Sorry for the radio silence...took a few days off to celebrate, be sick, and race. TCW is back on the air...come on!
First up, this piece of news gave me a little flash back. I don't know if any of you out there have ever taken the Megabus, but I am quite sure you wouldn't rates it's customer service up there with Lufthansa...I wouldn't either, and I am certainly not done badmouthing this company to any one who will listen.
A couple of years ago I was leaving Minneapolis after taking part in a charity ride, the St. Paul Classic, on the 11pm overnight run back to Chicago. I'd thought even looking at the schedule the arrival time looked a little optimistic, considering Chicago's morning rush hour. But the bus was over an hour late in getting on the road after making the three pickups in the Minneapolis area, and it was soon apparent that the bus driver was still intent on keeping to the schedule.
Speeding through the rain the left lane past more cautious traffic, he swerved back to the right and over corrected, hitting the shoulder, and began to fishtail. The passengers were all fast asleep in the 3am darkness, and the sharp bump and sideways movement shot everyone alert in their seats.
"Oh my God!" was the cry directly behind me, and I was thinking the exact same thing, as I braced myself to either fall against the glass windows next me or fly across the aisle, whichever way the bus rolled. Immediately, the bus was back on line, and nervous laughter floated back over the seat tops.
"I don't think anyone will mind if we're a little late, man!" I offered up. More nervous twittering.
I tried to find a phone number to call on the corporate website afterwards, but none existed, and my emails went unanswered. Even the twenty emails afterward, sent everyday, that stated I would next be sending Letters-to-the-Editor badmouthing Megabus, and would be letting everyone else know about their drivers lack of qualifications, as well.
Still nothing, two years later, so here you have it. More megabus-bashing, as a warning, in the wake of yet another company causing grief and chaos after cutting corners in safety and employee background checks.
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Speaking of flashbacks, do you ever have sensory-triggers? I mean, really strong ones? Everytime I drink a Pepsi from a glass bottle - not a Coke, or a Sprite, but only a Pepsi - I have a flashback to August of 1985. I am twelve years old, on summer-vacation in North Carolina. I am in a small-town, southern, dusty corner-store, the kind with that old Mello-Yello sign and an ancient black man with a crumpled hat out front. It's early evening, and I'm waiting for my father to come down to the theater for pre-show prep. Outside is a colorful sky, roiling on the front end of an evening storm, making the leaves whisper and chatter. I've put a quarter in a rusty soda machine and received my prize through a small glass door. As that peppery, raspy, sugary goodness touches my lips, the cool breath of carbonation blowing back from the bottle will impart this memory in my brain for the rest of my life.
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This is Katy's interpretation of cycling apparently:
We just saw an ad for a living will service. She says I need to complete one and not her because she's not the one who rides her big wheel in a pack of maniacs also on big wheels wearing only their underwear and a styrofoam cup on their head.
Would someone please, please, please draw me a picture of this?
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Finally, I would like to speak to any McCain supporters out there who are suddenly flabbergasted and offended today that Obama has now brought up the Keating 5 scandal. It is no coincidence that he has not mentioned that sordid story until today. Don't act so surprised.
John McCain is out of ideas and out of steam. He has chosen (or had chosen for him) a running mate for cynical reasons and overestimated her effectiveness on his campaign, while not properly vetting her for liabilities on it. Now, as he is predictably lagging in the polls, he has been forced to unleash her as the pitbull she likes to claim to be. Unleashed to make loathesome, pathetic, race-baiting accusations that play into the worst kind of fears of the worst kind of voters.
Ayers was a war-protester when Obama was eight years old. Yeah, he threw a fundraiser for Obama, in 1995. And contributed a whopping $200. Obama has repeatedly disavowed and condemned all of Ayers past acts. Guilt by association? Fine, then you should have no problem with Obama's payback characterizations of McCain's involvment in the Keating 5 scandal.
Yes, he was sent home with a slap on the wrist and a warning for his "poor judgment" which was all McCain deserved. But if you are going to buy into the assertion that Obama's character is clouded by one fundraiser and a $200 contribution from Ayers? Please consider that McCain received over $112,000 from Charles Keating between 1982 and 1987, and had been a regular guest at what John McCain referred to, whistfully, as recently as 2003, at Keating's "Shang-Ri-La" I'm-the-richest-man-in-the-world boat parties.
The fact is, Barack Obama has kept this campaign relatively clean until now. But now that McCain and Palin are questioning his patriotism, expect Obama to get his pants a little dirtier. She's slinging charges of lack of patriotism? I'm sure an official reminder that Palin was once a member of the Alaskan Independence Party - a seccessionist movement, can't be far off.
And if Obama really wanted to get dirty, he could call McCain's health into question, as well as bring up some of Palin's creepier comments that are clues to some of her hidden ambition. There are persistent rumors that McCain didn't want Palin, and that Karl Rove and Cheney has foisted her upon him. The familiar tone of her speeches, the same repeated lies about Iraq and 9/11, it gives me a bit of pause to wonder about the machinations at work behind this bubbleheaded Baptist - who claims God wants a gas pipeline - who could be king.
I'm always happy to roll in the mud if pushed into the puddle.
Showing posts with label Katy. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Katy. Show all posts
6.10.08
23.6.08
Happy Birthday to You
That night you laid it out there on the stoop
I sat there, stared and smiled without reply.
So when you showed it threw me for a loop,
Until I stuck my thumb into your pie.
Yet even though it seemed it might not last,
For I knew better and to bide my time…
In Fall those Summer flings are long since past,
Our sleepless night together was sublime.
And as you told me stories of Down Under,
The bees flew ‘round and told me “she’s the one…”
She’s come to you like lightning comes with thunder.
That she’ll be there forever, like the sun.
In humid darkness appeared that ray of light
Your smile, prophesy, on the stoop that night.
Bon Voyage baby...two weeks is gonna seem like an eternity.
I sat there, stared and smiled without reply.
So when you showed it threw me for a loop,
Until I stuck my thumb into your pie.
Yet even though it seemed it might not last,
For I knew better and to bide my time…
In Fall those Summer flings are long since past,
Our sleepless night together was sublime.
And as you told me stories of Down Under,
The bees flew ‘round and told me “she’s the one…”
She’s come to you like lightning comes with thunder.
That she’ll be there forever, like the sun.
In humid darkness appeared that ray of light
Your smile, prophesy, on the stoop that night.
Bon Voyage baby...two weeks is gonna seem like an eternity.
28.5.08
Music Education Night - Hindemith: Symphonic Metamorphosis
For Katy, and all music lovers.
One of the more prolific and successful composers of the 20th Century, Paul Hindemith actively composed for nearly 50 years, and wrote several symphonies, operas, ballets, numerous concerto and even a sonata for every instrument of the orchestra. I performed his Sonata for Tuba and Piano for my junior recital at the University of North Texas in 1997.
Hindemith was a master of all forms and tonalities, from atonal and 12-tone, to the lush and mysterious harmonies of 20th Century music.
His most well-known work, and a favorite for many - including myself, is his 1943 orchestral piece, Symphonic Metamorphosis on Themes of Weber. It is famous for its bombastic and inspiring 4th movement march, and therefore the previous three movements are largely ignored. But, as the title of the piece suggests, that last movement is the end result of a fantastic and artful transformation, so it should be listened to as a whole to experience the artist's full intentions.
The example for this piece that I have supplied is the definitive recording by the San Francisco Symphony, conducted by Herbert Blomstedt. Produced in 1988, it was made at the height of San Fran's reign as top-tier orchestra and features, in my opinion, one of the finest brass sections ever recorded. In fact, I studied with tubist Floyd Cooley at the DePaul in 1997-98.
Use the hi-fi for this one. The subtleties of Hindemith's harmonies and melodic genius are brought to life by some of the most talented musicians alive today.
Form-wise, Symphonic Metamorphosis is a pretty straightforward symphony. It starts with a relaxed allegro, or walking tempo, and presents the themes to the listener right away. These themes are from the music Carl Maria von Weber wrote for a play in 1801-02, and Hindemith makes a bold statement with them immediately. The listener is captivated by the lively interplay between the strings, brass, and winds while thick, lush chords abound. While the rhythm of the piece is robotic - typical for Hindemith - wide dynamics and clever orchestration (listen to the melody move effortlessly between the winds and brass, for example), as well as the prowess of the musicians, make this first movement absolutely alive with vigor and authority.
It then moves on to the scherzo, which is a very lively tempo, which in many other symphonies can be a waltz and is usually found in the 3rd movement. The opening melody is a restatement of the initial theme of the first movement Allegro. It is then passed to nearly every instrument in the orchestra, and builds from a tiny, little seed to a raucous crescendo, like a Bolero. Then suddenly, the piece explodes in a massive fireball and out of it emerges this funky, almost ragtime twist on the theme, that too, builds to several peaks before giving way to the original theme again, which then fades out to the horizon with the percussion, ending on a simple, breathless major chord.
Next is the andantino, which literally means "little slow" and it's here the 3/4 tempo of the waltz is heard. A new transformation of the theme is heard, whittled down to three notes, and is passed along again on several instruments. The harmonies are huge and bold, and have inspired countess filmscores, undoubtedly. This movement is very short, and exits to a flute solo fluttering the theme, light and inconsequentially, taking us directly into the final movement...
...the Marsch, a rousing, inspirational movement with two distinct dynamic and thematic peaks. The final transformed opening melody gives way to an at-first ominous countermelody, which switches to the major literally midstream in the trombone soli, then builds up to the perhaps the loudest quarter-rest in all of music history. Exploding in a supernova of self-serving yet satisfying bombast, the coda sweeps us out on the backs of the soaring French horns to the inevitable brass-gasmic conclusion.
A performance such as this one would no doubt bring the entire audience immediately to their feet.
One of the more prolific and successful composers of the 20th Century, Paul Hindemith actively composed for nearly 50 years, and wrote several symphonies, operas, ballets, numerous concerto and even a sonata for every instrument of the orchestra. I performed his Sonata for Tuba and Piano for my junior recital at the University of North Texas in 1997.
Hindemith was a master of all forms and tonalities, from atonal and 12-tone, to the lush and mysterious harmonies of 20th Century music.
His most well-known work, and a favorite for many - including myself, is his 1943 orchestral piece, Symphonic Metamorphosis on Themes of Weber. It is famous for its bombastic and inspiring 4th movement march, and therefore the previous three movements are largely ignored. But, as the title of the piece suggests, that last movement is the end result of a fantastic and artful transformation, so it should be listened to as a whole to experience the artist's full intentions.
The example for this piece that I have supplied is the definitive recording by the San Francisco Symphony, conducted by Herbert Blomstedt. Produced in 1988, it was made at the height of San Fran's reign as top-tier orchestra and features, in my opinion, one of the finest brass sections ever recorded. In fact, I studied with tubist Floyd Cooley at the DePaul in 1997-98.
Use the hi-fi for this one. The subtleties of Hindemith's harmonies and melodic genius are brought to life by some of the most talented musicians alive today.
Form-wise, Symphonic Metamorphosis is a pretty straightforward symphony. It starts with a relaxed allegro, or walking tempo, and presents the themes to the listener right away. These themes are from the music Carl Maria von Weber wrote for a play in 1801-02, and Hindemith makes a bold statement with them immediately. The listener is captivated by the lively interplay between the strings, brass, and winds while thick, lush chords abound. While the rhythm of the piece is robotic - typical for Hindemith - wide dynamics and clever orchestration (listen to the melody move effortlessly between the winds and brass, for example), as well as the prowess of the musicians, make this first movement absolutely alive with vigor and authority.
It then moves on to the scherzo, which is a very lively tempo, which in many other symphonies can be a waltz and is usually found in the 3rd movement. The opening melody is a restatement of the initial theme of the first movement Allegro. It is then passed to nearly every instrument in the orchestra, and builds from a tiny, little seed to a raucous crescendo, like a Bolero. Then suddenly, the piece explodes in a massive fireball and out of it emerges this funky, almost ragtime twist on the theme, that too, builds to several peaks before giving way to the original theme again, which then fades out to the horizon with the percussion, ending on a simple, breathless major chord.
Next is the andantino, which literally means "little slow" and it's here the 3/4 tempo of the waltz is heard. A new transformation of the theme is heard, whittled down to three notes, and is passed along again on several instruments. The harmonies are huge and bold, and have inspired countess filmscores, undoubtedly. This movement is very short, and exits to a flute solo fluttering the theme, light and inconsequentially, taking us directly into the final movement...
...the Marsch, a rousing, inspirational movement with two distinct dynamic and thematic peaks. The final transformed opening melody gives way to an at-first ominous countermelody, which switches to the major literally midstream in the trombone soli, then builds up to the perhaps the loudest quarter-rest in all of music history. Exploding in a supernova of self-serving yet satisfying bombast, the coda sweeps us out on the backs of the soaring French horns to the inevitable brass-gasmic conclusion.
A performance such as this one would no doubt bring the entire audience immediately to their feet.
20.1.08
The Tree
The seed lay low, far beneath the sun and rain and clopping horse hooves.
The silver rays of morning scattered and broke apart the fresh earth, giving taste and fertility to its loamy home, covered in wet, scentful leaves. Drops from the night before, hanging fat, clinging to the last second, dipping, bending, falling noisily, heavily.
The seed moved.
Their feet came by, day after day. Pressing the earth. Sometimes stopping, sometimes not. Their voices floated down, gently to the ground. And became liquid. Into the earth they drained.
The seed opened. Green blindly searched, instictively grasping up, knowing only light.
The feet came by, day after day. Sometimes they stopped, and pressed the ground much wider. Bodies lay in the grass, on the leaves. Bees buzzed and sparrows chirped. Far away, in the farmhouse, a woman heard a cry, but she ignored it because the cry, full of lust and of love and heavy with salt and dirt smeared on clean, smooth skin, fell quickly. Below the bodies, down in the earth.
The cry stayed secret.
Except to the seed. It reached, strained. Quivered. Stretched, and at last broke the surface.
The seed grew taller, sturdier. Bark, like fledgling feathers appeared, with branches and seed reached ever higher so when the snow the arrived, it was ready.
In the cold and dark the seed waited, stunted and bare and withered. The bodies would come but never stop, the rain was frozen and the sunlight reflected back into the the cloudy sky off the white snow.
But finally the melt came, the water, and it's warmth once again worked its way down through the earth, and the sunlight wrapped itself around the seed.
And it grew stronger.
And when the bodies came, and pressed into the grass, with voices that were breath and liquid, the seed reached, and grew.
And so it went, until the sunlight, the rain, the hooves, the snow, the bodies, and the lusty, salty, liquid cry turned the seed into a tree.
The silver rays of morning scattered and broke apart the fresh earth, giving taste and fertility to its loamy home, covered in wet, scentful leaves. Drops from the night before, hanging fat, clinging to the last second, dipping, bending, falling noisily, heavily.
The seed moved.
Their feet came by, day after day. Pressing the earth. Sometimes stopping, sometimes not. Their voices floated down, gently to the ground. And became liquid. Into the earth they drained.
The seed opened. Green blindly searched, instictively grasping up, knowing only light.
The feet came by, day after day. Sometimes they stopped, and pressed the ground much wider. Bodies lay in the grass, on the leaves. Bees buzzed and sparrows chirped. Far away, in the farmhouse, a woman heard a cry, but she ignored it because the cry, full of lust and of love and heavy with salt and dirt smeared on clean, smooth skin, fell quickly. Below the bodies, down in the earth.
The cry stayed secret.
Except to the seed. It reached, strained. Quivered. Stretched, and at last broke the surface.
The seed grew taller, sturdier. Bark, like fledgling feathers appeared, with branches and seed reached ever higher so when the snow the arrived, it was ready.
In the cold and dark the seed waited, stunted and bare and withered. The bodies would come but never stop, the rain was frozen and the sunlight reflected back into the the cloudy sky off the white snow.
But finally the melt came, the water, and it's warmth once again worked its way down through the earth, and the sunlight wrapped itself around the seed.
And it grew stronger.
And when the bodies came, and pressed into the grass, with voices that were breath and liquid, the seed reached, and grew.
And so it went, until the sunlight, the rain, the hooves, the snow, the bodies, and the lusty, salty, liquid cry turned the seed into a tree.
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