000. Astounding, actually. And in my mind, American in the best sense of that overused word. Their name comes from the fact that they started playing with a bunch of immigrants who worked for the Acme meatpacking company. These were not gentleman celebrities. These were tough sons-a-bitches who banged heads in their spare time for the hell of it. And probably for ten bucks a game. Better, and more fun, than killing livestock and skinning carcasses.

Speaking of carcasses, Erin and I had New Year's Eve dinner at a very trendy and expensive restaurant that actually had Osetra caviar and a fine wine list, in addition to an unheard-of cognac and espresso. Food wasn't bad, either, though overpriced. The room was beautiful--we were near the fireplace, a real one--but the focus of the room was an immense moose head over the fireplace. Ah, Wisconsin: caviar, cognac, coffee, and a moose head. Can't beat 'er, eh. Doesn't happen anywhere else.

As you know, Brett and the Pack play soon in the NFC Championship. Root for 'em. Ain't nothin' quite like 'em.

Nowhere.

Immortality

2008-01-10T16:56:00.000-06:00

Lookee here!!! DaBoys at home and in the BumpahTruck!!!

After my second daughter was born I gave fleeting thought to immortality for the first time: since I had no sons, my family line/name would die with me. We tried to circumvent this problem by giving neither child a middle name, hoping that one or both might use Dehning as a middle name and maybe pass it on that way. I also hoped that possibly a grandchild would be given one of my names (I am named after my German and Norwegian grandfathers, respectively).

No such luck, at least so far. As far as names go, they both have last names, as is the trend, but at least--Akhbar Allah--none of the gag-me ones that abound in middle-upper, upper class and wannabe circles: Hunter, Tyler, Ryder, Cooper, Conner, Riley, and the like. They have strong, monosyllabic names but Bill isn't one of them. Sigh.

I've been occasionally asked if I would have liked a son, but my answer is always no, simply because that is not what I had and I was glad that my daughters were healthy and strong, occasionally happy. I figured I couldn't ask for more and have loved them unreservedly from the moment they were born to this day.

Now I've got as much Boy as I could ever want, ages 3.5 and 1.5, and am occasionally painfully aware of what the Y chromosome can do and sometimes remember what it did to me as a boy. Whew! Am I ever glad that I got to raise beings with two X chromosomes! But they are both dear to me, despite all, and they love me, too, according to their mom and dad. I can see me in them, of course, but do wonder where all the Finnish blond hair and ice blue eyes came from in the older one--Libby and Lee swear they were both there at the time. K will have the same build and height as his dad and me. He's very serious and will try anything--he'll be a daredevil. B, the younger, looks much as I did as a boy and his mother as a girl but with fuller, more sensuous lips. He is quiet and smiles a lot--he'll be a lady killer. I love the hell out of both. So much so that I have changed poopy diapers for each without qualm or hesitation, have sung/read them both to sleep.

But do I rely on them to stave off my own death or alleviate my fear of it? Not at all. I just enjoy them while around them. My students will probably do more for whatever immortality I might eventually attain than my daughters and grandsons, if for no other reason than that they number a lot more than four. Is there something profoundly moving to me though about them being my own flesh, blood, gristle and bone? In a way, yes, in a way, no. They are in many ways simply two more delightful creatures who are part of my life and I of theirs. I enjoy their stages and growth in ways that I never got to enjoy my own, certainly, and my daughters' only peripherally because in their case I felt so horrifically responsible for their welfare. And like so many parents was terrified and appalled by the quick passage of time as they grew and then left. I cried when each left.

I haven't cried since. I love being with DaBoys and DaGirls when I can, rejoice in their great good luck as to bodies and brains, am glad that I had a part in bequeathing both.

Christmas

2007-12-25T09:24:00.001-06:00

My second Christmas as a "single" man, separated from my wife, divorce papers filed, still secure in the knowledge of my daughters' affection, still with Erin by my side. Heard on NPR the other morning that the idea that suicides go up during the holidays is a myth--they actually go down. No one seems to know how that myth got started but I've been aware of it all my life.

Ain't no danger of me cashing out this time of year: got to spend a lot of time with Lib & Lee and DaBoys just a few days ago; leaving tomorrow for Green Bay for a week with Erin's (large) family that includes watching the Pack in Lambeau, numerous FamFunctions, watching college bowls, gift exchanges, partying and the like. In all, lots of fun. Have also received a number of Christmas greetings from former students via email and from distant relatives and older friends via snail mail.

Wife Marge leaves with lifelong friend Ginny today for New Zealand, where they will meet up with daughter Meggie and friend for a couple weeks of travel together. Lee's family arrives from Wisconsin tomorrow to spend time with them and DaBoys.

So everyone is busy, at least, and with someone they love, which is important any time of year but especially so now, I think, for anyone raised in the Culture of Christmas, regardless of the depth of their belief or the form it may take.

Because Christmas for most of us is about charity, tolerance and hope; about forgetting what we've done and concentrating on who we are and what we hope to do--not in the future but each day--with and for those we love. It's also about trying to understand those we don't love--or maybe even despise--and forgetting what they've done, in the hope that they might do the same for us, remote though we think the chances of that are. It's the attempt that's important, so that maybe this year we can make charity, tolerance and hope last until spring at least, maybe summer.

Thanks to all who have corresponded with me in some form this season; my apologies to any who may be disappointed by the absence yet again of an analog Christmas card from me--I'm afraid I'm digital and web based from now on. Be assured that if you use the email address in this blog to reach me I'll reach back, regardless of season. Thanks, too, to a few strangers who have commented on these ruminations since they began in the fall.

With all that it implies, in the full awareness of my GodBlog, casting PC nonsense to the wind, accept my sincere wishes for a

Merry Christmas.

God

2007-11-12T21:14:00.002-06:00

Here is where I stand on this topic, I think. I have never seen a better statement on it from my point of view, anyway. I owe this to my daughter Libby, who owns the book and at whose home I read it whilst spending time with her and her family, which at that time did not include Beck. I find it exceedingly beautiful and poignant at the same time. As a writer of sorts, I also find myself feeling impotent, incompetent and pointless in the face of it every time I read it. I think it's that good. It doesn't get any better, actually. Wish the hell I could have written it.

But no . . . Lucky for you . . .

++++++++++

"I don’t know what God is, or what God had in mind when the universe was set in motion. In fact, I don’t know if God even exists, although I confess that I sometimes find myself praying in times of great fear, or despair, or astonishment at a display of unexpected beauty.

There are some ten thousand extant religious sects—each with its own cosmology, each with its own answer for the meaning of life and death. Most assert that the other 9,999 not only have it completely wrong but are instruments of evil besides. None of the ten thousand has persuaded me to make the requisite leap of faith. In the absence of conviction, I’ve come to terms with the fact that uncertainty is an inescapable corollary of life. And abundance of mystery is simply part of the bargain—which doesn’t strike me as something to lament. Accepting the essential inscrutability of existence, in any case, is surely preferable to its opposite: capitulating to the tyranny of intransigent belief.

And if I remain in the dark about our purpose here, and the meaning of eternity, I have nevertheless arrived at an understanding of a few more modest truths: most of us fear death; most of us yearn to comprehend how we got here, and why—which is to say, most of us ache to know the love of our creator. And we will no doubt feel that ache, most of us, for as long as we happen to be alive."

--Jon Krakauer, Under the Banner of Heaven
January 2003

Reading

2007-11-12T16:55:00.000-06:00

I know, I know. First I do one about Writing and here comes Reading. What's next, Arithmetic? Could be. Tell you all about my financial affairs, let you do the numbers. Point is, when people ask what my hobbies are I used to say my work was and that was true. Other than that though, I would also mention camping but most people don't understand that, so when reading was mentioned they always asked what I read.

First of all, I'll read any paperback with a swastika on the cover--WWII is one of my areas of interest and historical expertise, in large part because of my Dad. This has led to my reading a bucketful of trash, of course.

But that aside, for the past twenty-five years or so I have been a big fan of the mystery/police procedural genre, one at which I used to scoff, since I considered it beneath me, intellectual elitist that I was. Before that I was a big fan of the espionage novel because I had been to many of the cities mentioned in them and was reliving my travels with the added frisson (there's another of the words MyPeople overuse, btw, along with palpable--add those to the Writing post, OK?) of violence and sex thrown in. Those latter two items are guaranteed to sell just about anything.

And they do.

Religion: Before we get to my fave genres, though, I need to mention Christopher Hitchens' god Is Not Great: How Religion Poisons Everything. This is wonderful stuff for us agnostics/atheists. I think I am the former, but the distinctions at times escape me. Christians/Muslims/Jews/Hindus/Buddhists/What-All with stout hearts and any brains left should give this a go. Rob Istad and Erin bought it and I read Erin's copy.

Political Satire: I have read all of Richard Condon, who is now dead. He was most active during the Nixon years, but also skewered Kennedy's irresponsible skirt chasing. The best currently is Christoper Buckley, son of the most articulate conservative alive in the country, and one of the smartest ever, William F. Buckley. Again, I have read everything of Christoper's, the latest of which made me laugh out loud repeatedly while waiting for my left eye to dilate at the optometry office. Boomsday is all the funnier--as are many of his books--because everything in it is true except the characters. This fact also makes them very sad, too, if only because irony is rarely funny. Base: D.C.

Environmental Pit Bulls: Carl Hiassen is an absolute scream, though James W. Hall comes close. Protagonists are absurd, bad guys are taken from developers, governments and corporations everywhere. Alligators and dolphins abound. One pit bull, too. Base: South Florida.

General American Lit: I have read all of John Irving, The World According to Garp and Owen Meany twice. I find his blend of pathos, humor and absurdity utterly fascinating. Dave Eggers (A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius) may be his successor.

Disclaimer: I have read the giants of American lit beginning with Hemingway and Whitman as a sophomore in high school. I have read most of Dickens and Gunter Grass. I could go on. I know good writing, is the point. I will try any author in my genres once. If the writing ain't good, I give up after one book, sometimes after one paragraph. I especially have no interest in someone's Ferragamos, or in women writers whose boyfriends eat sushi and deliver hours of foreplay. Glocks, Sig-Sauers, food and wine are another matter. (I got my concept of half-raw burgers slathered in bleu-cheese, accompanied by fully-raw red wine from Condon in Arigato--writers have a lot of time to cook, as do I, though I don't consider myself a real writer. This was in '75. Talk about ahead of his time! Now those burgers are everywhere.) Please understand that my opinion of what is good comes from experiencing the bad, starting with Robert Ludlum, Sidney Sheldon and What's-Her-Name. The same is true of music and food.

Legal Thriller: Only one, folks: Scott Turow. No one else can touch him, including You-Know-Who. Base: Chicago, but he calls it something else.

+++++++

Espionage: Nelson DeMille (also very funny in his three novels with the protagonist named John), Alan Furst and Robert Littell. The latter two include a lot of historical atmosphere in Europe and Russia. I'm a history buff, so I love that stuff (one of the 'decorations' in my home is a world map). DeMille is one of my all-time favorites, genre notwithstanding.

Cops (or PIs) and Crimmies. These are the ones that give me the most delight, still. I have read some of their stuff twice, actually, in part because I love their writing, in part because I'm getting older and can't remember how the plots came out (let's hear it for Alzheimer's! But like rehearsal, getting there is what's fun, not so much who dunnit or why--there is no why). Also be aware that I have read none of Agatha Christie, Raymond Chandler or Dashiell Hammett. Shame on me. I may get to them yet.

Ed McBain (Evan Hunter)--the Godfather of the Serial/Ensemble Novel (The TV series Hill Street Blues was modeled after his work). The 87th Precinct series is best read in chronological order, but that is not necessary. Base: NY, but he doesn't say so.

Lawrence Block--the darkest of the bunch, as well as one of the funniest in his Bernie Rodenbarr series. Again, best read in order: Matthew Scudder progresses from big-time boozer to AA member going to meetings five times a week. Girlfriend is a call girl. They go to art exhibitions and ethnic restaurants and make subtle, inexplicit, non-clinical love. The most cynical of the bunch, though--hang on. Base: NY

Michael Connelly--the Harry Bosch series should be read in order. Harry is a renegade: his superiors hate him and fire him and re-hire him. Other books are free-standing. Superb police procedural stuff; great plots. Base: LA, LV. Blood Work takes place in my former home, San Pedro.

James Lee Burke--as pure writer, the one I consider the best, but don't let that stop you. His bad guys are the worst of the bunch, with the possible exception of Block. And Burke's character Dave Robicheaux, along with his psychotic pal, Clint, manage to punch the bad guys out in satisfying fashion ("Book 'em or smoke 'em." WOW!). This is the closest my favorites come to Protagonist-With-Big-Swinging-Dick. Another AA guy, too. Without question the most poetic of the bunch: you can smell the bayou, taste the beignets, see the lightening, and hear the rain on the gallery roof. I re-read many paragraphs, they are so well done. Base: Louisiana; Montana (he spends half the year in each).

T. Jefferson Parker--hard to categorize and no series here; the books are all pretty much stand-alone. His work has most to do with social injustice, corruption, police work, surfing, journalism, and the despoiling of Orange County, California--from orange groves to South Coast Plaza (speaking of which, Parker is to Dean Koontz as Montrachet is to Gallo). The most philosophical of the bunch; I almost cried re-reading Summer of Fear recently. Base: Laguna Beach; Orange County.

Elmore Leonard--along with Ed McBain, the one who inspired them all, particularly in regard to dialogue: he doesn't describe anything, there is no atmosphere aside from the dialogue, in fact, he is the Godfather of Dialogue: You know all you need to know from what the characters say and how they say it. He is a very successful screenwriter, especially as a result of his Western novellas--Hombre one of the earlier, 3:10 to Yuma the latest. (Let me say here that many of these guys have had movies made, but please read the books first. Isn't this always the case?) Base: Detroit; Miami.

Others--Dennis Lehane (Boston), Robert Crais (LA), Donald Westlake, the funniest of this whole crowd (NY, but also Branson, MO!, among others). And a slow, cold salute of my mitten to fellow Minnesotan, John Sandford, whose Prey books have helped me pass many happy motel hours whilst visiting my mom in that state. His character dresses well and drives a Porsche very fast all around Minnesota and Wisconsin, eh. Even in winter.

Jeez.

++++++++++

Whew! There you go, gang. There's really nothing better than a book, whether in a campground, an airport, on a plane or a couch. See why television bores me except for the Hyctomy Channel, sports and documentaries? See why I get to the Y a lot?

You betcha.

Oh. And google any of these folks, of course. I didn't have the energy to tell you everything I know about them. If you have a question about specific books, let me know, I'll respond.

And I emphasize: these men are first-class WRITERS (with the possible exception of Crais and Sandford, who will nevertheless shorten any plane ride). I don't have time for sloth when it comes to my books--you'd better have both craft and style or you will have no place on my coffee table, my bedstand, or in my briefcase and luggage.

Nossir. Uh-uh.

Time

2007-11-01T16:57:00.001-05:00

I am amazed at how much I used to get done before retirement, given how the days go now. I still get up at 6:30. And of course I now do my own laundry, clean the apartment weekly, have to deal with a financial advisor and medicare, as well as appointments, paperwork and tests for teeth, hair, bod, head, money, death, travel, and auto. I am also amazed at how much Time it takes to process letters of recommendation for former and current students now that I no longer have secretarial help and have to do it all myself. The same is true for email. I also spend more time at the Y than I did when working, too, but I seem to need it more. Groan.

I was reminded of this again recently while spending three days at Miami University in Ohio rehearsing, lecturing off the top of my head, giving a masterclass, having meals with students, eating and drinking with Ethan Sperry and Bill Bausano and their wonderful wives. It was fun; I think I still I have most of the Right Stuff; I was exhausted when I got back home. Time flew and I got more 'done' in three days than I had in all my days combined since returning from steaming hot Korea last August.

Time has been called the thing you can never get more of, unlike things like money. This is a truism that embarrasses me to express in this forum, but it is true, nevertheless. Time for us animals is a non-renewable resource like fossil fuel--only so much of it. It's also like electricity-- can't store it, save it up for a sunny day. You use it and that's that and you hope for more. And if you're smart, you rejoice in it.

But I always thought our perception of its passage was accelerated the busier we are. Not true, I've found. It's 4:30 now and I feel that the day has flown. Everyday does, despite the fact that I am not working. (Oh, and I also read and nap more. Ah, bliss). I do spend much less time on the freeways, which is really nice. So nice that in November, when I go up to see L and L and DaBoys, I will drive instead of fly. I have the time and can go during the week instead of during the Highway Hell that weekends can become on I-5. Air travel takes almost as long, given the ordeal it has become, and I don't have to half undress and be X-rayed before getting into my 4-Runner and hummin' up the highway. (And I can travel with the Leatherman knife that my buddy Dennis got me for my 60th birthday. Actually, it's the Boomer version of the Leatherman (not Leatherperson): has a corkscrew, canape fork and paté knife tucked in there with the sharpest blade in creation, the usual screwdrivers, et. al. I entertained the Chamber Choir on our last several retreats with it, calling it my tres chic pique-nique knife. They howled with delight, but they mainly used it to open wine and beer bottles during the post-retreat party).

But I digress, as usual. Maybe not, though, speaking of retreats. I ran 18 of those at UOP, 10 with the California Choral Company and 11 with USC. That's 39 retreats, beginning in 1973 and stretching to 2006. In the '70's they seemed incredibly short and time flew. The last few with USC seemed to last forever, and it was all I could do to summon the energy to keep those young brains and bodies productive, alert, entertained. (BTW: why is it Mother Nature but Father Time?) And they were very talented and were doing superb music, so that wasn't the problem. The problem was me. I was running out of fossil fuel and electricity in the fullness of Time. Retreats, I'm afraid, are among the 15 things on the list of what I no longer miss since retirement. Things I do miss are only two: rehearsing that chorus regularly and A Place To Go. Those things didn't make time go any faster but they made it fuller.

Maybe I'll volunteer to do some stuff to return this country to sanity, like working for the Edwards campaign or helping the Democratic Party. Maybe they could use my writing skills in some form--I don't want to lick envelopes and sure as hell will not make cold calls.

Something like that would not only pass Time, which I don't really need, but it may help those of us who view society as Us, not Screw-You-Jack-I-Got-Mine--the Weltanschauung of the Neo-Cons and the party that gave us the Great Depression, the Demise of the Middle Class, the Destruction of Labor, the Highest National Debt in the History of the Planet, and George (frat twit) Bush.

Among other things.

To quote Reagan: There he goes again.

Yup.

Gonna talk to Erin and Ethan now. Stay tuned. And comment, will ya?

There. Like that? Hope my two fans do.

Writing

2007-10-15T12:32:00.000-05:00

Throughout my life, most of my writing has consisted of holiday letters, a speech or two, the stray article published in obscure professional organs. Except for the holiday letters, no one has ever asked me to write anything, with the sole exception of my Rehearsal Commandments. I wasn't even asked to write my book, and the University didn't demand I justify my sabbatical by doing so. I just wanted to do it so I did. My elder daughter teaches creative writing, though, and was encouraging about some early drafts of segments, thus I continued to do it. My publisher liked them, too, so I kept going, finishing most of it on a month-long hermitage in Spain's Basque Region, where I was not bombed or terrorized, by the way.

Regardless of motive, my product has consistently been praised by friends, savvy relatives (those who could--and did--read), as well as people in my profession who I respect, most notably Lucy Hirt, the widow of one of my chief mentors, Charles Hirt. More accurately, people like my style, I guess, a style most heavily influenced by the novels of Kurt Vonnegut and the conversational tone of Garrison Keillor's monologues.

Since my official retirement, I have been writing here at home more, and I plan to spend another hermitage abroad writing again-- in Italy, in the hills east of Rome. This time, though, I have no specific project or plan, just free-form ruminations--writing just for the sake of doing so. I have been encouraged by a few to try my hand at a novel but my daughter has discouraged this by saying that I am more a stream-of-consciousness kind of guy and would chafe at the rigors of planning and plotting (literally) a novel.

She's probably right: I don't think I have the discipline for plotting and planning if it is outside what I truly know, which is choral music.

Vonnegut and another of my favorites, Elmore Leonard, have published rules of writing, a few of which I have instinctively followed with the help of blind luck. Most I was unaware of and some I will ignore, such as Vonnegut's injunction against semicolons; I still believe in the semicolon on occasion.

If anyone gives a rip, here is the only rule (self-imposed) that I have followed from the beginning: avoid the cliché. I have stretched that to include avoidance of any type of buzz-words, overused words and phrases, bureaucratese, psycho-babble, redundancy, and especially wrongly-used words, the favorites at the moment being surreal and unique.
===================
Thus I don't think or talk outside the box, color outside the lines, or connect the dots. Neither do I do the math. That said, I can do the arithmetic. I don't think sea-change should take the place of its non-Shakespeare sister, nor do I think that such thinking is draconian, not to mention ludicrous. I have never burned out, either. Be that as it may, this is in no way, shape or form a condemnation of those who use such terms in speech. I'm talking about effective writing here in each and every individual case.

(Sportscasters are sometimes the worst in speech, by the way, referring to a third down situation: third down IS a situation. I also like: got good penetration, catching a ball in space, stuck deep in their own end, and throwing a ball exactly where it had to be (duh). And bouncing it to the outside has been around for at least twenty years, but the most insufferable at the moment is off-at-from the edge, which I just heard at least seven times as I peripherally listen to a football game.)

Nor do I use passion, albeit am not entirely without it and occasionally experience it in its original meaning (suffering) and it's most popular meaning (**********). And let's not forget, disingenuous, egregious, robust, and systemic.

Issue is a whole 'nother story.

The only things I share are food and booze and books in real life. In writing, I never share anything, especially ideas or feelings; those I tell, say, relate, reveal, confess, confide.

Oh. And I wasn't a Chair for fifteen years at USC, I claimed my gender and was a Chairman, as should any Chairwoman. Male and Female made She them. And I'm not an American smoker, either, I'm a Euro-American Person of Smoke.

So to speak. As it were.

Furthermore, I don't celebrate or reflect, though I've been known to rejoice and whoop it up, not to mention having a tendency toward pondering, retrospection, looking back, and self-appraisal. And I don't embrace anything except friends and my lover. Ideas and concepts have nothing to do with embracing, nor should they, in my opinion.

And let's not forget the absolute quality of unique and pregnant. You can't be rather or somewhat in either case: you either is or you ain't.

Ah. And Jeez, my favorite. Impact. Noun, right? But for so long now it has become adjective, verb, adverb and god knows what-all, as manifested in a recent full-page ad in the Choral Journal and numerous letters, where we see impacting, impactful, impacted (the latter of which was what all four of my wisdom teeth were, much to my post-operative dismay). I must admit, too, that I have even heard this misused by my friends at NPR, but not much, thank goodness. There has to be a bastion of good usage left. What the hell happened to effect, affect, effected, affected? Anything wrong with these words? Let me know if there's a problem with them.

Another thing I try to do when writing is keep it simple and clear. Hence a motive or reason is not a driver, a paradigm is not a model, parameters are not limits, boundaries or rules. Use of such words approaches the surreal. (And many never use only two syllables if eight would do; syllables are like money--never enough. That's why more importantly has replaced more important; you get to use one more syllable, thus sounding more correctly and more intelligently without feeling badly. Have you noticed no one feels bad anymore? Too simple. You can never be too thin, too rich or too polysyllabic). Unfortunately, such nonsense appears to be used by those with the most power and influence, thus heard most by the masses: upper level administrators, politicians, CEO's and others who don't really want to be understood for fear that their methods and motives might become more apparent, thereby leading others to question whether they really earn or deserve their salaries. (Sorry: compensation packages). That may also be one of the reasons they talk of algorithms and fungibility, and never, ever use the word money. No, it's monies or funds, neither of which they spend, by the way, they encumber. I once had a dean who called windows outside visual access.

No kidding.

Groan.

MyPeople are not without sin, either, though, as I grow increasingly weary of iconic, edgy and cognitive dissonance.
===================
OK, this should have been called Writing Wrant, but for the sake of style I'm trying to keep most of my posts to one word. It feels good to get some of this stuff off my chest (cliché) and onto the page, though. Usually this stuff would have come out in a rehearsal or lecture digression, making me feel guilty that I may have wasted time for people who didn't want it wasted.

No guilt anymore. And I now have plenty of time, as do you if you're reading this stuff. Yea for us.

Time to eat lunch.

Elite

2007-10-01T15:47:00.003-05:00

Not long ago I became aware of the fact that Someone Big in the California ACDA organization referred to USC's choral department as elitist, saying that we were all a bunch of snobs. This was while I was still there, and she said it within the hearing of one of our current grad students. She used the word 'elitist' before she used the word 'snob,' just as I have here. One seems to follow the other, right? And since we all know that 'snob' is not a nice word (at least to most of us), then it would follow that 'elitist' is not a nice word, either.

Well, it isn't. Not in Amurrca. It's right up there with socialist, artist, pacifist, atheist.

The U.S. government has had a thing about elitism for a long time--many elected representatives who may be obscenely rich rail against it. And the American people as a whole like to be just-plain-folks, no pretenses, no big words, etc., hence the American fetish with first names that exists nowhere else that I have ever traveled or lived. Bush II was "elected" in part because our just-plain-folks thought he would be more fun to have a beer with than Gore would have. Imagine that? Despite the fact that Bush didn't drink. This was also primarily because Al Gore is an obviously intelligent man without the painful disconnect from the English language that afflicts Bush, and despite the fact that Gore obviously learned something in college and can prove it.

(Bush hasn't learned anything since high school and has proved it. Time and again. It's easy to be the Decider when you can't discern the alternatives).

Intelligence appears to be really suspect here, as is: travel outside of the country for anything other than military or political purposes; interest in music, art, museums, and learning another language just for the hell of it or to use it in travel; reading anything not required by the job. Intelligence, studiousness, interest in culture--especially the arts--are really out of favor. H. L. Mencken said that no one ever went broke underestimating the intelligence of the American people. I think he was right, but I don't think this necessarily speaks ill of my country or it's people. You could say much the same thing about almost any people fooled by demagogues anywhere, and history has plenty of examples.

================

Definition of elite (n): a group of people considered the best in a particular society or category because of their power, talent or wealth, i.e., an elite combat force.

================

I would hope that by now we would have substituted 'excellence' and 'diligence' for 'power' and 'wealth' but we haven't. Isn't it OK to be considered among the best in a category (choral music, for instance) because of talent, excellence and diligence? Or leave the last two out. What the hell is wrong with 'acknowledged talent?' Ask the Navy Seals or the Army Rangers. Those lads and lassies are excellent, diligent and talented or they don't live long on the job. My Dad was amazed at the way the Rangers took the impregnable Pointe du Hoc on Omaha Beach on D-Day--he figured he got off that beach alive in no small part because of their excellence and talent. (Pointe du Hoc is not a housing development in Orange County, by the way). He believed in elitism from that day forward, urging his first-born son to become an elite-something, too.

And so I did. (If you haven't already, read my Mom and Dad posts, bring yourself up to date as to my socio-economic background). From the time I arrived in California to this day, I have worked very hard to develop excellence as--in order-- a baseball player, a trumpet/horn player, a dependable laborer, a student, a basketball player, an engineer, a well-rounded intelligent man, a fine musician, a good husband, a fine conductor, a good father, a citizen of the world, a dedicated teacher, a decent administrator. I failed at some of the foregoing but not because I didn't try my damnedest to reach the elite in the category. I may have had the talent but lacked the diligence. Or vice versa. One thing is for damned sure: I didn't achieve anything by dint of my family's wealth. I paid personally for every penny of all three of my degrees, one of my wife's, two of my daughters'. The sum total of my inheritance from my parents' estates was $7000.

I don't believe in aristocracy, theocracy or plutocracy. Not even democracy. I believe in meritocracy--you got there cuz you studeed it, wuz good at it and werked for it.

(That last line is for the faux Texas Bushies out there. He was born, raised and educated on the Right Coast, you know. His false, ever deepening Texas accent is an attempt to make you forget that he was born and will die filthy stinking rich, having never earned one penny of it).

I can get around decently in four languages other than my own because I wanted to and worked at it. No other reason. I achieved success in my profession because I sought out the best schools, teachers, colleagues, and mentors I could find, despite feeling invariably inferior to all of them. I don't recall ever thinking that I was as good as them, or that I could ever be--I worked my once-firm buns off and hustled like crazy to try to become as good as them. I don't think I made it, but it wasn't because I didn't want to associate or immerse myself in the best available to me. I traveled when I couldn't afford to because I wanted to know more about the world I was born into and will presently leave. I did my utmost to develop discerning taste in everything from cheese to beer to cars to clothes to music to people to books to booze.

I wanted to experience and become at least conversant with the Best, whatever I considered that to be.

So, yes, yes, yes. I am an elitest, sweetheart.* I think I may have made it. Many of my students at USC were, too. I'm extremely proud of that and hope the students are. We earned it in a couple of the few meritocracies left: education and art. We worked diligently to learn, expected excellence of each other, tried to develop whatever talent we may have had. We explored as much superb music in the time we had as we could and wasted little time on the ephemeral, the trivial, the trendy. We got up to our elbows in the gore of the Good.

Daily.

A snob judges other people, as you did. An elitist judges only himself--which is harder--as I am doing. Got that, darlin'?*

I hope so. Try it. And good luck to you.

*'Sweetheart' and 'darlin' are courtesy of the waitress who served my breakfast at the Pacific Diner last Wednesday. I ordered chicken fried steak and eggs so I guess she figured I had it coming. I didn't mind at all. At least she didn't ask me my first name nor did I use hers.

Dad

2007-09-23T17:33:00.000-05:00

My earliest memories of my Dad are two: a horrific spanking for spending bread money on candy, and his Ho-Ho-Ho coming in a window as Santa Claus. I was about five, my brother had just been born, and we were living in a suburb of Minneapolis, where Dad drove a city bus.

My Dad later drove buses in Seattle (with his buddy Charlie) and in Los Angeles, where he met my stepmother Kay. Dad and Charlie later became truck drivers in Los Angeles and had much to do with hauling the gravel and rock that built the LA freeways in the years from 1954-1964. After that period, he made an abortive attempt to sell real estate, discovering that this is chancy if you don't have any capital to get you through the lean times between commission checks. He even took the Dale Carnegie course and did his damnedest to make it work, but the worries about money led to a heart attack.

He was awful with money, anyway. One of the last and saddest things I remember about him was the son (me) having to loan the father (him) $600 that he didn't have for new truck tires. As the Jewish proverb says, when something like that happens, both weep. I owe my worries and whatever success I have had managing my financial life to my Dad's fecklessness in that regard and my Mom's craziness. Dad went through bankruptcy; Mom had to give her hoarded money away. (I was determined to be neither and have succeeded, providing food, clothing, travel, and education to my daughters, as well as decent security to both my wife and myself, even in divorce, mirabile dictu).

All that aside, despite only an eighth grade education, Dad did the best he could, and most important, he was one of the sweetest men ever. Everyone loved him. I only lived with him for four years during high school from 1956-1960. He did all he could to inculcate in me the importance of the kind of education he never had; he constantly encouraged me to study in high school, and the fact that I not only did that but went on to get the first college education on either side of the family--plus a doctorate, to boot--was a lifelong source of pride to him. He felt very bad about the fact that, because of his long hours building LA's freeways, he never heard one of my band concerts, saw me prance as a drum major, or saw one of my basketball games.

He did watch me play baseball twice. (One of the first things I did upon arriving in California was to join a Pony League baseball team in town. My dad bought me the glove, a ball, the spikes, and a second-hand bike to get to the practices and games). I was a pitcher (slow, but with a fine curve and a devilish, wild knuckleball), and Dad watched a game where I was not only the winning pitcher, but hit a double in the last inning to help myself win. The second game was the next summer in Babe Ruth League ball, where I got shelled 12-0. He consoled me and loved me anyway.

The reason that he had to perform sedentary work all of his life was the result of a war injury to his back; he couldn't lie on his back and straighten his legs. He landed in the second wave on Normandy's Omaha Beach on D-Day (6 June 1944). He was injured driving in a Jeep near St. Lo with his fellow Sergeant, Cratchett. They were both drunk, but that wasn't the problem, a German mortar shell was. It hit the back of the Jeep, throwing them both out and to the side of the road. Cratchett was unhurt, but my Dad was seriously hurt, transported to a field hospital and home, where he first saw his first son, who was just two. Dad reckoned that if they hadn't been drunk they both would have been killed--booze does loosen one up (Cratchett had emptied one of the Jeep's fuel containers and filled it with Calvados--look it up). He received a disability check from the Veterans Administration of about $120/month for the rest of his life, which dwindled with inflation as time went by and never did anything to ease the pain and/or discomfort in his legs and back. He rarely if ever complained (he was born and raised in Minnesota), and certainly never felt sorry for himself.

Oh, and he also received a Bronze Star for bravery, which he would never talk about. Most soldiers don't; the lines that separate courage, fear, stupidity, instinct, and terror are very fine and they all know that. One thing he did talk about was D-Day. We saw the movie The Longest Day together and he said it was fairly close to what he remembered, absent the blood and gore. The first twenty minutes of Spielberg's Saving Private Ryan, by the way, are exactly what he described to me on more than one occasion. I wish I could have seen that with him, too, though he would probably describe the rest of the movie and it's premise as a bit silly.
= = = = = = = = = == = =

So around 1971 Charlie decided to try long-hauling and moved his family and his tractor to Carthage, Missouri. Dad followed him and they both pulled loads to the four corners of the country until Dad died in 1979, after a second heart attack that left him alive for a few months but to which he succumbed in April of that year. He was not yet 60. (Kay followed him in death five years later and was buried with him in the veteran's cemetery in Springfield). We had a great wake at Charlie's house with Kay's sisters present. That was as fun as it could be, but before that, immediately after the funeral, where I touched my Dad's hand in the coffin and just said, "oh, Dad . . . ," I walked the streets of Carthage and cried at the unfairness of such a sweet man spending his life that way, never having realized the potential that goodness, the most beautiful handwriting I have ever seen, and a capacity for seeing the best in everyone ought to bring to anyone. At least he got to see my daughters as lovely young things, and his first-born married to a beautiful woman and on his way to professional success.

The final irony? When I arrived in Carthage after Dad died, Charlie and I went over to the company where they worked, hoping to cash in the insurance on Dad's truck so that Kay would have some financial security. We were shocked, appalled, you-name-it, to find that Dad had not paid for insurance on the truck and Kay would get nothing from its sale.

Oh, Dad . . .

Charlie and his wife took care of Kay until she died. Charlie left his long-time unhappy marriage a few years later, marrying one of his long-time road lovers--happy as a clam--when he found out a year later that he had cancer. He was dead in months, dying at one of the happiest times of his life. I loved Charlie almost as much as Dad, and remember playing poker with the both of them and a few of my friends on numerous occasions (Dennis remembers this. Terry would, too, were he still alive). Charlie was also a hell of a mechanic and replaced the u-joints on the only BMW I ever owned. I cried for Charlie when he died almost as much as I had for Dad; to my mind, they were one person. I think they felt the same way--they had been together since their days in Minneapolis after Dad's divorce in 1947.

= = = = = = = = =

After that divorce, I didn't see Dad often until moving to live with him nine years later. He was living in Seattle and then California, and would come back occasional summers to see his parents, his sisters and us boys. I remember him being at the door, my opening it and him hugging me, smelling of tobacco and aftershave, his Chevrolet coupe parked outside in the street. I only really remember this from a few times because it didn't happen much--long vacations like that were expensive and bus drivers don't make a lot of money.

I truly feel that he made up for those years, though, by helping me through high school, doing what he could (very little, as it happened) to help me through college, and by being a fine example of a man and a human being. He loved me and my wife unreservedly, doted on my daughters, was kind to all he met, and was unspeakably proud of what his first-born son had accomplished in the thirty-six years that he knew him.

If there were such a thing as a second chance at life, another go-round, no one would deserve such a thing more than he.

Daughters

2007-09-20T16:43:00.000-05:00

Libby, me, Megan at my USC retirement party, April, 2007

I was recently asked at a workshop what my proudest achievement in life was. The young woman introducing me wanted something not scripted to say, I guess. My unhesitant response?

"My daughters," I said.
"Oh," she said.

I think she was expecting me to refer to something in the right hand column of this site, which would have been natural given the occasion, but no, not at my age and with my perspective.

Reams have been written about Daddies and Their Girls, along with poems without number, not all of them sappy. This is no attempt to correct or improve that body of work. It's a bit of prose about my girls. And I am not about to paint everything with a broad, rosy brush. There were difficult episodes as well as boring ones: how many diapers can you change and still think it's cute? How many baths can you preside over without a good book nearby? How many times can you read a bedtime story that both of you have heard a zillion times and not go a little bit postal? (I used to try to skip pages with Libby but she would look up at me, pull her thumb out her mouth with a thwack, and turn the page back. No fooling her. No cheating her, either. Meggie would often just smile and let me get away with it. Smart mini-woman). How many times can you cook Daddy Burgers and Fries or Mackeemonee Cheese and Hot Dogs without the three of you wanting to dump the whole thing? (That's when I started to learn how to cook. This was about 1983, after my wife bought me a wonderful book, The Husband's Cookbook. It has always disappointed me that my spaghetti sauce and pasta from scratch--Spaghetti Bolognese in Italian--pleased them far less than the canned stuff from the store. I perservered anyway and am glad now, living alone, that I did. They are, too. I still cook for them when I visit.)

But all the bad stuff aside, the thing of which I am most proud is that my girls still love me despite my obvious limitations and more-than-questionable recent decisions. We have a good time when we are together: easy with each other; no pressure to entertain; a real sense of history and family; accepting each other as we are. I have on a number of occasions lamented to them that wish I could have been paying more attention when they were young, been more in-the-now, gone on fewer retreats, tours, gigs. I have often said to them that my wife was two-thirds parent and one-third pro, while I was one-third parent and two-thirds pro, and that I felt bad about that.

Nonsense, they say. We had every entire summer in VW camping vans crawling up into the Sierra in third gear or traveling across the country, every Christmas vacation at home, two six-month sabbaticals abroad together (which Meggie credits to her wanderlust--resulting in a semester in Central America and Mexico, after which she arrived back home at LAX with cornrows, hairy legs and armpits, and Libby credits to her Fulbright year in Vienna, during which she met her husband and did things as yet unrevealed).

They attended great universities, have attained marketable skills, live their lives according to their own codes, are tough in the face of difficulties, delight in the moments of wonder, and are in all ways delightful, thoughtful people who judge no one--least of all their parents--and who are making their ways through life with as much joy as life may have to offer (the extent of which may be debatable, but that, too, is for later).

They are altogether wonderful people. I love them more than life itself (that may be a cliché, which I abhor, but there you are). This love gives them tremendous power over me, but I will have to concede that. Oh, and they are beautiful as well as smart and savvy.

If all I had in life were them alone, I would still be a lucky man.

Kissie, kissie, girls . . .

Dying

2007-09-16T18:36:00.000-05:00

Had a dream last night about my former friend, Terry Burr, who died of cancer not long ago. In my dream, he was alive and giving me the kind of crap he usually did, bless his heart. That put me in mind of two other long-time friends dead of cancer of something-or-the-other: Ron Caviani and Audree O'Connell. At least the latter lived into their 70's and didn't give me any crap. Terry was only 66. But he lived longer than another acquaintance, Steve Reutlinger, who dropped dead of a heart attack at 58 whilst living on the streets almost. Terry was surrounded by friends and family but suffered; Steve was estranged from family and friends but never knew what hit him. Who was the luckier? You make the call. No replay.

I'm at the age, of course, when those I've known for a long time are dying. What to do about that? How to feel? What does it say to me? The California writer William Saroyan said that he knew we all had to die, but that he had hoped god would make an exception in his case.

Didn't work. He died, sure enough. No exceptions, apparently.

And our daughters' godparents, the Snyders, died a number of years ago, leaving a big void in the lives of the four of us. Evelyn died first, swearing and howling as a result of dementia--at the end, she was a person we never knew, nor did her husband or her children. Nor us. And Keith just fell asleep in his chair and died one night, after his Evelyn was gone. He didn't like getting out of his clothes and going to bed. Can't say I blame him. He was over 90--I forget the exact number--but it doesn't matter, does it?

Fine.

So why am I reviewing Italian, a language I studied over 40 years ago? I'm going to Italy, I think, in January, staying with a former colleague who now runs a travel service from there, and living there happily.
Why do I f****** bother? I'm even thinking of going to the local community college and enrolling in their most advanced class just to practice. Why?!? All I want to do is live somewhere else and write . . .

(My favorite line comes now) . . .

Damned if I know.

It's possible that this is a way of putting off the Big Sleep just a bit; of staying alive and active, speaking Their Language in Their Country. Hot Damn. There's not much any more fun and rewarding than that. Except rehearsing great music with a good group . . .

It's a way to stave off death, of course, to feel accomplished in some form other than a former or current career. I recognize that. It's also personal pride; I recognize that, too. I'm very good at personal pride, by the way. Hoo-Boy!!

And what else am I going to do? I must admit it is hard to supplant German with Italian--I learned the former last, and the latter over 40 years ago. Ma posso anche parlare la lingua, malgrado del fatto che Tedesco e la lingua che ho imparato piu tarde che Italiano. (Sospira . . . )

So.

We are all dying daily. What are we going to do about that? Hang in there. Be what we are. Do what pleases us, I guess.

Shrub

2007-09-13T12:52:00.000-05:00

11.9.07

I’ve let five days go by without writing anything; I’ve been a bad boy. But I am not going to talk about that because of the auspiciousness of this day and how the Bushies have cynically used it for six years to foster fear, shred the Constitution, bleed the economy dry, kill 3600 of our boys and girls (and untold numbers of Iraqies), and lie, and lie, and lie. For what? Don’t listen to all the subterfuge, the justifications, the excuses; they’re complicated, as they are intended to be. If it sounds simple, it’s probably the truth, which is why they can’t keep it simple. So why are we there? The truth is: oil.

See? Simple. Behind subterfuge and lies stands that simple truth. It’s blood for oil. Do you think we’d be there if their primary resource were asparagus? Or rice (which is why we didn’t topple North Korea’s dictator, even though he starved his people to death and DID have WMD)?

And don’t believe the shills on FoxNoNewsNetwork: Al-qaeda wasn’t there until we invaded and occupied the country. Now they flourish and are immensely productive, fomenting violence on both sides of their civil war—don’t buy that “sectarian insurgency” stuff, either: it’s a CIVIL WAR brought about by the vacuum left by a toppled dictator and it will not stop until the vacuum is filled by the next dictator, but it will be our dictator, presumably. At least Saddam gave his people water and power—we’ve taken much of that away.

Oh. And “drawdown” is euphemism for “retreat.” Don’t you just love the way the military and politicians destroy language in order to retain power? Especially after we prematurely ejaculated and claimed victory when draft-dodger Bush got to wear the uniform and a codpiece on that aircraft carrier? “Mission Accomplished,” my ass.

And why can’t we catch a sick old bearded man? Because Bush doesn’t want to: it would remove the Bogey Man he’s using to keep us scared. He also doesn’t want this occupation to stop; he wants to remain in Iraq until his buddies get a bunch of that oil, or until he can hand the mess over to the next President, wash his hands, walk away, claim victory yet again even though an utter failure; not only incompetent, impotent, too. That’s what he’s done his entire life: failed upward; he hasn’t succeeded at a single thing he has tried throughout his life, he was even his Daddy’s “legacy” at Yale—ain’t no way they’d have accepted me with his grades. I qualified for engineering school at UCLA all on my own; my Daddy couldn’t help me because he didn’t even go to high school and was just a truck driver.

You could look it up: Bush is an Aristocrat Brat, as un-American as they come, a child of privilege, not production. And he still talks like a petulant fourth-grader and acts like a high school bully.

God Bless America. Who else would put up with this crap? Actually, Germany did during the thirties, resulting in WWII when Germany attacked Poland on 1 September 1939. This was an unprovoked attack on a sovereign nation that had done nothing to the attacking nation.

Sound familiar?

Hoops

2007-09-13T12:51:00.000-05:00

6.9.07

Went 60 for 80 shooting buckets today; a scorching 75%, the last 29 of them from 17-19 feet. Wow. I think that’s the best 20 minutes of shooting I’ve had since I began this 2 years ago. My mantra today? “Think target” (the center of the hoop, not the rim) before the shot. Talk about mind over body! Unfortunately, only 14 of the 60 were DSP arm-pumpers and I don’t know why that disappoints me so. You’d think that accuracy (content) would be enough for me, but it ain’t. I keep longing for THAT SOUND (form). A week ago, I shot only 60% but fully a third of those were DSPAPs. What a joyous day. I guess I am and always will be a prisoner of the aesthetic. And I’ve reversed my 2-year pattern: hoops, then weights, no stretching. Now I stretch, holding each for a full 30 seconds, then weights, then hoops (my dessert after broccoli and beef). At first my shooting sucked because my legs were tired. But after only two weeks of this regimen, my shooting has actually improved. I guess it pays to be a little bit tired and very loose.

Mom

2007-09-13T12:50:00.000-05:00

5.9.07—Mom

I can remember living in seven places with my mom and brother after my parents divorced. Only one of them had an indoor toilet. This was in Aitkin, Minnesota (pop. 1700), in the years from 1948-1956. I was aged 6-13. My mom was on welfare much of the time and I can remember eating ketchup sandwiches, also bread spread with margarine and sugar. In all fairness, I can also remember mom giving me a dime on summer Saturdays to go to the double-feature matinee. Admission was nine cents and the extra penny bought a sucker. When I got home, mom had made either chocolate chip cookies or cinnamon rolls for us boys to eat. Later, her night off was Thursday and she would take us boys to the Aitkin Coffee Shop for dinner, followed by a movie at the theater. It didn’t matter what the movie was; we went every Thursday night.

She tried, she really did.

Mom took in washing and ironing at first to make ends meet, later graduating to a nurse’s aide on the graveyard shift at an old folks home just outside of town, and in my final two years with them, to a job in a two-room school teaching grades one to four. I was in the other room, which contained grades five to eight. This was in a place God forgot thirty miles north of Aitkin called Swatara. It contained two churches, a general store/post office/gas station, and a small restaurant/bar directly across the street from our house where I would often go and drink cokes. Most of my schoolmates lived out in the country, so I was usually alone after school. I would check science fiction books out of the school library, buy a package of chocolate covered marshmallow cookies at the store, then eat them with milk while I read until mom and my brother came home. We usually had fried porkchops and mashed potatoes.

Between the cokes across the street and the cookies at home, I successfully destroyed many of my teeth in those two years. The books rescued me from reality: a house that was a mess and cold most of the winter because mom wanted to save money on fuel oil. I remember a birthday party for my brother (in January) where he and a few of his school mates stood around the stove eating ice cream and shivering.

I also remember cat turds on the closet floor and going to the outhouse in winter temperatures of –30 and –40. That’s Fahrenheit. Talk about freezing your ass off!

The three of us slept in one bed many winters, purely for warmth. Many winters, too, mom would get a country girl to live in town with us so the girl could stay in town and walk to school. In exchange for room and board, the girls cooked breakfast for us boys and generally took care of us while mom was at work. My brother Rolf slept with mom. I slept with the girls. No kidding. Innocent as hell, too, even though one of them was pretty cute. I still remember all three of those girls: Shirley, her younger sister Caroline, and Marjorie. Caroline was the cute one. I wonder if they remember me. Or are even alive, for that matter.

Back to Swatara. I hated that place mainly because all of my friends and school mates still lived in Aitkin, of course. It was a three-mile walk on the road out to the highway, where there was a bar/restaurant at the end. I could catch the bus there to Aitkin and I did this a number of times in those years, attending school dances in the gym, going to basketball games and seeing friends. Walking those three miles from the bus stop home on winter nights was really fun!

The last time I walked that road was in June of 1956 after I had coerced my mom to give me the $80 my dad had sent to come live with him in California. (I found out that the courts had said I could decide who I wanted to live with when I reached age thirteen. After watching the Mickey Mouse Club on the one channel we received in good weather, there was no doubt in my mind: California and Annette Funicello, here I come!) Mom had intercepted the letter and kept the money and the secret. After confronting her with this fact, she dug out the coffee can where she secreted the money she saved on fuel oil. She slapped me. I slapped her back. I took the four twenties Dad had sent, packed underwear, socks, and some other things, including a passel of science fiction paperbacks into a metal suitcase, and walked out. Mom and Rolf waved goodbye from the window; my brother was crying; I will never forget that.

I walked to the bus stop, bought a Greyhound ticket to Los Angeles at Fred’s Café in Aitkin (long since burned down), stayed with my uncle Emil one final night (I stayed with him often when visiting from Swatara), watched Hitchcock's The Man Who Knew Too Much during the layover in Minneapolis, then traveled four consecutive days and five nights to Los Angeles, boarding a bus there to El Monte, where I failed to dial the phone successfully (we didn’t have rotary phones in Aitkin; the three of us had no phone, period), spent my last .75 on a cab to my dad’s house.

++++++++++++++++++

Mom secreted money her whole life. While divesting herself of her worldly goods in preparation for her move to the Home, she gave away her Bible. The man she gave it to later came back and gave her the $600 she had stuffed in it. Imagine that! Wouldn’t happen here and now. I’ve got to say, too, that mom supported herself her entire life in that town, at first cleaning houses for years, then working kitchen cleanup in the Aitkin Coffee Shop, finally baking cinnamon rolls at the Aitkin Bakery, walking to work at 330 in the morning. Before she could go to the Home, she had to get rid of her money. At one point, she had as much as $30,000, most in the bank, thank goodness. I got 2500 and what was left she put in trust for my girls, who got around $10k each when mom died in October 2004. Remarkable, yes?

Especially since Mom was crazy. They called them “nervous breakdowns” then. She was hospitalized in the mental facility at Moose Lake when I was very young and I went to live on the farm with my grandpa and grandma. (That was fun. I loved that farm; Dylan Thomas’s Fern Hill reminds me of those days, smells, sounds). She was hospitalized again after I had left. She had closed herself and Rolf into that hellhole and her brothers had to come and drag them out, sending mom to the Ha-Ha Hotel for the second time, and my brother to a series of foster homes and finally the pediatric clinic at the University of Minnesota. That sad story is for later.

“Nervous breakdown” in mom’s case turned out to be manic-depression--what is now called bi-polar disorder. Her parents and brothers and sisters just thought she was “ornery.” Most thought, as I later did, that she was simply crazy. Thank God may Her name ever be praised for the advent of lithium, which allowed her to stay on an even keel for the rest of her life, support herself, and stay in touch with her children and grandchildren. She was a burden to no one. She arranged her own burial plot, tombstone, casket, and funeral—down to pallbearers (one of whom she had outlived), who was to sing and play, and what they were to sing and play. She was 86 when she died, having lived in the Home for 10 years, holding down her post next to the mailbox daily. She had seen her grand-daughters and son-in-law two summers before she died. She looked at my older daughter, Libby, and asked, “who are you?”

My eulogy for her was lost when this computer crashed, but I know that my opening line was this:

Mom did not have an easy life.

Talk about understatement . . .

Labor Day

2007-09-13T12:47:00.001-05:00

3.9.2007—Labor Day

Hot again, almost 80 at 800 and I’m only three miles from the ocean. Quiet, too; usually the exit door to the street two floors beneath me starts slamming (needs to be adjusted) at 430, continuing until I get up at 630. But today is a holiday.

Ironic that we still celebrate Labor Day at a time when unions are at their lowest ebb in this country, thanks to Reagan and the Bush Dynasty. Unions were, are, always will be socialist in their design and purpose: a living wage and decent conditions for repetitive, normal work that needs to be done, thereby guaranteeing the existence of a middle class. In my youth, I was a member of the Teamsters and the Steelworkers union and was glad for both. They had to ask me to work two eight-hour shifts in a row and I could refuse. If I assented, I got paid time-and-a-half for the second shift, disability insurance if I got injured on the job and could no longer work. The unions did that, along with guaranteeing us two 15-minute breaks in the shift, as well as 45 minutes for lunch. “The Union forever, hurrah, boys, hurrah . . . “ Everybody sing. Dickens sure did—that’s what Christmas Carol was all about, along with another of his that I can’t recall at the moment. And in Carol, Scrooge was the middle class, not Cratchett. The latter was at the bottom of the economic heap. No health insurance for his boy, either.

+++++++++++++++

Re-reading parts of Life Before Death by my friend Larry Meredith: whew! What a writer. This man is a genius cloaked in the humility and humor of East Texas. You’d never know just by meeting him briefly. You gotta be there awhile, wait for him to down several Dr. Peppers, get rolling. Or go to a football game with him. But reading his book is to be undertaken seriously, even though his humor slips up on you:

“When men want to be in control, they rape. When they want pleasure, they allow themselves to be controlled. Just ask President Clinton.”

See? Told you. Pick up a copy. Available from Humanics Publishing. I am honored by his reference to me in his Acknowledgements: . . . “and William Dehning, whose neurons fire in harmonic convergence of music, sport, and ectomorphic id.”

He sure has me pegged, especially the id part. My therapist would certainly agree, even though not a fan of Freud (what an odd name for such a dour man—German for “joy.”) I’m not proud of that—it has caused many who have loved me much pain, including myself, who still manages to love me, despite all, though it ain’t easy at times. Since my separation from my wife of over 40 years, for which I was the active agent and the proximate cause, I have had a lot of time to consider my 50% of that upheaval and am beginning to forgive myself. That ain’t easy, either. Many, many former friends have found it to be utterly impossible and have written me off without a word, putting 100% of it all on me, which is their privilege. Even my daughters have a problem with it from time to time, while acknowledging that I was a wonderful father.

But that’s all I’m going to say on the topic of hurting, therapy, divorce, and id, at least mine. You want more, read John Updike’s Rabbit books, you get plenty of that, plus much more, including far more biting social commentary than I could ever summon, acerbic, skeptical and observant as I am. I have always avoided disappointment by viewing the cup half empty. I think I will now try pursuing pleasure (that’s for you, Larry) by living Life before I Die, by practicing what I preach and enjoying the rehearsal more than the performance. Except life ain’t no rehearsal, is it? It’s the Game. So I’ll concentrate on the game, try to enjoy that. Concentrate on the hoop, enjoy the shot.

Scoreboard be damned. Ain’t no scoreboard in life. Is God the Referee calling fouls?

NewYear'sDay

2007-09-13T12:39:00.001-05:00

2.9.2007

Yesterday was New Year’s Day. For the past thirty-seven years I had already begun another season of collegiate teaching by yesterday—was a week in, in fact: rep chosen, students recruited, newbies initiated, auditions over, personnel posted, enemies made, a few people made happy. Classes begun. Dancing yet again: keep moving, Dehning, so no one really catches on: this is ridiculous and glorious; I can’t imagine not doing this but I still don’t understand why they let me.

Now I’m retired from academe and now I can imagine it: for the first time in fifty nine years, during the season running from September to June, I was in school in some form, and for over four decades of that time I did something that I maintained in muted tones was more fulfilling and fun than anything you could do in any position, even a horizontal one. Now I can say it senza sordino: it was better than sex. Requiring the timing of an athlete, the grace of an athlete, the judgment of Zeus, the humor of a stand-up comic, the zeal of a coach, the skill of a diplomat, the presentation of a chef, the perspective of a historian, the selflessness of a real teacher, the desire of a lover, the priapic lust of a satyr, and a little musical background and training, the activity of leading an ensemble rehearsal involves body, mind and spirit in a way more completely—and offers more self actualization—than any other. And a lot of people do it for simple glory and worldly acclaim. Fools. Mere Sybarites of the Stick. They live for the performance. Imagine that. It’s like playing a game merely to win rather than concentrating on the game itself. You win some you lose some—and winning is certainly more fun—but what matters is the game itself. And the game is the rehearsal, not the performance.

Yesterday was also the Sabbath: Saturday during the American collegiate football season. As a sport, it is more like war than anything else, but I love the physical beauty of much of it, especially in the passing game. And the upsets that a bunch of boys can engender. And a few wise coaches who gamble, still having fun at their age. As a sport, collegiate basketball is more like music making: fast, fluid, graceful, sweaty, fun. (Just like rehearsal. I still don’t know how I feel about not doing that regularly. Get back to me in October.) I truly think that the NCAA Men’s Basketball Tournament in March of each year is the finest sporting event the country has to offer. Period. It is the sporting equivalent of Holy Week without the pain, blood and mumbo-jumbo of that event. The music is the finest part of that last one.

But for twelve Saturdays every fall I celebrate the Sabbath, beginning it with the Eucharist of butcher’s bacon, eggs, toast (occasionally hash browns, if ambitious), and milk. Take, eat, this is what it’s all about. This is a big part of what boys were meant to do, and for today, you can be a boy again just by watching (on a 26’ flat screen and in High Definition!). Hocus-pocus. Pretty dancing girls, marching bands, domesticated mascots, color, and boys in their physical prime (lineman often well past their prime and bloated, but, hey . . .), and here’s the best part: no one knows how it’s going to end! Now that’s theater, that’s magic, that’s liturgy at its finest, and we’re not subjected to soliloquies and sermons. They just tee it up and play the sucker. Ah, bliss.

++++++++++++++
I don’t know what to call this, if anything. Don’t know how it’s going to turn out either, if at all. Just keeping my eye on the target; playing the game. I’m just going to sit down in front of this electronic marvel a few days a month for a while and put words down. I don’t even know who the audience might be. Last time I did this a book came out of it—you could look it up—but I don’t expect anything that grand or useful this time. Naturally, I will take days off when visiting children and grandchildren, or when engaged in guest jobs conducting, doing clinics or both. I will follow the academic year yet again, quitting this at Christmas for a while and in mid-May for the summer. Summa cum laude. Honoris causa. And all that.

+++++++++++++++

I dropped Connelly, Burke, Block, Martin Cruz Smith, and thrillers for awhile (after discovering and devouring Patrick Quinlan—come on, lad, more, more!) and am reading Umberto Eco again. After being absolutely delighted with The Name of the Rose, I suffered through Foucault’s Pendulum only because of jury duty. Now am enmeshed in Baudolino. Sigh. Please, amico, why not another Rose? Hmmm . . . .? OK. Do what you do so well: make history live. I’ll try to hang in there out of loyalty and respect. Stunned admiration, too.

+++++++++++++++

Also, for only the second season in forty three years, I begin the year as a single man, in the midst of divorce mediation, living in a “large single bedroom apartment,” as the ad called it. And it is, actually. I have plenty of room for what I really need to do: read, watch football and basketball, cook, write, correspond, sleep, nap, stretch. And I am minutes from the YMCA, to which I repair three times a week in search of muscle tone and the Perfect Shot from 13, 15, 17, and 19 feet. Thursday: 45 of 75 shots from those distances, with 15 being dead-solid-perfect net snappers. God, I love that sound, and I celebrate it with a double arm pump every time it happens. Old guys grin when I do that, kids stare, women are nowhere around. Yet more bliss.

The lawyer drawing up my estate papers noted both divorce and retirement:

--Lawyer: couldn’t you have taken two life changing events one at a time?
--Me: life is what happens when you ain’t looking, I guess. Beats me.

And it does beat me. I will have therapy session number fifty in a few weeks since this all began on 21 April 2006. I have learned a lot about myself and have had a wonderful young woman help me through it. Not the therapist--Erin. I have also begun acupuncture for a consistent nerve problem manifested by stinging on the inside of my thighs after sitting for any time at all. Actually, “acupuncture” in this case means the most punishing abuse I have ever taken to every muscle in my body except the love muscle, then bruising cupping on my back, followed by 15-30 needles stuck in me for 15 minutes at a time while I listen to Bach: Air on a G String and Ravel: Pavane for a Dead Infant. I would rather see a G string and hear the baby squall. This is not something I recommend to Boomers out for a good time. It’s Asian, man, and they invented torture. Also gunpowder and female infanticide. But Western doctors will only give me more drugs, I know it. If acupuncture, weights, shooting hoop, and stretching won’t fix it, I’m stuck with it for the duration. “Duration” in this case means 25 years, which is how long I have planned my retirement money to last. At 90 I figure they can truck me off to the Home if I’m still alive, I will leave my ex-wife and children nothing, and I can go drooling and snickering into Eternity. I will even have to borrow books from inmates, since my money will be gone and my library card will have been revoked. Some would call that winning, if winning matters.

--Done for the Day, and a good one it was. Filled with sweat, effort, 11/47 DSP’s at the Y, a nap, and a dip in the apartment pool. I wish it had an elevator rather than the pool, but today, hot as it is, I welcome the latter. Leftovers for dinner tonight that I cooked my own self. Yum, I guess.