Remembering Memorial Day

My friends, remember with me if you will Memorial Day, the day on which we are not to forget to enjoy grilled meats and casual lawn sports, for that day has just concluded. I tell you now of my exploits on that day, which began not long after I awoke this morning. There then came to me the surprising news that Memorial Day had come upon us, which I had forgotten to remember. Furthermore, I learned that I had plans for memorable revelry to be completed by day's end. This was fine, for I find such excellent revelry to be a fulfilling practice.

For my first adventure, I took a lonely path up through the woods to reach my destination, which is the home of my grandparents. There was assembled there a minuscule gathering. After some brief sitting indoors, we migrated to the gazebo in the garden by the pond. My uncle wished for some leisurely fishing, and I eventually joined him. First, however, I felt it necessary to watch the wasps living on the underside of the gazebo's roof. That was mildly interesting, but then the dog appeared, and I associated with her as one usually associates with a friendly dog. It did not take long for discussion to begin about the layer of grime that is invariably felt upon touching her, for she is an outside dog. Thus all of us in the gazebo vowed to wash our hands upon returning indoors. It was only after this that I was encouraged to attempt to fish, and fish I did. Not only did I land the largest catch, but I also caught the most fish and the most non-fish, as well. This all amounted to a two-inch long bluegill (which, like all pond fish, was returned to its home), a stick, a tree, and myself. That last point is the most interesting, for as I was placing the fishing pole back in its proper place, the dirty, wet hook decided to pierce my hand, from which I immediately removed it. With my knowledge of hygiene and medicine, I proceeded indoors, I caused the wound to bleed the and washed it with soap, alcohol, more soap, and some other cleansing implement. As it turned out, though, I have had deeper paper cuts, so the injury aroused no stir beyond that. The remainder of the afternoon was spent socializing and noshing (my grandmother's word) on cheese, crackers, and pomegranate juice until it came time to depart.

My next stop was the home of my other grandparents, where we dined upon grilled meats and the other delights that my grandmother had prepared. Having eaten, we proceeded outdoors to light a fire and sit around it, which we did until darkness had begun to take hold on the sky. We socialized there about the insane family down the street, hypothetical gladiatorial matches (well, my brother and I did), burning of the flesh, life, the universe, and everything. There was also the maintenance of the fire and the roasting of marshmallows (puft sugar, one might better call them) thereupon, naturally. At one point, I sought out a log to discover a beetle of some living therein. It scurried off upon being discovered, but it left an interesting imprint of its shape where it had lived. Also, for a time my grandfather and my brother played horseshoes, which I can only suppose was a well of delight. I declined to join them, instead preferring the company of the fire. Regardless, we did not go without that essential Memorial Day endeavor.

Having remembered the grilling of meats and the casual lawn sport, I express my satisfaction with this Memorial Day. It shall be remembered fondly.

Bacon and Scrambled Reason

As you know, my friends, I enjoy to work the newspaper puzzles, and in Friday's entertainment section, there was one puzzle in particular that confounded and confused me in memorable fashion, just as numerous of the Queen's outfits are of memorable fashion. Having solved the cryptogram and wishing to return later to the crosswords and Sudoku (both of which had encountered difficulty by then), I looked at a number of words that needed unscrambling, and the first two of the four were immediately apparent. With a brief thought, so was the fourth word. Clearly this was child's play, for this was surely a child's puzzle. It even had a drawing next to it. So I came upon this third set of letters, and they proved to be a mystery. They were these:

IGGLOO

I defy my kind readers to figure out what this word is supposed to be. I stared at it for a long while, writing many things, precisely these:

GIOLOG, IGGLOO GOOGLI, GOOGIL, GILGOO, GILOOG, GIGOOL, GOLOIG

In conjunction with deep meditation on the subject, I determined that nothing I had contrived from these letters made a legitimate word. I even consulted a dictionary to prove that GOOGLI was not a strange spelling of its pronunciation. Thus I also consulted my mother and brother for help, and they produced no answer, either. Returning to the task alone then, the following list came into being:

LOGIGO,OILGOG, GOGOIL, GOGLIO, OGGLIO, LOGGIO, GLOGIO, GILGOO, ILGOOG, GOILOG, GOIGOL, GOGOLI

As you can see, none of these are legitimate words, either. By that time, though, I felt that I had endured quite enough for the sake of that set of letters, and I inquired as to the location of Saturday's newspaper, where the answers were promised to be. Fortunately, it was still in the house, and I did indeed find the answer there. For those still wishing to suffer this word, do not read on.

The letters IGGLOO make up the word gigolo. As it turns out, the puzzle had not been written for children. The word "gigolo," by the way, comes from the French "gigue," which was a dance frequently employed in baroque dance suites. Later on, the male partner in dance was called a "gigole." The pronunciation of "gigue" easily reveals its English counterpart, jig. Fortunately our good and pure English word predates both "gigole" (an early twentieth century term) and hence "gigolo," as well. Still, I emphasize that the latter term is a linguistic abuse and an abomination, one which concerns me in particular.

Good day,
J I G

Subtraction in the Academy

As the elementary schools taught you, my friends, there are supposedly four basic mathematical operations: addition, subtraction, multiplication, and division; however, I do not believe in subtraction. I absolutely refuse to do anything but add negative numbers, not that there is any choice in the matter. It is true that one might argue that negative numbers are unnatural, but conceptually speaking, this is not a sound objection, for the mind is meant to reason conceptually.

A few days ago the Academy revealed my final grades for the second semester, and two of them had this insipid mark after them: -. What could it mean? Could it be meant to symbolize subtraction? Is my grade "A minus something?" Minus what, I wonder? What is more, what is the Academy to make an "A" anything less than an "A?"

Researching the chart that correlates letters with numbers (these numbers are called "grade point averages"), I found that an A is equal to 4, but I already knew that. Further investigation indicated that "A-" is a symbol meaning 4-.3, which makes 3.7. It all made sense then, except that I do not believe in subtraction.

In fact, what the symbol must mean is 4+-.3, which would indicate that the Academy is adding something to my final grade with which I quite simply had no involvement. Being that I did nothing to earn this strange addition to my final grade, for the sake of honest grade reporting, I believe it ought to be removed. It is true that I am sorry to give up my augmented grade, but an honest 4 is preferable to a confused 3.7 any day. I shall notify the Academy of this grievous error at once.

Happy Birthday, Erik Satie!

My friends, today is 17 May 2008. Erik Satie was born on 17 May 1866. This makes today his 152nd birthday, so again, Happy 152nd Birthday, Erik Satie! Let us conclude with Darius Milhaud's memory of visiting Satie's apartment after his death in July 1925:

A narrow corridor, with a washbin in it, led to the bedroom into which Satie had never allowed anyone, not even his concierge, to penetrate. It was with a feeling akin to awe that we approached it now. What a shock we had on opening the door! It seemed impossible that Satie had lived in such poverty. This man, whose faultlessly clean and correct dress made him look rather like a model civil servant, had literally nothing worth a shilling to his name: a wretched bed, a table covered with the most unlikely objects, one chair and a half-empty wardrobe in which there were a dozen old-fashioned corduroy suits, brand-new and absolutely identical. In each corner of the room there were piles of old newspapers, old hats and walking sticks. On the ancient, broken-down piano with its pedals tied up with string, there was a parcel whose postmark proved that it had been delivered several years before: he had merely torn a corner of the paper to see what it contained - a little picture, some New Year's present no doubt. On the piano we found gifts bearing witness to a precious friendship, the edition de luxe of Debussy's Poemes de Baudelaire, and Estampes and Images, with affectionate dedications like: 'To Erik Satie, the gentle medieval musician' or 'To the famous contrapuntist Erik Satie'...

In Preparation for Summertime

Hello, my friends. I have missed you, but I have been quite occupied with all the duties associated with being me. Many of them are now gone, though, for it is now summertime break, though I am well aware that it is still, in fact, springtime. That said, I now wish to express my summertime plans thus far, or at least the fun and harmless ones.

My first summertime plan is to have my hairs cut. I had considered doing this on Friday, but I decided that I would rather collapse at home, having last slept at 11:00 am on Thursday.

My second summertime plan is the completion of a programmatic symphony that I have been planning since November. I have a good idea for the program, but I refuse to disclose that as of yet. I also have an excellent musical idea. It is a G major sixth. I had wanted to finish it by the end of this very month of May, but that was based on the false belief that I would start working on it months ago; alas, there yet remains reading to be done before I may justify beginning! 'Tis a pity.

My third summertime plan is the completion of a book of six pieces for solo piano. Six is the standard number for books of piano pieces, employed at least by Grieg for his lyric pieces. I have three of them finished, and they are "Adagio" (though that is not its name), "The City in the Sea," and "Midnight Feast at the Temple of Springtime." I have a few bars of what I think will be the Prelude. I also might wish for an Intermezzo, though I probably will turn against that thought because there is no naturally numbered midpoint in a set of six, and claiming otherwise would drive me mad. Perhaps when they are finished, I will pay to have them nicely bound in a book, but not if it is very expensive. Also, I will record the symphony with them on a compact disc and offer it to my friends, who will either actually enjoy it or at least humor their own poor friend, being me.

My fourth summertime plan is CIY, hereafter known as Move. 'Twill be a joyous adventure, as always.

My fifth summertime plan is to become a grandmaster of pianistic technical exercises, which I hate. This must be done by July, or I will suffer greatly. There will, however, be great rejoicing when grandmastery is achieved.

My sixth summertime plan is to become a grandmaster of music theory, or at least of all the matters a university freshperson ought to have learnt. It is a strange point of music theory in the academy, that one might know a good deal more than one might analyze with all the proper notation and terminology. This must be done by July, or I will suffer greatly. Since I deeply enjoy the theory of music, all I must do is summon the discipline to practice its dull exercises, which will not be so bad.

My seventh summertime plan is top secret. Do not tell.

My eighth summertime plan is the maintenance of discipline in Greek, lest I forget its glorious grammatical details. Thus I have my textbook and my Greek New Testament.

My ninth summertime plan is the reading of many wonderful and interesting things, and I brim with thrills at my numerous options. It will be grand.

My tenth summertime plan is GenCon, the one time of year when all the strangest people in the land gather together in Indianapolis. Ready the utility kilts and don the chainmail!

My eleventh summertime plan is the practice of sport. It is good for me, so it is best that I practice a degree of sport. I do hope my retired friends will be free to play sport with me.

My twelfth summertime plan is to become a piper. I have read upon the pipes, and they are not difficult. What is difficult, however, is their acquisition. It is all right, though, for I know a guy who knows a guy who knows where to get a fine set of pipes.

It will be a grand summertime, I think, full of Friendship and Wonder, for Friendship and Wonder are surely among the highest virtues.

Beltaine

Happy Beltaine, my friends! With the most joyful of joys the most mythological of days has arrived! In celebration, there has been planned a May Day festival in Oxnard, mostly by people who have no idea what they are doing, I think. There will be poetry, music, dancing, feasting, and a Maypole. This is all fine, but not without qualification. Poetry is a particularly excellent idea, being that poetry was practically equated with magical power and authority in the tales of yesteryear. Thus this was the wisest inclusion for the festival, as long as it is done well, with knowledge of bardic practices. Even a pale imitation of proper bardhood would do.

Next, the music must be played on the proper instruments, limited basically to the bagpipes, the Irish harp, early percussive instruments, and the human voice. Violins, violas, guitars, flutes, and the like are perfectly acceptable, but not authentic. Personally, I suspect that the music might be a-poppin' and a-hip-hop happenin', but I leave myself to my fantasies nonetheless.

As to the feasting, there ought to be cakes of some kind, which serve two purposes. First, they are to be offered alongside libations to the faeries and leprechauns, and second, they are to be used in casting lots for the symbolic human sacrifice. Ever since the Romans (and later, Christians) decided to dissuade the practice of human sacrifice, we have slowly forgotten that human sacrifice is what the traditional bonfires are all about. Speaking of bonfires, the May Day carnival really needs one of those, too. How else are we to appease Nature and her spirits? The druids knew that which was at stake, for as Caesar records of them, "unless the life of a man was repaid for the life of a man, the will of the immortal gods could not be appeased." So there had better be bonfires at the festival. There should be no feast without sacrifice.

The Maypole is the most important part of this festival, naturally, for it allows us to commune with Nature and gleefully rejoice that the Sun has once again subjected Death in their perpetual struggle. Thus the earth is awoken from its slumber once more and things begin to grow. It must disappoint the Sun that we did not welcome him this morning by decking our halls with tree branches and other such growing things; however, may the Maypole and the bonfires compensate! Let us dance around the Maypole, acknowledging that once again the cycle has turned to summertime! 'Tis the season for rebirth! 'Tis the season to be jolly! Let us now be festive as the Druids intended.