Uncle John’s Log & Co.

There’s no doubt about it, Steve Carell is on a roll, especially with his upcoming “sequel” to Bruce Almighty and the feature remake of Get Smart. Dana and I make no secret that we’re huge fans of The Office and we can’t get enough of this guy. That’s why we watched The 40 Year Old Virgin tonight. I usually come down “Yay” or “Nay” on most movies I see, but can’t seem to swing one way or the other on “Virgin.” As much as I enjoyed Carell’s performance and in spite of my general amazement at the cast’s brilliant improv talents, the picture is just too vulgar for me to recommend. It brings me face-to-face with my inner prude, and I can’t deny the genuine discomfort. What can I say? Perhaps the profound lack of personal satisfaction which derives from indulging banality is the underlying point of the comedy, and, if so, I’ll give credit where it’s due, but I’m glad I inhabit this side of the fuzzy line. When the laughter was over and the credits rolled, I wanted to gargle or something. Nevertheless, the flick’s “Age of Aquarius” closing number is one of the most delightful cinematic “curtain calls” ever done—I’m so ready for this creative team to dare themselves to take their whole product up a big notch.

Sometimes these deadline experiences are like chuting down a pipeline—there’s no thought to doing anything but surrendering to the power of the flow, all the time hoping you make it to the end of the tunnel without a disaster. Mombo used to talk about when she was a kid, and they would play in a rain-swollen ditch, letting the water suck them into a storm-water culvert that ran under the street. Long ago that image got stuck in my mind when I realized I’d chosen a deadline-driven lifestyle. So, for what it’s worth, that’s what the suction of a deadline is like for me. (Her story also convinced me that my mother really was a tomboy, in case there’s any doubt about it.)

And, so I made it to the end of the latest chute today, presenting my study for a painting I’m developing to feature on this year’s poster for the Great American Brass Band Festival. The new executive director is delighted with my approach. The idea has a focus on the music makers. I want to illustrate the intensity of the performances with a montage composition. I don’t know why I always have to complicate things, rather than come up with a simple idea, other than the fact that “less is more” is easier said than done. I’m excited about the idea of including Vince prominently in the artwork. He’s always been the inspiration for much of my toil on behalf of the Festival.

Now, all I have to do is complete the final version by the end of the month without getting stuck in that darn storm pipe.

— A Mombonian Correction!

I think I understand why writers must write. It’s really no different than why sketchers must draw or why dancers must move, but why do we read? Why do we engage in this intensely self-centered activity with books? And what’s even more perplexing to me is why our society seems to exalt this particular kind of internal isolation, because, for the most part, it raises a collective eyebrow at meditators or deep, introspective thinkers. It wouldn’t be considered socially acceptable to spend much time playing golf by yourself, or going to movies by yourself, or drinking by yourself (certainly not), but almost all of us feel differently about reading.

My friend Danny would say we must read to train and develop the mind—to understand influences and work backward to the early sources, the original premises.

My “big sissy” is a librarian, so I asked her, and she said that reading makes us a more interesting person—reading may be solitary, but it’s not inherently selfish.

Watkins, Wolfe, Hammett, Hemingway, Twain . . . Why do I read their fiction? What am I looking for?

Every so often, I find myself listening to the lyrics of Eric, a talented friend. He writes:

You can seek your life to find

Answers that satisfy your mind,

But Jesus spared your life by giving his,

And, Brother— That’s all there is.

Wednesday was hardly “a modest resurfacing.” It must have seemed more like the gasping rise of an underwater swimmer, so I’ll go easy this time.

I was introduced to numerology in 1978 by a client, and make no excuse for continuing to consider it just about the most uncanny thing I’ve ever encountered. The key to its appreciation is tuning into the idea that there are fundamental “essences” at play in life, and that our species has come up with things like numbers, letters, and other symbols to represent their meaning. This process of abstraction we use to make sense of unseen forces is also at the root of mathematics and music, and yet numerology is regarded as the oddball disclipline of the three.

Today was the first vibratory six of the year, the essence of caregiving, responsibility, and selfless service. My Dadbo was fraught with sixes—no surprise. Because 2007 is a “six year” for me on a personal level, I was curious to see how the day “felt.”

It felt extraordinarily good . . .

I went to the Leadership Boyle County reunion Thursday evening and I was the only member of the 1990-91 class that showed up; that seemed way too strange. Almost anybody that sees me anymore starts talking about bicycling. This has to be good, but I also remind myself that I don’t make a living that way. I’ve got to balance this out somehow.

So how did I spend my day? I finished writing up bicycle project suggestions for the new Leadership class (as requested), and then I joined a group that rode the 47-mile round trip to Forkland for the “Great Outhouse Blowout.” I won’t even try to describe that event, but it was actually much nicer than I was led to believe, and the live music was outstanding. We were trying to be clever and avoid the rain, but we were just lucky instead. Although we crossed patches of wet pavement, it never rained on us.

Hugh (my friend the mayoral candidate) was at the festival and he pulled me aside to say he wants to talk about the meeting I had with the Danville City Manager on Wednesday about B.I.K.E. Hugh showed up and sat in on the meeting, but I’m not sure what he has on his mind, so I’d better chat with him soon. The subject of the meeting at city hall was the downtown Streetscape Project. We were seeking the formal inclusion of B.I.K.E. in the planning process, but it seems we’re too late to hold an official “stakeholders” meeting with the consultant. We did learn that there will be two public meetings in October, so we’ll plan to show up in force to advocate for a design approach that is bicycle friendly. Much of our group’s effort is now taking place outside of meeting time, and we’ve decided to converge monthly instead of every two weeks, as we’ve been doing all summer. B.I.K.E. now has three committees coalescing to take on the top priorities that came out of our deliberations last month. Maybe this means I can delegate more and start to diminish the time I spend with this activity, but I doubt it. I just need to stay organized and be efficient when I’m thinking about it.

Bruce spent most of the day resting. He wanted to leave for Indianapolis after tonight’s concert. Quite some time ago, as a 40th birthday present for her son, Dana got tickets for a rare Bruce Cockburn performance at the Kentucky Theatre. Lee and David decided to go, too, and the five of us drove to Lexington for dinner at Natasha’s before the show. We had a great meal and great seats. Bruce was clearly pleased with his gift. Early this morning on her way to work, Joan dropped off hers—an excellent copy of “Walden” that belonged to Joe Wood. At lunch, Bruce and I had a good talk about writing as a subtractive process, and the necessity of brutal self-editing (not unlike the practice of “design refinement” drilled into me as a university student). I’m finally beginning to fully appreciate Bruce’s artistic spirit. My anticipation for his creative output is a familiar craving with which I’ve learned to live. I respond to artists in one of three ways—indifference, inspiration, or demoralization. Although Bruce Cockburn’s sensibilities tend to fall a bit farther to the left than mine, he doesn’t fit the description of a stereotypical liberal musician. Experiencing his creative energy inspires me to my own art, and maybe that’s one more thing my son and I have come to share.

Brendan made his anticipated “career shift” announcement. Dana looked at the Website of his new employer last night. She said it was so cool she couldn’t get to sleep. I looked at it today and wanted to go destroy my own and start from scratch. I don’t think I’ve ever seen a site that combines so many contrasting features in such a distinctive and integral manner—legibility, motion, sophistication, clear communication, imaginative hipness, superb writing, exquisite taste… I found myself wondering who had the creative inspiration to fuse Buck Rogers with soothing classical music, and then it hit me that Erik Satie and Jules Verne were contemporaries. Awesome!

Garrison Keillor informs us that when the E-RI-E was a-rising, the gin was getting low, and so after all these years I now become aware that we’d been listening to a version of the folk song sanitized for children… Or that’s what I’m thinking, but James and I never did find the old record at the Blue Bank Hall today, and none of us could remember the lyrics that left out the reference to booze. I always figured those poor canal boaters ran out of water.

The “Etch A Sketch” came easier to me than it did to most, but I never dreamed of doing work like this guy. Joan sent me the link to his site.

I suppose I’ve always had fairly decent eye-hand coordination. My sax fingering wasn’t that good, though; it had to do with rarely practicing, in addition to being able to blow on a reed, which I always detested at some fundamental level. Actually, I could have been a great bulldozer driver, or operated one of those tall cranes they use to build a skyscraper. Maybe I could even fly one of those Predator UAVs… Video games? You better believe I could do that, but I’ve never really allowed myself more than a dabble with Marty now and then. For me, doing more than that would be about as wise as trying rock cocaine.

— Sunday was a day to shrug off the crazed Prospector (you should’ve seen him mining for diamonds last night) and just absorb the world-class sounds of the Band Festival before the musicians took their final bows.

— I often hear people say that the event “isn’t my kind of music.” I wonder how much of a Festival weekend they’ve actually experienced firsthand. Yesterday afternoon was a good example of how diverse the tunes can be—jazz, rock, motion picture soundtracks, patriotic marches, worship music, pop, classical—nobody would be out of luck except for a few die-hard country, hip-hop, or church organ fans. Over the weekend I heard bagpipes, a xylophone, a melodica, all types of percussion, plus a synthetically enhanced electric tuba, but primarily loads and loads of brass virtuosity. I honestly believe there’s no place on earth one can go to hear many of the world’s most skilled brass artists play for free, except for Danville, Kentucky during a couple days every June. Now, I suppose if you simply don’t care for people blowing horns, this event is not your cup of tea. To each his own, but one ought not to make assumptions. That’s like saying “I’ve never been to The Smithsonian or the National Gallery, but museums aren’t my thing.”

— I really shouldn’t go on. Everyone has their unique preferences when it comes to entertainment. I just happen to like James Clavell novels, Triple Crown horse races, vintage Chuck Heston movies, the Tour de France, watching old TV shows from the 60s, swimming in cold lakes, looking for pirates at plastic toy conventions, and sitting in front an outdoor stage at Centre College once a year. It’s just me. I never know what particular pieces of music will stir my emotions at the Brass Band Festival. This year it was Jens Lindemann playing Leroy Anderson’s “A Trumpeter’s Lullaby” in public for the first time in his career, or Randy Edelman’s haunting “Reunion And Finale” from the film “Gettysburg” and remembering the searing performance of Jeff Daniels, or hearing a Rhythm & Brass interpretation of Pink Floyd’s “Dark Side of Moon” creatively fused with songs from “The Wizard of Oz.” We must all seek out these types of individual pleasures for a balanced spirit, or bring less of ourselves to the serious endeavors that life demands of us at other times.

I made mention last month that we’d watched “Out of Africa,” but didn’t say that it was primarily to conduct thematic research in preparation for this coming Saturday night. I admit it. I love The Great American Brass Band Festival. We moved to Kentucky the summer it began, and June in Danville has always been about the Festival for us. Nevertheless, I’m not a big fan of trying to orchestrate a picnic table concept, as much as I thrill to the atmosphere on Saturday night. There’s nothing like being close to the stage during what’s clearly the high point of the weekend, but all the preparations and distractions of making the table into a spectacle has never seemed to be worth the bother. Having said that, I can report that Dana has me completely caught up in getting ready for our African repast, including designing graphics for the table sign, and I’m starting to get excited about how it’s coming together. We’re sharing our table with David and Lee and their guests from Durban, South Africa. The competitive juices are pumping. Look out. I’m gonna kick down every other table like Jesus on a bad day!

If you grew up with the original Mission: Impossible concept and sat through two substandard motion picture versions…

If you admire the best aspects of the Alias television series…

If you’re ready for some young IMF team members that Dan Briggs would have been proud to carry in his portfolio…

If you don’t dislike Tom Cruise any more than you do Jennifer Garner…

If you think Ving Rhames is cool…

If you think Lalo Schifrin is even cooler…

Then you’re ready to buy a ticket for the next installment of “The Ethan Saga.”

March experiment—day fourteen— Up before the alarm, with my mind too full of typography to postpone the opening ritual. Did I really think I could write and design a point-of-purchase promotion for “Share the Road” and circulate it among the Commissioners before 9 am? Not really. Didn’t think. Just set to work, to short-circuit the doubt.

To just begin, and trust the habit of creation.

“Finished is better than perfect.” Spoken inside without fear, these words from Gene Johnson—who may have swiped them—can be a certain kind of victory for me today.

Tonight’s Kirov concert was a lesson in contrasts. Tchaikovsky’s D major Violin Concerto with Mikhail Simonyan, followed by the Shostakovich 10th. Who wouldn’t find delight in the former? But, if you appreciate a brand of music decidedly in the “spooky” vein, you might prefer the latter.

Today’s sight bite— A carpet of emerald clippings under a sculpted yew—c-l-i-c-k—and the rusted tines of a familiar rake.

Tomorrow— Halfway through the experiment, it’s time to ratchet up my focus in the studio, and to lead a strategic discussion with local cyclists later in the day…

March experiment—day ten— Tackled the lopsided landscaping in front of the Town House porch (between thundershowers) for most of the day until it was time for our trip to Richmond. We had a pleasurable “first-date observation” at the Punjab, and then attended the St. Mark’s annual theatrical performance—my sister Joan’s last to organize there, before she moves on to new adventures.

Today’s sight bites— Pre-teen waiters with slabs of cake—c-l-i-c-k—greasepainted faces caught in a spotlight crossfire—c-l-i-c-k—button-breasted singing maidens—c-l-i-c-k—a wide-mouth “Master Colin”—c-l-i-c-k—and the joyful expression of a mentor surrounded by her proud students.

Tomorrow— Early morning ride to Mack’s cabin, as well as a few stubborn issues in the studio to solve…

March experiment—day six— Transitioning back into the experiment was like getting on an escalator without stumbling, but I made satisfying progress on retooling a Website to target the thoroughbred industry.
Website Makeover™ Man lives!

Dana wanted to go to the Polish Chamber Orchestra concert with James Galway, so I decided to skip the Clark’s Run meeting, and it was the right thing to do. Last night I watched Ying xiong, which Brendan had recommended to me quite some time ago. Leave it to me to see cross currents and common threads among Yimou Zhang, Perlman, Jet Li, Mozart, and the little Irish flute virtuoso. Mastery is mastery—whatever the source or context.

Today’s sight bite— Sir Jimmy on the Newlin Hall stage with his golden flute—c-l-i-c-k—but that doesn’t get it without the audio track.

Tomorrow— Back at full pace. Sleep deprivation be damned…

I hadn’t been feeling the tenderness in my knee, so I figured it was time to start running again. My waistline had been telling me the same thing for over a week.

I ran the full cross-country course out at Mack’s farm, half before the “Shared Silence,” and half after. Milton talked about how he categorizes and charts modern myth theories. I was still thinking too much about a couple movies we watched with David and Lee last night.

The Constant Gardener

The best thing about it is the editing. The worst thing about it is also the editing. That doesn’t mean it won’t win awards, but personally I think they went a bit overboard on the final product. Nevertheless, it’s probably a masterpiece, but, for some reason, I’m not sure about that.

Broken Flowers

Bill Murray may be Hollywood’s greatest facial minimalist since Buster Keaton. I could be wrong about this, too.

Although totally different, both movies were very creative. Both had superb casts and great music. On some level I think I’d already accepted this as a given, so I really doubt if either of these films will stick with me for very long. Maybe I’m just a little burned out on motion pictures lately, or, more likely, my thoughts have been occupied most of the day with something else.

I have afternoon plans to go to Lexington with Danny and attend a full Latin Mass—my first since the 1960s.

Tonight Dana had her book club, so I took the tickets Jeanne gave me and went to see the Harlem Gospel Choir at Norton Centre with my friend Danny D. The people on stage were very accomplished professionals, but the performance was too loud, too packaged, too “Show-Biz” for me. I get extremely discerning when it comes to worship-based music, but I can’t help it.

Dana and I decided to just go all the way with a “biopic grand slam,” and so we borrowed “Ray” from the library. Every so often I watch an Oscar-winner at work (Nicolas Cage in “Leaving Las Vegas” comes to mind) and I think, “Is this truly a performance that deserved an Academy Award?” This was definitely not one of those times. I’ll leave it to others more gifted than me to characterize Jamie Foxx’s phenomenal achievement.

As far as the movie goes, it makes “Beyond the Sea” look anemic by comparison—the difference between an obvious indie project and a big commercial picture with the highest production values. “Ray” is one of the best sounding Hollywood products in recent memory. The sound mixers deserved their awards every bit as much as the lead actor. Superbly directed, designed, and edited, the film is a technical masterpiece, but was it a better picture than “Million Dollar Baby?” No—because Clint delivers the full package that your heart is yearning for when you choose a movie like this. “Ray” has its moments—quite a few, and they’re exceptional—but failed to sustain a deep emotional connection for me. I cared more about whether Johnny Cash overcame his addiction in “Walk the Line,” and I really don’t think it was a function of who Ray Charles was or how good a job Jamie Foxx did.

I’ll continue to contemplate the similarities and contrasts of the four musical biographies I’ve discussed in my last two entries, and why one or another excelled in a particular area. In any case, each one of them is well worth the time, but now I plan to accept a couple new assignments in the spare-time department—the complete “Firefly” collection plus an early Paul Watkins novel…

“List seven songs you are into right now. No matter what the genre, whether they have words, or even if they’re any good, but they must be songs you’re really enjoying now. Post these instructions in your Livejournal along with your seven songs. Then tag (at least) seven other people to see what they’re listening to.”

1. Sibelius: Violin Concerto, Op. 47 — Jascha Heifetz and the Chicago Symphony Orchestra

2. Tchaikovsky: Manfred Symphony, Op. 58 — Riccardo Chailly and the Concertgebouw Orchestra

3. Fauré: Requiem — Charles Dutoit and the Orchestre Symphonique de Montréal

4. Grieg: Sigurd Jorsalfar, Op. 22— Neeme Järvi and the Göteborgs Symfoniken

5. Romances for Saxophone — Branford Marsalis and the English Chamber Orchestra

6. Best of Mission: Impossible, Then and Now — Original TV Soundtracks by Lalo Schifrin and John E. Davis

7. That’s All There Is — Eric Copeland (Cooler)

I actually doubt if there are seven people who read this Weblog (and most of those who do have already been tagged), but, regardless of that, I’d like to know what music these clansfolk and friends are currently enjoying…

• Marty S
• Seth D
• Nic D
• Kristi H
• Josh D
• Holly H
• Rita D
• Lee S
• Andrew W
• Alyx D
• Jerome D

•   Went to the Community Arts Center with Dana for the Great American Brass Band Festival’s annual recognition luncheon. Mary Q told everyone that Dixon Design was honored with a “Traverse Award” from the Kentucky Tourism Council for our brochure design promoting the Festival. The distinction was announced recently at the awards dinner the Council hosts in conjunction with the Kentucky Department of Tourism’s annual meeting.

One of the nicest things to happen was to have both John A and Vince D stand up to compliment us personally and salute our work on behalf of the Festival. Vince’s tribute was particularly warm. Although I expected that our award would be mentioned, I did not anticipate his kind remarks about our long-term influence on the image of the Festival. To be honest, I don’t think I’ve ever gotten a public endorsement from anyone at his level of talent. It was a rare moment.

We’ve won the “Traverse” twice previously (in 1997 and 2000) for tourism pieces we did for the local Convention and Visitor’s Bureau. Perhaps this time we’ll make a better effort to capitalize on the special recognition.

— Month of October workout totals: Swim-4; Bike-1; Run-3; Lift-0; Yoga-0

— I’ve been wondering why I’ve felt tired lately, and this morning it became obvious to me just how much the frequency of my exercise has dropped off over the last couple weeks. Wouldn’t you think I’d have more energy if I wasn’t out running and cycling? No, gang—it works the opposite way. And so I made my way to the pool at noon to put this period of inactivity behind me with a solid workout, which included an 850-yard swim in 16:22.

— Bruce continues to improve at home, but needs 24/7 care. Pam got a new job, so that means Dana will be staying there to help until Terie can go up to relieve her. I saw Dr. Liebschutz today and when I told him that Bruce was out of the hospital, all he could say was “Unbelievable.”

— I picked up Marty after school and we went to dinner at the King Buffet and then stopped for groceries. Lee and David had extra tickets for Leahy at Norton Center, so we walked over to the concert, but decided to leave at intermission. There was nothing about the performance that was disappointing. We just didn’t want to stay out that late. The dynamic ensemble of brothers and sisters is an impressive lot, and they’re shaping up to be the most successful group of musicians to come out of Canada since The Guess Who.

V & S

Dana and I drove to Indianapolis after the reunion so we could spend time with Bruce. Some anonymous medical genius had him so sedated he could barely keep his eyes open. They load him up with drugs and then stop in and ask him if he’s feeling depressed. Well, that makes perfect sense, doesn’t it? On our lunch break we walked along the canal, visited the Indiana History Center, and looked at some Bodmer lithographs and 1860 watercolors of Old Richmond. By the time I’d stopped in the Cole Porter room to see the Hirschfelds and play a couple tunes on the Wurlitzer, I felt somewhat better, although I took out my residual frustration on a nurse by insisting Bruce get some plain yogurt instead of the version with artificial sweetener, which gives him a headache (no problem, we have drugs for that, too). I’m certain everyone’s glad when the grouchy step-dad leaves.

By last evening we were in Dayton for Dana’s class of 1960 high school reunion, which she always enjoys so much, even though they’re a bit strange for me. Come to think of it, she might say they’re a bit strange for her, too. The music was provided by a classmate who’d worked in Nashville with Barbara Mandrell. He played solo pedal steel with a funky percussion unit that ran off a floppy disk. I was having some trouble listening to his interpretation of Richard Carpenter songs, so I requested a Linda Ronstadt or Roy Orbison ballad. The closest thing he could come up with was Elvis, but Dana was too busy talking and we never did get to have our dance.

Experiencing Mark O’Connor last night was the kind of transporting event I needed. Any of the other individuals who appeared with him onstage—Bryan Sutton, Howard Alden, Jon Burr, Roberta Gambarini—could have easily carried the evening on their own. The musical originality and virtuosity was riveting. I love wind instruments, but it’s totally amazing what fingers can do when lips don’t have to keep up.

My morning was devoted to cleaning up the used smoker that belonged to Bill’s dad. I played the soundtrack CD from “Master and Commander,” realizing that it was the first time I had truly listened to it. Some of these discs become mere background music in the studio. It made me want to watch the motion picture again, and I kicked myself for letting Marty’s DVD sit around the house for a month this summer without indulging. I made the offhand remark to Bill that it’s the best historical action drama since “Braveheart,” and that might actually be true, but I said it without really thinking much about it. Nevertheless, it would be interesting to know more about the Weir-Gibson connection.

I love smoked fish, but doing it myself is an entirely new thing for me. The timing is perfect today, as we organize and clean in preparation for tomorrow’s departure. We had to soak the salmon in a mixture of brine and seasonings all night. I’ll monitor the smoking process as the rainy weather makes is way through the Straits of Mackinac. There won’t be any more fishing for us in the Les Cheneaux
on this trip…

It’s been a while since the sleepy voice inside my pillowed head murmured, “Yes… a perfect day.”

Our 23rd Anniversary celebration was in full swing by midnight. Dana and I had arrived at our B&B abode only a few minutes before, drastically delayed by a leisurely dinner at a winery across the Ohio near Maysville plus our unfamiliarity with the route to Augusta. It would have been easier to find our destination by river, since it was right at the waterfront, but this is not 1805, so we traveled by car and twice missed our turn before we located the historic Thorton Marshall House. I knew that the adverse circumstances would be a strong indicator with respect to the personalities of the proprietors, and indeed they were. Despite that fact that we arrived hours late, after they’d left more than one voice message to our dead-zone phone, our hosts met us with good cheer, warm hospitality, and a bottle of Chardonnay chilling in the spacious second-floor bedroom above their art gallery and antique shop.

The next twenty-four hours defy description—by this mediocre scribe, dear reader—so forgive a mere laundry list of the activities that filled our “perfect day” with aesthetic delight, Epicurean pleasure, and a deep soul satisfaction born of true companionship:

• Waking up to the throaty horns of barge boats working in the fog, as a magical ambient light flooded our riverside chamber.

• Our sunny walking tour of old Augusta, which survived a fiery attack by Morgan’s raiders, and a tasty buffet lunch at the Country Inn.

• Kayaking with my sweetheart up the surprisingly clean Ohio and exploring a quiet Kentucky tributary.

• Enjoying our spectacular window view of the wharf, as we listened to Eric’s “Cooler” and relaxed with generous Jerome’s old vine Zin.

• Strolling down to the Beehive Tavern for a delicious gourmet supper and getting invited (three times!) to come back for their 20th Anniversary party later that night.

• Meeting Heather on the sidewalk (a fellow graduate of DAAP) and accepting an offer of a personal tour of her design work on the Rosemary Clooney House (those brown eyes!).

• A stop near the riverbank to look downstrean at a painterly sunset over water (those frontiersmen sure knew how to pick a spot).

• Experiencing the surprise celebration for Chef Luciano “Sean” Moral and the fulfillment of a 20-year vision for his tavern and the restoration of Augusta’s riverfront, with the most extravagant “potluck” spread I’ve ever seen (alas, too sated to exploit it).

• The spontaneous song fest, including “My Old Kentucky Home” on the harmonica, and Sean’s operatic serenade for his family and friends (We were stunned to discover his “O Solo Mio” was absolutely magnificent!).

• Watching fireworks over the river (20 rockets—one for each year) as the stars came out and the carriage horse ended her long day with enough spirit to gallop down the street.

• Oh yes… leaning over a candle to look at something before bedtime and singeing the hair on my head (1805 was dangerous, man).

• Happy Birthday to my favorite stepdaughter…

• Happy Birthday to my favorite Russian composer…

• Happy Birthday to my favorite among favorites…

(I beg your pardon; the last one is totally not a joke.)

— If we need another grim reminder that the world is at war, this story makes it clear that we’re all potentially in harm’s way—especially when we leave the homeland—as Joan, Aunt Carol, and Uncle Bob are planning to do this weekend. Manolo, get out your Blessing Engine. Meanwhile, the rest of us will pray—hard.

— Speaking of Bobs, I’ve known a few in my life. A Bob is never wishy-washy, but invariably an exceptional guy (occasionally you’ll encounter one who is distinctly uncool), and always makes an impression. This Bob is one of my favorites, and so I’ll do my part to extend his 15 minutes of fame.

— At Aunt Alma’s funeral I talked to cousin Don (accomplished musician and former CEO of Rolodex), and, without any prompting from me, he declared Centre professor Vince DiMartino as the greatest living Jazz trumpet virtuoso. Hmm… At the Brass Band Festival, Vince gave the honor to his friend Allen Vizzutti. Anyway, here’s a montage I made from shots I took during the Festival, so you can see the world’s finest trumpet player in action, whichever one he is!

V & S

After seeing my fitness chum from Japan (Yu Saito of Denyo) for the first time in over three years, at the old cabin where we meditate, we spent the afternoon on campus, soaking up more world-class music at the Festival. I did another study with the Karat medium and then got a satisfying close-up shot of soloist Vizzutti. On the other hand, it was hard for both of us to comprehend why we could be having such a wonderful time while Bruce was still going through his extended ordeal… and then we found out that he needs emergency surgery tomorrow. We’ll leave in the morning to be there.

Because I’m not in 5k shape, I decided to lend a helping hand at the early “Run for the Brass” event, and we had a wild scene at our water stop. The unusual 2005 course had people lapping walkers while the leaders were moving in the opposite direction. A bit complicated, especially with participants crossing in front of each other to grab cups of water. So I had everyone yelling instructions in both directions, but the guys with headsets couldn’t hear us and just did their own thing—crazy! The rest of the day was ripe with superb music and the best of family and friends. The parade was fun, I got to meet the entire Helmers caboodle (Holly, Hayley, Halle, Hannah and Henry!), Bob got a new pair of Brooks at DBF, Marty and I grilled lamb kabobs, and then we all set up at our picnic tables (perfectly located on campus, thanks to Pat) in time for a delightful evening that included Mombo, the Simpsons, plus Joan and her chums. To top it off, Gov Ernie was there to smooze the crowd, we managed to sneak a little Mondavi Zin, some digital close-ups at the foot of the stage came together nicely, and I had an opportunity to straighten everything out with Chuck (we’ll be able to pick up our bronze bowl soon, consummating that long-standing barter deal that desperately needed to be resolved). BrassRoots and Rhythm & Brass were outstanding, so we want to go back to the Festival on Sunday to hear them again, along with the DiMartino/Osland Jazz Orchestra (DOJO).

I’d better stop rambling!

— BCA’s Frisco
makes me want to draw it as a comic strip, as Lisa did with Fortado. A while back I realized I’d have a difficult time creating a comic strip as a solo enterprise because, even though I could draw it, I knew I didn’t have the mind to develop dramatic or humorous ideas at the same level. And so I would require a partner, if I ever chose to fulfill the dream. It makes me think of some of the great collaborative efforts, like the strips created by Lee Falk (Mandrake the Magician, The Phantom) and, of course, Parker and Hart’s The Wizard of Id.

— Spent Friday morning compensating for the substandard transparency of the Tapley painting being featured within our Brass Band Festival poster design. It was a relief to know my teamwork with the printer’s pre-press technician achieved the anticipated result. All along, my goal has been to showcase a fabulous work of art without messing up, and having to take possession of the original and haul it around added a bit more stress to the process. Then we had lunch in Louisville with Bob the photographer and he pointed out that shooting a high-res digital could have avoided the entire ordeal of fixing a donated scan. No doubt, but that’s the sort of thing you get pulled into with a freebie project. There’s always time to salvage a botched plan, but never any money to do it correctly from the beginning.

— Within almost every “mandala” of friends there’s the individual or two who act as the “glue.” For a group that’s met twice a month for over a decade to experience “shared silence,” that primary person has been my friend Milton. He’s retiring from his long tenure at Centre College, and it was fun to “toast and roast” him at the cabin this morning. His energy, compassion, and “brutal” honesty has always been an inspiration. One of the harsh realizations of middle age has been to understand that one doesn’t know quite as much about quite as many subjects as it seems in youth. And special care should be taken when claiming any authority in the areas in which one has gained some depth of knowledge and expertise. For the most part, I learned this from Milton, a true scholar who knows how to keep things in perspective—that even though we all have our limitations as students of life, it need not inhibit our enthusiasm for learning, nor deter our quest for illumination.

— The remarkable recovery by Bruce continues as he enters his tenth week in the hospital. He had more surgery on Friday to take out tubes and is down to a single drain (which may come out tomorrow) and a line that delivers nutrition directly to the small intestine. Dana and I spent the afternoon with him yesterday. He did some hall walking and powered his own wheelchair for a while on a visit to the rose garden. He’s off antibiotics, keeps gaining strength, and can now concentrate on a little reading, which is one of the good signs I’ve been looking for. Nobody loved to read more than Bruce, and he’s surely on his way back to his former avocations. And yet I sense that the perilous chasm he traversed this spring is his portal to a new and different life that can be unlocked only by monumental perseverance.

V & S

We’re coming down to the wire on our graphic contribution to produce various merchandise designs for the Great American Brass Band Festival (Centre campus,the weekend of June 11 and 12)—silkscreened shirt, collector’s pin, and commemorative poster—which reinforces another cosmic law of the studio: whenever you decide to do pro bono artwork, you end up doing twice as many things as originally discussed and each one takes twice as long to complete (and that’s if you’re lucky).

There is perhaps nothing more subjective than taste in music, which can shift and evolve throughout the life of an individual. This has certainly been true for me. It would be pointless to attempt any explanation of my improvised excursion from Burton Cummings to Stanley Turrentine to Jackson Browne to Herbie Mann to Claude Debussy to Alexander Glazunov to JS Bach.

Lately I’ve had an unquenchable thirst for various “greatest hits” of a Scandinavian nationalistic flavor, primarily those by Edvard Grieg and Jan Sibelius. I’m finding much pleasure in pieces that others have judged to be bombastically second rate. And I love how a personal connection with music can trigger new areas of interest and investigation on the Web, such as Nordic dramatists of the late nineteenth century (Bjørnstjerne Bjørnson), Finnish folklore (Lemminkäinen), or medieval Norwegian history (Heimskringla).