Get 'em, Slick

Slick Phalanges exited Rhipauff's executive conference room without exiting his world of confident bliss. Not only had all the praise for the deft exploitation of Alley Girl gone to him, he'd managed to steer the new single decision so that the windfall would go straight to his cronies at MediaFarm. When he owned half the globe, he thought, he might look back on today as the ultimate scale-tipper. Calculating his next dozen or so moves, he held the door open for the Executive Director.

"Hey, Slick...bounce up to my office in fifteen!"

At that request, the next fourteen passed in a haze of euphoria. This was absolutely the day. In a way that was a shame, because he'd really hoped more...experiments would be necessary to get the big break. Well, even from the top there were always reasons to get one's hands dirty. So it was with great anticipation that Slick arrived, one minute early, at the office of Lee Quiggsley Dastard, CPA, DDS, MPA, XYZ PDQ, Executive Director.

"Come in, come in," began Dastard. "We have much to discuss." If you've ever seen a creationist propelled through time to a dinner party with H. Erectus, then you know the look that crossed Slick Phalanges's eyes. Otherwise, just accept that it was not best pleased and very confused. For on Dastard's desk perched a lovely family portrait, next to which rested a striking still image of a bread-knife beheading. Phalanges goggled into a distressingly clear image of his own eyes.

"Yes, quite grisly, isn't it. It's such a tragedy that we were unable to identify the fellow with the cutlery. Of course, you've been called here to discuss matters of a much more pleasant nature." With each word Slick's devious mind spun faster and faster, finally coming to rest with its little clicky flag stuck on the tine between "internal maniacal laughter" and "celebratory cash register noise." He wasn't quite out of trouble, but this was something he could work with.

"Of course, sir. What are your needs?"

Dastard rose, and strolled around to the front of his desk. He leaned back, ankles crossed in a casual pose and lifted the greusome image gently. "Well, Slick, you've shown some real ambition lately. You certainly went for the throat on this Alley Girl situation, and that's something we need here at Rhipauff Records. It seems that as a direct result of your employment here, things have come to a head, through your ability to cut through some of the issues holding us down. Your recent decisions have shown real resolve and achieved immediate results. That's why I'm promoting you to Assistant Executive in charge of Special Operations. I'd like to give you manus liberi, but please understand that if results change we may be forced to...reevaluate even your early decisions." Slick was too deserving of his own name to miss the poignancy with which "throat," "head," and "cut through" were said. This was a good deal, and he was in a position where he'd have said yes to even a terrible one. Dastard deserved his name, too.

Slick shook Dastard's offered hand. "Sir, I believe we can work together here. I'll take everything you've just said straight to heart." As he pranced out through the opaque glass doors, he added to himself "yours, of course." Now that Lee Dastard was firmly on his experiment list, the day truly couldn't get any better.

On Music

Was it the segment - on Sesame Street, I believe, though my memory has unified the television of developmental years into a single mosaic - proclaiming "rhythm is everywhere"? Was it the intoxicating transcendence attached to singing in church? Correct in belief or not, there is power in a hundred voices melodically affirming faith. Was it theme songs, Disney movies, lullabies, ad jingles, Christmas carols, kum-ba-yas, or parades? It certainly wasn't singing "ta, ta, ti-ti ta"" with my grade school music teacher. Her methods might have been generally proper but they sure didn't make me want to learn music.

Something, including any, all, or none of the above, switched on the music in me. From the beginning of memory and presumably before I have craved music: to hear, to sing, to play (but not to dance, never that), and to feel.

Whatever chose my interest - God, god, or gods; the universe, fate, chance, biology, environment, the music itself, or me - was a fan of the underdog. I wasn't drawn in for my musical talents. I knew early that I didn't have perfect pitch, and it became increasingly clear that in one sense I am tone deaf. What I mean is that while I can recognize when two instruments are out of tune with one another, I am utterly incapable of determining which is incorrect and in which direction. This led to a lot of embarrassing moments of frozen terror while I pondered whether I was sharp, flat, or pockmarked with grainy bumps. This same embarrassment arose when after years of tromboning I still couldn't recognize the accuracy of pitch of one horn playing alone.

I was also ungifted in voice quality, lung capacity, and muscle memory. There are other areas of deficiency, but those sum the problem well. I suppose I did have the math proficiency requisite to success in music, and the ability to read and interpret symbols. I was also possessed of a certain amount of resourcefulness.

The lack of natural talents and abilities didn't deter me from blundering ahead. I discovered that while I couldn't carry a tune in a bucket, I could send it where it needed to go with a system of pullys, levers, hoists, and boxes. I was never really able to "feel" the music, but this mental Rube Goldberg approach brought me to a respectable level of proficiency.

So far, the results of my duct-tape remedies have produced a competent trombone player and a nearly competent singer. I can read most music with at least an approximation of correctness, but to capture its style I must hear it once (or more). It continues to amaze me that the same rhythm and pitches can be played correctly many subtly different ways. I liken it to "finding the zeroes" in algebra. Upon sight reading, though, I always seem to pick the wrong interpretation .

I suppose full disclosure would force the past tense upon me, as I have allowed a year to pass since playing or singing music save sing-alongs with the radio or at concerts. I am not ready to believe, though, that my time as a trombnist has ended more than temporarily. I don't claim excellence, but I do claim competence and derive enjoyment from playing.

It's something of a paradox that I achieved even competence. Practice happened, but not with stunning regularity. I never studied music theory, so I didn't even try to compensate for my shortcomings by application of my strengths. Competent or not, it is clear that I am a member of a group or section and not a soloist. I was never able to acquire "my own sound," nor did I evolve the ability to maintain tone quality at great volumes. And dear lord, don't ask me to improv. To extend this truth to my vocal chords, I can read choral music and sing a part more or less properly, but my range is sorely limited in both directions and my voice just isn't that pleasant on its own.

So why all these ponderings on music? Mere reflection, perhaps, but also an acknowledgement of what music has always stirred in me. There are few things in life not improved by good music, and most are improved even by bad music. It was my privilege to learn this lesson early, and so my thoughts often turn to melody and harmony. I will close with a recollection regarding music's black-sheep cousin: dance. A friendly lady who was (and still is) active in my childhood churh had a great repoire with the children among the congregation, and was particularly prone to praise my achievements and helpfulness. She had several pet phrases at her command, such as "he's no flat tire." Her favorite, or at least the one I earned the most often, was "I'll dance at your wedding." Even then, I could only think "Good. That's one less I'll have to dance."

Peculiar

Minister: I now pronounce you man and wife.

New Husband: Well, you're going to have some awkward conversations in the future.

New Wife: Thank God for pre-nups!

Readers of this blog: wha?

Kind of funny

I just received an email from the National Eagle Scout Association. Unfortunately, in my inbox the sender is abbreviated to "National Eagle Scout Ass." Perhaps someone should tell them.

I'm not surprised, but...

Drivers suck. I'm also not surprised that New York, Massachusetts, and DC are among the worst. New Jersey made it too.

Oh boy! I get to leave DC to drive to Massachusets through New Jersey and New York for Memorial Day weekend.

Language laughs

Just a few little giggles from today, and a memory of a few weeks ago...

I received an email today, as a response to wishing someone a happy birthday and to enjoy the time off. It read "Thank you, I will defiantly enjoy some much needed rest." I'm sure the meaning was "definitely" but the mistake is strangely appropriate.

This reminded me of a few weeks ago, when I was preparing to send a very carefully worded email to a coworker named "Butch." Fortunately, I realized before hitting "send" that I'd spelled his name with an "i."

A quick swiftie, of my own creation: "You're giving me Whiplash," Tom said Snidely. I hope no one has beaten me to that one. I'm quite proud of it.

Finally, an observation: see what happens when you insert a Grand Pause between the syllables in "grandpas."

A True Challenge

As one beginning to write seriously, in hope of discovering whether my talent is useless, worthy of publication, or lucrative, I am engaged in constant discovery. My most recent breakthrough has been to identify one of the great mysteries of good writing. I have a good understanding of the rules and a head for when to bend or break them. My vocabulary is sufficient, and I possess the discipline to use unusual words only where they fit best. I am confident enough to push forward yet humble enough to seek constant improvement from within and without. Among my shortcomings, though, is the lack of an instinct for what is bold versus what is hackneyed.

The two are often distinguished by the finest of lines. The same turn of phrase may be hackneyed in one context yet bold in another. The context may be formality: The journalist can take fewer liberties than the novelist, who can take fewer than the poet. The context may also be genre. The same degree of liberties may exist from one to the next, but each has its own flavor of boldness. Inextricably linked to these contexts is another: audience. The difference between freshness and garbage is ultimately determined by perception and reception. If one's readers think it stinks, then it stinks. Finally (perhaps distressingly), recognition has become another gauge. A prolific author may come to define what is bold. A passage written by a literary giant may be received as bold. The same passage, were it written by a newcomer, might be considered trite. Perhaps established authors have earned that much leniency - I don't mean to imply that the quality of their work suffers. My theory regarding this is that editors become more reluctant to strike down dangerous phrases as authors gain prominence. No writer is perfect, and as fewer changes are recommended more "mistakes" make it to the public. Also contributing to this effect is the reluctance of readers to acept a new voice. Those with a name are more readily trusted to mold the language in the right ways. This is not a criticism, but an observation of an inevitible result of Western thought. Skepticism is prized, so credibility must be earned.

As a reader and as a writer, I have recently encountered perhaps two dozen passages that are either bold or hackneyed, but whose classification eludes me. This is a notable stumbling block, because ordinarily I find reading to be the cure for a difficulty with writing. My method thus far has been to simply include the questionable content, mark it for later editing, and move on. This will do for now, but eventually I must make the decisions. I have decided, though, that rather than allow frustration to settle I will view this with excitement. Understanding this challenge is a positive step in my writing, and I am optimistic that mastery of the situation will come.