I am chagrined by my neglect to note and commemorate Texas Independence Day on Sunday. I am normally observant of the holiday, and made a particular point of being so while I lived in The City. (New York has nothing of the sort, really, and The City makes little of its contribution to the American Revolution. Perhaps it is because its part in that is not what the braggarts of the clotted metropolis would have.) This year, however, I think I may be excused; I have had other things on my mind, of lesser scope perhaps but of far greater importance to me as a man.
That I missed one (ultimately minor) holiday does not mean that I will miss others, however, and so even though the man's death was on the sixth, I wish to all a happy Sousa Day (as I have done before)! For, as an old bandsman and as a life-long pun-lover, I have to say that today is the most appropriate of all days to laud the March King, to let the drums roll and the horns ring along with the President's Own, which Sousa led for many years.
(It is one of the great glories of being a father that I am allowed--nay, encouraged--to perpetuate such bad jokes upon the world. My child needs to have such things. And I need to practice them far more than I have thus far.)
There is something worthwhile in celebrating such minor things--based on jokes, really--as Sousa Day and the holiday in two months. And I will turn to that, brief as my note today will be therefore.
Showing posts sorted by relevance for query Sousa Day. Sort by date Show all posts
Showing posts sorted by relevance for query Sousa Day. Sort by date Show all posts
Tuesday, March 4, 2014
Wednesday, March 4, 2015
20150304.0756
It is once again that band-nerdiest of days, Sousa Day. I have marked the occasion before (here and here), as I do again today. I have not been a bandsman in a decade; I have hardly touched a horn in that time. Still, I am shaped by having had the experiences in the bandhall that I had, for good and for ill, and I am an inveterate punster, so march forth on March 4th with the requisite tune.
It is also a pseudo-snow-day at Sherwood Cottage. The college where I teach has called off classes against incoming inclement weather, a decision doubtlessly intended to help preserve student safety--and I cannot fault that. I cannot help but note, though, that there is not a drop of water on the ground where I am. When, after earlier snow days that saw the streets and sidewalks choked with ice (and such that even I lost my footing while outside), I spoke with others about school closings, I heard comments about the administration being rebuked for closing too early and giving a fine spring day to the students as a gift. I have to wonder if something similar will happen here, as well.
Since today seems to be a day for random notes, yesterday was another day that saw a strange spike in pageviews of this webspace. Some 442 views came in yesterday, a marked and welcome uptick from my normal counts. Since I have not monetized this space, I am not as pleased as I could be, but I decided against the monetization a while ago. I do not exactly have free speech here, since I do not own the webspace, but I am less encumbered here than monetization would allow me to be. And I have other writing that earns me pay, so I am not overly concerned about the potential loss.
About that paid writing: I pushed through a freelance job yesterday, for which I have already been paid in full. Another piece, smaller in scope, awaits my attention even now. I shall work on it presently--and so I have another reason not to complain about the pseudo-snow-day. Too, the Mrs. is getting to put in extra hours at the pharmacy, so there is even more money coming in to help the household meet its obligations. About that, I can complain, because I can complain about anything, but I should not, and so I am not going to do so.
It is also a pseudo-snow-day at Sherwood Cottage. The college where I teach has called off classes against incoming inclement weather, a decision doubtlessly intended to help preserve student safety--and I cannot fault that. I cannot help but note, though, that there is not a drop of water on the ground where I am. When, after earlier snow days that saw the streets and sidewalks choked with ice (and such that even I lost my footing while outside), I spoke with others about school closings, I heard comments about the administration being rebuked for closing too early and giving a fine spring day to the students as a gift. I have to wonder if something similar will happen here, as well.
Since today seems to be a day for random notes, yesterday was another day that saw a strange spike in pageviews of this webspace. Some 442 views came in yesterday, a marked and welcome uptick from my normal counts. Since I have not monetized this space, I am not as pleased as I could be, but I decided against the monetization a while ago. I do not exactly have free speech here, since I do not own the webspace, but I am less encumbered here than monetization would allow me to be. And I have other writing that earns me pay, so I am not overly concerned about the potential loss.
About that paid writing: I pushed through a freelance job yesterday, for which I have already been paid in full. Another piece, smaller in scope, awaits my attention even now. I shall work on it presently--and so I have another reason not to complain about the pseudo-snow-day. Too, the Mrs. is getting to put in extra hours at the pharmacy, so there is even more money coming in to help the household meet its obligations. About that, I can complain, because I can complain about anything, but I should not, and so I am not going to do so.
Monday, March 4, 2019
A
Today is Sousa Day, as I have noted before in this webspace, and it's a fine day to find an A at 440...
Terrible punning aside--and I acknowledge that the puns are bad, but I am years a father and can safely offer such things--I do wonder about the popularity of Sousa's music, both during his time and in the times that have followed. Admittedly, I stopped being a music major before I got to the part of the curriculum that dealt with historical development and trends in music, so it may well be because of my failure that I do not have my head wrapped fully around the matter, but why marches--and Sousa's marches--had and have the cachet they do is not something that is clear to me. I've played enough of them, and enough parts in them, to know that they are energetic pieces, readily accessible to ensembles of reasonable but not exceptional competence--that I've been able to play them is testament to that, because I've never been that good a performer.
Yet energetic, player-accessible pieces do not necessarily make for staying power. There are any number of such pieces that have received less attention in succeeding generations--such as works by Patrick S. Gilmore, for example. Nor is it accessibility to listeners that does it; again, there are many works that were easy to hear that are no longer heard. And, if the parallel argument from literature can be made (of course I was going to find my way there at some point, being who and what I am), and it is the tastes of the socially dominant that make for staying power, then it still eludes me at the moment why Sousa's music would continue to have its place. How the interests of the putatively mighty are served by it is not clear; what the wealthy and powerful gain from it is not evident, at least not to me.
I do not make such comments to condemn Sousa, certainly. Whatever the reasons for his music's continued cachet, his marches are standard band fare, and I am a once and present bandsman; it may be nostalgia that drives me thus, but I am still pushed to appreciate the music. I enjoy a good performance of it, either as one of the people doing the performing or as one of the people in the audience; it was certainly the case when I was living in New York City and the service bands would come through and give concerts, and I think it would be the case now if I had again the opportunity to attend such a thing. (My part of the world does not get many such opportunities, and other circumstances do not always conduce to my going even when there is such a chance.) But that does not mean I do not wonder about why it is that a thing is so, and it does not mean I should not encourage others to ask similar questions.
Assumptions should be examined.
Terrible punning aside--and I acknowledge that the puns are bad, but I am years a father and can safely offer such things--I do wonder about the popularity of Sousa's music, both during his time and in the times that have followed. Admittedly, I stopped being a music major before I got to the part of the curriculum that dealt with historical development and trends in music, so it may well be because of my failure that I do not have my head wrapped fully around the matter, but why marches--and Sousa's marches--had and have the cachet they do is not something that is clear to me. I've played enough of them, and enough parts in them, to know that they are energetic pieces, readily accessible to ensembles of reasonable but not exceptional competence--that I've been able to play them is testament to that, because I've never been that good a performer.
Yet energetic, player-accessible pieces do not necessarily make for staying power. There are any number of such pieces that have received less attention in succeeding generations--such as works by Patrick S. Gilmore, for example. Nor is it accessibility to listeners that does it; again, there are many works that were easy to hear that are no longer heard. And, if the parallel argument from literature can be made (of course I was going to find my way there at some point, being who and what I am), and it is the tastes of the socially dominant that make for staying power, then it still eludes me at the moment why Sousa's music would continue to have its place. How the interests of the putatively mighty are served by it is not clear; what the wealthy and powerful gain from it is not evident, at least not to me.
I do not make such comments to condemn Sousa, certainly. Whatever the reasons for his music's continued cachet, his marches are standard band fare, and I am a once and present bandsman; it may be nostalgia that drives me thus, but I am still pushed to appreciate the music. I enjoy a good performance of it, either as one of the people doing the performing or as one of the people in the audience; it was certainly the case when I was living in New York City and the service bands would come through and give concerts, and I think it would be the case now if I had again the opportunity to attend such a thing. (My part of the world does not get many such opportunities, and other circumstances do not always conduce to my going even when there is such a chance.) But that does not mean I do not wonder about why it is that a thing is so, and it does not mean I should not encourage others to ask similar questions.
Assumptions should be examined.
Saturday, March 4, 2017
20170304.0535
Today's John Philip Sousa Day,
And so today the bands should play
Jaunty marches and away
Take themselves in fine array,
In tight cadence find their way
To some end I cannot say.
For it's John Philip Sousa Day.
March forth, therefore, without delay!
And so today the bands should play
Jaunty marches and away
Take themselves in fine array,
In tight cadence find their way
To some end I cannot say.
For it's John Philip Sousa Day.
March forth, therefore, without delay!
Monday, March 4, 2013
20130304.1552
First off, Happy Sousa Day! I look forward, too, to celebrating Star Wars Day in two months' time.
Second, and the actual reason that I am writing, has to do with church yesterday. The Gospel reading was Luke 13:1-9, in which Christ relates the Parable of the Barren Fig Tree; a tree which has not yielded fruit in three years is promised that if it does not give forth fruit for a fourth year, after it has been tended and fertilized specifically to that end, it will be cut down. He offers no explication of the story, but its meaning is clear; chances to grow are given, as is aid in the growing, but if they are not seized upon, the alternative is fire and ruin. It is a message more common in the churches where I grew up than in the one I attend, admittedly, but it is present--and applicable. In my teaching, for instance, I make resources available and offer to help students if they will but do the work and meet with me; all too often, I sit alone during my office hours, and students wonder why they do not pass my classes.
More to the point, however, the Gospel reading spurred interesting comments from the ministerial intern and the senior pastor. Since the Scripture speaks of putting dung to a tree, the intern in her words of grace and liberation and the pastor in the sermon made more than passing mention of Gods fertilizing the soil of the soul. And I found myself in mind of a piece of Puritan poetry I read during my graduate coursework, Edward Taylor's "Meditation 8." In it, the narrator observes that "Gods Tender Bowells run / Out streams of Grace" (sic, ll. 15-16); the image is jarring from the pen of a Puritan, who was surely more devoutly religious than any of us fallen, hedonistic, immoral people can hope to be. The idea of salvation being shat out upon us, of holy shit being instrumental to the redemption of sins...I remember provoking gales of laughter in the class. I was certainly much amused by my recollection of it yesterday morning, even as it ticked my fancy to hear that even Christ compares Providence to manure.
Knowing that the Scripture, accordance with which supposedly keeps people pure and from thinking "nasty" thoughts, and that the Puritans, who are praised for their purity and derided for their rigidity, both run to the scatological is freeing, somehow. If the traditionally most moralistic of Americans and the very document upon which they based their understanding of the world and their place in it both joke about poo, then surely I may safely do the same.
Second, and the actual reason that I am writing, has to do with church yesterday. The Gospel reading was Luke 13:1-9, in which Christ relates the Parable of the Barren Fig Tree; a tree which has not yielded fruit in three years is promised that if it does not give forth fruit for a fourth year, after it has been tended and fertilized specifically to that end, it will be cut down. He offers no explication of the story, but its meaning is clear; chances to grow are given, as is aid in the growing, but if they are not seized upon, the alternative is fire and ruin. It is a message more common in the churches where I grew up than in the one I attend, admittedly, but it is present--and applicable. In my teaching, for instance, I make resources available and offer to help students if they will but do the work and meet with me; all too often, I sit alone during my office hours, and students wonder why they do not pass my classes.
More to the point, however, the Gospel reading spurred interesting comments from the ministerial intern and the senior pastor. Since the Scripture speaks of putting dung to a tree, the intern in her words of grace and liberation and the pastor in the sermon made more than passing mention of Gods fertilizing the soil of the soul. And I found myself in mind of a piece of Puritan poetry I read during my graduate coursework, Edward Taylor's "Meditation 8." In it, the narrator observes that "Gods Tender Bowells run / Out streams of Grace" (sic, ll. 15-16); the image is jarring from the pen of a Puritan, who was surely more devoutly religious than any of us fallen, hedonistic, immoral people can hope to be. The idea of salvation being shat out upon us, of holy shit being instrumental to the redemption of sins...I remember provoking gales of laughter in the class. I was certainly much amused by my recollection of it yesterday morning, even as it ticked my fancy to hear that even Christ compares Providence to manure.
Knowing that the Scripture, accordance with which supposedly keeps people pure and from thinking "nasty" thoughts, and that the Puritans, who are praised for their purity and derided for their rigidity, both run to the scatological is freeing, somehow. If the traditionally most moralistic of Americans and the very document upon which they based their understanding of the world and their place in it both joke about poo, then surely I may safely do the same.
Friday, March 4, 2016
20160304.0618
My eye continues to bother me. The eyelid remains swollen, the area around it sore, and the eye itself is itching and watering. I have an appointment with my optometrist today, for which I am grateful; I will be happy to know what I can actually do about it, if anything. (If it is simply an issue of having gotten smacked in the face, as it might be--Ms. 8 does not know how to check her backswing--then there is nothing to be done save to endure.) At the very least, I will have some idea of what the cause is; knowing will help, as I have noted.
Today, too, it is once again the band-nerdiest of days: Sousa Day. My comments about the matter from the past three years suffice for now, but the reminder is a good one to have.
Work continues, even with the pseudo-observance. I have three classes to attend to today, and grading their work is in progress; I completed one section yesterday, and I am to wade through one a day until I am done. I do still need to attend to a freelance order, but I anticipate that going quickly; the book I need to write up is short, and my few quick glances at its contents already suggest a useful parallel text, one that I will note the novel I'm writing up evokes. (Which one, I will not discuss at this point. Buy the write-ups; help my client make money so that I can make money.) So things are more or less normal in my part of the world in that regard.
The family is well. The Mrs. has been plugging away at her work; she is also looking into other programs, and I am helping her do so, applying my good eye to her application materials. I can hope that it will work for her. Ms. 8 has been growing and playing; age two seems to be treating her well so far, and while she is increasingly emphatic in her opinions ("No, no, NO!"), she seems generally to be of a happy and pleasant disposition, inclined towards being affectionate and forward. Her mother and I are working against princessification, and we are having some success with it, but we are beginning to encounter problems in that regard; the encroachments of prevailing cultural norms, wrong-headed as many of them are, are insidious and therefore difficult to combat. The ways in which options are circumscribed, particularly in the part of the world where we live, make a number of things challenging; I want my daughter to have the ability to choose, and her freedom to do so is likely to be constrained. That I cannot see as many things coming as I ought does not help, either...
Today, too, it is once again the band-nerdiest of days: Sousa Day. My comments about the matter from the past three years suffice for now, but the reminder is a good one to have.
Work continues, even with the pseudo-observance. I have three classes to attend to today, and grading their work is in progress; I completed one section yesterday, and I am to wade through one a day until I am done. I do still need to attend to a freelance order, but I anticipate that going quickly; the book I need to write up is short, and my few quick glances at its contents already suggest a useful parallel text, one that I will note the novel I'm writing up evokes. (Which one, I will not discuss at this point. Buy the write-ups; help my client make money so that I can make money.) So things are more or less normal in my part of the world in that regard.
The family is well. The Mrs. has been plugging away at her work; she is also looking into other programs, and I am helping her do so, applying my good eye to her application materials. I can hope that it will work for her. Ms. 8 has been growing and playing; age two seems to be treating her well so far, and while she is increasingly emphatic in her opinions ("No, no, NO!"), she seems generally to be of a happy and pleasant disposition, inclined towards being affectionate and forward. Her mother and I are working against princessification, and we are having some success with it, but we are beginning to encounter problems in that regard; the encroachments of prevailing cultural norms, wrong-headed as many of them are, are insidious and therefore difficult to combat. The ways in which options are circumscribed, particularly in the part of the world where we live, make a number of things challenging; I want my daughter to have the ability to choose, and her freedom to do so is likely to be constrained. That I cannot see as many things coming as I ought does not help, either...
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