Last night was the Symph--a opening gala concert, featuring four works by Russian composers. The evening started with
Festive Overture by Dmitri Shostakovich
Shostakovich was the foremost Soviet composer of his generation and is especially remarkable for his powers of survival. He was the only major composer (besides Haydn) in the western canon to survive beyond his ninth symphony and also managed to escape Siberian exile despite several dissident works while living in the USSR. Festive Overture was written in 1921 or 1943, or possibly sometime in between, to celebrate all four days of Russian summer. The work starts with a three trumpet fanfare, which is a much more explicit way of letting the audience knowing that the concert has started than low and rumbly bass notes. Following more blaring and banging the strings take over with the presto theme--a word which here means "a tempo at which the musicians cannot turn the pages fast enough to put their instruments back up without being late for the next entrance." The tune is repeated with syncopated offbeats in the brass as they attempt to catch up and culminating in a grand tutti statement of the melody. The initial fanfare comes back at the end, but usually by this point the winds and brass are too tired to play it.
Violin Concerto in D by Peter Ilyich Tchaikovsky
The Tchaikovsky Violin Concerto is one of the great works of the romantic era and a special favorite of conservatory violinsts, each of whom is convinced that he he or she will soon be a famous international soloist, but willing (if they must) to temporarily serve as concertmaster of a top-5 orchestra in order to pay the bills while their solo career takes off. Each of these budding soloists puts this concerto on their junior recital jury and plays it slightly under tempo (that pesky third movement is so difficult!) with a tired looking accompanist. The work starts with a movement in sonata allegro form and features a celebrated cadenza which is not quite long enough for the timpanist to get in a full hand of poker with the third and fourth horns. The second movement is a canzonetta--an Italian word which means "little canzon"--and since the brass tacet, we will speak of it no longer except to mention that it transitions attacca into the third movement, and anyone in the back row that was playing on their phone usually misses the first few notes. The last movement is a rondo, a form in which an "A" theme is repeated between statements of other themes, meaning that every time the audience thinks they'll finally be free to clap and visit the lavatory that darn melody comes back in and reminds them that they have at least another 32 bars to go.
The Nocturne by Borodin
is strings only, and mostly gives time to the percussion section to finish their smoke break before the Stravinsky starts.
The Firebird Suite by Igor Stravinsky
The Firebird was originally an opera composed in 1911, and the suite highlights the musical episodes of the famous Russian fairytale. A wondrous bird of fire is captured by the heroic Prince Ivan, who wins a princess, bewitches the subjects of the evil King Katschei in an infernal dance, and then heals the basilisk wound on Harry's harm and flies him to safety with Ginny and Professor Lockhart. The opening music features lots of low notes in exceptionally tiny print, and then then it looks as if someone vomited thirty second notes all over the parts in the woodwind section. The Round Dance of the princesses lulls the audience to sleep, and then the opening "shock note" of the Infernal Dance makes Haydn's Surprise Symphony seem like a mild wheeze in comparison. A particular favorite of conductor James Smith is the Berceuse and Finale, which I know "berceuse" he listens to it several times a day. The brilliant ending is written in an odd 7/4 time signature, which means that no one in the back row actually counts it, but they just wait and hope that the conductor remembers to point at them in the right spots.
Sunday, September 22, 2013
Wednesday, September 18, 2013
iOS7
The new iOS7 has advanced multitasking, an updated interface, and multiple usability improvements.
J and I spent the last half hour making Siri say "boobs."
Tuesday, September 17, 2013
Week 2 Bills Game vs. Birthday Party for a 2 year old
I went to the stunning Buffalo
triumph over the dastardly Panthers last Sunday, and today I spent three hours
at a birthday party for James’ friend Alexa. After both events I was tired,
hoarse, and a little over-full of junk food. Here are some other things that
happened at both events:
Keeping unbalanced
people from crashing into you, other people, and furniture
At the birthday party, it was about fifteen toddlers who
were running as fast as they could and screaming. Oftentimes they would not
look where they were running and stumble over stray toys or other toddlers. (It
was hard even for the adults to move anywhere without stepping on one.)
At the game, it was a procession of drunk people who swayed
unsteadily and then crashed into you awkwardly, thereby giving you an intimate
idea of their personal odor as they either processed out of the aisles towards
the bathroom or back into the seats holding even more beer.
Loud denunciation of
authority figures
At the birthday party each toddler felt obliged to assert to
his or her own parents that they were in NO WAY going to do whatever it was
that that particular parent had asked them to do, unless the parent had
requested that they stop doing something, in which case the toddler would
should that they absolutely WOULD continue to do that thing.
At the football game the fans in our section kept up a
steady stream of advice to and criticism of the coaching staff, informing them
in the most colorful language that they ought to be calling more passes than
runs, unless there were consecutive incompletions, in which case they would wonder
in amazement why the coach didn’t just “run the expletive ball.”
Odors
At the birthday party, it was unmistakable aroma of soiled
diapers, though there was no way to tell from which particular child it might
be emanating. At first the parents attempted to corral their own children long
enough to check their backsides, but a general surrender to mob rule was made
about halfway through the party.
At the football game, it was a mix of beer, nacho cheese,
and a long phalanx of porta-johns outside the parking lot. Woe betide the poor
souls who waited in line for their use—I don’t see any way in which the
aftermath of their usage didn’t require the burning of clothes and a chemical
shower.
Merchandising
At the birthday party Curious George was the unchallenged
sponsor of the day. He appeared on the plates, the napkins, the favors, and the
tablecloth. The birthday girl herself wore a Curious George outfit, and his
dominance of the day was shared only with Barbie and Dora. He inspired great
reverence, even among the three-foot savages.
At the football game the charging buffalo (and the throwback
standing buffalo) were sponsored by a number of companies, including Tim
Hortons, Subway, Carruba Collision, and the-attorneys-who-shall-not-be-named.
Above all, the Bills logo inspired great reverence, even among the six-foot
savages.
Overbold assurance of
future success
At the birthday party each child who was not granted
immediate access to his or desired toy made their case to the nearest adult
that whoever was using the desired toy was not doing it right, or that they
could do it much better. There was no shortage of self-praise.
At the game the phrase “15-1, baby!” was heard multiple
times while exiting the parking lot.
Removal of unwanted
clothing
At the birthday party the young ladies made numerous
wardrobe changes and more than one young man shed a sweater or shoe without
looking ever looking back toward it.
At the game I turned to Pax as I saw a shirtless man being
escorted out by security and said “Looks like that guy’s getting kicked out.”
And he said “I don’t think that’s a guy…”
Haphazard disposal of
waste
At the party—which was hosted at the impeccably clean home
of our friends, the Hamways—there were used napkins and plates strewn
everywhere, pizza crusts and strawberry stems lying in the driveway, balls of
every size lying in the yard, toys cars turned on their sides and entire diaper
bags overturned.
At the game there were empty beer bottles, cans, and cups
everywhere one looked, smushed slices of dropped pizza, confettied programs,
human refuse that might have been vomit, and human refuse that might have been
even worse.
Unwieldy traffic
At the game there were tens of thousands of vehicles piling
into six main parking lots and hundreds of unofficial parking spaces. There
were ambulances, mounted police, busses, golf carts, and pedestrian traffic
pouring through the streets.
At the party there were two toy cars, two trikes, a toy
slide, and a ball pit. There was no mercy.
Group singing
At the game, there was the famous Shout! song whenever the
Bills kicked a field goal or scored a touchdown, followed of course by Sweet
Caroline at the close of the game.
At the party, there was Happy Birthday, the solemnity of
which was somewhat offset by our practice of singing it every time we read Curious George and the Birthday Surprise—therefore,
nearly a dozen times a day.
A moment of inexpressible joy leading to the wild embrace of
total strangers
At the Bills game, there was an improbable defensive stop
with less than two minutes to play, then a masterfully engineered 80 yard drive
with no timeouts by a rookie quarterback in his second game that nearly ended
in a disaster but was resuscitated by a pass interference penalty, culminating
in a scramble to the 3 yard line and a game winning touchdown pass to Stevie
Johnson with just six seconds left! Then ensued wild applause, the hugging of
strangers, and chanting of the quarterback’s name.
At the party there was a cake
with a picture of Curious George on it!
Saturday, September 14, 2013
Recitals
Tomorrow is a big day. I'm going to the Bills-Panthers game at Ralph Wilson Stadium after church with my Dad, Pax, and Bill. This trip was planned several months ago, but when J and I did our September calendar, we discovered a problem--her recital was the same day.
Calendar planning is an important part of our family life. J has a great combination of jobs that allow her to stay at home with James during the day, but also to contribute substantially to the family income and to get an investment on all the time and money she poured into her degrees. We sit down at the kitchen table every month and pull out our iDevices. We erase the previous month from the dry erase board, and then J writes in our regular commitments. (I'm not allowed to write on the white board, because my handwriting is too messy.) We mark up my school days, regular private lessons, Hochstein evenings, and church services. Then we go day by day to mark in which extra rehearsals and gigs we've taken, starring the evenings for which we're going to need childcare. It's a good system, and we usually know well in advance when we're going to need a sitter. One of the sacred rules of the system is that you must always mark entries into the calendar of your iDevice onto the master kitchen calendar as soon as you're aware of them lest there be unintended conflicts. Most of the serious quarrels in our marriage have arisen from one or the other of us (by which I mean, me) forgetting to mark new gigs onto the master calendar.
So anyway, as we were preparing our September calendar a few weeks ago we discovered that there was a conflict on Sunday the 15th. J is doing a recital with one of her college friends and a prominent area professional. They sound amazing (I listened to one of their rehearsals) and they're going to perform it at our alma mater and a local church in October. (I have a concert that afternoon in Syracuse.) J was a great sport about it. She encouraged me to go to the game when I offered to give up my ticket, and I've done my best to give her encouragement and childcare as she's rehearsed and prepared.
It's a real bummer to miss it, though. Recitals are integral to our story. In 2004, when I was a senior in college and J was a sophomore, I was about to begin my long-dreaded semester of student teaching. My senior recital was scheduled for the spring, and I felt I needed some sort of big performance project to get me through the slog of actually working five days a week.
At that point I was feeling rather snobby about the quality of trumpet solo music, and having at the age of 18 already performed all the trumpet repertoire worth playing (so I thought) I decided to do a "transcription" of a Beethoven cello sonata. I also put a baroque suite on the program and the Halsey Stevens sonata. Now all I needed was an accompanist crazy enough to put together the Halsey Stevens and a Beethoven sonata on the same program. Really, the Beethoven was a piano sonata with cello (trumpet) accompaniment. I knew that almost from the beginning, and I knew it would have to be J almost from the beginning. It was the beginning of the semester, and she wasn't yet over-committed to a dozen vocal recitals. She was in the last few months of considering herself a pianist first and a flutist second. We were pretty good friends, and had gotten along quite nicely putting together a few pieces on my junior recital. And she was very friendly and very pretty--and I was newly single. It would not be difficult at all to spend at least two evenings a week rehearsing together.
I pitched the recital to her more as a chamber music opportunity than as "accompanying" a trumpet recital. I think she asked to look at the music first, and then agreed. We had moved in all the same circles the previous year, but it was the evenings together in Cox Auditorium putting together the Stevens bar by bar that changed friendship into something more. I still can't hear the first four notes of the Beethoven without feeling a deep chill. This was the music over which we fell in love.
Not that the recital was easy on either of us. We scrambled to get it together in time, and never once looked at the opener or encore until the night before. J was in the lowest ebb of her crisis between flute and piano during our rehearsals. (I'd like to think that I didn't drive her away from piano by the program.) A few days before the performance I was taken to task and there were several upset phone calls made to RWC administration by a supervising teacher (though, not my master teacher) at my student teaching placement who was incensed that I dare distract myself with a recital when I ought to be lesson planning how to teach trumpet fingerings.
We played the recital, and more than one friend gave one or the other of us a knowing smile as we stood next to each other in the reception line, both dressed in our finest and smiling with relief. My Smith grandparents even took me aside and told me how nice we looked onstage together. I attempted to brush off the comment, but then my grandfather took my arm and said "If you get a chance to marry that one, do it!"
There were a few intervening weeks of missing the evenings together, and then some dates to RPO, and by the new year we were known for a fact to be together.
The Smith grandparents were quite happy, of course, and they provided the next recital and our first public performance as a couple. We dusted off one or two easy numbers, threw in some simple sacred songs, and went to their little rural church in Waterport to play for their congregation. It was our first official performance as a couple. It also occasioned the first official picture of us as a couple, so that we could hang some posters in the music building. The crusty patriarch of the music department laughed when he saw them and told me that we looked like siblings.
It was a recital in December of 2005 that brought me home for a surprise visit from Chicago. J was now a confirmed flutist, and I came back a week earlier than expected to see her perform. I hid in the back of the recital hall behind some stacks of chairs, and listened to her play an extraordinary program while only able to see her feet. After she left the hall from her last encore I made my way backstage--followed by a crowd of peering friends who had learned what was afoot--and occasioned one of the loudest shrieks I've ever heard. I'm still not sure whether it would have been better to let her know I would be coming, but certainly neither of us will forget that recital.
Another long year and a half of graduate school followed, and we were engaged to be married once I graduated from Northwestern. Only my final master's recital remained, and J flew out to Chicago to accompany me at an old church in Evanston. I was exhausted, emaciated, and burned out. I only wanted to go home and get married, and then maybe think about playing the trumpet again once I'd done some very serious sleeping and healthy eating. She came in a few days early to rehearse and stayed with some friends of mine while I packed up my little studio for the last time and made ready to leave. I don't remember much about the recital--I do remember that it was unbearably hot in the church, and I'd stripped off my jacket and tie before we were two movements into the second piece--but I do remember walking along Lake Michigan on an afternoon threatening of rain, and sitting together having soup and coffee and a bread shop. Being together made us both a little more human again.
We played, I said good-byes to my teachers and studio mates, and we loaded up the few boxes of books, clothes, and music that had been my life in Chicago. J took a train to O'Hare to fly to Pennsylvania, and I was to ride back to New York through the night with my Mom and siblings. J's flight was cancelled, and she ended up coming back with us. We drove east through the night, almost too excited to sleep. With that recital finished, my life in the Central Time Zone was over, and we were to start our life together back east.
The
Calendar planning is an important part of our family life. J has a great combination of jobs that allow her to stay at home with James during the day, but also to contribute substantially to the family income and to get an investment on all the time and money she poured into her degrees. We sit down at the kitchen table every month and pull out our iDevices. We erase the previous month from the dry erase board, and then J writes in our regular commitments. (I'm not allowed to write on the white board, because my handwriting is too messy.) We mark up my school days, regular private lessons, Hochstein evenings, and church services. Then we go day by day to mark in which extra rehearsals and gigs we've taken, starring the evenings for which we're going to need childcare. It's a good system, and we usually know well in advance when we're going to need a sitter. One of the sacred rules of the system is that you must always mark entries into the calendar of your iDevice onto the master kitchen calendar as soon as you're aware of them lest there be unintended conflicts. Most of the serious quarrels in our marriage have arisen from one or the other of us (by which I mean, me) forgetting to mark new gigs onto the master calendar.
So anyway, as we were preparing our September calendar a few weeks ago we discovered that there was a conflict on Sunday the 15th. J is doing a recital with one of her college friends and a prominent area professional. They sound amazing (I listened to one of their rehearsals) and they're going to perform it at our alma mater and a local church in October. (I have a concert that afternoon in Syracuse.) J was a great sport about it. She encouraged me to go to the game when I offered to give up my ticket, and I've done my best to give her encouragement and childcare as she's rehearsed and prepared.
It's a real bummer to miss it, though. Recitals are integral to our story. In 2004, when I was a senior in college and J was a sophomore, I was about to begin my long-dreaded semester of student teaching. My senior recital was scheduled for the spring, and I felt I needed some sort of big performance project to get me through the slog of actually working five days a week.
At that point I was feeling rather snobby about the quality of trumpet solo music, and having at the age of 18 already performed all the trumpet repertoire worth playing (so I thought) I decided to do a "transcription" of a Beethoven cello sonata. I also put a baroque suite on the program and the Halsey Stevens sonata. Now all I needed was an accompanist crazy enough to put together the Halsey Stevens and a Beethoven sonata on the same program. Really, the Beethoven was a piano sonata with cello (trumpet) accompaniment. I knew that almost from the beginning, and I knew it would have to be J almost from the beginning. It was the beginning of the semester, and she wasn't yet over-committed to a dozen vocal recitals. She was in the last few months of considering herself a pianist first and a flutist second. We were pretty good friends, and had gotten along quite nicely putting together a few pieces on my junior recital. And she was very friendly and very pretty--and I was newly single. It would not be difficult at all to spend at least two evenings a week rehearsing together.
I pitched the recital to her more as a chamber music opportunity than as "accompanying" a trumpet recital. I think she asked to look at the music first, and then agreed. We had moved in all the same circles the previous year, but it was the evenings together in Cox Auditorium putting together the Stevens bar by bar that changed friendship into something more. I still can't hear the first four notes of the Beethoven without feeling a deep chill. This was the music over which we fell in love.
Not that the recital was easy on either of us. We scrambled to get it together in time, and never once looked at the opener or encore until the night before. J was in the lowest ebb of her crisis between flute and piano during our rehearsals. (I'd like to think that I didn't drive her away from piano by the program.) A few days before the performance I was taken to task and there were several upset phone calls made to RWC administration by a supervising teacher (though, not my master teacher) at my student teaching placement who was incensed that I dare distract myself with a recital when I ought to be lesson planning how to teach trumpet fingerings.
We played the recital, and more than one friend gave one or the other of us a knowing smile as we stood next to each other in the reception line, both dressed in our finest and smiling with relief. My Smith grandparents even took me aside and told me how nice we looked onstage together. I attempted to brush off the comment, but then my grandfather took my arm and said "If you get a chance to marry that one, do it!"
There were a few intervening weeks of missing the evenings together, and then some dates to RPO, and by the new year we were known for a fact to be together.
The Smith grandparents were quite happy, of course, and they provided the next recital and our first public performance as a couple. We dusted off one or two easy numbers, threw in some simple sacred songs, and went to their little rural church in Waterport to play for their congregation. It was our first official performance as a couple. It also occasioned the first official picture of us as a couple, so that we could hang some posters in the music building. The crusty patriarch of the music department laughed when he saw them and told me that we looked like siblings.
It was a recital in December of 2005 that brought me home for a surprise visit from Chicago. J was now a confirmed flutist, and I came back a week earlier than expected to see her perform. I hid in the back of the recital hall behind some stacks of chairs, and listened to her play an extraordinary program while only able to see her feet. After she left the hall from her last encore I made my way backstage--followed by a crowd of peering friends who had learned what was afoot--and occasioned one of the loudest shrieks I've ever heard. I'm still not sure whether it would have been better to let her know I would be coming, but certainly neither of us will forget that recital.
Another long year and a half of graduate school followed, and we were engaged to be married once I graduated from Northwestern. Only my final master's recital remained, and J flew out to Chicago to accompany me at an old church in Evanston. I was exhausted, emaciated, and burned out. I only wanted to go home and get married, and then maybe think about playing the trumpet again once I'd done some very serious sleeping and healthy eating. She came in a few days early to rehearse and stayed with some friends of mine while I packed up my little studio for the last time and made ready to leave. I don't remember much about the recital--I do remember that it was unbearably hot in the church, and I'd stripped off my jacket and tie before we were two movements into the second piece--but I do remember walking along Lake Michigan on an afternoon threatening of rain, and sitting together having soup and coffee and a bread shop. Being together made us both a little more human again.
We played, I said good-byes to my teachers and studio mates, and we loaded up the few boxes of books, clothes, and music that had been my life in Chicago. J took a train to O'Hare to fly to Pennsylvania, and I was to ride back to New York through the night with my Mom and siblings. J's flight was cancelled, and she ended up coming back with us. We drove east through the night, almost too excited to sleep. With that recital finished, my life in the Central Time Zone was over, and we were to start our life together back east.
The
Tuesday, September 10, 2013
James' Toys
Hello! My name is James D. Bear, and I am almost two years old. I have many beloved toys, and I like to use them in very specific ways and places--woe betide the parent who tries to use a toy in a way that I don't like. Here are some of my favorites:
Red plastic baseball bat
This is my FAVORITE toy and no one is allowed to play with it except for me. The nice-but-scary neighbor man gave it to my Daddy for me to use. I mostly use it for my game of hitting balls that are lying on the ground, but I also use can slide it behind the couch or under the bushes when one of my balls is lost. It makes a funny sound when I drag it on the sidewalk, and Daddy and Mommy always hold it by the wrong end. (It ought to be held by the heavy end.) Mommy and Daddy tell me that I can't use it to hit people, but sometimes I really want to hit them with it to see what happens.
Trucks puzzle
This is my FAVORITE toy and no one else is allowed to play with it except when I get to the helicopter piece, because I can't get that one in by myself. I am SO GOOD at solving puzzles, and everyone claps for me when I put the pieces in the right way. Except sometimes I am very sad because I do not know where the police car piece has gone. I ask Daddy, and he doesn't know either. I am very good at solving puzzles.
Racquetball racquets
These are my FAVORITE toys and no one is allowed to play with them except me. And besides, Mommy and Daddy use them wrong anyway. They think you can only use the racquets to hit balls. The racquets give me super powers, which is why I always push them on the ground in front of me. I like to hit things with them, and my favorite is to dig up driveway gravel with a racquet in each hand. When I look through the racquet netting everything is funny looking, and they are also good to stand on.
Bodran drum
This is my FAVORITE toy and no one is allowed to play with it unless I have a better and louder drum to bang on. Every morning when I get up the first thing I do is to pull my bodran drum out of my toy box and bang on it as loud as I can, whether anyone is sleeping or not. I am a great drummer and I play very good music, so everyone always claps for me. Sometimes Daddy yells at me because I stand on the drum to look out the window.
Duplos
I have a big box of duplos, but there are only two that are worth anything--kitty duplo and doggy duplo. I want my own real kitty and doggy so VERY badly, but Mommy and Daddy always say no. Sometimes I have friends over to play and they want to play with my duplos, and then I must have every single duplo and no one else is allowed to touch any of them. Best of all, though, is the duplo box. This is what I sit on when I play the drums.
Wii exercise board
Mommy and Daddy have an exercise board because they think that they will use it for exercising when it is past my bed time. Ha! I always make sure that they are too tired for that. Besides, that is not what it is used for anyway. It is my conducting podium, and I have conducted many stirring performances of the Firebird Suite from this very spot. I wave my baton and jump and down, and then when the music is over I get applause and take a bow and ask to conduct it again. And again. And again. And again.
Pelican
My pelican toy is so silly. It makes a funny squawk sound, and you can tow it around by a string. There is only one place where we are allowed to play with the pelican toy, and that is in the kitchen. If someone tries to play with it in the the living room, I must explain to them that is the wrong place. I like it when I hide behind my high chair in the kitchen and Daddy tows the pelican in behind him. I think this is the funniest thing I've ever seen every single time he does it! Then, I take the pelican away from him and make him do it again.
Magnadoodle
My magnadoodle was a present from Aunt Jessica last Christmas, and it is one of my favorite toys. Mommy and Daddy think it is for drawing, but I know better. I hold onto the pen and tow it behind me like it is a dog on a leash. Mommy and Daddy will not let me have a real doggy, and I want one ever so badly. I can walk around all afternoon giving my magnadoodle some exercise. It is also good for stepping on, but my silly parents shoo me off of it. They don't know how to use any of my toys!
Tower equipment
There are so many things in my house that can be used to make towers. I especially like to use my rubber blocks, and my favorite rubber block is the RED one. I make sure that the red block is the last one I put away and the first one I take out every morning. Most of the time when I build towers I don't even use the red block, because I love it so much that I have to hold it. I also use Mommy's spices to make tall towers, and then I knock them over. But best of all is when I can use the foam chiropractic noodle that our friend Janette gave us. It is taller than me just on its own, but when Daddy builds towers on top of it, it is SO tall. I love to knock those towers over! And then we must build them again!
Tractors
I have two tractors, and they are my favorite toys. One of them has three buttons on the top that used to make sounds. One of the sounds was an engine starting, the other was a horn, and the last horn was a manly-sounding voice that said "Nothing runs like a Deere--Grrrr!!!" I play with my tractors every day, and the best place to use them is on top of Daddy's legs. He will bend his knees, and then I will drive my tractors up and down his legs. Sometimes he tries to read a book, but them I make him hold one of my tractors and drive it up and down his legs. I like it best when he makes his engine sound with his lips. Then I will make MY tractor engine sound too!
Sleigh Ride Puppy
My Mommy and Daddy got this book at a "white elephant" gift exchange, and they even tried to give it back. They're so silly! This is the greatest Christmas present ever. It is a toy doggy that sings "Sleigh Ride," except it changes the words to "curled up together like two fleas on a doggy would be." He has a silly voice, and he rocks back and forth when he sings. I could listen to him sing "Sleigh Ride" forty or fifty times in a row! And sometimes, I copy his dancing or wave my baton to conduct him. He makes me feel like Christmas all year round. I really wish I had a real doggy...
Red plastic baseball bat
This is my FAVORITE toy and no one is allowed to play with it except for me. The nice-but-scary neighbor man gave it to my Daddy for me to use. I mostly use it for my game of hitting balls that are lying on the ground, but I also use can slide it behind the couch or under the bushes when one of my balls is lost. It makes a funny sound when I drag it on the sidewalk, and Daddy and Mommy always hold it by the wrong end. (It ought to be held by the heavy end.) Mommy and Daddy tell me that I can't use it to hit people, but sometimes I really want to hit them with it to see what happens.
Trucks puzzle
This is my FAVORITE toy and no one else is allowed to play with it except when I get to the helicopter piece, because I can't get that one in by myself. I am SO GOOD at solving puzzles, and everyone claps for me when I put the pieces in the right way. Except sometimes I am very sad because I do not know where the police car piece has gone. I ask Daddy, and he doesn't know either. I am very good at solving puzzles.
Racquetball racquets
These are my FAVORITE toys and no one is allowed to play with them except me. And besides, Mommy and Daddy use them wrong anyway. They think you can only use the racquets to hit balls. The racquets give me super powers, which is why I always push them on the ground in front of me. I like to hit things with them, and my favorite is to dig up driveway gravel with a racquet in each hand. When I look through the racquet netting everything is funny looking, and they are also good to stand on.
Bodran drum
This is my FAVORITE toy and no one is allowed to play with it unless I have a better and louder drum to bang on. Every morning when I get up the first thing I do is to pull my bodran drum out of my toy box and bang on it as loud as I can, whether anyone is sleeping or not. I am a great drummer and I play very good music, so everyone always claps for me. Sometimes Daddy yells at me because I stand on the drum to look out the window.
Duplos
I have a big box of duplos, but there are only two that are worth anything--kitty duplo and doggy duplo. I want my own real kitty and doggy so VERY badly, but Mommy and Daddy always say no. Sometimes I have friends over to play and they want to play with my duplos, and then I must have every single duplo and no one else is allowed to touch any of them. Best of all, though, is the duplo box. This is what I sit on when I play the drums.
Wii exercise board
Mommy and Daddy have an exercise board because they think that they will use it for exercising when it is past my bed time. Ha! I always make sure that they are too tired for that. Besides, that is not what it is used for anyway. It is my conducting podium, and I have conducted many stirring performances of the Firebird Suite from this very spot. I wave my baton and jump and down, and then when the music is over I get applause and take a bow and ask to conduct it again. And again. And again. And again.
Pelican
My pelican toy is so silly. It makes a funny squawk sound, and you can tow it around by a string. There is only one place where we are allowed to play with the pelican toy, and that is in the kitchen. If someone tries to play with it in the the living room, I must explain to them that is the wrong place. I like it when I hide behind my high chair in the kitchen and Daddy tows the pelican in behind him. I think this is the funniest thing I've ever seen every single time he does it! Then, I take the pelican away from him and make him do it again.
Magnadoodle
My magnadoodle was a present from Aunt Jessica last Christmas, and it is one of my favorite toys. Mommy and Daddy think it is for drawing, but I know better. I hold onto the pen and tow it behind me like it is a dog on a leash. Mommy and Daddy will not let me have a real doggy, and I want one ever so badly. I can walk around all afternoon giving my magnadoodle some exercise. It is also good for stepping on, but my silly parents shoo me off of it. They don't know how to use any of my toys!
Tower equipment
There are so many things in my house that can be used to make towers. I especially like to use my rubber blocks, and my favorite rubber block is the RED one. I make sure that the red block is the last one I put away and the first one I take out every morning. Most of the time when I build towers I don't even use the red block, because I love it so much that I have to hold it. I also use Mommy's spices to make tall towers, and then I knock them over. But best of all is when I can use the foam chiropractic noodle that our friend Janette gave us. It is taller than me just on its own, but when Daddy builds towers on top of it, it is SO tall. I love to knock those towers over! And then we must build them again!
Tractors
I have two tractors, and they are my favorite toys. One of them has three buttons on the top that used to make sounds. One of the sounds was an engine starting, the other was a horn, and the last horn was a manly-sounding voice that said "Nothing runs like a Deere--Grrrr!!!" I play with my tractors every day, and the best place to use them is on top of Daddy's legs. He will bend his knees, and then I will drive my tractors up and down his legs. Sometimes he tries to read a book, but them I make him hold one of my tractors and drive it up and down his legs. I like it best when he makes his engine sound with his lips. Then I will make MY tractor engine sound too!
Sleigh Ride Puppy
My Mommy and Daddy got this book at a "white elephant" gift exchange, and they even tried to give it back. They're so silly! This is the greatest Christmas present ever. It is a toy doggy that sings "Sleigh Ride," except it changes the words to "curled up together like two fleas on a doggy would be." He has a silly voice, and he rocks back and forth when he sings. I could listen to him sing "Sleigh Ride" forty or fifty times in a row! And sometimes, I copy his dancing or wave my baton to conduct him. He makes me feel like Christmas all year round. I really wish I had a real doggy...
Saturday, September 7, 2013
Another Pizza Catastrophe
I am not a stupid person. I need to remind everyone before they read any further that at one point in my life I was offered a full ride to Yale. I am tolerably humorous and an excellent speller, and my total ignorance of the culinary arts ought not to reflect poorly on the arts in which I am competent.
Everything started with my attempt to practice in the kitchen while also being the lone set of eyes on James. It did not go well. Two of my mutes have dents in them, James knocked over all the music on my stand, bonked his head on my stand, stole my metronome, and dropped my B-flat trumpet on the floor, the third valve of which no longer works. By the time dinner came around he was in full-fledged mischief mode.
"James," I said "I don't think either of us want to eat minestrone soup."
I knew that James didn't want to eat minestrone soup. J made it last night, and he turned his nose up at it all night long. I ate mine because it was hot and good, and according to J, minestrone is one of my favorites. Except actually it isn't. I asked her last night what inspired her to make minestrone and she said "Because you love minestrone! Isn't this one of your favorite things that your mother makes?"
In her defense, "minestrone" does sound an awful lot like "chicken wings."
But I didn't say anything to her, because once you've been married for a number of years you learn that it's not a good idea to tell your wife that you aren't interested in whatever it is that she just spent the last hour and half preparing over a hot stove while looking after your hurricane-force son so that you can practice upstairs in your bathrobe. (Hint to newly married husbands: It's much better to tell her by letting her find out that you've written about it on the internet without saying anything at all to her.)
So there was leftover minestrone in the fridge, and James had stopped hurling books off of the bookshelves long enough to confirm to me that he was interested in what I was saying if there was some chance it might be about food.
"James, I think we both want a pizza, don't we?"
He nodded.
I should have stopped here. I should have remembered what happened the last time that I was home alone with James on a Saturday afternoon while J was at church and decided that I absolutely had to have a pizza even though I'd have to make the whole thing on my own from scratch with no help.
I thought through my situation. I knew that there was cheese in the freezer, and I knew that there was leftover sauce in the fridge. I would just need to come up with some sort of dough. It was already five o'clock, so it was definitely too late to attempt dough in the bread machine--besides, I wasn't eager to try that again after my last experience. What about flatbread pizza? I had flatbread pizza several times over the summer, and I thought it was very good. I looked through some recipes on my phone, and eventually switched to the idea of a "pita" pizza. The dough only called for four ingredients, and the internet guaranteed that it would be ready to eat in 20 minutes...that sounded great! It sounded just as good as those "one simple tricks that can reduce your car insurance to $.37 a day."
Meanwhile, James had tipped a glass of water all over the kitchen counter. I cleaned him up, mopped up the mess, moved away the chair that he'd pushed to the counter and told him to occupy himself in some non-destructive way while I made us a pizza.
To make a long story short, the dough ended up being a disgusting sticky mess about the consistency of Elmer's glue, only less tasty, that didn't knead, roll, cut, or do anything except stick and ooze to everything it touched. About ten minutes into the attempt I gave up on trying to roll out pitas and just dumped the remaining goo into a frying pan, washed my hands, and removed James from his perch on the chair that he'd scooched over the refrigerator, from which he'd removed every single magnet and picture and thrown it on the kitchen floor.
I managed to turn the goo into the world's ugliest pancake, and set James up in his high chair with green beans. I sprayed a pan, and stretched out the pancake as best I could, then went to retrieve the sauce and cheese. And when I pulled out the sauce, I found out it was leftover quinoa spaghetti, and not pizza sauce. Thankfully there was cheese in the freezer, so at that point I had ugly pancake with cheese on top.
In six years of marriage I am yet to figure out J's system of freezer storage. Every month she neatly packs our freezer full of groceries, and it shuts without any trouble. If I open the freezer and remove an item, I can put that item back in the exact same spot it came from only seconds earlier, and it either won't fit (how is this possible, since I was removing ice cream sandwiches from the container?) or multiple other items will shift and collapse, and then refuse to go back into their spots. So J, if you do decide to come home after reading this blog, be careful when you open the freezer. I only just managed to slam the door shut in time, and I'm quite certain that the next person who opens the door is going to take a bag of frozen peas to the foot.
I was feeling rather defeated as I waited for the oven to preheat. I was also feeling rather hungry, so I had a bowl of leftover minestrone soup. It was exceedingly delicious, and much healthier than pizza. James, who still thought he was going to get real pizza when I was finished, continued to express his excitement at end result. When the oven preheated I had no idea how long to bake a pizza that size, so I started with six minutes and then kept on adding an extra minute or two until the cheese looked brown. James was so excited when I took it out. I cut him off a few pieces, blew on them to cool them off, and gave him one. He chewed it thoughtfully, and then I asked him if he wanted another.
That means "I think you should eat it instead."
I did, and it tasted like undercooked Elmer's glue with cheese on top.
So here's what I propose: This blog is a national resource, often receiving extravagant praise from top critics. I've even heard that my regular entries are "the best thing on the internet since this." I'm asking you, if you're reading this, to support my blogging by donating gift cards to local pizzerias. All gift cards can be sent to "Fabricor Consonvs Pizza Drive" at 749 Washington Street, Spencerport, NY 14559. If you benefit from this blog in any way, please consider supporting it by making a one time gift card donation. And not only do we need one time donations, but we are looking for sustaining members of Fabricor Consonvs who would be willing to get us pizza on a regular basis. Whether it's weekly, biweekly, or even just once a month, your effort will be felt and truly appreciated. I'd also like to make you aware, if you're reading this, that for a limited time we have a matching gift. There is a generous and anonymous almost-two-year old who has pledged that he will eat just as much pizza as I do for at least the next sixteen years, so don't wait...send in your pizza pledges today.
Because seriously, James was really disappointed tonight.
Everything started with my attempt to practice in the kitchen while also being the lone set of eyes on James. It did not go well. Two of my mutes have dents in them, James knocked over all the music on my stand, bonked his head on my stand, stole my metronome, and dropped my B-flat trumpet on the floor, the third valve of which no longer works. By the time dinner came around he was in full-fledged mischief mode.
"James," I said "I don't think either of us want to eat minestrone soup."
I knew that James didn't want to eat minestrone soup. J made it last night, and he turned his nose up at it all night long. I ate mine because it was hot and good, and according to J, minestrone is one of my favorites. Except actually it isn't. I asked her last night what inspired her to make minestrone and she said "Because you love minestrone! Isn't this one of your favorite things that your mother makes?"
In her defense, "minestrone" does sound an awful lot like "chicken wings."
But I didn't say anything to her, because once you've been married for a number of years you learn that it's not a good idea to tell your wife that you aren't interested in whatever it is that she just spent the last hour and half preparing over a hot stove while looking after your hurricane-force son so that you can practice upstairs in your bathrobe. (Hint to newly married husbands: It's much better to tell her by letting her find out that you've written about it on the internet without saying anything at all to her.)
So there was leftover minestrone in the fridge, and James had stopped hurling books off of the bookshelves long enough to confirm to me that he was interested in what I was saying if there was some chance it might be about food.
"James, I think we both want a pizza, don't we?"
He nodded.
I should have stopped here. I should have remembered what happened the last time that I was home alone with James on a Saturday afternoon while J was at church and decided that I absolutely had to have a pizza even though I'd have to make the whole thing on my own from scratch with no help.
I thought through my situation. I knew that there was cheese in the freezer, and I knew that there was leftover sauce in the fridge. I would just need to come up with some sort of dough. It was already five o'clock, so it was definitely too late to attempt dough in the bread machine--besides, I wasn't eager to try that again after my last experience. What about flatbread pizza? I had flatbread pizza several times over the summer, and I thought it was very good. I looked through some recipes on my phone, and eventually switched to the idea of a "pita" pizza. The dough only called for four ingredients, and the internet guaranteed that it would be ready to eat in 20 minutes...that sounded great! It sounded just as good as those "one simple tricks that can reduce your car insurance to $.37 a day."
Meanwhile, James had tipped a glass of water all over the kitchen counter. I cleaned him up, mopped up the mess, moved away the chair that he'd pushed to the counter and told him to occupy himself in some non-destructive way while I made us a pizza.
To make a long story short, the dough ended up being a disgusting sticky mess about the consistency of Elmer's glue, only less tasty, that didn't knead, roll, cut, or do anything except stick and ooze to everything it touched. About ten minutes into the attempt I gave up on trying to roll out pitas and just dumped the remaining goo into a frying pan, washed my hands, and removed James from his perch on the chair that he'd scooched over the refrigerator, from which he'd removed every single magnet and picture and thrown it on the kitchen floor.
I managed to turn the goo into the world's ugliest pancake, and set James up in his high chair with green beans. I sprayed a pan, and stretched out the pancake as best I could, then went to retrieve the sauce and cheese. And when I pulled out the sauce, I found out it was leftover quinoa spaghetti, and not pizza sauce. Thankfully there was cheese in the freezer, so at that point I had ugly pancake with cheese on top.
In six years of marriage I am yet to figure out J's system of freezer storage. Every month she neatly packs our freezer full of groceries, and it shuts without any trouble. If I open the freezer and remove an item, I can put that item back in the exact same spot it came from only seconds earlier, and it either won't fit (how is this possible, since I was removing ice cream sandwiches from the container?) or multiple other items will shift and collapse, and then refuse to go back into their spots. So J, if you do decide to come home after reading this blog, be careful when you open the freezer. I only just managed to slam the door shut in time, and I'm quite certain that the next person who opens the door is going to take a bag of frozen peas to the foot.
I was feeling rather defeated as I waited for the oven to preheat. I was also feeling rather hungry, so I had a bowl of leftover minestrone soup. It was exceedingly delicious, and much healthier than pizza. James, who still thought he was going to get real pizza when I was finished, continued to express his excitement at end result. When the oven preheated I had no idea how long to bake a pizza that size, so I started with six minutes and then kept on adding an extra minute or two until the cheese looked brown. James was so excited when I took it out. I cut him off a few pieces, blew on them to cool them off, and gave him one. He chewed it thoughtfully, and then I asked him if he wanted another.
That means "I think you should eat it instead."
I did, and it tasted like undercooked Elmer's glue with cheese on top.
So here's what I propose: This blog is a national resource, often receiving extravagant praise from top critics. I've even heard that my regular entries are "the best thing on the internet since this." I'm asking you, if you're reading this, to support my blogging by donating gift cards to local pizzerias. All gift cards can be sent to "Fabricor Consonvs Pizza Drive" at 749 Washington Street, Spencerport, NY 14559. If you benefit from this blog in any way, please consider supporting it by making a one time gift card donation. And not only do we need one time donations, but we are looking for sustaining members of Fabricor Consonvs who would be willing to get us pizza on a regular basis. Whether it's weekly, biweekly, or even just once a month, your effort will be felt and truly appreciated. I'd also like to make you aware, if you're reading this, that for a limited time we have a matching gift. There is a generous and anonymous almost-two-year old who has pledged that he will eat just as much pizza as I do for at least the next sixteen years, so don't wait...send in your pizza pledges today.
Because seriously, James was really disappointed tonight.
Friday, September 6, 2013
Listening Exam
We listen to a lot of music in the Smith house. I'm always listening to multiple recordings of whatever is on the next concert, plus studying scores for any upcoming auditions and occasionally getting to put on a favorite tune just for the pleasure of it.
The development of James' musical interests has thrown a wrench in our normal listening life. For a long time, as many of you know, the only piece that would do was the Marquez Danzon no. 2, followed by many months of nothing but Stravinsky's Firebird Suite.
This morning I wrote down everything that we listened to (along with James' reactions) so as to fully document a few hours in the musical life of the Smiths.
James got up around 8 AM, and wanted to snuggle on the couch for a glorious 20 minutes before he started his day. I pulled a blanket around the two of us and held him close, but a few minutes in he pointed at the stereo and made his "please" sign?
"Firebird?"
He shook his head no.
"Uncles?"
He nodded. I turned the stereo on with the remote and selected disc three. The Flock of Uncles Christmas CD has been in the CD3 slot since last Christmas, and James hasn't given up listening to it yet. We had Christmas music on almost daily through the long Rochester winter, through spring, and through summer. But come December we'll save ourselves the trouble of having to put new music in the stereo, I suppose.
We listened to the Uncles (starting, as always, at track 3 and listening through the rest of the CD), and then James was down.
Next up was Overture to Die Fledermaus, by Johann Strauss, Jr. I can't confirm that this was the reason J left, but she wasn't seen for several hours afterwards. (Actually, she had a meeting downtown.) James thought it was great and asked for his baton to conduct, which he did with great enthusiasm. (Especially in the waltz.)
After Fledermaus we tried the Troika from the Lt. Kije Suite by Prokofiev, but James got a scowly face and shook his head no. When I didn't change it immediately he became insistent.
He's enjoyed Gilbert and Sullivan before (and with J out of the house, I knew it was a rare opportunity to listen) so I tried the Overture to HMS Pinafore. This was not approved either, and he began to fake cry.
Linus and Lucy by Vince Guaraldi brought about actual tears, along with frantic "please" motions.
By the time I switched away from Stravinsky's Fireworks, we were flailing on the floor. Sometimes I think that we are very nearly two years old.
It was the Marquez Danzon no. 2 that restored us to happiness. James stomped around the kitchen and conducted with vigor. We hadn't listened to this one in a while, and we were very happy to hear it again.
I tried Adventures on Earth from John Williams' E.T. Soundtrack after the Danzon, but that was also turned down.
James has been in a mood for Mahler recently, and the last movement of the Symphony no. 7 was a big hit. It's very brassy, and it brought out some excited conducting while I washed the dishes. I'd turn around from time to time, and whenever he heard timpani he'd stop and make a face that said "Ooooh!"
The first movement of Mahler Symphony no. 8 wasn't as big a hit. James, like many little boys, doesn't particularly care for operatic singing. He tolerated it being on, but gave up on conducting and played with his block for a bit.
Once we were back in the living room it was time to listen to the Uncles Christmas CD again.
And then once we'd listened to the whole CD, we needed even more Uncles.
We were outside for awhile after that--I couldn't take any more Christmas music, especially when it was littered with my own wrong notes--and then we were back in.
Something changed for James over the course of the morning, and we loved Stravinsky's Fireworks while we listened to it with a snack.
The next tracks were from Petroushka, and we took in the fourth tableau.
But it was Rimsky Korsakov's Capriccio Espagnol that got us really excited. We needed the baton back, and I was treated to a conducting showcase.
The rest of the morning was all Tchaikovsky. Tchaikovsky is always exciting, and it seems to fit James' spirit particularly well at present. We listened to:
The 1812 Overture
Marche Slave
The 1812 Overture again. (Steven conducted, which was very funny.
Marche Slave again.
and Romeo and Juliet.
And then it was time for lunch.
We have very full days.
The development of James' musical interests has thrown a wrench in our normal listening life. For a long time, as many of you know, the only piece that would do was the Marquez Danzon no. 2, followed by many months of nothing but Stravinsky's Firebird Suite.
This morning I wrote down everything that we listened to (along with James' reactions) so as to fully document a few hours in the musical life of the Smiths.
James got up around 8 AM, and wanted to snuggle on the couch for a glorious 20 minutes before he started his day. I pulled a blanket around the two of us and held him close, but a few minutes in he pointed at the stereo and made his "please" sign?
"Firebird?"
He shook his head no.
"Uncles?"
He nodded. I turned the stereo on with the remote and selected disc three. The Flock of Uncles Christmas CD has been in the CD3 slot since last Christmas, and James hasn't given up listening to it yet. We had Christmas music on almost daily through the long Rochester winter, through spring, and through summer. But come December we'll save ourselves the trouble of having to put new music in the stereo, I suppose.
We listened to the Uncles (starting, as always, at track 3 and listening through the rest of the CD), and then James was down.
Next up was Overture to Die Fledermaus, by Johann Strauss, Jr. I can't confirm that this was the reason J left, but she wasn't seen for several hours afterwards. (Actually, she had a meeting downtown.) James thought it was great and asked for his baton to conduct, which he did with great enthusiasm. (Especially in the waltz.)
After Fledermaus we tried the Troika from the Lt. Kije Suite by Prokofiev, but James got a scowly face and shook his head no. When I didn't change it immediately he became insistent.
He's enjoyed Gilbert and Sullivan before (and with J out of the house, I knew it was a rare opportunity to listen) so I tried the Overture to HMS Pinafore. This was not approved either, and he began to fake cry.
Linus and Lucy by Vince Guaraldi brought about actual tears, along with frantic "please" motions.
By the time I switched away from Stravinsky's Fireworks, we were flailing on the floor. Sometimes I think that we are very nearly two years old.
It was the Marquez Danzon no. 2 that restored us to happiness. James stomped around the kitchen and conducted with vigor. We hadn't listened to this one in a while, and we were very happy to hear it again.
I tried Adventures on Earth from John Williams' E.T. Soundtrack after the Danzon, but that was also turned down.
James has been in a mood for Mahler recently, and the last movement of the Symphony no. 7 was a big hit. It's very brassy, and it brought out some excited conducting while I washed the dishes. I'd turn around from time to time, and whenever he heard timpani he'd stop and make a face that said "Ooooh!"
The first movement of Mahler Symphony no. 8 wasn't as big a hit. James, like many little boys, doesn't particularly care for operatic singing. He tolerated it being on, but gave up on conducting and played with his block for a bit.
Once we were back in the living room it was time to listen to the Uncles Christmas CD again.
And then once we'd listened to the whole CD, we needed even more Uncles.
We were outside for awhile after that--I couldn't take any more Christmas music, especially when it was littered with my own wrong notes--and then we were back in.
Something changed for James over the course of the morning, and we loved Stravinsky's Fireworks while we listened to it with a snack.
The next tracks were from Petroushka, and we took in the fourth tableau.
But it was Rimsky Korsakov's Capriccio Espagnol that got us really excited. We needed the baton back, and I was treated to a conducting showcase.
The rest of the morning was all Tchaikovsky. Tchaikovsky is always exciting, and it seems to fit James' spirit particularly well at present. We listened to:
The 1812 Overture
Marche Slave
The 1812 Overture again. (Steven conducted, which was very funny.
Marche Slave again.
and Romeo and Juliet.
And then it was time for lunch.
We have very full days.
Wednesday, September 4, 2013
Word Association with Moxie
I've decided to adopt M's very fitting moniker for our niece. We watched her and her baby brother yesterday afternoon and evening, which is why I'm so tired today. At 8:00 we finally had James in bed and Liam calmed down, but Moxie was still going strong. She was tired of reading books, and had decided to do some recreational high-pitched shrieking. I decided to play a game.
"Okay Moxie, I'm going to say a word, and you say the first word that comes into your mind. Do you understand?"
She did.
Flower.
That's me is a girl. Wheee!!!!
Shoe.
I tie my shoe.
Football
Throw.
Homework
I do it
Romance.
Homance. Oh, no. Why did you say that word?
Taxes.
You keep saying funny words.
Dinner.
Can you just stop? Eat
Lucas
Is my uncle. I hope I love him.
Tractor
Fields
Hugs
I am gonna giving it.
Philosophy
Floss your teeth
Broadway
Umm...I can't say that word
Trumpet
You play the flumpet..she play the flute. Everybody plays instruments
Medicaid
I don't know how to say that. Do you know how to say lemonade?
Nama
Phaaa...no
Spongy
We clean with sponges.
And then she lost interest in the game.
Monday, September 2, 2013
A Back To School Blessing
For M in particular, and in general for all students and teachers who are older than the nonsense in which they'll be immersed until June...
May your weekends be like five days and your weekdays be like two,
May you never ride the morning bus unless compelled to,
May your classmates all remember to take showers and to groom,
May the boys prefer deodorant to noxious Axe perfume.
May your teachers be fair-minded and abandon all designs
Of useless power-pointing to explain the word "cosine."
May you never have a substitute who fills your wasted hour
By showing Stomp on VHS ere she locates the power.
May giggling girls in simpering cliques grow wiser now than old,
And let them cover decently before compelled by cold.
And when one opens mouth again of "boys" to loud complain,
May she be checked before she speaks by some small cell of brain.
May you wake alert each morning with warm woolen socks on toes
May your hair always cooperate and spare you girlish woes,
And when you walk outside the house and hear the willows lisp
May you smell the scents of apples and be charmed by Autumn crisp.
May the hard back seats seem comfortable, their bottoms lacking gum,
May lights fluorescent be withstood till sunlight next might come
May you find a friend in gym class for a partner in contempt
So you might tell tales of Dr. Who, from all games be exempt.
May your Mom pack homemade lunches and on each day of the week
May you shun the cafeteria and of it never speak
May your senior year with winged feet on hasten till next June
Endure the suff'ring one more year; College cometh soon!
May your weekends be like five days and your weekdays be like two,
May you never ride the morning bus unless compelled to,
May your classmates all remember to take showers and to groom,
May the boys prefer deodorant to noxious Axe perfume.
May your teachers be fair-minded and abandon all designs
Of useless power-pointing to explain the word "cosine."
May you never have a substitute who fills your wasted hour
By showing Stomp on VHS ere she locates the power.
May giggling girls in simpering cliques grow wiser now than old,
And let them cover decently before compelled by cold.
And when one opens mouth again of "boys" to loud complain,
May she be checked before she speaks by some small cell of brain.
May you wake alert each morning with warm woolen socks on toes
May your hair always cooperate and spare you girlish woes,
And when you walk outside the house and hear the willows lisp
May you smell the scents of apples and be charmed by Autumn crisp.
May the hard back seats seem comfortable, their bottoms lacking gum,
May lights fluorescent be withstood till sunlight next might come
May you find a friend in gym class for a partner in contempt
So you might tell tales of Dr. Who, from all games be exempt.
May your Mom pack homemade lunches and on each day of the week
May you shun the cafeteria and of it never speak
May your senior year with winged feet on hasten till next June
Endure the suff'ring one more year; College cometh soon!
Sunday, September 1, 2013
Usury
I just finished a fascinating book of essays by Jacques Le Goff called Time, Work,&Culture in the Middle Ages that raised some questions for me about the medieval position on usury. As anyone knows who's read Merchant of Venice, the practice of charging interest was forbidden to Christians during the Middle Ages, and was one of the principal causes of animosity towards the Jews. (Who were allowed to lend money at interest to non-Jews.) Le Goff traces the change in attitude towards interest and relates it to the development of the mechanical clock.
It was Lewis Mumford who first wrote about the importance of the mechanical clock in Technics and Civilization. Originally conceived as a more efficient means of keeping the hours for prayer, the standardization of time allowed for time to be represented as a commodity which could be recorded, bought, and sold--basically making way for the modern theories of labor according to an 8 hour day. (Clearly the ideas about musician labor are pre-modern.)
Le Goff contends that the scholastic argument broke down with the invention of the mechanical clock. It had been argued that interest was unlawful because it represented the purchase of time on capital, and time belonged to God alone, and therefore could not be put to sale. With some casuistic justifications for the merchant's hazard (the lucrum cessans, periculum sortis, and ratio incertitudinis--the tying up of cash in long term undertakings, perils of fate, and uncertainty of success) arguments began to be made in favor of an interest-based economy.
There are also some interesting thoughts by Le Goff on the contrast between Jewish, Pagan, and Christian views of the nature of time, but I won't detail those here. My question for anyone who has stayed interested through the first three paragraphs is this: Do the scriptural prohibitions against lending or borrowing at interest ever concern you? How do you square them against the success of the modern economy? Are you aware of anyone who writes on the subject? I'd appreciate any thoughts...
It was Lewis Mumford who first wrote about the importance of the mechanical clock in Technics and Civilization. Originally conceived as a more efficient means of keeping the hours for prayer, the standardization of time allowed for time to be represented as a commodity which could be recorded, bought, and sold--basically making way for the modern theories of labor according to an 8 hour day. (Clearly the ideas about musician labor are pre-modern.)
Le Goff contends that the scholastic argument broke down with the invention of the mechanical clock. It had been argued that interest was unlawful because it represented the purchase of time on capital, and time belonged to God alone, and therefore could not be put to sale. With some casuistic justifications for the merchant's hazard (the lucrum cessans, periculum sortis, and ratio incertitudinis--the tying up of cash in long term undertakings, perils of fate, and uncertainty of success) arguments began to be made in favor of an interest-based economy.
There are also some interesting thoughts by Le Goff on the contrast between Jewish, Pagan, and Christian views of the nature of time, but I won't detail those here. My question for anyone who has stayed interested through the first three paragraphs is this: Do the scriptural prohibitions against lending or borrowing at interest ever concern you? How do you square them against the success of the modern economy? Are you aware of anyone who writes on the subject? I'd appreciate any thoughts...
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