The Boy Scout Troop has been struggling the last couple of years with low attendance. There are only a handful of boys now registered, and most of them are about to age out.
The minimum to maintain a Troop is five (5). By next April, we will be down to one (1).
There are other Troops in the area who don't seem to be suffering from the same problem as ours. One of the troops just up the road has nearly sixty boys; another, up north of town, has eighty. So we know there are eager Webelos IIs out there, somewhere; but when it comes time for them to check out potential Boy Scout troops in the area, they either don't come to ours, or they show up once and never again afterward.
It's a bit disheartening.
Part of the problem, as we have observed since we first arrived in this area, is that none of the Scouts actually attend the church which sponsors the Troop. That's very odd. In most cases, the Troop is an outreach of the Youth Ministry at the church. In fact, according to the typical charter, both the Scoutmaster and the charter organization representative are members of the church. (The charter organization representative is often the Youth Minister for the church.)
When we started with the Troop, there were a few people at church who knew that a Scout troop met there, but no one was participating, not even the youth minister.
The consequence of this disassociation is that the church staff starts to treat the Troop like just another community group who happens to borrow a room in the building during the week. And when something inevitably goes wrong (e.g. boys will be boys, things will be broken or left in a mess), the staff takes punitive measures. Can you imagine the staff telling the youth minister that the youth group will no longer be allowed to meet in the building because they failed to put the chairs back properly after their last meeting? Yet that becomes the response when the relationship between the Troop and the church is so skewed. And then all kinds of tension builds up, and communication breaks down, and then even more problems occur.
I have worked very hard over the past few years to patch the relationship between the church and the Troop, but it still faces the near-insurmountable obstacle that none of the church members, other than myself, are involved with the Troop. There are no children interested, no parents asking questions about joining, no elders or deacons with sufficient bandwidth to participate. I have talked to the leadership numerous times about it; while they are enthusiastic about the idea of hosting a Boy Scout troop, they are all too overhwhelmed with other critical concerns to play a more active role.
There is also a lingering sentiment on the part of the staff that the Scouts are just another community organization, so they aren't allowed to put up posters or bulletin boards or anything that might advertise their existence. I'm not quite sure how to handle this, since that viewpoint is informed mostly by the fact that the church is not invested in the Troop in the same way they are with other mission work. Were there more direct involvement, it would obviously be a more pressing, more supported concern.
Then there is the economic angle. Scouting is getting to be a very expensive exercise; and, with the latest re-organization of the Michigan council (which was not, in my opinion, done well), that situation isn't going to change any time soon. It's difficult to approach a parent with yet another activity for a child that will cost money, and oh, by the way, we're not too keen on the way they've organized things, although we really haven't had time to know if it will work out. It might be a bit off-putting.
It's equally as difficult to approach a parent about joining a group that is already struggling. We had contacted a Council rep who was supposed to show up at our meeting last week to discuss how to save the Troop; from what he had told us when he took on the job, there are other local troops of boys in need of adult leaders and/or places to meet. But he never appeared. And he didn't return my calls or emails. And he never called anyone to explain his absence. My only conclusion is that he gave us up as a Lost Cause.
So, as we face dissolution of the Troop1, we are left with a large number of things to resolve: selling off our inventory of camping supplies, finding another group willing to purchase our trailer, and finding a place to store enough supplies so that, if in the future the Troop gets restarted, we are ready.
Meanwhile, we had our next-to-last2 Court of Honor tonight, and the Committee decided to do it all in grand style: a catered dinner of barbecued ribs, gift cards for the adult leaders, a birthday cake for one of the old guys, and some heartfelt comments from the Scoutmaster.
Oh, and some Merit Badges were handed out, too!
1The Troop was established in 1958, making it over 50 years old!
2We'll have one more Court of Honor when our last Scout completes his requirements for Eagle.
Tuesday, February 28, 2012
Sunday, February 26, 2012
MP3 Power Supply Project
James came up with an interesting idea for his MP3 player. He wanted to be able to play it while in his room without using up all the AAA batteries in the world.
Oddly enough, his MP3 player doesn't work from USB power. (I assume you are aware that most USB devices can be powered through the 5 volts coming through the cable which connects to your computer.) If you plug in the USB, it assumes you want to transfer files to or from your MP3 player, and it won't operate in "Play" mode, only in "Transfer" mode.
So the trick is to create a fake battery which can reside in the battery compartment but actually carry power from some other source.
It's not that hard to create a fake battery; just cut a dowel to size, put brass screws (borrowed from a handy wall plug), on each end, and run wires from the screws to whatever external power supply you happen to have handy.
Of course, the power supply must be able to output 1.5 Volts.
Those aren't readily available, unfortunately. The best we could come up with was one of those variable wall-warts (i.e. transformers) with a 3 Volt setting. James was already using it to power another device, so all we needed to do, was to devise a simple circuit which could convert the 3 Volts to 1.5 Volts.
That's where I came in.
I found a circuit in one of my old Radio Shack books that uses a very common LM317 voltage regulator, and created a prototype circuit board with appropriate resistors to transform the input voltage to a steady 1.45 Volt output voltage. Easy as pie.
James found some PVC pipe and a rubber end cap to encapsulate the device. And the we attached it to the fake battery.
Then we put it all together ...
... and there it is! The adapter of his dreams!
And now James can listen to his music without using up batteries!
NOTE: Wall-wart and MP3 player battery case cover not shown. Yeah, we cut a hole in the battery case cover so it could still be used when the adapter is in place, but I don't have a picture of that. The MP3 player seems to have disappeared into his room...
Oddly enough, his MP3 player doesn't work from USB power. (I assume you are aware that most USB devices can be powered through the 5 volts coming through the cable which connects to your computer.) If you plug in the USB, it assumes you want to transfer files to or from your MP3 player, and it won't operate in "Play" mode, only in "Transfer" mode.
So the trick is to create a fake battery which can reside in the battery compartment but actually carry power from some other source.
It's not that hard to create a fake battery; just cut a dowel to size, put brass screws (borrowed from a handy wall plug), on each end, and run wires from the screws to whatever external power supply you happen to have handy.
Of course, the power supply must be able to output 1.5 Volts.
Those aren't readily available, unfortunately. The best we could come up with was one of those variable wall-warts (i.e. transformers) with a 3 Volt setting. James was already using it to power another device, so all we needed to do, was to devise a simple circuit which could convert the 3 Volts to 1.5 Volts.
That's where I came in.
I found a circuit in one of my old Radio Shack books that uses a very common LM317 voltage regulator, and created a prototype circuit board with appropriate resistors to transform the input voltage to a steady 1.45 Volt output voltage. Easy as pie.
James found some PVC pipe and a rubber end cap to encapsulate the device. And the we attached it to the fake battery.
Then we put it all together ...
... and there it is! The adapter of his dreams!
And now James can listen to his music without using up batteries!
NOTE: Wall-wart and MP3 player battery case cover not shown. Yeah, we cut a hole in the battery case cover so it could still be used when the adapter is in place, but I don't have a picture of that. The MP3 player seems to have disappeared into his room...
Friday, February 24, 2012
More Snow. Just in time for the Sympony!
We tracked the storm on the radar as it came across Wisconsin and then the Lake, building strength all the way. It looked like nothing but a lot of rain until a burst of cold air suddenly dropped down from Canada and walloped it upside the head, and, suddenly, we were being inundated with snow. Big, fat, fluffy flakes of snow.
I don't know why the cancelled school. It was only 3 to 5 inches, which is really nothing in Michigan. But apparently the general slushiness was too much for the buses to handle - and it actually did make the roads a bit difficult to maintain traction - so the kids got a day off. At last!
My only worry was for our evening plans. We had tickets to attend the Symphony. Our second performance out of four. And, so far, we were batting a thousand on the weather. Both times, we were driving downtown in the snow.
Tonight's performance was entitled, "Two Brandenburgs", but instead of being two of the original Bach Brandenburg concertos, it consisted of one Bach, one Moravec concerto, and a Brahms serenade. I guess it's easier to say "Two Brandenburgs" than "One Brandenburg, One Brandenburg-inspired, and One Brahms". Perhaps they could've just gone with "Mosey on Down to the Triple-B".
Again with the snow. The ride down was uneventful. We dined at a nearby restaurant which failed to live up to our expectations, mainly due to poor staffing (ostensibly due to weather) and bad service. (Note to people running Asian restaurants: There is no way you can be Out Of Tea (OOT). That concept does not exist. If you are OOT, you are only a faux-Asian restaurant, and must advertise as such.)
Owing to the fact that the restaurant was nearby, which may be its only saving grace, we were able to endure the delay in receiving our food, walking the short distance to the venue without any need for haste, and arriving in plenty of time to arrange ourselves in our seats before the place had filled up.
The first piece, Bach's Concerto #4, was lovely, as always. Just perfect for putting the addled and anxious mind to rest. It was played wonderfully, complete with harpsichord, which was played by the conductor while he directed the symphony. Quite amusing to watch, as he sat on the bench to play a few measures, then half-rose off the bench to wave his arms at one part of the orchestra or another, then back on the bench to finish the piece.
Interesting bit of trivia of which I had not been aware: early orchestras did not have conductors. Oftentimes they would simply follow the lead musician, who was at the keyboard. So for this first piece, the "conductor" was being very true to the old style.
The second piece was not in actuality a classic Brandenburg from Bach, but a companion or tribute piece, written by a living composer, Paul Moravec. It was called "Brandenburg Gate", which, to my understanding of the introduction (by the composer himself, who was in attendance), was supposed to serve as a bridge (or gate) between the classic melody and beat of the Bach era and the modern era.
I was not impressed. Suffice it to say that "modern" dissonance does not serve to bridge the gap between the symphonic music of Bach and that of today.
The third piece was, thankfully, a return to harmony and peace: Brahm's Serenade #2. Ah, it was wonderful! So peaceful, so happy. So lacking in dissonance.
It was a delightful way to end the evening. We'll just forget about that second piece and call this evening "Bach to Brahms: The Return of Melody".
I don't know why the cancelled school. It was only 3 to 5 inches, which is really nothing in Michigan. But apparently the general slushiness was too much for the buses to handle - and it actually did make the roads a bit difficult to maintain traction - so the kids got a day off. At last!
My only worry was for our evening plans. We had tickets to attend the Symphony. Our second performance out of four. And, so far, we were batting a thousand on the weather. Both times, we were driving downtown in the snow.
Tonight's performance was entitled, "Two Brandenburgs", but instead of being two of the original Bach Brandenburg concertos, it consisted of one Bach, one Moravec concerto, and a Brahms serenade. I guess it's easier to say "Two Brandenburgs" than "One Brandenburg, One Brandenburg-inspired, and One Brahms". Perhaps they could've just gone with "Mosey on Down to the Triple-B".
Again with the snow. The ride down was uneventful. We dined at a nearby restaurant which failed to live up to our expectations, mainly due to poor staffing (ostensibly due to weather) and bad service. (Note to people running Asian restaurants: There is no way you can be Out Of Tea (OOT). That concept does not exist. If you are OOT, you are only a faux-Asian restaurant, and must advertise as such.)
Owing to the fact that the restaurant was nearby, which may be its only saving grace, we were able to endure the delay in receiving our food, walking the short distance to the venue without any need for haste, and arriving in plenty of time to arrange ourselves in our seats before the place had filled up.
The first piece, Bach's Concerto #4, was lovely, as always. Just perfect for putting the addled and anxious mind to rest. It was played wonderfully, complete with harpsichord, which was played by the conductor while he directed the symphony. Quite amusing to watch, as he sat on the bench to play a few measures, then half-rose off the bench to wave his arms at one part of the orchestra or another, then back on the bench to finish the piece.
Interesting bit of trivia of which I had not been aware: early orchestras did not have conductors. Oftentimes they would simply follow the lead musician, who was at the keyboard. So for this first piece, the "conductor" was being very true to the old style.
The second piece was not in actuality a classic Brandenburg from Bach, but a companion or tribute piece, written by a living composer, Paul Moravec. It was called "Brandenburg Gate", which, to my understanding of the introduction (by the composer himself, who was in attendance), was supposed to serve as a bridge (or gate) between the classic melody and beat of the Bach era and the modern era.
I was not impressed. Suffice it to say that "modern" dissonance does not serve to bridge the gap between the symphonic music of Bach and that of today.
The third piece was, thankfully, a return to harmony and peace: Brahm's Serenade #2. Ah, it was wonderful! So peaceful, so happy. So lacking in dissonance.
It was a delightful way to end the evening. We'll just forget about that second piece and call this evening "Bach to Brahms: The Return of Melody".
Wednesday, February 22, 2012
Vampire Tag
I'd like to think that I'm a good influence on the children in my Wednesday night Bible class. Yet sometimes it appears that my influence is less than desirable.
Take Vampire Tag. (Please.) Where on earth did THIS come from?
First of all, we're playing with Play-Doh, creating people for our Bible Lesson where this group of friends knocks a hole in someone's roof so they can drop their friend through the hole down into the room where Jesus is hanging out with a crowd, so Jesus will see the guy and heal him. (Sounds like a bunch of hooligans, if you ask me!) The plan is for the kids to make people in the crowd (e.g. disciples, onlookers) while I make Jesus and the guy who is supposed to be healed. Then we act out the story.
So I pull out the Play-Doh and the tools (rollers, plastic knives, molds, etc.) and show the kids what to do. Simple enough. Roll balls for heads and torsos, then roll "snakes" to form the arms and legs. Ta-da! People.
But a couple of the kids discover these Vampire molds among the tools -- where did THESE come from?!? -- and start making vampires instead of people. Why? Because they're all LAZY. Because rolling clay is too HARD. Because they'd rather do it all in one fell swoop and just press these molds into the clay and have "instant" people.
Well, Vampire people.
So now they have vampires on the brain. I'm trying to teach them about Jesus healing the man who was lowered through the roof, they're taking the clay vampire figures and attacking each other. Kind of like Twilight in Play-Doh.
We make it through the lesson (somehow) and they kind of get the point, then we go to the gym so they can run off all their excess energy. (And at this age, which is 4 years to 4th grade, they have LOTS of energy!) They want to play tag. Okay, I ask; do you want to play regular tag, or freeze tag?
Vampire tag! they all say.
Huh? What's that? I ask with a dumbfounded expression on my face.
Well, apparently, that's where you have vampire children who run around the gym, chasing the sole "human" (i.e. Teacher), trying to get him. Not sure what they're supposed to do with him when they get him, because for some reason, Teacher is not allowed to be a vampire; but that's probably beside the point, because the fun is in the chasing, not the catching.
Good thing they haven't actually seen "Twilight", or they'd want to play Werewolf tag as well.
Take Vampire Tag. (Please.) Where on earth did THIS come from?
First of all, we're playing with Play-Doh, creating people for our Bible Lesson where this group of friends knocks a hole in someone's roof so they can drop their friend through the hole down into the room where Jesus is hanging out with a crowd, so Jesus will see the guy and heal him. (Sounds like a bunch of hooligans, if you ask me!) The plan is for the kids to make people in the crowd (e.g. disciples, onlookers) while I make Jesus and the guy who is supposed to be healed. Then we act out the story.
So I pull out the Play-Doh and the tools (rollers, plastic knives, molds, etc.) and show the kids what to do. Simple enough. Roll balls for heads and torsos, then roll "snakes" to form the arms and legs. Ta-da! People.
But a couple of the kids discover these Vampire molds among the tools -- where did THESE come from?!? -- and start making vampires instead of people. Why? Because they're all LAZY. Because rolling clay is too HARD. Because they'd rather do it all in one fell swoop and just press these molds into the clay and have "instant" people.
Well, Vampire people.
So now they have vampires on the brain. I'm trying to teach them about Jesus healing the man who was lowered through the roof, they're taking the clay vampire figures and attacking each other. Kind of like Twilight in Play-Doh.
We make it through the lesson (somehow) and they kind of get the point, then we go to the gym so they can run off all their excess energy. (And at this age, which is 4 years to 4th grade, they have LOTS of energy!) They want to play tag. Okay, I ask; do you want to play regular tag, or freeze tag?
Vampire tag! they all say.
Huh? What's that? I ask with a dumbfounded expression on my face.
Well, apparently, that's where you have vampire children who run around the gym, chasing the sole "human" (i.e. Teacher), trying to get him. Not sure what they're supposed to do with him when they get him, because for some reason, Teacher is not allowed to be a vampire; but that's probably beside the point, because the fun is in the chasing, not the catching.
Good thing they haven't actually seen "Twilight", or they'd want to play Werewolf tag as well.
Saturday, February 18, 2012
The True Grit of Beetlejuice
So we were in Meijer late on Thursday night getting groceries (among other things) and I "accidentally" wandered into the Entertainment section and "accidentally" found these two movies which were on sale, so managed to drop them into the cart while no one was looking. (Actually, she was looking, but she didn't immediately throw them back onto the shelf, so that counts as a good thing.)
One of them was an ancient thing which we hadn't seen in many long years but remembered fondly, and the other was a recent production for which I'd been waiting a long time to obtain.
As we didn't have time to watch either of them that night, we postponed our viewing activity until a more opportune moment. Friday, for instance. Our traditional movie + pizza night.
When Friday night finally rolled around, we decided to show the first one. The kids weren't familiar with it, and were actually hoping to watch the other one, which they'd heard of (and at least one had already seen); but we wanted to share the older one first in the hope that it might give them insight into the influences of our early lives during those carefree days of yore. So they rolled their eyes and sighed and sat back with their bowls of popcorn and waited to be entertained and enlightened.
Beetlejuice (1988)
I had forgotten that Michael Keaton had such a mouth on him back in those days. He was one of those angry young comedians who had realized early on that shocking audiences was one way of becoming (in)famous. This was pre-"Batman" (1989), post-"Mr Mom" (1983), when he was really starting to make a name for himself. You might also remember him from "Night Shift" (1982), "Johnny Dangerously" (1984), and "Clean and Sober" (1984). Past 1988, you might not remember him for anything, because nothing since then has been as popular.
[He was also 'Dogberry' in "Much Ado about Nothing" in 1993, which allowed him to play an insane role in an otherwise unremarkable production of the play, but since most of his fans didn't share his affection for Shakespeare, it wasn't a box-office smash, so did nothing to solidify his acting credentials.]
Then there's Alec Baldwin. He was so good in this role, so understated. So skinny. Now he is not skinny. It's like a completely different person. Hard to remember this version of him when watching "30 Rock" (which I don't) or the numerous Saturday Night Live sketches (which I do). Even less so when listening to him hosting The New York Philharmonic on PBS, because his voice is much deeper and sonorous now, like a real radio announcer.
Not to forget Geena Davis. She has had a lot of good roles over the years. "Thelma and Louise", "Stuart Little", "Tootsie", "Fletch", "The Fly", "Earth Girls are Easy", "The Accidental Tourist", "A League of Their Own", "Cutthroat Island". (Okay, we'd really like to forget that last one; it was a total dud.)
And, of course, Winona Ryder, who's been in many notable movies, like "Heathers", "Edward Scisssorhands", "Mermaids", "Dracula", "Little Women", "Girl, Interrupted", "Star Trek", "Black Swan". She's always ... interesting. And quirky. Did you know she was raised in a commune? And considers San Francisco her home? Figures.
Rounding out the cast are, of course, Catherine O'Hara (whom I'll always and forever associate with SCTV) and Jeffrey Jones (actually Principal Edward Rooney in disguise), who can always be counted on for interesting character performances.
I don't think the kids were as impressed with it as we were back in the day. The humor is kind of off-kilter, kind of mean-spirited in a way that was novel and bizzare at the time - after all, it is Tim Burton! - but everyone has gotten used to it in the years since, so it is doesn't have the impact it once did.
And I was a bit embarrassed that by the language in that one scene where Beetlejuice loses his temper with the Maitlands and uses a very naughty word.
Not sure how often we'll re-watch that one.
True Grit (2010)
Language was actually the main draw for our next feature, which we watched tonight. When I saw this movie the first time (in the theater), I had to rush out and buy the book, just to see if it was written in the same style. The book is highly entertaining. The dialogue in the movie is incredible.
The quotes on the IMDB page don't really do them justice because you can't hear them being said. And that's where this movie just shines, in the way the actors deliver their lines. Dead-pan verbosity, the kind that drops you right into the middle of the American West in the 1870s and tells you exactly where you are.
It's all got a Mark Twain home-spun sound to it.
Jeff Bridges just disappears into this role as Rooster Cogburn. Sitting on the witness stand during the trial, dueling words with the lawyers and keeping his cool under pressure; sleeping in the backroom of the store where he seems to be eking out a pathetic living, living moment-to-moment; laying out the rope around his bedroll to keep the snakes away; his reaction to Mattie's and LaBoeuf's impetuousness; and his final rundown with the Pepper gang; they all add up to a rich and colorful character who comes completely alive in the viewer's mind.
Matt Damon has a bit of a struggle with his character, LaBoeuf, but that's mainly due to the fact that his is not immediately likeable, not in the "old rogue" sense that endears us to Rooster; instead, he's a relatively young opinionated egotistical snot of a person who rubs everyone the wrong way with his outlandish clothes and imperious manner. It's only in the last few scenes that we start to feel some sympathy for the man, but by then, his part is nearly done, and we never find out what happened to him after all.
Hailee Steinfeld's Mattie Ross hits it dead-on with her portrayal of the Girl on a Mission. No-nonsense, unswerving from her goal, and completely oblivious to the undercurrents of hostility between the adults. She captures the tone of the novel (which is being narrated by Mattie) perfectly.
It's the kind of movie that grabs your attention the first time, and then makes you want to sit through it again and again just to hear the marvelous delivery of dialogue.
One of them was an ancient thing which we hadn't seen in many long years but remembered fondly, and the other was a recent production for which I'd been waiting a long time to obtain.
As we didn't have time to watch either of them that night, we postponed our viewing activity until a more opportune moment. Friday, for instance. Our traditional movie + pizza night.
When Friday night finally rolled around, we decided to show the first one. The kids weren't familiar with it, and were actually hoping to watch the other one, which they'd heard of (and at least one had already seen); but we wanted to share the older one first in the hope that it might give them insight into the influences of our early lives during those carefree days of yore. So they rolled their eyes and sighed and sat back with their bowls of popcorn and waited to be entertained and enlightened.
Beetlejuice (1988)
I had forgotten that Michael Keaton had such a mouth on him back in those days. He was one of those angry young comedians who had realized early on that shocking audiences was one way of becoming (in)famous. This was pre-"Batman" (1989), post-"Mr Mom" (1983), when he was really starting to make a name for himself. You might also remember him from "Night Shift" (1982), "Johnny Dangerously" (1984), and "Clean and Sober" (1984). Past 1988, you might not remember him for anything, because nothing since then has been as popular.
[He was also 'Dogberry' in "Much Ado about Nothing" in 1993, which allowed him to play an insane role in an otherwise unremarkable production of the play, but since most of his fans didn't share his affection for Shakespeare, it wasn't a box-office smash, so did nothing to solidify his acting credentials.]
Then there's Alec Baldwin. He was so good in this role, so understated. So skinny. Now he is not skinny. It's like a completely different person. Hard to remember this version of him when watching "30 Rock" (which I don't) or the numerous Saturday Night Live sketches (which I do). Even less so when listening to him hosting The New York Philharmonic on PBS, because his voice is much deeper and sonorous now, like a real radio announcer.
Not to forget Geena Davis. She has had a lot of good roles over the years. "Thelma and Louise", "Stuart Little", "Tootsie", "Fletch", "The Fly", "Earth Girls are Easy", "The Accidental Tourist", "A League of Their Own", "Cutthroat Island". (Okay, we'd really like to forget that last one; it was a total dud.)
And, of course, Winona Ryder, who's been in many notable movies, like "Heathers", "Edward Scisssorhands", "Mermaids", "Dracula", "Little Women", "Girl, Interrupted", "Star Trek", "Black Swan". She's always ... interesting. And quirky. Did you know she was raised in a commune? And considers San Francisco her home? Figures.
Rounding out the cast are, of course, Catherine O'Hara (whom I'll always and forever associate with SCTV) and Jeffrey Jones (actually Principal Edward Rooney in disguise), who can always be counted on for interesting character performances.
I don't think the kids were as impressed with it as we were back in the day. The humor is kind of off-kilter, kind of mean-spirited in a way that was novel and bizzare at the time - after all, it is Tim Burton! - but everyone has gotten used to it in the years since, so it is doesn't have the impact it once did.
And I was a bit embarrassed that by the language in that one scene where Beetlejuice loses his temper with the Maitlands and uses a very naughty word.
Not sure how often we'll re-watch that one.
True Grit (2010)
Language was actually the main draw for our next feature, which we watched tonight. When I saw this movie the first time (in the theater), I had to rush out and buy the book, just to see if it was written in the same style. The book is highly entertaining. The dialogue in the movie is incredible.
The quotes on the IMDB page don't really do them justice because you can't hear them being said. And that's where this movie just shines, in the way the actors deliver their lines. Dead-pan verbosity, the kind that drops you right into the middle of the American West in the 1870s and tells you exactly where you are.
It's all got a Mark Twain home-spun sound to it.
Jeff Bridges just disappears into this role as Rooster Cogburn. Sitting on the witness stand during the trial, dueling words with the lawyers and keeping his cool under pressure; sleeping in the backroom of the store where he seems to be eking out a pathetic living, living moment-to-moment; laying out the rope around his bedroll to keep the snakes away; his reaction to Mattie's and LaBoeuf's impetuousness; and his final rundown with the Pepper gang; they all add up to a rich and colorful character who comes completely alive in the viewer's mind.
Matt Damon has a bit of a struggle with his character, LaBoeuf, but that's mainly due to the fact that his is not immediately likeable, not in the "old rogue" sense that endears us to Rooster; instead, he's a relatively young opinionated egotistical snot of a person who rubs everyone the wrong way with his outlandish clothes and imperious manner. It's only in the last few scenes that we start to feel some sympathy for the man, but by then, his part is nearly done, and we never find out what happened to him after all.
Hailee Steinfeld's Mattie Ross hits it dead-on with her portrayal of the Girl on a Mission. No-nonsense, unswerving from her goal, and completely oblivious to the undercurrents of hostility between the adults. She captures the tone of the novel (which is being narrated by Mattie) perfectly.
It's the kind of movie that grabs your attention the first time, and then makes you want to sit through it again and again just to hear the marvelous delivery of dialogue.
We'll definitely watch this one again soon. Although I might have to skip past the snake-pit scene. That one always makes me feel a bit queasy.
Tuesday, February 14, 2012
St. Valentine's Day
Geoffrey Chaucer was the first one to put two-and-two together to form the "holy-day" we now call Valentine's Day, though he never met the man (Valentine) personally, having been separated from him by several centuries and, doubtless, several core religious principles.
In a bizarre little poem reminescent of a drug-induced dream, Chaucer wrote:
Did you know that there are multiple sainted Valentines?
There's Valentine of Rome; Valentine of of Terni; a third Valentine who was martyred in Africa; and numerous others. There's probably enough for every day of the year, since Valentine was a popular name back in the day, and there were probably a number of them who were martyred as early Christians.
Weird factoid: Valentine's skull (the Roman one) is available for your viewing pleasure - crowned with flowers - in the Basilica of Santa Maria in Cosmedin, Rome. Wanna see a pictures? Take a look. You sick puppy.
No one is sure why Chaucer decided to connect the idea of all these birds gathering to choose their mates with the martyrdom of a particular (albeit non-specific) early Christian, but once he got the ball rolling, things just got nuttier and nuttier.
Even Shakespeare got into the act.
Oh, well, she got her wish. Eventually.
There are numerous other legends and myths and tall tales surrounding the romantic legend of St. Valentine, most of them originating in the romance-obsessed courts of Medeival kings (and queens). Gotta wonder what those folks were doing if they had so much time on their hands to come up with this weird idea of "romantic love".
Especially when much of it was happening between people who were married to other people.
Perhaps it was a rebellion against the ancient custom of arranged marriages and political marriages. And all those poor ladies who were stuck in loveless marriages to kings and princes and lords and dukes and counts and viscounts dreamed of finding their true love with a rich and powerful knight who would come riding in on his big white stallion and sweep her off her stool (where she had been idly stitching tapestries) and take her away to his castle by the sea -- where she would be stuck in a lonely, boring tower all day sitting on a stool idly stitching tapestries while he rode off on yet another Crusade.
Doesn't really sound all that romantic to me.
Most of it sounds like a bunch of marketing material invented by one of - or all of - the greeting card companies. Or the chocolate confection companies. Or the florists. Somebody with a vested interest in maintaining the "holy-day" wherein men buy cards, candies, and flowers for the women they love. (And don't forget jewelry!)
My favorite story is the "origin" of the Valentine's Card. According to History.com, Valentine had been arrested for helping out some Christians, and while he was imprisoned, he sent the first "valentine" missive to his jailor's daughter, who had either been cured of her blindness by the Saint, or was simply kind enough to visit him in prison. He even signed it, "from your Valentine," which seems kind of cheesy, even for AD 269.
All very nice, very sentimental, and very un-confirmed. But very profitable for the greeting-card companies.
* *
It is very difficult to set aside one day among the other three hundred and sixty-five (and one-quarter) others to devote to remembrances of this type when my mindset is so perpendicular to singular-event celebrations. I'm far too random for this. I don't plan well. I don't do checklists. I have difficulty with traditions. Yet I thank God every day that my wife, who is rather fond of these kinds of celebrations, is tolerant of my inability to maintain the proper traditions. So she doesn't mind too much when we don't make a big deal out of Valentine's Day or any of the other holidays, so long as I never let her forget that she is the love of my life and I think about her all the time, and would lay down my life for her.
So what did we do for Valentine's Day?
I had bought flowers the night before so that we could have some pretty things to decorate the table: purple, pink, white and green accents. Very fragrant. We had a nice dinner with the family. Then Mary and I had to rush over to the church to babysit some children. Mary entertained the young girls while I got to hold the infant and try to make him laugh with goofy faces. Then it was time for Boy Scouts, in which I worked with the boys on their Family Life merit badges. Then it was time to head over to the high school to drop off the camera for the http://redstormrobotics.com/robot. Then home to do our family reading (C.S. Lewis's "The Horse and his Boy"). Then putting kids to bed, watching the late news, and heading off to bed ourselves.
Heady stuff for such a momentous day. But sometimes that's just the way life is.
In a bizarre little poem reminescent of a drug-induced dream, Chaucer wrote:
For this was on St. Valentine's DaySo, apparently, the first connection between romantic love and St. Valentine came by way of birds, who all got together on Valentine's Day in order to pick their mates. But mid-February seems awfully premature for festivities of that nature. Most of the birds I know handle such matters in the early springtime, when the weather is more conducive to large outdoor gatherings. So it is thought perhaps that Chaucer wasn't even thinking of February 14th, but a day in early May. And he was thinking of a different St. Valentine.
when every bird comes there to choose his mate[1]
Did you know that there are multiple sainted Valentines?
There's Valentine of Rome; Valentine of of Terni; a third Valentine who was martyred in Africa; and numerous others. There's probably enough for every day of the year, since Valentine was a popular name back in the day, and there were probably a number of them who were martyred as early Christians.
Weird factoid: Valentine's skull (the Roman one) is available for your viewing pleasure - crowned with flowers - in the Basilica of Santa Maria in Cosmedin, Rome. Wanna see a pictures? Take a look. You sick puppy.
No one is sure why Chaucer decided to connect the idea of all these birds gathering to choose their mates with the martyrdom of a particular (albeit non-specific) early Christian, but once he got the ball rolling, things just got nuttier and nuttier.
Even Shakespeare got into the act.
To-morrow is Saint Valentine's day,Really, Ophelia? You want to be Hamlet's Valentine? Do you realize what that implies? He was a martyr, for goodness sake!
All in the morning betime,
And I a maid at your window,
To be your Valentine.
Then up he rose, and donn'd his clothes,
And dupp'd the chamber-door;
Let in the maid, that out a maid
Never departed more.
—William Shakespeare, Hamlet, Act IV, Scene 5, speech by Ophelia
Oh, well, she got her wish. Eventually.
There are numerous other legends and myths and tall tales surrounding the romantic legend of St. Valentine, most of them originating in the romance-obsessed courts of Medeival kings (and queens). Gotta wonder what those folks were doing if they had so much time on their hands to come up with this weird idea of "romantic love".
Especially when much of it was happening between people who were married to other people.
Perhaps it was a rebellion against the ancient custom of arranged marriages and political marriages. And all those poor ladies who were stuck in loveless marriages to kings and princes and lords and dukes and counts and viscounts dreamed of finding their true love with a rich and powerful knight who would come riding in on his big white stallion and sweep her off her stool (where she had been idly stitching tapestries) and take her away to his castle by the sea -- where she would be stuck in a lonely, boring tower all day sitting on a stool idly stitching tapestries while he rode off on yet another Crusade.
Doesn't really sound all that romantic to me.
Most of it sounds like a bunch of marketing material invented by one of - or all of - the greeting card companies. Or the chocolate confection companies. Or the florists. Somebody with a vested interest in maintaining the "holy-day" wherein men buy cards, candies, and flowers for the women they love. (And don't forget jewelry!)
My favorite story is the "origin" of the Valentine's Card. According to History.com, Valentine had been arrested for helping out some Christians, and while he was imprisoned, he sent the first "valentine" missive to his jailor's daughter, who had either been cured of her blindness by the Saint, or was simply kind enough to visit him in prison. He even signed it, "from your Valentine," which seems kind of cheesy, even for AD 269.
All very nice, very sentimental, and very un-confirmed. But very profitable for the greeting-card companies.
* *
It is very difficult to set aside one day among the other three hundred and sixty-five (and one-quarter) others to devote to remembrances of this type when my mindset is so perpendicular to singular-event celebrations. I'm far too random for this. I don't plan well. I don't do checklists. I have difficulty with traditions. Yet I thank God every day that my wife, who is rather fond of these kinds of celebrations, is tolerant of my inability to maintain the proper traditions. So she doesn't mind too much when we don't make a big deal out of Valentine's Day or any of the other holidays, so long as I never let her forget that she is the love of my life and I think about her all the time, and would lay down my life for her.
So what did we do for Valentine's Day?
I had bought flowers the night before so that we could have some pretty things to decorate the table: purple, pink, white and green accents. Very fragrant. We had a nice dinner with the family. Then Mary and I had to rush over to the church to babysit some children. Mary entertained the young girls while I got to hold the infant and try to make him laugh with goofy faces. Then it was time for Boy Scouts, in which I worked with the boys on their Family Life merit badges. Then it was time to head over to the high school to drop off the camera for the http://redstormrobotics.com/robot. Then home to do our family reading (C.S. Lewis's "The Horse and his Boy"). Then putting kids to bed, watching the late news, and heading off to bed ourselves.
Heady stuff for such a momentous day. But sometimes that's just the way life is.
1Actually, he wrote:
For this was on seynt Volantynys dayBut that's rather difficult to read with modern eyes.
Whan every foul comyth ther to chese his make
Saturday, February 11, 2012
At the Symphony
It was a little early for Valentine's Day, but Cheryl and I went to the Symphony tonight to attend a concert of Romantic Piano music. This is the first in a series of four concerts which Cheryl received as a combination Christmas/birthday present.
Naturally, the weather decided to change from its heretofore mild setting to one of heavy snowfall, which made our sojourn downtown an interesting event all by itself. But our fellow travellers were gracious enough to keep the speeds down to a manageable level so that no one slipped or slid into anyone else (or any thing else) and we arrived safe and sound.
It was wonderful to be out and about, all dressed up, just the two of us, with an evening's entertainments ahead of us.
We first walked the length of the Concert Hall building, as the parking entrance was located on the north side and the restaurant to which we were headed was located south of the building. We really didn't feel up to walking all the way around the building outside in the cold, snowy wind. After this brief exercise, we walked about a block (or perhaps slightly less) to the little Thai restaurant where we had a bit of dinner: some yummy tom kha gai soup to warm us up, followed by a mildly-spicy repast of noodles and such.
Thence back to the Concert Hall - through the wintry air and blinding snow! - to our seats, which were down front, close enough to see the faces of the first chair players, but too close to see over their heads to the percussionists in the back. Still, the music was wonderful.
The sequence of the pieces was redone at the last minute, owing to the fact that several members of the Symphony - and several members of the audience - were delayed by the inclement weather. So first we listened to the rhapsodic Piano Concerto No. 2 as played most beautifully by the French pianist, Lise de la Salle. She received two standing ovations, after which she graced us with another composition (whose identity escapes me) which thoroughly dazzled the audience. I'm not sure if it was because no one recognized it, or because its style was so completely different than the previous one, but we were all stunned. And Lise looked particularly exhausted. I wondered at the time if perhaps the jet lag was getting to her.
The next piece was quite interesting as well but for very different reasons. Called "Sukkot Through Orion's Nebula", it is a commissioned work for James Lee III, a graduate of the University of Michigan, and is described in the following manner by the Grand Rapids Press:
Suffice to say that it was ... interesting. Not "romantic" in the sense of sentimental, but very brassy and percussion-filled and definitely not the type of work to use in wooing your Lady Love. Unless she's into John Philip Sousa marches, which this reminded me of at times.
Then on to the climactic Brahms Symphony Number 2, which was, for me, a wonderfully relaxing way to end the evening, especially when my tummy was full, my body was warm, and my Lovely Lady was sitting beside me, holding my hand. Frankly, it might've been a bit too relaxing; I nodded off a couple times. I attribute this to the fact that the hour was late, the day was nearly done, and the music was very soothing.
After all that, it was difficult to jump back into reality and walk over to the parking deck and get into the car and drive out into the bitter, windy cold of our tentative Michigan winter. But jump we did. Back to reality, back to home, back to warmth of family and hearth. And cookies. I think we had cookies.
Lovely, lovely evening with a lovely, lovely lady.
Naturally, the weather decided to change from its heretofore mild setting to one of heavy snowfall, which made our sojourn downtown an interesting event all by itself. But our fellow travellers were gracious enough to keep the speeds down to a manageable level so that no one slipped or slid into anyone else (or any thing else) and we arrived safe and sound.
It was wonderful to be out and about, all dressed up, just the two of us, with an evening's entertainments ahead of us.
We first walked the length of the Concert Hall building, as the parking entrance was located on the north side and the restaurant to which we were headed was located south of the building. We really didn't feel up to walking all the way around the building outside in the cold, snowy wind. After this brief exercise, we walked about a block (or perhaps slightly less) to the little Thai restaurant where we had a bit of dinner: some yummy tom kha gai soup to warm us up, followed by a mildly-spicy repast of noodles and such.
Thence back to the Concert Hall - through the wintry air and blinding snow! - to our seats, which were down front, close enough to see the faces of the first chair players, but too close to see over their heads to the percussionists in the back. Still, the music was wonderful.
The sequence of the pieces was redone at the last minute, owing to the fact that several members of the Symphony - and several members of the audience - were delayed by the inclement weather. So first we listened to the rhapsodic Piano Concerto No. 2 as played most beautifully by the French pianist, Lise de la Salle. She received two standing ovations, after which she graced us with another composition (whose identity escapes me) which thoroughly dazzled the audience. I'm not sure if it was because no one recognized it, or because its style was so completely different than the previous one, but we were all stunned. And Lise looked particularly exhausted. I wondered at the time if perhaps the jet lag was getting to her.
The next piece was quite interesting as well but for very different reasons. Called "Sukkot Through Orion's Nebula", it is a commissioned work for James Lee III, a graduate of the University of Michigan, and is described in the following manner by the Grand Rapids Press:
Ambitiously conceived to honor the Old Testament harvest holiday and the arrival of the Messiah, not from the heavens, but from outer space, Lee's festive piece was full of heroic gestures, rich internal melodies and an expansive palette of percussion. Brawny, striking, tuneful in seven movements.
Suffice to say that it was ... interesting. Not "romantic" in the sense of sentimental, but very brassy and percussion-filled and definitely not the type of work to use in wooing your Lady Love. Unless she's into John Philip Sousa marches, which this reminded me of at times.
Then on to the climactic Brahms Symphony Number 2, which was, for me, a wonderfully relaxing way to end the evening, especially when my tummy was full, my body was warm, and my Lovely Lady was sitting beside me, holding my hand. Frankly, it might've been a bit too relaxing; I nodded off a couple times. I attribute this to the fact that the hour was late, the day was nearly done, and the music was very soothing.
After all that, it was difficult to jump back into reality and walk over to the parking deck and get into the car and drive out into the bitter, windy cold of our tentative Michigan winter. But jump we did. Back to reality, back to home, back to warmth of family and hearth. And cookies. I think we had cookies.
Lovely, lovely evening with a lovely, lovely lady.
Sunday, February 05, 2012
StuporBowl Sunday
The Dallas Cowboys have appeared in the Super Bowl eight (8) times, and won five (5) of those times. The only team with a better record is the Pittsburgh Steelers. But seriously, who cares about the Steelers? Maybe people living in - or near - Pittsburgh. {Cousin Matt?}
I used to live in Arlington, that little town nestled between the two super-towns of Forth Worth and Dallas. It was a nice little town, although I didn't see much more of it than the few blocks surrounding our neighborhood, up to and including the Ben Franklin (where I bought my first camera) and the 7-Eleven (where we bought all those Slurpees, and collected all those baseball cups).
It was in the little town of Arlington that I first appreciated the game of football, and the team that was Dallas. There was no choice in the matter. In Texas, you either liked the Dallas Cowboys, or you were ridden out of town on a rail. In my case, since none of the other 5th graders knew what a "rail" was, the punishment for ignorance or apathy was ridicule and torture. The torture was generally dished out in the form of a fast-moving dodgeball in the gymnasium. Aimed at one's head.
Needless to say (but I'll say it anyway), I quickly grew to appreciate - no, enjoy would be a better word for it - the game of football. Many a happy afternoon was spent playing it on the grounds of the school during recess. It was there on those grounds I learned to run, block, tackle, catch and throw. {Note that we didn't play any sissy 'touch' rules back then; schools in Texas wanted their boys to be tough, and that meant tackle, and that meant bruising, high-speed contact with the ground at various angles.} And I learned the joy of camaraderie when a ball was well-thrown or well-caught. {I also learned not to ask what certain four-letter words which had been graffiti-sprayed on the side of the gym, meant.}
I was caught up in the moment, the joy of living in a town near the city where great football originated. It was all the boys talked about: the Cowboys. The Champions. The Super Bowl contenders. And we knew Roger Staubach, the ultimate quarterback, and Tom Landry, the ultimate coach. We all wanted to be Roger Staubach. {None of us wanted to be Tom Landry; he yelled too much.} We all wanted to be the star quarterback, throwing those long passes into the end zone.
Playing the game was fun. Watching the game - well, that was kinda like slow torture. "Here, we're going make you sit down and watch a bunch of other guys play the game, but you don't get to join in. Ha!"
Truth be told, I didn't even like to watch Roger Staubach on television. I wanted to be out in the backyard, practicing those long throws so I could be him. Or having one of my friends throwing the ball to me so I could pretend to be one of those wide receivers.
There was a lot of joy associated with the Super Bowl, mainly because the Cowboys were in it so much during the 70s, and they were our home-town team (at least for that year we lived in Arlington); and it carried over a bit even when we'd moved up to Richmond, where the rivalry between the Cowboys and the Redskins was intense. The loyalty was still there for the old home-town team, and I could be found at various times out on the field at the school or at the park or over at a friend's house, playing 3-man football, tossing the old pigskin and pretending to be the star player; but it was still difficult (if not impossible) to find anything fun about planting myself in a chair or on a couch in front of a television to watch a bunch of other people, mostly people I didn't know or recognize, having the fun I was wishing to have.
{Incidentally, if you've ever played football with a limited number of friends, you'll probably remember how challenging it is to play three-man football. That is, one-on-one football with a designated QB. Speedy and I played it for hours, along with our other friend whose name escapes me. It was hard on me because Speedy was over six feet tall in 7th grade, with huge, groping arms that could knock the ball right out of the air when you knew it was coming right to you. But since the other guy couldn't run so well, he was usually the QB.}
In my later years, the number of football games in which I was involved dropped off as they were replace by other interests. Like tennis, basketball, soccer, electronics, computers, girls, job, college. In fact, I can't remember the last serious game of football in all those years, outside of a game or two that the cousins played on Grandma's rolling hillside at Thanksgiving time. Once college was done and "life" started, the games were even fewer and farther between. Maybe once or twice on Long Island. Maybe a couple times at Camp Casey on Whidbey Island.
So if the fun part of the game was mostly done, what about the un-fun part of the game?
Well, I can count the number of times I've actually sat and watched the Super Bowl on one hand. Watching sports just bores me to tears. Even if I'm surrounded by bowls of chips and M&Ms and crates of soda.
But it's certainly not boring to be with friends during the Super Bowl, sitting around the kitchen table while the game is going on in the other room, yapping about all kinds of non-sports-related stuff, and eating snacks all afternoon/evening. No, that's actually quite enjoyable!
Which is why this year was exceptionally fun. We didn't sit at home and watch the game. Instead, we went over to someone else's home and didn't watch the game (mostly). We sat around the table and ate excellent snacks and talked about all sorts of non-sports-related things. OK, we did catch a few minutes of the game at the end - and it was kind of exciting because the score was very close. But we didn't watch the entire game, nor did we bother to watch the half-time show. {Several of the commercials were already on the Web, and Madonna has no draw for us, so the half-time show was a wash.}
So instead of a StuporBowl Sunday, where the brain and the stomach are completely overloaded by 'junk-food', and one wanders around in a stupor for the next few days babbling about football and commercials and dietary misdemeanors, we had a SuperFriend Sunday, with wonderful food, excellent company, and an evening that ended at just the right time so that we could get home at a reasonable hour.
I used to live in Arlington, that little town nestled between the two super-towns of Forth Worth and Dallas. It was a nice little town, although I didn't see much more of it than the few blocks surrounding our neighborhood, up to and including the Ben Franklin (where I bought my first camera) and the 7-Eleven (where we bought all those Slurpees, and collected all those baseball cups).
It was in the little town of Arlington that I first appreciated the game of football, and the team that was Dallas. There was no choice in the matter. In Texas, you either liked the Dallas Cowboys, or you were ridden out of town on a rail. In my case, since none of the other 5th graders knew what a "rail" was, the punishment for ignorance or apathy was ridicule and torture. The torture was generally dished out in the form of a fast-moving dodgeball in the gymnasium. Aimed at one's head.
Needless to say (but I'll say it anyway), I quickly grew to appreciate - no, enjoy would be a better word for it - the game of football. Many a happy afternoon was spent playing it on the grounds of the school during recess. It was there on those grounds I learned to run, block, tackle, catch and throw. {Note that we didn't play any sissy 'touch' rules back then; schools in Texas wanted their boys to be tough, and that meant tackle, and that meant bruising, high-speed contact with the ground at various angles.} And I learned the joy of camaraderie when a ball was well-thrown or well-caught. {I also learned not to ask what certain four-letter words which had been graffiti-sprayed on the side of the gym, meant.}
I was caught up in the moment, the joy of living in a town near the city where great football originated. It was all the boys talked about: the Cowboys. The Champions. The Super Bowl contenders. And we knew Roger Staubach, the ultimate quarterback, and Tom Landry, the ultimate coach. We all wanted to be Roger Staubach. {None of us wanted to be Tom Landry; he yelled too much.} We all wanted to be the star quarterback, throwing those long passes into the end zone.
Playing the game was fun. Watching the game - well, that was kinda like slow torture. "Here, we're going make you sit down and watch a bunch of other guys play the game, but you don't get to join in. Ha!"
Truth be told, I didn't even like to watch Roger Staubach on television. I wanted to be out in the backyard, practicing those long throws so I could be him. Or having one of my friends throwing the ball to me so I could pretend to be one of those wide receivers.
There was a lot of joy associated with the Super Bowl, mainly because the Cowboys were in it so much during the 70s, and they were our home-town team (at least for that year we lived in Arlington); and it carried over a bit even when we'd moved up to Richmond, where the rivalry between the Cowboys and the Redskins was intense. The loyalty was still there for the old home-town team, and I could be found at various times out on the field at the school or at the park or over at a friend's house, playing 3-man football, tossing the old pigskin and pretending to be the star player; but it was still difficult (if not impossible) to find anything fun about planting myself in a chair or on a couch in front of a television to watch a bunch of other people, mostly people I didn't know or recognize, having the fun I was wishing to have.
{Incidentally, if you've ever played football with a limited number of friends, you'll probably remember how challenging it is to play three-man football. That is, one-on-one football with a designated QB. Speedy and I played it for hours, along with our other friend whose name escapes me. It was hard on me because Speedy was over six feet tall in 7th grade, with huge, groping arms that could knock the ball right out of the air when you knew it was coming right to you. But since the other guy couldn't run so well, he was usually the QB.}
In my later years, the number of football games in which I was involved dropped off as they were replace by other interests. Like tennis, basketball, soccer, electronics, computers, girls, job, college. In fact, I can't remember the last serious game of football in all those years, outside of a game or two that the cousins played on Grandma's rolling hillside at Thanksgiving time. Once college was done and "life" started, the games were even fewer and farther between. Maybe once or twice on Long Island. Maybe a couple times at Camp Casey on Whidbey Island.
So if the fun part of the game was mostly done, what about the un-fun part of the game?
Well, I can count the number of times I've actually sat and watched the Super Bowl on one hand. Watching sports just bores me to tears. Even if I'm surrounded by bowls of chips and M&Ms and crates of soda.
But it's certainly not boring to be with friends during the Super Bowl, sitting around the kitchen table while the game is going on in the other room, yapping about all kinds of non-sports-related stuff, and eating snacks all afternoon/evening. No, that's actually quite enjoyable!
Which is why this year was exceptionally fun. We didn't sit at home and watch the game. Instead, we went over to someone else's home and didn't watch the game (mostly). We sat around the table and ate excellent snacks and talked about all sorts of non-sports-related things. OK, we did catch a few minutes of the game at the end - and it was kind of exciting because the score was very close. But we didn't watch the entire game, nor did we bother to watch the half-time show. {Several of the commercials were already on the Web, and Madonna has no draw for us, so the half-time show was a wash.}
So instead of a StuporBowl Sunday, where the brain and the stomach are completely overloaded by 'junk-food', and one wanders around in a stupor for the next few days babbling about football and commercials and dietary misdemeanors, we had a SuperFriend Sunday, with wonderful food, excellent company, and an evening that ended at just the right time so that we could get home at a reasonable hour.
Thursday, February 02, 2012
Early Morning Cat-atonia
It has been the tradition that the cats come into our room at five a.m. to announce the fact that they are Hungry. It used to be the tradition that one of us would rise from the bed and fumble downstairs and open a can of cat food and plop some into the dishes and put the dishes down on the floor and then stumble back upstairs to grab a scant few moments of slumber before Alfred would come back into the room meowing loudly to announce that he was ready to go outside, now, please.
(Sometimes, I actually have the intelligence or wakefulness to go to the front door after giving them their breakfast and await His Majesty in order to let him out before heading upstairs again; but that is generally the exception rather than the rule.)
In more recent times, it has become the custom that the earliest riser in the house - i.e. James - feeds the kitties while waiting for his morning coffee to brew. This has been a delightful development. It means that we get to stay in our warm, comfy bed just a little while longer.
But sometimes Mr. Early Riser forgets to take care of the cat-feeding before he jumps in the shower, in which case the cats come into our room and complain. Loudly. Erin attempts to shred the carpet with her claws, Alfred sings an aria from Die Fledermaus (he's a baritone).
I don't like carpet shredding, nor am I a fan of early-morning opera. I am also not a fan of getting up too early in the morning to deal with annoying felines when someone with the capability of dealing with the situation is already up. Namely, Mr. Early Riser.
Sometimes, Mr. Early Riser needs a reminder that I expect him to take care of the annoying felines. Not for my sake, of course, but for the sake of his dear mother, who needs her sleep. We all know what happens when we are pulled out of our "deep-sleep" REM phase too early: we go through the whole day but never feel really rested. A not-fully-rested mother (or wife) is not a good thing. It can lead to all sorts of bad consequences. It is to be avoided at all cost.
Mr. Early Riser performed his task well this morning. Indeed, I never heard a peep of cat, and was able to rise at a normal time. I enjoyed a leisurely, casual breakfast with my Lovely Lady, and felt mostly rested all day.
Ah, if only the days could all be like this. Whatever will we do when our Early Risers have moved on?
NOTE: To those of you wondering (as my mother does) why these posts are suddenly appearing with dates from the past, it is because I am taking advantage of the ability to set the date for any entries, rather than having them set automatically by the blog software.
I must confess that it has been difficult of late to spend any time doing web updates, which explains in part the vast gap in time between entries. Yet my personal logbook is something I write in every day, a habit which I started way back in 2000. Most of the entries in the daily log are for keeping track of work activities; several of them are related to evening activities with the family, or weekend plans; some few are actually ideas or essays which spring to my head and must be written down.
Reviewing the daily logs and transferring interesting excerpts to my weblog is of necessity a background priority, subject to interruption by various and sundry activities, which lately include First Robotics over at the High School (even though none of my children are interested). But I want the entries to remain linked to the original date on which they were composed, not necessarily the date on which they finally made their public appearance. This is to ensure that the weblog retains some historical aspect, so that I or my progeny are able to review these logs at a later time in order to remember the "good old days".
I apologize if this is confusing.
(Sometimes, I actually have the intelligence or wakefulness to go to the front door after giving them their breakfast and await His Majesty in order to let him out before heading upstairs again; but that is generally the exception rather than the rule.)
In more recent times, it has become the custom that the earliest riser in the house - i.e. James - feeds the kitties while waiting for his morning coffee to brew. This has been a delightful development. It means that we get to stay in our warm, comfy bed just a little while longer.
But sometimes Mr. Early Riser forgets to take care of the cat-feeding before he jumps in the shower, in which case the cats come into our room and complain. Loudly. Erin attempts to shred the carpet with her claws, Alfred sings an aria from Die Fledermaus (he's a baritone).
I don't like carpet shredding, nor am I a fan of early-morning opera. I am also not a fan of getting up too early in the morning to deal with annoying felines when someone with the capability of dealing with the situation is already up. Namely, Mr. Early Riser.
Sometimes, Mr. Early Riser needs a reminder that I expect him to take care of the annoying felines. Not for my sake, of course, but for the sake of his dear mother, who needs her sleep. We all know what happens when we are pulled out of our "deep-sleep" REM phase too early: we go through the whole day but never feel really rested. A not-fully-rested mother (or wife) is not a good thing. It can lead to all sorts of bad consequences. It is to be avoided at all cost.
Mr. Early Riser performed his task well this morning. Indeed, I never heard a peep of cat, and was able to rise at a normal time. I enjoyed a leisurely, casual breakfast with my Lovely Lady, and felt mostly rested all day.
Ah, if only the days could all be like this. Whatever will we do when our Early Risers have moved on?
NOTE: To those of you wondering (as my mother does) why these posts are suddenly appearing with dates from the past, it is because I am taking advantage of the ability to set the date for any entries, rather than having them set automatically by the blog software.
I must confess that it has been difficult of late to spend any time doing web updates, which explains in part the vast gap in time between entries. Yet my personal logbook is something I write in every day, a habit which I started way back in 2000. Most of the entries in the daily log are for keeping track of work activities; several of them are related to evening activities with the family, or weekend plans; some few are actually ideas or essays which spring to my head and must be written down.
Reviewing the daily logs and transferring interesting excerpts to my weblog is of necessity a background priority, subject to interruption by various and sundry activities, which lately include First Robotics over at the High School (even though none of my children are interested). But I want the entries to remain linked to the original date on which they were composed, not necessarily the date on which they finally made their public appearance. This is to ensure that the weblog retains some historical aspect, so that I or my progeny are able to review these logs at a later time in order to remember the "good old days".
I apologize if this is confusing.
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