the daily musings ...
of faith and culture, of fun and games, of life and love,
of a song and dance man, who is keeping his day job.
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Thursday, March 15, 2012
Guitar Workshop: Speaking of Pi ...
Our semi-regular midday Thursday feature does not always amount to a "guitar lesson," but will on occasion delve into areas which the practicing guitarist will encounter at one time or another.
We rarely get the opportunity to discuss the relationship between mathematics and music, but there really is one. Most would associate this relationship with the division of whole notes into half notes, quarter notes, and so on, combined with varying degrees of complexity to form a whole equal to the sum of its parts. But it is more than the sum of its parts, as seen here in this video commemorating yesterday's Pi Day.
If nothing else, it shows how the left and right sides of the brain can work together.
Today is Pi Day, as it is the fourteenth day of the third month of the year (rendered as 3/14 here in the States).
"Pi" of course, is the mathematical constant whose value is the ratio of a circle's circumference to its diameter, one that appears in many mathematical expressions. In other words, diameter (d) times pi (π) equals circumference (c). It is rendered as 3.14, or to be more exact, 3.141592653589793238462643383279502884 ...
Well, that's the other thing. Not only has it never been rendered exactly to the last decimal point, but such rendering shows no discernible pattern (in other words, a repeating series of numbers). This means, if you asked a computer right now, to calculate the exact number, it would continue as long as the computer is left on, and the hard drive doesn't crash.
It can come in handy, too, like in that episode of Star Trek, where Mister Spock kept a renegade computer totally preoccupied, by instructing it to calculate the value of pi, thus giving Captain Kirk the time he needed to once again save the universe. Or something.
Archimedes of Syracuse (287 - 212 BC) was the Greek mathematician, physicist, engineer, inventor, astronomer, and all-around geek (shown here in a 1620 painting by Domenico Fetti baking his first pi), who first approximated the value of pi, using what is known as the "method of exhaustion," which means he kept working on it until he was exhausted, and he still didn't finish.
Today, we remember his achievement every year, according to New Scientist magazine, by actually -- you guessed it -- baking a pie.
Art-For-Art’s-Sake Theatre: NRBQ and “Captain Lou”
It's a little early for our usual midday Wednesday feature. Nevertheless ...
Remember that gnarly bearded guy who played the big daddy-oh in Cyndi Lauper's video the other day? Well, yours truly recognized him right away. That was “Captain Lou” Albano. He started out as a professional wrestler in 1953, at a time when "big time wrestling" was a big time chunk of early television programming (facing stiff competition from pro bowling, if memory serves). In fact, it was Lauper herself who teamed up with Albano in bringing professional wrestling to mainstream audiences, resulting in the "WWE Raw" craze of the present day.
Albano retired from active performing in 1969 and turned to the managerial side, also trying his hand at acting. He died in his sleep of a heart attack in 2009, at the age of 76.
Oh wait, I remember now. I've never been asked to serve on ... a parish council (or pastoral council, to use the canonical term).
I've seen elections where people tout their administrative and managerial experience, when in fact the role is not legislative, but consultative (in other words, not concilium, but consilium). That alone should disqualify them. I've seen people put on committees armed only with good intentions, but a limited knowledge on the subject. (A gift for flower arrangements on the altar does not qualify you to chair the liturgy committee, whereas a masters degree in sacred music just might.) A pastoral council and finance council, together, are the main consultative body for the parish priest, on matters spiritual and temporal, respectively.
It seems to me that the majority of parish councils are either popularity contests (if elected), which I never seem to win, or a rubber stamp for the pastor (if appointed), which I never seem to pull off. My current position with a parish, where I am a liturgical master of ceremonies, is as close as I've ever come to being on a parish council. At the end of the day, I could not be more content. But you won't see my name on a parish masthead, not in this lifetime.
I just got a text from a friend of mine. She's with her sponsor at RCIA (Rite of Christian Initiation of Adults, the catechumate process in the Roman church), and can't get away. Sounds reasonable to me.
But did you know that I have never, EVER been asked to serve as someone's sponsor for RCIA?
There's more. I've never been asked to be an Extraordinary Minister of Holy Communion.
Wait, I take that back. I was made one once, twenty years ago at the parish in Georgetown where I was a sacristan. It was mostly to coincide with my regular duties, as I was not expected to actually be one. Occasionally I'd get asked to do so provisionally -- like I always say, never argue with an archbishop from out of town when you're his emcee -- as in just for the occasion. Not that I'm chomping at the bit for a task which I believe should be practically eliminated anyway. (So does Rome, but no one's listening.)
Okay, that's two things. There is also a third, but not even I can guess what it is.
UPDATE: Oh wait, I remember now. I've never been asked to serve on ... (click here)
One hundred years ago today (tonight, actually), a woman by the name of Juliette Gordon Low returned to her home in Savannah, Georgia, having been in the UK to meet with Lord Robert Baden-Powell, the founder of the Scouting movement. It was then that she made a phone call to a distant cousin, saying:
“I’ve got something for the girls of Savannah, and all of America, and all the world, and we’re going to start it tonight!”
At least that's what they say led to the founding of the Girl Scouts of the USA, but it reminds me of a spoken line in a Broadway musical, the one right before someone bursts into song. It didn't happen in this case.
As we enter into the cookie-selling season, I am going to find it hard to say no, even as I may presently have a good reason. People are taking exception to the affiliation in recent years of the GSUSA with Planned Parenthood, which is apparently all to eager to assist the organization with teaching girls about womanhood. (Maybe I should just slip a twenty to one of the adults and say, "Here, keep it to yourselves and don't go buying birth-control for these little tykes, okay?" Just a thought.) One of the local parishes in Virginia recently disassociated itself from the Girl Scout troop it was sponsoring. Maybe that was the right thing to do, I don't know. But I do know, in the words of one seasoned veteran of my acquaintance, that "all Scouting is local." If Scout units, boy or girl, want to raise the bar on its value system, as long as they don't clash with the front office, it's not a problem.
You have to wonder what the girls themselves make of all this. [Cue video at left.]
One answer may lie in that the older youth programs of the GSUSA are failing miserably, and teenaged girls are flocking to the high school-college age program in the BSA known as Venturing, where they tend to dominate in the youth leadership. That's right, girls leading the way in Boy Scouting.
Fact is stranger than truth. And girls just wanna, they just wanna ...
I went to my psychiatrist to be psychoanalyzed To find out why I killed the cat and blacked my husband's eyes. He laid me on a downy couch to see what he could find, And here is what he dredged up from my subconscious mind:
When I was one, my mommie hid my dolly in a trunk, And so it follows naturally that I am always drunk. When I was two, I saw my father kiss the maid one day, And that is why I suffer now from klepto-ma-ni-a.
At three, I had the feeling of ambivalence toward my brothers, And so it follows naturally I poison all my lovers. But I am happy now I've learned the lesson this has taught; That everything I do that's wrong is someone else's fault.
I was once alive apart from the law, but when the commandment came, sin revived and I died; the very commandment which promised life proved to be death to me. For sin, finding opportunity in the commandment, deceived me and by it killed me. So the law is holy, and the commandment is holy and just and good. Did that which is good, then, bring death to me? By no means! It was sin, working death in me through what is good, in order that sin might be shown to be sin, and through the commandment might become sinful beyond measure. We know that the law is spiritual; but I am carnal, sold under sin. I do not understand my own actions. For I do not do what I want, but I do the very thing I hate.
IMAGE: Damaged farm buildings in Ripley County, Indiana. From the Osgood, IN website.
Earlier this month, several states in the Midwest where hit by dozens of tornadoes. Many small towns in states like Ohio and Indiana have been virtually wiped off the map. Some may never be the same, much less rebuilt. One in this writer's home county was the subject of an earlier piece. Moscow, Ohio, is attempting to defy the odds and rebuild. Donations can be sent to:
Zumba For Moscow Vickie Dietrich 7184 Lakewood Drive Unit E Cincinnati OH 45241
Make the check payable to Summer Rackley, with "Zumba for Moscow" in the memo line.
IMAGE: A scene in downtown Osgood, Indiana. Yes, there really is a theater with that name.
Meanwhile, across the border into southeastern Indiana, where many German and Swiss Catholics settled in the 19th century, Father Zuhlsdorf “had an UPDATE from Fr. Shaun Wittington of St. John’s Catholic Church, in Osgood, IN which was devastated by a recent storm.” Heading to Osgood as this is written, are three boxes of toiletry articles, medicine cabinet supplies, and ... stuffed animals. In a phone conversation with Father Whittington yesterday, it was acknowledged that young children who have lost all of their toys might do well with a little comfort, once the initial recovery is well underway. So one of the boxes is stuffed with seventeen small bunny rabbits and teddy bears, including one squirrel.
IMAGE: Photo by Paul McClure. Used without permission or shame.
They didn't ask for aspirin or antibiotic ointment either, but we knew that this would be a headache for some of the people there, and cut and scrapes are not unheard of when cleaning up at a disaster site. If you want to help, please check the link above to learn what they need and don't need. Three places worth checking for supplies are giant thrift stores, so-called "dollar stores," and the trial size aisles of big-chain drug stores. If you can send money, by all means do so, to:
St John’s Catholic Church 331 S Buckeye St Osgood IN 47037
Be sure and write "tornado" in the memo line. And remember, anything they cannot use will be sent to other little towns in the area, several of which were hit no less severely. This includes both Henryville and Marysville, located not far from Osgood, both of which have been featured on the evening news in the wake of the disaster.
When this writer read of New Jersey Governor Chris Christie getting into an argument with a Rutgers student over a planned merger with Rowan University, we were tempted to show another Christie video, but he doesn't come off so well in this one. Still, it doesn't matter. One of the commenters at HotAir.com brought our attention to this Italian-American favorite. Dolce was born in Painesville, Ohio, but has made his fortune in Australia. This is a clip from a television show he hosted in 1980, the year this song made number one on the pop charts in The Land Down Under.
What’sa matta you? (Hey!) Got a no respect What do you think you do? Why you looka so sad It’s a not so bad It’s a nice a place Ah, shaddapa you face.
We couldn't have said it better, at least not for this week's Friday Afternoon Moment of Whimsy.
This is what happens when you read too much. A correspondent from this writer's locality has passed along the following.
There have been about 514 leap years since Caesar originated the idea in 45 BC. Without the extra day every four years, today would be -- this could be just a rough guess now -- July 30, 2013. And since the Mayan calendar did not account for the leap year, the world should have ended about seven months ago. On top of that, the Mayan calendar never technically ends. So if we were to assume that it would end on the 21st of December, it would simply start over again the next day. And you would never have to throw it away and get a new one.
On the other hand, the world could end as this is being written, for “thou knowest neither the day nor the hour.” (Matthew 25:13) And yet, until the 21st of December of this year, comedic films and witty marketing campaigns will make as much of this as they can.
Art-For-Art’s-Sake Theatre: Taps - The Bugler’s Cry
Day is done, Gone the sun, From the lake, From the hills, From the sky. All is well, Safely rest; God is nigh.
Now that we are back to our regularly scheduled programming, it is time once again for our usual midday Wednesday feature. Taps Historian and bugler Jari Villanueva explains the origins of America's most famous bugle call.
Fading light dims the sight And a star gems the sky, gleaming bright From afar, drawing near Falls the night.
The old Troop 120 in Milford had an official “Troop Bugler” which was a ceremonial role still listed for BSA units. Ours would sound the wake-up call, the call to meals, the raising and lowering of the flag, and, of course, this call for the end of the day. And even though they recently merged the requirements of the Bugling Merit Badge (one of the BSA's oldest, dating to the beginning) with the Musician Merit Badge, the sight of a young man marking the day at camp, as others did before him, can still move the heart of many an old Scout.
Thanks and praise for our days Neath the sun, neath the stars, neath the sky As we go, this we know God is nigh.
If you can ignore that hogwash at the end about Republicans being the "party of the rich," there is a lesson in the piece (even coming from a man who can call a conservative woman a "slut" or similar term and not have to make a public apology) about going from being poor to being rich. Naturally, rich is better. But to read of his account, it depends.
So I'm sitting at home right now, recovering from a fever due to -- uh, I don't wanna talk about it -- when I stumbled on this page from some guy's Facebook album. Click here and feast your eyes on thirty-two then-and-now comparisons of aging rockers. The best case scenario is featured here, namely Michael Lee Aday, better known as Meat Loaf. Others who improved with time, or at least aged gracefully, include Sting, Bruce Springsteen, Jon Bon Jovi, and James Hetfield from Metallica.
Things happen to men when they reach their fifties, don't you think?
Dad left us two weeks ago today. I have yet to complete the adjustment to normal life, having come down with a fever over the weekend. I sleep most of the day.
After the burial, we finalized the design for the grave marker. We were told we could add a maximum of four words.
“I will go to the altar of God.” Psalm 42(43) is inspired by a people who long to be delivered from exile among the wicked, to enter the temple of Jerusalem, to ascend God's holy mountain. In the traditional form of the Roman Mass, it forms the opening antiphon of the private prayers of the priest and his attendants, the "prayers at the foot of the altar." In its Latin form, it was agreed to be most fitting.
Mom has moved into her new apartment in the Assisted Living wing, and the siblings are ever so gradually winding down the extent of their attention. But not entirely. Someone will be around every day to see her. On my last night in Cincinnati, I accompanied her to a concert in the main lounge area, one last visit before leaving town. I've been back in Arlington for a few days now.
I admit I was surprised by how well the Funeral Mass went, and that I harbored suspicions at first as to how accommodating the parish would be. In the past three decades, between a rather disingenuous method of introducing female altar servers a decade before they were licit, an obsession with hand-holding across the aisle at the Lord's Prayer, and a few other liturgical irregularities over the years (like that one in the photograph, a definite no-no which appears in the parish photo gallery), I expected much resistance from a pseudo-intellectual cadre composed of veterans of weekend liturgy workshops, not unlike what I experienced at Georgetown.
However rarely it happens, I was wrong.
What I found was a community of faith that aspired to liturgical correctness, at least when it came to our family. We got their best servers -- all male, per my father's wishes, and my request -- and listened to a homily from the pastor that was judiciously navigated, avoiding a glossing-over of the human foibles of the deceased, while underscoring the need for redemption and forgiveness of sin, and consolation to those left behind. They also agreed with me with respect to eulogies, namely not to have one, as they are not really permitted. Not that this stops anyone elsewhere. Even in the Excruciatingly Orthodox Diocese of Arlington, a priest or an accomplished layman can rate a semi-canonization.
I also just knew that the parish could overcome their doubts and rise to the occasion, with Cesar Franck's "Panis Angelicus." Not to mention the "In paradisum" for the recession. Speaking of chant, they made generous use of it for this occasion. Good for them. (Everybody thinks Gregorian chant is SOOOO HAAAAARD ...)
We didn't get dark vestments, but it's just as well, since the multi-shaded violet ensemble in the sacristy couldn't hold a candle to the white "coronation" chasuble and dalmatic with the matching funeral pall.
I simply hate to break up a matched set.
The word on the street for the last couple of years, was that things at the parish were in "a state of flux." Perhaps it has been the implementation of the newly-translated Roman Missal, and sporadic winds of change in the Archdiocese with the passing of the ancien régime. Whatever the cause, at the end of the day, I would rate it one of most reverent funerals in the "ordinary form" that I have attended in a long time. It was impossible not to take the Deacon's advice; just "sit back and enjoy the prayer." And even if we sell the house, I will still have a home at the parish church along Main Street.
I don't have much in the way of family, at least not within arm's reach. It has been my destiny, as Dad would say, to "march to a different drummer," a path that was set in motion from when I was five years old. My son appears to have taken it further, having grown up with little sense of what a family is at all. And yet he finds camaraderie among his Alexander cousins.
From where I sit, I can't complain; things could be a lot worse. I have my memories, like this video from the parish Oktoberfest in 2010. And I have a long walk ahead.
“Further along we’ll understand why ...”
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POSTSCRIPT: One more thing; the pastor has been very good to my Mom. Kudos for that.
“Our entire daily lives cannot be occupied with purely religious practices; all of us have to eat, and most of us have and want to do many other activities besides. So though we cannot always be religious in this sense, we can always be Catholic, that is, the round of our daily activities can be conducted in such a way as to express and be in harmony with our Faith. And [this] can involve more than avoiding sin and exercising virtue.”
I just got a text from a friend of mine. She's with her sponsor at RCIA (Rite of Christian Initiation of Adults, the catechumate process in the Roman church), and can't get away. Sounds reasonable to me.
