Permission to revise and extend my remarks?

In an addendum to my “Geez, aren’t I the boring blogger!” post from Thursday, I should note that one factor of the job that has me tired over and above the fact that I’m even employed again in the first place is that the store has me coming in at 5:00 in the morning twice a week to work on a special cleaning project. I haven’t had to get up at 4:00 on a regular basis in nearly five years (while managing the morning shift at a family restaurant), and even then, it was a struggle getting up that early each and every day, five days a week (to say nothing of the current two days a week on a temporary cleaning assignment).

What’s the cleaning task? Well, the side of the store where the produce, bakery, deli, meat and seafood departments are located is designed as a large open space with somewhat softer lighting (albeit, still quite bright). The perimeters of this area have these faux-ceiling grates that provide the illusion of a ceiling and a nice visual counterpoint to the dominant earth-tones of the store’s main color scheme. It’s hard to describe, really — but the actual store ceiling is the typical “warehouse” type of thing you’ll see in larger stores these days, with steel beams and giant heating-ductwork and large spotlights all clearly visible. But then there is this faux-ceiling setup, which consists of a grid of one-inch piping from which small spotlights are suspended, and the spaces of which are adorned by the afore-mentioned grates. It’s actually very appealing, visually, but it also poses the problem that all that grillwork overhead is a gigantic dust magnet. And we haven’t even come ’round to the grillwork above the bakery, where the combination of dust and flour coating all this metal grates is….well, I’m sure you can imagine.

Enter the intrepid blogger, new on the job, bright-eyed and bushy-tailed and willing to do anything disgusting with a smile (albeit occasionally a fake one — I’ve been around enough to know what they’re about to ask me to do something really icky). The managers approached me to ask if I’d be willing to come in super-early a few times a week to help clean all that detailed grillwork, and I, of course, acquiesced to their request. Because I’m just a team player, you know.

(Now, to be fair, they were pretty up front about what they were asking. They didn’t try to butter me up with a lot of babble about “helping the team” and all that other Godawful manager-speak, which I found really refreshing. This was a case of, “Hey, we’ve got this rather annoying, highly labor-intensive, and not-really-gross-but-still-icky cleaning job that will require some very early mornings. Can you help us out?” I found this really refreshing.)

So, that’s probably a big problem with my mental functioning as to blogging lately: I can’t get into a routine yet because the job itself hasn’t settled into routine. Luckily, this cleaning job should only require three or four more weeks. Until then, I shall probably move my “No blogging at all” day to Fridays instead of Saturdays. Or maybe not. Hell, I don’t know. I’m just amazed right now that I’m back in a situation in which sleeping until 7:30 am constitutes sleeping in.

(By the way, any list of “Biggest lies of all time” has to include telling people that they’ll adjust to getting up at three or four in the morning, if the job requires it on a regular basis. I did it five days a week for a year and a half, and it never got any easier. Maybe that means I’ve just got unshiftable circadian rhythms.)

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Hey, didja hear the one about….ummm….a guy and a….hmmm….maybe a priest?

Well, looking things over a bit here, it seems obvious that this blog was a lot more interesting when I was unemployed. I’ve either run stone out of things to say, or my ability to say them has taken a serious hit. Anyway, traffic is down by quite a bit, and twice now in the last week I have had less than 100 hits in a single non-holiday weekday, for the first time in a long while — probably back to whenever I took my last hiatus. Anyway, for those of you still checking in regularly, thanks, and I’m sure that my brain will recalibrate to the awesome pressures of sweeping out Aisle Nine and “rounding up the usual trashcans”.

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A listener, a listener, my kingdom for a listener!

The problem with being new on the job is that it takes quite a while to get to know one’s coworkers enough to know who will appreciate what joke. Today, there was a customer in the store who was the absolute spitting image of Wallace Shawn. I mean, I took one look at him, and I thought Vezzini from The Princess Bride had walked in. I wanted so dearly to point him out to someone and say, “Inconceivable!”, but I had no idea of who might actually get it.

So my joke went unsaid. Sigh.

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Looks like that national price cut on maple syrup won’t be happening after all….

It’s always nice when someone else says what I think, and more succinctly than I would have said it. Kevin Drum’s take on Howard Dean’s exit from the Democratic Presidential race:

Thanks, Howard. You weren’t my candidate, but I sure appreciate everything you did. If we win in November, a big part of the victory will be thanks to you.

I’m actually even more enthusiastic about Dean’s stated intention to form some kind of “grass roots” political organization (link via Morat). This is something I’ve long maintained the Democrats really need to start doing. To use a baseball metaphor, the Democrats tend to remind me of the Baltimore Orioles: constantly trying to load up with lots of guys who can swing for the fences, but paying next to no attention to the farm system. Republicans have outperformed the Democrats for years at finding good, smart people to run for local office and thus start the ball rolling uphill. I’d like to think that rather than just blast through like a winter wind, Dean actually managed to deposit a few seeds.

(That last sentence stinks, but I’m leaving it up anyway because it’s rather impressive in its stinkiness, no?)

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“God, it’s nothing but sixteenth-notes!”

So said I, the first time my piano teacher ever had me look at a piece by Bach. Lynn Sislo is amazed that someone blows Bach off.

The problem that Bach presents to the contemporary ear is twofold. First, listeners today generally are not able to process counterpoint to the degree to which Bach uses it. We’re not talking about just the two-part inventions here; Bach wrote very long fugues for many voices, and contrapuntal listening is about the most demanding kind of music listening there is. We are much more typically expected to follow a single melody and its various harmonies, but that’s about it. When even symphonic development like you might find in a Beethoven symphony is demanding to us, it’s no surprise that a full-scale Bach fugue is extremely hard to dig into.

Second, there is the idea of emotion in music. I obviously can’t speak for most listeners, but in my experience many people are more equipped to discuss a musical work’s emotional fabric, in terms of contrasts and beauty and whatnot, even to the extent of saying things like “This piece makes me think of a stream in the woods” or some such thing. This kind of thing is just not to be found in Bach. It’s not what Bach was about. Music-as-feeling was alien to him; music-as-devotion was Bach’s stock in trade. Or, put another way, music as ritual. The idea of expressing himself through his music likely did not even occur to Bach, unless it was to express his own deep religious faith.

Listening to Bach requires almost an entirely different mindset than, say, listening to Schumann or Ravel. (And in all honesty, it’s a mindset that I’ve never really spent much time developing. There’s something about Bach that I’m not sure I can ever really get, no matter how much I might enjoy the Brandenburg Concertos and how amazing I find the unaccompanied cello suites.)

BTW, for anyone wondering about how to approach Bach, I highly recommend the chapter Leonard Bernstein devotes to him in his wonderful book The Joy of Music. I’m pretty sure the book is out of print right now, but any library that doesn’t stink should have it.

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Whoa, it’s like the world’s biggest corn popper!

Today I had the supreme pleasure of putting about eight large shopping carts’ worth of potato chips, whose shelf lives had expired, into the big-ass trash compactor at the store. And then I hit the “Compact” button.

I gotta tell you, folks, if you haven’t heard the wonderful sound of several hundred foil potato chip bags bursting under the pressure of a trash compactor, well, you’re just letting the best stuff in life pass you by!

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More blood! More thorns! More nails! More, more, more!

It seems that Mel Gibson’s new film The Passion tells the Crucifixion story in very gory terms:

:: Roman guards employ a “cat-o’-nine-tails” that rips the flesh from Jesus’ back.

:: As Jesus is being crucified, a supervisor scolds one man for not nailing his hands properly. He yanks Jesus’ other hand, pulling the arm out of the socket.

:: To see whether Jesus is dead, a Roman soldier pierces his side with a lance. Blood showers down on the soldier.

Reading this, I was reminded of this passage from Stephen King’s On Writing: A Memoir of the Craft, in which King relates a few real-life experiences of his that he later brought to bear when writing his breakthrough novel Carrie:

:: One day her [Sondra, a neighborhood girl and later “model” for Carrie] mother hired me to move some furniture. Dominating the trailer’s living room was a nearly life-sized crucified Jesus, eyes turned up, mouth turned down, blood dribbling from beneath the crown of thorns on his head. He was naked except for a rag twisted around his hips and loins. Above this bit of breechclout were the hollowed belly and the jutting ribs of a concentration-camp inmate. It occurred to me that Sondra had grown up beneath the agonal gaze of the dying god, and doign so had undoubtedly played a part in making her what she was when I knew her: a timid and homely outcast who went scuttling through the halls of Lisbon High like a frightened mouse.

“That’s Jesus Christ, my Lord and Savior,” Sondra’s mother said, following my gaze. “Have you been saved, Steve?”

I hastened to tell her that I was saved as saved could be, although I didn’t think you could ever be good enough to have that version of Jesus intervene on your behalf. The pain had driven him out of his mind. You could see it in his face. If that guy came back, he probably wouldn’t be in a saving mood.

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