DOH!!!!
Mood:  accident prone
Now Playing: "Michael Feels Like Green Onions", from Mashuptown.com
I completely forgot to redirect from here!!!

My good friend and occasional wartime roommate Andres Perales Jr., a fine photographer and all around good guy, is hosting a new blog for me. Go check out Pocket Full of Mr. E.

Well, go on! You have a lot of chtching up to do!

Haunted
Now Playing: The radio at a co-worker's desk
It's been a busy time.
I have completed a relocation to "Down South" from "Up North". Once again, the boxes arrived and I caught a flight out three days later. This time, though, it wasn't to the war. I was at an installation testing software and hardware for the military, making sure it would play nice among the various federal agencies and branches of service. Not surprisingly, it performed well above specifications, and I didn't have much to do.

One afternoon, though, I was walking through a break area where a television was tuned into CNN. There was a man argueing strenuously regarding the validity of the war effort. "It was built on a foundation of lies," he shouted at the camera, and presumable the members of Congress gathered around him, as this was in Washington, D.C. The man, however, was Scottish, and accused of taking money from Saddam Hussein that should have been used to feed people or run hospitals.

Is the man a reliable source? I couldn't say, for he was clearly trying to keep himself from being held responsible for his reprehensible greed. But his words, for some reason, cut me.

I went to Baghdad twice. The first time was for a few different easons. It was for the sake of the men and women fighting the war, on one level. I had the opportunity to do some things that would save a lot of lives if it worked, and it did. I went because it was important for me to model to the Poetlings that there are things in this world that are worth risking your life for, and that the fight against tyrrany is one of those, even if it is on behalf of some other country. That, too, was a success.

The second time I went was for one man. I left a buddy behind. He stayed there a year, leaving a wife and four children at home. Someone had to go so he could return home. When he got home, he still had the four children, but no longer had a marriage. I was too late, and though he tells me it was inevitable, I can't help but think that he could have made things work if I had gotten there sooner. Because of that failure, the previous success was all the more important to me.

But suppose the angry Scot is right.

Suppose the whole war was built on a foundation of lies. Improbable as it may seem, suppose the American President engineered all of the data, and got 30 other countries to go along with him, to satisfy some personal vendetta against Saddam. Even though Hussein is no angel, and I take pride in the fact that I had some involvement in his capture. But if all the fighting and occupation has been based on fabrication, then I have some responsibility for that, too. If thousands of young men and women from the Coalition countries have died fighting over something that someone made up, I am complicit to some extent, having made the effort more effective.

Will I ever know the truth? If I do, I'll never tell it here. I can only take comfort that, whether or not the reasons were valid, I kept some of those in the war from being killed. But that comfort occasionally grows cold indeed.

More to follow.

Blowing off the dust
Mood:  not sure
Now Playing: Seiko Matsuda - Tenshi no wink
The place hasn't changed a bit.

Not surprising, really, since I haven't been using it.

Much has happened since I last wrote here. I returned to Baghdad on a mission of some importance, and made it back out alive half a year later with a lot of interesting stories, some of which will go to my grave with me. I have lost loved ones, and others have been born. I have seen the best and worst of man's treatment of man. And I have had more than a few interesting meals with interesting people.

There will be time enough for all of that by and by. For now, I leave you with my latest poem.

Poem in Three Languages

Il mondo continua a girare.
Un uomo è sepolto, e un altro uomo è sopportato.

Una donna grida amaramente sopra la sua perdita
mentre, da un altro, quelli di flusso di gioia.

E la terra che li riceve,
avere una linguetta intorpidita
discerne nè il vint nè la fonte,
ma li consuma ardentemente tutti,
come singola bevanda.


El mundo continúa haciendo girar

Un hombre llora, mientras que otros gritos.

Un hombre levanta su puño en cólera
Mientras tanto, un otro soportan su mano mientras que ruegan.

Y el cielo que los acepta,
no entiende los emotions
esa impulsión una mano en ella,
los considera nada más
que otro árbol.


Die Welt dreht sich mit einer konstanten Geschwindigkeit

Dieser Mann heult und dieser Mann singt

Dieser Mann kreischt häßliche Wörter, die die Schmerz verursachen
am Gesicht dieses Mannes,
wer eine Hymne des Dankes
seines Gottes singt.

Und dieser Gott,
Wer sieht und hört,
Sitzt nach seinem Thron,
Wie er für eine Welt der Männer weint
sie sind, wie dumm
und unverständig
als die Masse und der Himmel.

Here is the English.

The world continues to turn.

One man dies, and another is born.

One woman sheds bitter tears of mourning
while, from another, those of joy flow.

And the Earth that receives them,
dull of palette,
discerns neither vint nor source,
but consumes them all eagerly,
as one draught.


The world continues to turn.

One man weeps, while another shouts.

One man raises a fist of rage,
While another lifts a hand in prayer.

And the sky that accepts them,
incomprehensive of the emotions
that drive a hand into it,
considers them nothing more
than another tree.


The world continues to turn.

One man rages and another man sings.

One man hurls invectives of spite
In the face of another
Who offers hymns of gratitude
To his God.

And this God,
Who sees and hears,
Sits upon his throne,
As he weeps for a world of men
Who are as undiscerning
And uncomprehending
As the Earth and Sky.

Good Luck Moving Up, 'Cause I'm ....
Moving Out.

Ladies and Gentlemen (and the rest of you), I'm moving.

Well, not me, really, but the weblog. The lovely and talented Anastasia, from Southern Musings, has found me a new home, where you will not be assaulted by banner advertisements, pop-up announcements regarding mortgage rates, or other such crude capitalistic devices.

While I was in transit from Baghdad to home, Anastasia and some other folks, to whom I am deeply grateful, relocated my entries to my new site. Instead of the confining Angelfire interface, or using Notepad to code the HTML, I get to use Movable Type, which is a fine software package that will give me some new functions, as well as more flexibility regarding the appearance of the site.

Like most of the places I have moved to, the walls are currently white, the furniture is sparse, and it will take a little time to get used to the place, but the neighbors are fine people, and I have some plans to redecorate. I have already started posting there, so head on over to see what is new, and we can find out together if I can hold an audience without the aide of small arms fire.

Some important news
I received an important message today. One that I have waited to see for many months now.

"Message received. Mission complete. The world is, once again, saved. Congratulations on a job well done."

I am coming home.

I have much preparation ahead of me, and the hour is already late. I will update as soon as I am able.

A Young Man With a Horn
As I mentioned last entry, other forces were moving in my musical life. I enjoyed my final year of secondary education so much that I decided to do it again, at the invitation of the community Board of Education. My parents, however, had already arranged to relocate to another part of the country, one quite a bit less metropolitan than my current surroundings. One where the teaching of the arts was not a priority.

I found myself going from being a big fish in a big pond, to being a shark in a puddle, for the most part. One would think that this would make things worse in the matter of complacency. But there were a few factors that changed all that. One was the absolute dearth of brass instrument players. The entire brass section of the school band was 5 players out of the 60-piece band. I found myself challenged, not to be heard, but to bring the rest of the section up to a higher level. It was my first experience with thinking outside of my own abilities and working with a team to accomplish a goal. Within a few months, we were a coherent group, and could drown out the rest of the band if we weren’t careful.

Additionally, during the concert season, there were instruments that were required that had no players. This gave me the opportunity to broaden my horizons

Another factor was the local Orchestra Master. The school had an orchestra, for string players. With the support of the community Arts Appreciation organization, she and a few members of the local community Symphony had a Gifted and Talented program after school once a week, in which they would teach more complex issues, such as music history, theory and composition, appreciation, and small performance groups. I soaked up everything I could, and even received, and accepted, an invitation to join the community Symphony, which gave me my first real experience in playing with trained Classical musicians. I loved performing with that group, composed of fine amateur musicians of all ages from around the area. They played for nothing more than the love of performance, and the opportunity to expand the cultural experience of the community. Should I ever actually finish composing a work for orchestra, they will be the ones to debut it.

But still, The Blues called to me. It was a call I couldn’t ignore. When the Gifted and Talented program started planning their annual concert and lecture, I placed myself in the list with “an arrangement”. The show was dominated by cellos, violas, and the occasional woodwind. Knowing little about what I had up my sleeve, the Director put me at the end of the programme.

I had gathered a drummer from a local garage band, and a gifted young pianist, who had never played anything more raucous than “Heart and Soul”. Added to them were the school Bandmaster, who was a fairly good Bass player, and myself on a flugelhorn, which is like a trumpet, only a bit larger, and infinitely more mellow and laid back. We had worked on the song for a week. I had to transcribe a solo for the pianist, who had never really improvised, especially with a chord structure like this. By the end, though, he was fairly hooked on the genre.

We played a little number called “All About the Blues”. It was really more of an East-Coast Jazz kind of arrangement, but it got the point across. We all took turns soloing, though mine was the only one improvised. I wasn’t paying much attention to the audience, but I am told that the parents in attendance were delighted, and a bassoon player nearly had a stroke. I was able to speak a bit after about some of the standard conventions we used in the tune; trading fours, blues calls, the structure and choice of key signature, and a few other things that make blues different than ragtime, or bebop, or swing, or any number of other genre.

We were a hit, except with that bassoon player. More than that, I got my first taste of being the “front man” for an audience. It was a milestone for me, as it gave me tremendous confidence from that point on. I decided that, if I could get up in front of an audience to play music, and not even know what I was going to play until it came out, then there wasn’t much else that I couldn’t do.

That, my friends, is how I got started in the music business. Why I left it, and how I got into the business of saving the world, are stories that I will get into one day. Imshala, as the locals say, which is literally translated as “God willing,” but is more like the Spanish “Mañana”. One day, down the road.

Ssomething Uncharacteristically Autobiographical
Last entry talked about my first exposure to the Blues, and the effect it had on me. As one memory generally triggers another, I recalled my first blues performance for a live audience. To get to that story, though, you will need a little background.

I was a fortunate kid in many ways, growing up with two supportive parents. I decided in my pre-teens that I wanted to study music in school, and that my chosen instrument was the trumpet. They protested not in the least, in spite of the full realization that I would be practicing at home. They took a snare drum that my older brother had given up, and $25, and picked up a used horn for me, and I started at the bottom, in the lowest seat of the lowest class, which is where I finished the school year. Our bandmaster gave us a “practice during the summer” speech, and mentioned that private music lessons could be useful. I had never heard of such a thing, other than people that studied the piano. I asked the parents, and they promptly signed me up at the local musicians’ supply shop.

My teacher was the professor of a local university. He was an incredibly patient man, who taught me the finer points of being in tune, physical maintenance of the instrument, and a host of other details that we didn’t really have time for in a classroom. He taught me to interpret what I saw on the page, and other important fundamentals of basic musicianship. Somehow I failed to notice that my school bandmaster was working behind the sales counter that summer as well, or if I did notice, it never occurred to me that he would be monitoring my progress. When I returned to school in the fall, he put me in the second position in the top class, and when the first test of the year came along, I found myself in the top spot for the rest of the year.

Thus it remained for my entire pre-college life. I was in the top of the top class in every school I attended. I was in the top of the regional bands. I was in the top of the pop music bands the public schools had. I attended a high school specifically geared towards performing and visual artists, in its flagship year, before such things were commonplace. There was only one goal I did not achieve. The regional Jazz Ensemble.

In my final year of high school, I had the opportunity to audition for a jazz band that would be made up of the finest young musicians in a roughly 500K radius. I wanted to do this badly. My Bandmaster discouraged it. The positions in this band generally went to students whos’ fathers owned nightclubs, and had played onstage with professionals since the age of 10. I had very little chance of success, in his estimation.

I should have done it anyway. I am sure he had good intentions, but rejection at that point in my life would have done me more good than harm, musically. The lack of real challenge from other students had caused me to become complacent. Having left the school of arts for ordinary education (over a girl, I am ashamed to admit now), I had no one to push me, or to even compete against. Fortunately, outside forces had other plans for me.

Now that you have the background, I can give you the story. Next time.

The Accidental Musician
Aimee, over at Foxfire Eclectica, has an absolutely beautiful site. It appeals on a number of levels. The visuals are just stunning. Her choice of music is a haunting tune that matches the theme of the site perfectly. Geekwise, she has some neat toys: blogmap, tagboard, streaming audio, links to environmental webcams, and some other toys that I would love to play with, had I the time and bandwidth where I am. Her writing is first-rate. She conveys her personal thoughts, feelings, and memories vividly. She is going on my regular read list, if only because it is refreshing to get away from the rockets and exploding cow carcasses for a few minutes.

She has been waxing reminiscent as of late regarding musical experiences. It put me in a mood to recall a few of my own. One most significant one came completely by accident, thanks to my Mother and a particularly busy time of year.

She had four kids to raise, Mum did. We were, for the most part, your average little hellions, not in any inordinate amount of trouble, but we were not exactly cherubim, either. And at Christmastide, we were all the more rambunctious with the anticipation of treasures galore beneath the shrubbery in the Den. Mother did what she could to keep us under control, while still fostering the excitement of the season. It was in this context that the fateful mistake occurred.

We had always enjoyed music. No one in the home could strike a lick at a banjo, much less play a song that anyone would recognize, but we enjoyed listening. My primary music education, to that point, had been an AM pop radio station that played the same 40 songs until Casey Kasem gave them permission to change the list. I had heard of classical music, but my primary exposure to it was the opening 15 seconds of reruns of “The Lone Ranger”. Folk songs were a staple of Elementary school music classes, so the works of Arlo Guthrie, Pete Seegar, and, surprisingly, Elvis Presley were in my knowledgebase, as were some of the great songs of the 1950’s. But that was the extent of my musical vocabulary. Now and then, Mother would bring home some LP record or music cassette or 8-track tape (now I’m really dating myself) from the discount rack at the department store, and this particular evening was one of those.

She thought she was bringing home Christmas music, and she thought the label said, “Charlie Brown sings Christmas Songs”. What she actually had brought home was Please Come Home For Christmas, by the great blues composer and musician Charles Brown. You are most likely familiar with the title cut from the album, which has been covered by dozens of artist over the years. The link to the album has some streaming samples.

It was my first real taste of the blues. I didn’t quite know what to make of it at first. It was one of those milestones in a man’s life, like his first shot of whiskey, or his first love, or his first heartbreak. It was so foreign, partly because my parents had done such a fine job of parenting. This time of year was always full of light, and laughter, and joy. This man was not just singing blues songs, he was Singin’ the Blues. He was belting out the deep down, sleepin’ on the sidewalk, can’t win for losin’, my woman done left me, ain’t got nothin’ but the shirt on my back and I’d sell that for a good stiff belt o’ gin Blues. It felt bad, but it felt good. The words do not exist to describe it appropriately, in any language with which I have any familiarity. If you haven’t experienced it, you won’t be able to understand it, and if you have, then you are likely just nodding quietly to yourself.

So that accidental moment changed my entire life. Of course, I sounded cute trying to sing Blues in my childhood, and I sounded spoiled and arrogant trying to sing Blues in my early teens. Until you go through it, and come out the other side, blues is self-pity. Once you make it there, though, Blues is a reminder that it’s been worse, and you’ve made it through before. After a few heartbreaks, and a few hangovers, and a few layoffs, and a few episodes of getting back up off the ground with a boot print on my backside, I can now pull it off without sounding too stupid. And I owe it largely to Mum, and being too busy to read the label carefully.

A shameful confession, and a fond memory
It's time that I came clean on this issue. I hope this isn't a disapointment to the five of you, but I need to get this out in the open. I have been in denial about this for a long time, but it's getting to the point that I can't hide it from myself any longer. Heaven knows I must have been found out by now. There are some things that everyone around realises before we do ourselves.

I had my first taste of it in South Korea. A few friends took me along with them to a little place they knew. It was a smokey room, somewhat dark, and everyone was doing it. Well, almost everyone. Some just thought it was funny to watch. Someone suggested I give it a try. I thought, "What could it hurt? It's just one."

I told the man what I wanted. He told me I would have to wait my turn. They actually had people in LINE. I had to put my name on a list.

I'll never forget my first, though. In The Midnight Hour by Wilson Pickett. From that moment, I formed an unhealthy attachment to karaoke.

Years down the road, and hundreds of songs, I still get the itch for it. I can remember the high points. There were contests I won, involving cash money. There was the cheering of the crowd at the end of Unchained Melody.

There were the degrading moments, to. I once, at the request of a friend, actually sang a Madonna song. There were times I sang in groups of people that could have stunned a water buffalo at 30 metres. And there were those I encouraged, in spite of the pain they were causing.

I had a friend who could not sing. There are many people that will tell you they cannot sing, but Rob was one of those people whom everyone else told you they couldn't sing. Every Friday and Saturday night, without fail, Rob was up there. Rob could not carry a tune in a bucket. Heck, Rob could not carry a tune in a backhoe. Listening to him was like sitting through the suffering of an elephant getting a hemoroid treatment.

The only thing worse than Rob's singing was his dancing. Rob had the moves, alright. He had the moves of an arthritic, epeleptic leech. Sometimes he would try to do this little spin while he was singing, and lose his balance, as well as his place in the song, and just stand there and stare at the screen for a few moments, his mouth in an "O" shape, his eyes slightly squinted, until he found his spot. Those were the moments we prayed for.

Rob had an incredible knack for choosing bad music. Calendar Girl, Joy To The World (sorry to all you Three Dog Night fans, but, face it, it'a a lousy song), the only thing that could have possible made those songs worse was Rob's voice.

The combination was almost deadly. It was like a malevolent force of nature, hurled at an unsuspecting crowd. Like facing a hurricane or a typhoon, all you could do was brace yourself. The crowd heckled him with passion and enthusiasm. And when he was done, they would cheer wildly, not for the performance, but like those people you see in mid-1970's disaster films, who have survived some catastrophic event.

My favorite part, though, was the smile on Rob's face at the end. Rob knew he sang like a hound dog with a belly ache, and couldn't dance his way out of a wet paper bag. But he had fun. And he encouraged other people to get up there and have fun, too. People would buy him a beverage and say, "You know, I didn't have the nerve to get up there in front of all those people, but now I know that I can't possibly be the worst guy up there tonight." He actually enjoyed that. Or maybe it was the free beverages. Either way, he had a good time.

I am reminded of Rob every now and again, when someone tells me that they don't have the nerve to do something because the crowd will be watching. Rob is a good friend, and a brave man.

I wonder what he is up to now ...

The Married-vs-Single Debate continues, and I stay out
My friend The Yeti seems to have taken exception with Deb, who had taken exception with Neil Steinberg of the Chicago Sun-Times, who took exception to people responding to a column written by Richard Roeper, in response to other people's response to a University of Chicago study that says the average American adult, in an urban setting, will spend the majority of his or her life unmarried.

If you think that was a difficult chain to follow, try typing the web links for it.

So let me see if I have this straight.

Mr. Roeper thinks married people should get off the collective back of their single friends, because being single, in his environment, is the social norm.

Mr. Steinberg thinks that single people that are over the age of 30 are desperate, lonely people that have deluded themselves into believing that they have to wait around for someone that is far closer to perfect than they will ever be, and yet will marry them anyway.

Deb thinks Steinberg is a jerk, because frequently single people are not married because they have fulfilled lives just the way they are, and don't need to "settle" just so they can "settle down", and that a reasonable person could attribute the current high divorce rate to people who thought they could "settle" and realised they were dissatisfied with their choices.

Yeti thinks that Deb should have read the article more carefully, because there is a large difference between "settling" and accepting someone, in spite of their flaws, and making a life with them, and that married people do make the majority of contribution to society in general (althought this isn't really his major point).

To add to the mix, each of these commentators, all of whom I enjoyed reading, have various comments from readers at each of their sites (or, in the case of the Sun-Times, letters to the Editor) in which their views are supported or refuted.

And people wonder why I love the internet.

This is a great example of the kind of interaction that society has been missing for a few decades. It may not be the kind of face-to-face animated discussions our grandparents had at the ice-cream social on Saturday afternoon at Esterhauzy Memorial Park, sponsored by the Optomistic Veteran Ruritanial Rotary Lions of the Order of the Mystic Coffee Table, but it is a step toward the kind of social interaction that we once enjoyed as a society. And I believe, as technology advances, we will break the divisions down even further.

Feel free to argue the point with me, or among yourselves. Of course, that would prove my point all the more.