Friday, July 29, 2005
Ruby slippers
I know, I know, I told you to vote for the amp that goes to 11. Now that Jason is safely in second place, it's time to knock it down to third by voting for the ruby slippers.
Thursday, July 28, 2005
Sunday, July 24, 2005
The Happy Norwegian - Myron Floren, 1919-2005
Myron Floren died yesterday. He was, to many people, a symbol of a silly television program, a yokel, a joke. What he really was was something quite different -- an astonishingly skilled musician.
I didn't always have this opinion. I remember riding the wrestling or track bus to Webster or Groton, SD, going through tiny Roslyn. They had a sign up at the edge of town: "Welcome to Roslyn, home of Myron Floren." Everybody in the bus was just too cool to do anything but sneer. A guy from the Lawrence Welk Show! And he played accordion, too! We couldn't see why a town would admit it, much less boast about it.
Myron Floren joined Lawrence Welk's band in 1950. The story goes that he was out on the town with his wife, celebrating her birthday. He'd met Welk some time earlier, and the bandleader invited him up on stage to play. Once Welk heard what he could do, he offered him a job on the spot, essentially hiring Floren to replace himself as the accordionist in the band.
Twenty or so years later, when I was a boy, I watched the Welk show regularly. Seeing it now, in perpetual reruns, I have to say, yes, it was a little silly. The choice of material, the costumes, the musical arrangements were often corny. But many of the musicians, and Floren especially, were really quite amazing.
My sister happens to own three accordions, and she's promised to give me one some day. If I could be 1/10th as good as Floren, I'd be deliriously happy. Several years ago, sort of as a joke, I bought her a Floren CD. I listened to it a little, and boy was it good. Again, not really my cup of tea as far as style and selection, but it was impossible to miss the virtuosity.
Read the ABC news and LA Times obits.
I didn't always have this opinion. I remember riding the wrestling or track bus to Webster or Groton, SD, going through tiny Roslyn. They had a sign up at the edge of town: "Welcome to Roslyn, home of Myron Floren." Everybody in the bus was just too cool to do anything but sneer. A guy from the Lawrence Welk Show! And he played accordion, too! We couldn't see why a town would admit it, much less boast about it.
Myron Floren joined Lawrence Welk's band in 1950. The story goes that he was out on the town with his wife, celebrating her birthday. He'd met Welk some time earlier, and the bandleader invited him up on stage to play. Once Welk heard what he could do, he offered him a job on the spot, essentially hiring Floren to replace himself as the accordionist in the band.
Twenty or so years later, when I was a boy, I watched the Welk show regularly. Seeing it now, in perpetual reruns, I have to say, yes, it was a little silly. The choice of material, the costumes, the musical arrangements were often corny. But many of the musicians, and Floren especially, were really quite amazing.
My sister happens to own three accordions, and she's promised to give me one some day. If I could be 1/10th as good as Floren, I'd be deliriously happy. Several years ago, sort of as a joke, I bought her a Floren CD. I listened to it a little, and boy was it good. Again, not really my cup of tea as far as style and selection, but it was impossible to miss the virtuosity.
Read the ABC news and LA Times obits.
Saturday, July 23, 2005
Dialectic
M: Why do you eat your corn that way?
Y: What way?
M: Around the cob, instead of the long way.
Y: What's the difference?
M: You should eat it like a typewriter: all the way down one line, then rotate, and start a new line.
Y: Why?
M: It makes no sense to eat it your way.
Y: What do you mean?
M: The kernels are lined up the long way.
Y: What?! They're lined up both ways!
M: Not as straight.
Y: So?
M: So eat it the way it's lined up!
Y: Whatever.
M: Also, the butter stays on better.
Y: What?
M: If you butter it all around, the butter drips off as you turn it. You should butter just one line all the way the long way, eat that, then butter the next section.
Y: You're nuts.
M: Look, if you don't want to eat it the right way, get used to people pointing it out.
Y: "People?" Who, besides you?
M: Anybody that's thought about it.
Y: You've thought about it a bit too much, if you ask me.
M: Hey, the unexamined life isn't worth living.
Y: I don't think that applies to corn-on-the-cob eating techniques.
Y: What way?
M: Around the cob, instead of the long way.
Y: What's the difference?
M: You should eat it like a typewriter: all the way down one line, then rotate, and start a new line.
Y: Why?
M: It makes no sense to eat it your way.
Y: What do you mean?
M: The kernels are lined up the long way.
Y: What?! They're lined up both ways!
M: Not as straight.
Y: So?
M: So eat it the way it's lined up!
Y: Whatever.
M: Also, the butter stays on better.
Y: What?
M: If you butter it all around, the butter drips off as you turn it. You should butter just one line all the way the long way, eat that, then butter the next section.
Y: You're nuts.
M: Look, if you don't want to eat it the right way, get used to people pointing it out.
Y: "People?" Who, besides you?
M: Anybody that's thought about it.
Y: You've thought about it a bit too much, if you ask me.
M: Hey, the unexamined life isn't worth living.
Y: I don't think that applies to corn-on-the-cob eating techniques.
Monday, July 18, 2005
Russian to English
When I was about 12 years old, my oldest brother, off at University, sent me reading assignments, complete with essay tests. One of these was Alexander Solzhenitsyn's One Day in the Life of Ivan Denisovich. I can't recommend this novel enough, even for 12-year-olds.
I remember only the last of the questions he sent along. "Is this a good translation?"
That had me completely flummoxed. Did he think I knew Russian, and had read the book in its original language, too?
I left that one blank.
A few years later, one of my other older siblings, on holiday from college, brought back a copy of the same book. Idly flipping the pages, I went to the end to read that last memorable paragraph.
"This translation stinks!" I blurted out. I ran upstairs to get my old copy. I re-read the last paragraph, which confirmed my literary criticism.
I remember only the last of the questions he sent along. "Is this a good translation?"
That had me completely flummoxed. Did he think I knew Russian, and had read the book in its original language, too?
I left that one blank.
A few years later, one of my other older siblings, on holiday from college, brought back a copy of the same book. Idly flipping the pages, I went to the end to read that last memorable paragraph.
"This translation stinks!" I blurted out. I ran upstairs to get my old copy. I re-read the last paragraph, which confirmed my literary criticism.
Sunday, July 17, 2005
Just Say "No" to Jason
There is a poll on the Three Way News weblog to pick the best movie object or prop ever. It was sparked by this entry, and followed up by this one.
You must go there and vote for the amp that goes to 11 from This Is Spinal Tap. Not because it deserves to win, but because the hockey mask from Friday the 13th must lose.
You must go there and vote for the amp that goes to 11 from This Is Spinal Tap. Not because it deserves to win, but because the hockey mask from Friday the 13th must lose.
One-upsmanship
My lackeys have informed me that my arch-rival has started a weblog called "Ironicalisticism." Well, bring it on! I've already staked claims to "antidisironicalisticarianism." Just try to top that, you fatuous hack.
Friday, July 15, 2005
Procrastination
I bought a book on procrastination four years ago - four years! I haven't read it yet. I only wish I were making this up.
Thursday, July 14, 2005
Senator Dormin's Morning
Senator Dormin woke at the crack of dawn, as he usually did, and as he always did, spent a good hour grooming. It was his favorite part of the day.
As he practiced his various senatorial looks in the mirror (righteous indignation, studious interest, warm acknowledgement, and, of course, his all-purpose smile), said aloud "I wonder what my wife is up to today."
This always broke him up. It had been at least a week since they'd so much as spoken on the phone. He allowed himself this one admission per day, alone in his bathroom, of their marriage of convenience.
After a quick breakfast of a bran muffin and orange juice, he hopped in the limo, excited to start work. He read through the talking points prepared by his chief of staff. Most days there was nothing new, but he was very diligent about this. It was his most important skill: matching the correct look to each sound bite. No matter how many times he'd rehearsed and performed his lines on an issue, he still would go over and over each and every point in his mind.
Today was a little special. The senator had been newly assigned a big role by the White House. He was to help put up a smoke screen for one of the President's senior advisors, who was getting deeper and deeper into trouble with the press, and with the opposition in Congress. This would be a triple-play: studious interest as he listened to questions; righteous indignation as he explained to the press why this was all just partisan nonsense; and, naturally, a big smile as he wrapped up.
The chauffeur glanced in the mirror at the senator's facial contortions. "He's good. He's really good," he thought to himself.
A quick glance at his schedule revealed that the day started with a large portion of drudgery: making nice with big contributors. Senator Dormin had initially loved this part of his job, perhaps even more than press conferences. But as his self-confidence grew, as he became acclimated to Washington, he had diminishing patience. His own constituents were the worst. They always wanted to talk about one local issue or another. The senator could not care less about what was going on back home, unless it gave him an opportunity to get good press.
Today was no different -- behind that smile he was thinking "Just write the check, already!"
It was grueling. After two hours of glad-handing the yokels, he finally was rid of them for the day. "Hold my calls!" he barked to the receptionist, and closed his office door. Retreating to his office bathroom, he finally got in some more quality mirror time.
Back at his desk, he read his new spin assignment from the White House three more times. This looked like a fun one. He didn't know if the President's man was guilty, but it didn't matter. He wouldn't have to go anywhere near the facts of the case.
His phone beeped, and he glanced at his watch. "Time to meet the press!" said the voice of a junior staffer over the intercom.
"OK, I'll be out in a minute."
Back into the bathroom for another quick look in the mirror, and Senator Dormin was ready to go. Walking out the door with his staffer, he said aloud to nobody in particular "I love public service!"
As he practiced his various senatorial looks in the mirror (righteous indignation, studious interest, warm acknowledgement, and, of course, his all-purpose smile), said aloud "I wonder what my wife is up to today."
This always broke him up. It had been at least a week since they'd so much as spoken on the phone. He allowed himself this one admission per day, alone in his bathroom, of their marriage of convenience.
After a quick breakfast of a bran muffin and orange juice, he hopped in the limo, excited to start work. He read through the talking points prepared by his chief of staff. Most days there was nothing new, but he was very diligent about this. It was his most important skill: matching the correct look to each sound bite. No matter how many times he'd rehearsed and performed his lines on an issue, he still would go over and over each and every point in his mind.
Today was a little special. The senator had been newly assigned a big role by the White House. He was to help put up a smoke screen for one of the President's senior advisors, who was getting deeper and deeper into trouble with the press, and with the opposition in Congress. This would be a triple-play: studious interest as he listened to questions; righteous indignation as he explained to the press why this was all just partisan nonsense; and, naturally, a big smile as he wrapped up.
The chauffeur glanced in the mirror at the senator's facial contortions. "He's good. He's really good," he thought to himself.
A quick glance at his schedule revealed that the day started with a large portion of drudgery: making nice with big contributors. Senator Dormin had initially loved this part of his job, perhaps even more than press conferences. But as his self-confidence grew, as he became acclimated to Washington, he had diminishing patience. His own constituents were the worst. They always wanted to talk about one local issue or another. The senator could not care less about what was going on back home, unless it gave him an opportunity to get good press.
Today was no different -- behind that smile he was thinking "Just write the check, already!"
It was grueling. After two hours of glad-handing the yokels, he finally was rid of them for the day. "Hold my calls!" he barked to the receptionist, and closed his office door. Retreating to his office bathroom, he finally got in some more quality mirror time.
Back at his desk, he read his new spin assignment from the White House three more times. This looked like a fun one. He didn't know if the President's man was guilty, but it didn't matter. He wouldn't have to go anywhere near the facts of the case.
His phone beeped, and he glanced at his watch. "Time to meet the press!" said the voice of a junior staffer over the intercom.
"OK, I'll be out in a minute."
Back into the bathroom for another quick look in the mirror, and Senator Dormin was ready to go. Walking out the door with his staffer, he said aloud to nobody in particular "I love public service!"
Wednesday, July 13, 2005
Long Time Passing
Hearing "Turn, Turn, Turn" on the radio triggered memories from Jason's early childhood in the 1960s. He remembered singing another Pete Seeger song at Lutheran Bible camp -- "Where Have All the Flowers Gone?" Though written around 1956, it was an unambiguous Viet Nam War protest song.
Lutherans aren't exactly known for being liberal, but many of those Jason remembers gathered around the guitar must have been. Looking back, it all seemed a little incongruous.
The next day while picking up his children after a day their Grandma's house, he asked his mother about it.
"I was thinking about when I was a kid. We had an enormous garden, didn't we? It seemed like we picked green beans for hours and hours, though I'm sure it wasn't really all that bad. But anyway, we had that huge vegetable garden, and we'd go to summer camp and sing Pete Seeger songs. Were we communists?"
Normally Jason's mother wouldn't play along on something like this, but this time she suppressed a smile and said "Communists? No, dear, we were Lutherans."
Lutherans aren't exactly known for being liberal, but many of those Jason remembers gathered around the guitar must have been. Looking back, it all seemed a little incongruous.
The next day while picking up his children after a day their Grandma's house, he asked his mother about it.
"I was thinking about when I was a kid. We had an enormous garden, didn't we? It seemed like we picked green beans for hours and hours, though I'm sure it wasn't really all that bad. But anyway, we had that huge vegetable garden, and we'd go to summer camp and sing Pete Seeger songs. Were we communists?"
Normally Jason's mother wouldn't play along on something like this, but this time she suppressed a smile and said "Communists? No, dear, we were Lutherans."
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