Music For The Day

      Aaron Copland somehow managed to put the best fireworks into music, an astonishing feat even with the score in front of you, up-close magic for brass and percussion.

A Little Light Math History

...
Oh
Oh
Fibo-
Fibona-
Oh, Fibonacci
Oh, Fibonacci chi chi chi
Yes, Fibonacci, Fibonacci, math whiz you are!
It's amazing, just amazing, your string of numbers, how it spirals up to the stars!

      (To the rough tune of "La Cucaracha" until it goes off the rails, after which you're on your own.)

      Zero and a one and a one and a two and a three and five and eight!

Ears

     As my hearing slowly goes wonky, I get delightfully surreal flashes: "Funding provided by Bakery Drinker, supporting the upcoming Ham and Egg Conference in Indianapolis."  I'd go to that one, but they're gonna have to promise to lay off the sauce.

     It's largely a phenomenon of listening to radio streams and podcasts on the tiny speaker of an Alexa "Dot" while washing dishes or cooking: lots of background noise and audio with a wider bandwidth than the transducer can handle.  With a better audio system and earphones or bigger speakers, I'm fine.  I probably won't always be fine -- and I remind myself, as I am reminding you, to take time to listen to music you like, at volume levels that are suitable but do not endanger your hearing.  Later replays will trigger memories, allowing you to "hear" even the parts your ears can no longer accommodate.

We Had A Storm This Morning

     It came through this morning  a couple of hours before sunrise: a late-summer morning storm.

     First thunder like distant kettledrums, booming, looming, a far-off sizzle of lighting; then closer, elephants on the march, thumping, pounding, broken by zaps as the bolts found targets.  Rain next, a few drops hurled against the window like sand, the screen rattling, more rain rushing like surf and spraying the window, hissing like eager cobras hunting a way in, and behind it the thunder and searchlight-blinks of lightning.  Wave after wave of rain, walls of pure noise above the thunder's hammered anvil, finally fading.  The storm went stalking away, thunder muted, the rain less and less and then near silence; just the downspouts, ringing faintly with the last drops of water seeking the earth, and an occasional distant by-the-way thud of thunder from the backside of the front.

     It was worth losing an hour of sleep.  I had time for a quick nap before the sun started hauling itself over the far edge of the planet and the cats demanded breakfast.

     The early light was an electric silver-blue, barely enough to pick out water beaded on every twig, tree limb and wire, along all the gutters and fences.

Lighter Fare

 To the tune of a well-known Steely Dan song about a very different kind of consumable:

Orange Marmalade

While the toaster ran, you worked by morning light
Those tasty dawns so right
You were the best in town
Just by chance you crossed the butter with the jam
You turned it on the world
That's when you turned the world around

Did you realize
That you were a Sous Chef in their eyes?

On the hill the stuff was laced with saccharin
But yours was never thin
Everyone stopped to stare at your technicolor breakfast slice
Every early bird had your number on the wall
You must have had it all
You'd make pancakes on a dare and you'd make 'em so nice

Could you see the day?
Could you feel your whole wheat fall apart and fade away?

Get along, get along, orange marmalade
Get along, orange marmalade

Now your foodies have all left you and your bread
Your breakfast friends won't spend
This life can be very strange
All those early-riser freaks who used to eat the stuff
They snort marshmallow fluff
Some things will never change

You are obsolete
Look at all the oatmeal in the street

Get along, get along, orange marmalade
Get along, orange marmalade

Clean this mess up 'cos it's just a source of strife
Those jam spoons and the knife
Just get it all out of here
Is there more in the jar?
Yes, there's more in the jar
I think the people down the lane know who you are

'Cause the man is wise
You are still a Sous Chef in their eyes

Get along (get along), get along, orange marmalade (get along)
Get along, orange marmalade

Just In Time For Christmas

     I've got it: the hot new toy.  It's a Tesla Cybertruck in the style of the "Transformers" toys, only when you transform it, it's a dumpster, complete with flames shooting out the top!

     Yeah, that thing isn't being welcomed with open arms by anyone anywhere besides the fanniest of fanboys; it's coming up short in terms of styling, fit and finish, and the basic necessary functions of a working truck, and that's before you consider the seething sociopolitical mess the lad at the top keeps dipping himself into.

     I miss the days of geeks who stuck to geekery and business types who immersed themselves in the accumulation of wealth while avoiding visible involvement in politics and most scandals.  You can point out it was often plenty rotten under the surface, and you'd be right; but at least there was a surface over the worst of it.

The Greatest Sculptor You Never Heard Of

     Her name was Augusta Savage.  She worked in the first half of the 20th Century.  Her work was realistic, moving, tender and humorous.

     In a different time, she might have worked in bronze or stone.  Never well-off, never with a wealthy patron, she sculpted in clay or even plaster burnished with shoe polish.

     One of her largest pieces, The Harp, was commissioned for the 1939 World's Fair in New York City.  Sixteen feet tall, made of painted plaster, it was thrown away after the Fair ended.

     In the 1920s, she was accepted into a summer class at a fine-arts school in France -- only to have the offer withdrawn by the American selection committee when they discovered she was African-American.

     She made and taught art all her life.  Though the many of her works have been lost other than in photographs, she had lasting influence.  Her own opinion of her legacy was both humble and optimistic:

     "I have created nothing really beautiful, really lasting, but if I can inspire one of these youngsters to develop the talent I know they possess, then my monument will be in their work."

     Not every monument is a lump of bronze on a pedestal.  Augusta Savage showed that art belongs to those who have talent and develop it, and helped change a nation's perceptions.

Speculation

     People who have had near-death experiences often report being told, "Go towards the light."

     Okay; this somehow makes intuitive sense to most of us.

     But what if it's a bug-zapper?  There you are, gone from the physical world, and whatever's left is drawn like a moth to the light and -- ZAP! You're no longer a problem for the Universe.

     H. P. Lovecraft and those late-night TV commercials make a weird mix.

Linguistic Patrol: I Don't Know Who Else Needs To See This...

      ...Other than that guy at Atlas Obscura, but tenable and tenuous are not synonyms or even different forms of the same word.  They have, in fact, very nearly opposite meanings.

      I swear, you turn your back on a perfectly good language for five minutes, and the kids are spray-painting stuff all over it; only about ten percent of the additions and modifications come anywhere close to art.

      Look it up -- especially if it feels like a clever turn of phrase.  English steals words from all over, fools around with their meanings without due regard to origins and pays very little attention to fiddlin' details like inadvertent near-twin antonyms. 

The Helpful Bowl

      The ancient Egyptians made them and nobody's sure just why.  They look like the hieroglyphic symbol for "to offer," but what these little bowls that stand on two human feet and tip slightly forward were offering and to whom is a mystery.  Free mints?  Offerings for revered ancestors?  For the gods?  Were they tip jars?  Nobody knows.

      At one time, you could buy modern copies of them.  I didn't, and now there don't seem to be any for sale.  But I'd own one if I could.  Someone needs to make a version that walks over to the nearest person and curtsies; these days, it wouldn't be that difficult, though making sure it doesn't walk off tabletops might take some extra work.

Bored?

      Why not make a clay dragon?  Or a cardboard sword and shield, with your very own coat of arms!  Better yet, help a kid make 'em.  English Heritage will show you how (see the tabs at the top of the linked page.).

      The sun might set on 'em these days, here and there, but the Brits aren't beaten yet.  Terry Pratchett's gone but his spirit lives on.

Wait, There's A Real Blackadder?

      Fans of the Rowan Atkinson historical comedy Blackadder may be disconcerted -- or pleased -- to learn that there was a real Blackadder family, with a complicated, tragic history.  And a large estate, centered on Blackadder House along the Blackadder Water in Scotland, demolished after having been vandalized by troops quartered there during World War One.  Some of the outbuildings and traces of the garden remain, along with a few bridges.

      I happened across it by accident; I was looking up the history of polio epidemics, which led me to Sir Walter Scott.  He grew up at Sandyknowes, in the shadow of Smailholm Tower, the former family castle.  This linked to a whole list of Scottish castles, and thus to Blackadder House.

      I'm almost afraid to look up "Baldrick" as a family name now.  Art, life....

Art That Works

      An Indianapolis business I hadn't known about, Ignition Arts produces load-bearing art, constructing things that carry the weight of people, ideas, history and so on.  Their website is fascinating, from restored historic buildings to bridges to, well, have a look.

Acute Tactics

     Yesterday, I noticed the little box-of-stuff-a-month subscription I have to a service that keeps nudging anyone who signs up to write more had sent a deck of cards with various starting points for writing.

      This type of thing owes a debt to Brian Eno's "Oblique Strategies," a collection of cards with highly lateral notions, for use by anyone who gets stuck while doing a creative endeavor.  You grab one at random and give it a try.  It's not a bad method; even when the card suggestion is no help, it provides a short break that can help you get out of a rut.

     Imitations are not always up to the level of the original and the whole thing is just asking to be parodied.  And so, I give you my contribution to the field:

Acute Tactics

Write down a bunch of random stuff on cards. Have copies printed up and sell them for inflated prices.
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Vagueness will make you sound deep. Connecting unrelated things will appear insightful.
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Never admit this is something you dreamed up to pass time while waiting for the bus.
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Browbeat all of your creative friends to endorse this as a remarkable idea. Get them so involved that they'll lean on their friends to say similar things, too.
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Never forget that nearly all who strive, fail. The quicker you fleece them, the sooner they'll get back to their useful and dull little jobs.  If you don't, someone else will!
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Philosophy is for suckers.  Money talks.
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Art is whatever the people who buy art will pay you for.
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Failure is always an option, but it's best if the other guy fails.
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"Intellectual property" is the stuff others only thought they owned.
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There are only two plots, but every check is unique, different and wonderful
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Think of a number, any number. Got it? Hold it firmly in your mind. You're wrong.
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The expression on people's faces when they have just had a great insight is exactly the same as the expression they make when they suddenly have to crap.  This is not a coincidence.
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The bigger they are, the more easily they can crush you.   Practice flattery and plan your escape routes in advance.
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Always be humble. You have to give the rubes something for their money and if you're modest about it, they can't claim they were cheated.

'Tis The Season To Ensure The Rains Return?

     I'm told the Aztec Re-Enactor's Club puts on a holiday pageant this time of year that is utterly heart-wrenching.

Widdershins

      It's the old word for "counterclockwise."  And here, it is a tale of routine, romance and revolt:

Hooray! The New Calendar Is Here!

     Calendars frustrate me these days.  Not the ones on my phone or computer, the paper ones.  The modern trend is for teeny-weeny numbers, in wispy fonts that vanish at any distance -- especially for my 64 year old eyes.

     I have shopped and shopped, without much success.  I've made my own, which is fun and not as much work as you might think.  But I'd just as soon buy one.

     Several months into last year, I found a calendar that suited me fine.  It's an import from Japan but labelled in English, and it's just what I've been after: 

     They did a 2023 edition and I ordered mine last week,  It arrived last night, in just the same style.  (Yes, the holiday's on the wrong date and has an odd name; I'll take that to be able to read the numbers from across the room.). The nice folks at Hightide Store DTLA stock them -- it's not inexpensive, but you get what you pay for.

So I Went To The Hair Salon

      It was a pleasant experience.  The guy who did my hair was friendly without being garrulous -- a rare gift in a profession filled with prattle and gossip -- and he trimmed away all the split ends and raveled messes, while gently chiding me (and offering advice) over the way the part for my bangs has crept back over years of trimming them myself.

      The new 'do looked okay yesterday, more tousled than I prefer but more of the moment.  The next test is this morning.  Here's hoping my usual approach is adequate.

You've Never Heard It Like This

      Rather than talk about all the troubles of the world, here's a lovely version of a lovely piece of music:

The Fame Of A Frog

      I had no idea there was a sequel to the Chuck Jones classic One Froggy Evening, which introduced the world to Michigan J. Frog.  Nor had I realized the "Michigan Rag" isn't an historic ragtime song; it was written for the original cartoon.

      We get a few more lines in Another Froggy Evening.