I’ll bet this is the sort of night Edward George Bulwer-Lytton imagined when, in about 1830, he wrote the infamous opening words of the otherwise forgotten novel Paul Clifford. Actually, Bulwer-Lytton’s complete opening sentence goes like this:

It was a dark and stormy night; the rain fell in torrents—except at occasional intervals, when it was checked by a violent gust of wind which swept up the streets (for it is in London that our scene lies), rattling along the housetops, and fiercely agitating the scanty flame of the lamps that struggled against the darkness.

No wonder Bulwer-Lytton has a contest named for him in which entrants compete to see who can write the worst opening sentence of a novel that, God willing, will remain imaginary.

Through the years, the contest has become more and more elaborate, with categories and subcategories and “dishonorable mentions.” I thought I was going to write about the contest, but I find I’ve used up all the time I have reading this year’s winning entries and laughing maniacally.

Spend some time with the winners, and you’ll have favorites of your own. Perhaps it’s only because my nextdoor neighbor has become the proud owner of a genuine hot rod, but tonight my own personal favorite is this:

“Let’s see what this baby can do, Virgil,” said Wyatt, as he floored the Charger, brushing a Dart out of the way, sideswiping an oncoming Lancer, rear-ending a Diplomat, and demolishing a row of Rams before catapulting head-on into the sheriff’s Viper—realizing that we’d indeed missed the turn-off to Abilene and ended up instead, in Dodge City.
–>I want a space here, dammit!<–
Paul Curtis
Randburg, South Africa

iscovering a great website is a small but very real delight. Yesterday, thanks to StumbleUpon, I found a site called POW!, which in turn led me to Liam’s Pictures from Old Books, where I found the wonderful ornamented D that begins this paragraph. The site offers illustrations of all types, including old maps, sample alphabets, technical illustrations ranging from 19th century “marine lighting” to medieval “siege engines.”

We have some old books ourselves, so I’ll make a few scans and send them to Liam. If you’re interested in old books, you might want to do the same.

The POW! site, by the way, contains links to free and cheap stock photos of all kinds. Enjoy.

I’ve written before about The Grateful Dads, the quartet in which I sing lead. Once every summer we sing the National Anthem at a Sea Dogs game. The Sea Dogs, our local AA baseball team, are affiliated with the Boston Red Sox and part and parcel of the almost mystical fan alliance known as Red Sox Nation.

We’ve been singing for the Sea Dogs for about 10 years. The best part of it has always been the chance to sing through the ballpark’s astonishing sound system. It’s the only time four guys, at least these particular four guys, can make that much sound. And since it’s the National Anthem, we get, by definition, a standing ovation every time.

Last night, however, was different from all our other experiences with the Sea Dogs. You need to know by way of background that Red Sox superstar David “Big Papi” Ortiz has been out of the game with a wrist injury for several weeks. As part of his rehabilitation plan, and just before returning to the active roster of the Red Sox, he has been appearing with Red Sox affiliates. Last night he suited up in a Sea Dogs uniform as “designated hitter.” According to local news broadcasts after the game, there were people in the stands who had paid as much as $600 apiece for tickets to the sold-out game. They were there to see Big Papi in their hometown.

The enthusiasm, some might say the fanaticism, of Red Sox Nation fans is something that often catches baseball fans from other parts of the country by surprise. And so it was last night.

When we went onto the field to sing, we saw that every seat in the park was filled. The excitement was infectious. When we were done singing, a cheer went up from the crowd such as we had never heard before. I didn’t think too much about it as we left the field, of course, because I knew the cheer was for Big Papi, not for us four old farts in blue blazers.

But then something we had never experienced before began to happen. As we moved toward our seats for the game, people began to smile at us and praise us. More than a few actually reached out and touched our sleeves as we walked past. When the game was over and we were leaving the park, the whole thing started again. Somehow, in that super-charged atmosphere, Big Papi’s celebrity made everyone a star. It was more than a little unsettling, but also a lot of fun.

If it happened all the time, however, it could certainly be hazardous and might do for the soul what a diet of Mountain Dew and Twinkies would do for the body. Big Papi seems to be at ease with celebrity, but there is skill and self-discipline involved that many celebs just can’t muster or maintain. I had a good time last night, but I woke up this morning just a little more sympathetic to those who are destroyed by their own success.

NOTICE: “Sigh,” as Charlie Brown would say. Here we go again with another disclaimer. It’s just a darn shame that we live in a world where a piece like this one has to be labeled explicitly as satire. Two weeks ago, I might not have bothered, but I saw what happened to the New Yorker when they tried unlabeled satire in these days of toxic and patronizing earnestness from people who ought to know better. So, what follows is satire, folks. It’s a joke. It does not represent my actual beliefs. It is intended to mock, lampoon and otherwise disparage radically undemocratic, yet widely held, views of national security and entrepreneurial opportunism.

I have to admit it. When talk of large scale federal government surveillance of nearly all U.S. citizens first began to be discussed, I had doubts. I spoke darkly about “implications.” I wondered aloud what secret agenda the government was supporting by gathering so much information. And how stupid is that, wondering aloud about surveillance?

Finally, I began to embrace the idea. I mean, if our government believes it’s necessary for national security to tap my phone, intercept my e-mails and track my movements, who am I to question it? I’m a real American, not some terrorist-loving liberal, and I understand that our freedoms are safest when the government manages them for us. Smart people in Washington, D.C., have spent a lot of time thinking about this stuff, and I’m not about to second-guess them with my own selfish and naive whining about “privacy” or “civil rights.”

No, I say that America is still the land of opportunity. That means that what’s good for government is good for marketing. Anyway, the new corporate vision is “total transparency.” I can’t think of anything that supports total transparency more than total surveillance.

It’s my duty as a citizen to do some creative thinking, rather than unpatriotically sulking and otherwise acting as if I have something to hide. The day will soon be here when we’ll all be carrying our cellphones and RFID chip passports all the time. Furthermore, businesses and institutions that maintain records about us (banks, schools, employers, anyone who processes credit cards) will be turning over all the information they gather for government scrutiny. The data streaming 24/7 from all these sources can be our ticket to a future brighter than most of us can readily imagine.

With these thoughts in mind, I’m unveiling today four ideas for new products and services that total surveillance will make possible. Here’s a glimpse of what your total surveillance future will look like!

1. TravelSmart™ Highway Sign — Helping the weary traveler…

Target Market: State and Local Highway Departments

Description: Governmental entities that build and maintain highways have always provided signs to guide and assist travelers. A lot of tax dollars are tied up in this service, but until now only one-message-serves-all signs have been available. The need for improvement is obvious. As a traveler you are not well-served if, for example, you are driving to Pleasantville and the only road signs you encounter speak of Placidville.

The illustration shows how much more helpful a TravelSmart™ sign will be. It’s highly personalized message informs you that you have taken a wrong turn and offers helpful suggestions to get you back on the correct route.

2. MyRegistrar™ GPA Coin — Charting your educational investment…

Target Market: Parents of college students

Description: Form and function combine beautifully in the MyRegistrar™ GPA Coin.

Worn as a medallion (as shown) or carried in your pocket like a coin, the device provides gentle reminders of how expensive it is to send a child to college. Capitalizing on the total surveillance responsibility of colleges and universities to record student performance daily, the GPA coin offers constant updates on exactly how your child is doing in school. No longer will you have to wait until the end of a semester to learn that your child attended too many “keggers” and not enough classes.

For a modest monthly fee, you can gain the information you need to protect your college investment and to save your child from many of the mistakes you probably made yourself.

3. iMemorial™ Interactive Headstone — S/he’s not dead, s/he’s just away…

Target Market: Bereaved family and friends

Description: The iMemorial™ combines durability, functionality and good taste. The display, constructed of I Can’t Believe It Isn’t Granite® and virtually indistinguishable from the rest of the stone, is divided into two areas. The top half contains a traditional rendering of the name and dates of the departed. The bottom half displays a personalized visitor’s message based on ID information derived from the visitor’s passport RFID.

It’s the next best thing to having your loved one back!

4. Safe Harbor™ Motel Sign — Helping you to love the one you’re with…

Target Market: Hotel and motel operators catering to short-term guests

The picture says it all! If you’re on the road a lot, you know firsthand how awkward it can be when you’ve stayed at a motel with a different parter but given the same name. Now, thanks to the RFIDs in your passports and the motel’s own data stream, you need never fear such embarrassment again.

Safe Harbor™ technology takes the worry out of cheating. Best of all, you don’t have to say anything to your partner (who may be just as unsure as you about the names you used last time). Your motel’s sign displays a welcome that tells you what your name is tonight. Vive l’amour!

From poverty, that is. Throughout most of my adult life, I’ve had to rediscover periodically the extent to which people who have had no direct connection to poverty simply don’t get it.

Over the weekend, I spent a lot of time with an old friend who had, comparatively speaking, a privileged upbringing. I was telling him about the long multi-generational climb out of poverty that my family has worked through, but I felt that my point remained somehow elusive. Part of my story is that I have enough formal education that people often think I come from money. Finally I showed my friend the photo that accompanies a post about my experience in grad school with a book that forced me to take a hard look at where my father came from. The people in the picture are, left to right, my father, my aunt Thelma, my grandmother, my aunt Toni and my aunt Mary.

The house is the background is the place where my father grew up and where my grandparents lived until my grandfather died in 1967. During my childhood years, the house got a coat of paint and an indoor toilet. Otherwise, the place remained as it had been, right down to the slate sink in the kitchen and the braided rug my grandmother had made from scraps of fabric.

When he saw the picture, my friend grew quiet for a few minutes as he apparently considered things about me that he hadn’t known before. The implications are important. For example, I’ve never felt at home around the wealthy because they mostly bore me to madness. I don’t play golf. I don’t belong to a country club. I don’t go jetting off to Biarritz. Instead, I do my own yardwork and most home repairs. I’m a passable cook, and I always have time to talk to people. For many years, I changed the oil in my car. I often iron my own shirts. In short, I am, as my mother used to say, a person of the common clay.

Last December, just before Christmas, I joined a pickup quartet of carolers hired to sing at a holiday party hosted by some very, very wealthy folks in Scarborough. We were given only the address of the place, and the host and hostess did not introduce themselves to us. We never learned their names and were paid through a booking agent. They were apparently wary of being contacted by the likes of us.

Years ago, I probably would have been annoyed by this, but last December I found I didn’t care at all. The host gave us a quick tour of the public areas of the house, including his six-car garage, but his purpose seemed to be to demonstrate his wealth. The hostess dithered over us for a few minutes and then began to take the evening’s catering crew to task about something or other. Her purpose seemed to be to assert the privilege and power to which she felt entitled because of her social standing.

Now, I’m about the same age as the hostess, and in answering her questions about the quartet I spoke to her as an equal. After a minute or two of this, I noticed affronted regality building up in her eyes. I cut the conversation short because I didn’t want to listen to anything she might have to say to me about it.

Did I understand with whom I was dealing? No, lady. You didn’t give a name.

The invited guests, even those in their 20s, were cut from the same cloth as the host and hostess. All of them were at ease having servants around and never, ever spoke to or made eye contact with any of us lowly singers and servers.

I spent a fair amount of time talking to the servants. I stayed in school longer than most of them, but they are still my people.

I suspect that a lot of this dawned on my friend for the first time when he looked at that photo of my father.

I’ll confess it up front. This post will bore most people to the point of unconsciousness, because it’s about music at a pretty technical level. Those who are not bored will, I think, have one of two immediate responses—either “What a cool idea!” or “What a load of BS!”

Ever since I wrote the “Lenny” post, I’ve been thinking about how it is that classical musicians and jazz musicians, even when they play the same instruments, have trouble talking to each other about music and for the most part just don’t “get” each other. My own orientation is toward jazz, even though I haven’t thought of myself as a jazz player for decades.

When I was in high school, three of my friends and I put together a jazz quartet. I played alto sax. We all had connections with working jazz musicians in the area and were happily absorbing their view of and orientation to music. Jazz (except for so-called “free jazz” which I don’t don’t enjoy and spend no time thinking about) is organized around chord progressions. There are lots of conventions about how this organization happens, and even a few more or less set-in-stone rules. Except for big bands which work from carefully written arrangements, most jazz bands use what are called “lead sheets.” Here’s a picture of part of a typical lead sheet that might be given to the keyboard player.

It’s a simple thing and looks pretty much like the music folk guitarists work from, except that it’s likely to contain chords that folk musicians don’t play. It contains the melody and symbols that represent the chords that are supposed to accompany the melody, and it’s a pretty good conceptual representation of a jazz tune. Of course, there’s a huge store of shared knowledge that underlies the use of lead sheets.

Lead sheets are almost always written in the treble clef. In the example here, the single flat in the key signature suggests that the tune is written in the key of either F major or D minor. The first chord (G minor) might be used in either key, but the song move to the the C7 chord and then to F major. There’s the key, “one down,” i.e., one flat—F major.

How the keyboard player actually plays the chords is left to that player’s discretion, so long as the rules and conventions are obeyed. The G minor chord is G-B♭-D. As the chord is used in the example lead sheet, jazz conventions would permit (almost insist) that the the so-called seventh of the chord (F) be added. Its also possible that the ninth of the chord (A) would be added as a “color tone.”

In a jazz piano style more or less created by Bud Powell something like 60 years ago, for example, the chord would be played as F-A-B♭-D, with no G in it at all! The bass player would probably pick up the G, and whatever instrument is playing the melody has the G covered anyway.

Anyway, a lead sheet is a pretty good conceptual representation of a jazz tune because, like a jazz tune, it “hangs” from the melody. The actual bass line doesn’t appear. Lead sheets were my musical orientation when I arrived at the University of Connecticut to major in music as a bassoonist and was first introduced to what is called “figured bass.”

Figured bass notation is very old, and it looks like the sample shown below. There is also a huge store of shard knowledge involved here, but it’s almost completely different from the the knowledge underlying a lead sheet.

Conceptually, figured bass is pretty much the opposite of a lead sheet. For one thing, it’s written in bass clef. It specifies the exact notes to be played in the the bass line, and it describes the chords, without naming them, through the numbers written below the notes. In the sample here, the key signature is two flats, and the first note is G. The numbers 5-3 below the note specify that the chord is in so-called “root” position, so that the notation describes a G chord.

The bottom note is G, the second note is a third higher (but flatted because of the key signature). The third note of the chord is a fifth higher than the first. This yields G-B♭-D, the same notes as in the Gm chord at the beginning of the sample lead sheet.

For the second chord, we find the note B♭ with the number 6 beneath it. This is shorthand that a “continuo” player would be expected to decipher. It means that the top note in the chord is a sixth higher than the bass note, a G. So, the second chord in the piece is also a Gm chord, but it is to be played in the note order B♭-D-G.

For the third chord, the note is D. The numbers below describe what is called a 7th chord in root position. The ♯ symbol is another bit of shorthand and indicates that the second note of the chord is to be raised a half-step. In its entirety, the chord is realized as D-F♯-A-C. The lead sheet would describe this as D7, and Bud Powell might have played F♯-B-C-E, a D7 with no D in it anywhere!

In a nutshell, figured bass notation sits on the bassline, and the melody doesn’t appear at all. This reflects a mindset so alien to the jazz sensibility that it should be no surprise that classical musicians and jazz players really, really don’t speak the same language.

Today I am 62. This is the age my father was when he retired. He basically sat around the house and drank endless cups of coffee while playing solitaire. I’ve followed his lead in many things (no one is more surprised about that than I am) but not here. For one thing, it is impossible for me to think of myself as “retired” (see any number of my previous posts).

I have, however, put my feet up today. I’ve spent a lot of time with friends, I took a lovely nap, and I haven’t crossed one damn thing off the “to do” list. This evening I’ll rehearse with the a cappella group I belong to, but now I find myself so paralyzed with sloth that I can’t even write a decent length blog post…

I would never have called myself a Carlin fan, but I was surprisingly affected by today’s news that he is dead. His classic “Seven Dirty Words” routine was a cultural contact point that worked across the last two or three generations.

I admire Carlin because he apparently never considered anything like retirement. He was up on stage “tellin’ it like it is” right to the end.

Some of his material seemed a bit obvious to me, but it had a way of speaking truth to power, as the saying goes. That made it important even when it was a little silly. Carlin had a kind of perpetual hippie sensibility that I never shared, but his name is one that I’ve known for 40 years. And now it isn’t attached to anyone living.

There is also the fact that Carlin was only 71. That’s right, I just said “only” 71. Sure, that’s past the Biblical three score and ten, and I’ll admit that until quite recently 70-anything sounded old to me. The thing is, I turn 62 tomorrow. Carlin was something like 9½ years older than I am right now. It’s hard for me to jam the old man hat on Carlin’s head if I’m not ready to wear it myself.

And I’m not ready.

The joke a few years ago was that “60 is the new 40.” Utter nonsense, of course. Nonetheless, 60 isn’t old any more. And if that’s the case, 70 isn’t all that old any more. So the world has lost a very funny, not-all-that-old man.

We’ll miss you, George, but they can’t censor you now.

The next generation comes surely on,
Their nonchalance baffles my intelligence.
…
Life is stranger than any of us expected,
There is a somber, imponderable fate.
Enigma rules, and the heart has no certainty.

—Richard Eberhart

We’ve come to the end of another graduation season. Colleges refer to graduation as “commencement,” perhaps as a way to stress the sunny beginning that awaits the graduates as they step (finally) into adulthood. By any name, however, a graduation feels more like an end than a beginning. When the ceremony is over, it is time to get in the car and drive away. In that moment, everything about life as a student may seem trivial in the extreme. A simple illustration makes the point:

Student question: How can I get all this reading done by tomorrow?
Newly minted adult question: What do I do with myself for the next 60 years?

It’s no wonder the young almost always face the future with nonchalance. The chief alternatives—arrogance, despair, and whatever combination of these is currently in vogue—don’t get much traction in the world of adults. New grads are not slow in figuring this out.

Even so, there is no way to understand or even to anticipate the strangeness of life. Bad things happen to good people, and good things happen to bad people.

Or not.

We keep looking for unifying patterns, keep believing we’ve found unifying patterns. But so often the patterns vanish like movement you think you have seen in the corner of your eye.

In No Exit, Sartre has a character say that Hell is other people. But Heaven is also other people. It’s a good thing to keep in mind when enigma rules and the heart has no certainty.

…What in me is dark
Illumine, what is low raise and support;
That to the highth of this great Argument
I may assert th’ Eternal Providence,
And justifie the wayes of God to men.
—John Milton, Paradise Lost

…And malt does more than Milton can
To justify God’s ways to man.
Ale, man, ale’s the stuff to drink
For fellows whom it hurts to think…
—A.E. Housman

Imagine poor Milton. It’s the 17th century. He is alone, blind and sleepless in the dead of night, composing the perfect blank verse that in the morning he will dictate from memory to his amanuensis. He is at war within himself. On one side are his unforgiving Puritanism and his learning in literature, history, philosophy, theology and the Classics. On the other side are the actual facts of his life: the deaths of children and wives, his blindness, and the terrible price he has paid for his anti-royalist politics.

It’s an unfair match-up. No wonder Satan gets all the best lines in Paradise Lost (”Better to reign in Hell, than serve in Heav’n.”). Lining up “I ought to be joyful” against “I’m miserable” is always tough, at least for me.

Nearer to our own time, Housman takes a different approach to essentially the same problem. Feeling blue? Hoist a few pints and cheer up, he says. Repeat as necessary.

Right. The opportunities for a personal train wreck there are pretty obvious. Better, I think, to find the people who love you and let them help you through “the embittered hour.” No bargaining with God required. No hangover either.