“The fate that awaits all astronomers”

Aaron made some mighty plans for observing the Transit of Venus, but his plans were thwarted. Condolences to him, of course. But then, he’s in pretty good company, for the ultimate in astronomical bad luck has to go to one Guillaume le Gentil, who met with disastrous results in trying to observe the transits of 1761 and 1769.

For the first transit, he planned to do his observing from the eastern coast of India, but his ship was blown off course by monsoons and he was stuck at sea on transit day. Deciding to wait the eight years for the second one, he built his own observatory, and in 1769 an entire month of crystal-clear skies led right up to the morning of the transit — whereupon the skies immediately clouded over for the duration of the transit.

And then, le Gentil’s return journey to France was so fraught with hardship that when he finally arrived home, he learned that he had been declared dead and his entire estate dispersed.

Now that is some bad luck.

(Account of Le Gentil’s experience drawn from Timothy Ferris’s excellent Coming of Age in the Milky Way.)

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GRRRRR!

(Wherein I rant a bit about a TV show. Move on if easily bored.)

After the conclusion of this past season, I decided that ER, which I have watched faithfully since its second or third episode way back in its first year, is going to have to work pretty damned hard to keep me coming back next year. This season was, in my view, terrible. There were too many overwrought episodes set in Africa that kept making the same points over and over; characters were dragged incessantly through emotional dreck for no reason at all; a favorite character of mine was killed off in as shockingly bad a manner as I can recall; the cast was once again allowed to bloat with all manner of boring newcomers (I may like Parminder Nagra enough as an actress to confer upon her “Move Over Britney!” status, but her character is a dud); the season finale ended with one of the dumbest cliffhangers I have seen since “Why, Bobby, what are you doing in the shower?”; and so on. About the only good thing about this season was that Maura Tierney got to do something other than stand around looking weepy.

Well, apparently the producers have already put themselves in the hole, as far as I am concerned. Alex Kingston, who played Dr. Corday, has been bumped from the show. According to the article, this is so they can keep focusing on “younger” characters (i.e., the ones I don’t care one whit about). So off goes a long-established and interesting character so we can watch more of Linda Cardellini playing the single-mom nurse with the stalker husband. Yippee.

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From mullets to….

A while back I ruminated briefly on the mullet, which I would rank as the world’s goofiest hairstyle if not for one other styling, whose every incidence awakens within me the strong desire to demand of its wearer: “You know you’re not fooling anybody, right?”

I’m referring, of course, to the combover, that hairdo of choice for millions of balding men who somehow allow the fear of baldness to convince them that if they just grow it really long on one side and then plop it over the bald spot in an alignment that is never found by real hair growing in nature on any mammal, no one will ever observe the unusual amount of scalp visible upon their noggins and put two together with two.

And now, apparently the world of the combover has turned out to be rich enough to yield a documentary film (watch the trailer).

I shoulda been a filmmaker.

(Link via DPS. It now occurs to me that I’ll have to work hard to come up with an entry for this Sunday’s “Burst of Weirdness” that tops this.)

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The Music of Mr. Grainger

Terry Teachout recently acquired a caricature of composer Percy Grainger, the acquisition of which proved to be quite the tale.

I first encountered Grainger in my very first days of my freshman year in college, where two works by Grainger — Irish Tune from County Derry (a tune better known as “Danny Boy”) and Shepherd’s Hey — were the very first pieces the concert band rehearsed that year. At that time I’d never heard of Grainger, but I was at least partly ready for his sound-world, based as it is on English folk song, by virtue of the fact that in my senior year in high school I had discovered the symphonies of Ralph Vaughan Williams, whose work — although vastly different from Grainger’s — also drew on Britain’s deep well of folk material.

Of course, being seventeen-going-on-eighteen at the time, I wasn’t equipped to appreciate Grainger for a while. At first, I thought that the Irish Tune was a pretty thing, pleasantly lyrical and not too demanding. Luckily for me, it didn’t take long before I realized that the piece is anything but simple — the harmonies are constantly shifting and are structured in the ensemble such that one never realizes just how dissonant some of those chords really are. Such a work, I soon realized, cannot be pulled off convincingly if the ensemble attempting it doesn’t have rock-solid command of dynamics and intonation. For a young musician with the young musician’s tendency to judge a work’s difficulty by the tempo and the number of sixteenth notes in the score, the Irish Tune from County Derry eventually made me realize just how hard it can be to play a work that has a very slow tempo and consists of nothing but quarter-notes.

Shepherd’s Hey was different. This piece is a folk dance, and it’s very brief — just two minutes long. But in those two minutes, every voice in the band is featured and the dynamic rises from an intimate dance to a raucous reel that feels like a railroad car about to careen off the rails. I’ve made an MP3 of Shepherd’s Hey; play it and listen to what I mean. (But only for a week or so. Then I’ll be taking it down.) In particular, pay attention to the piece’s ending: the main melody crashes to a loud chord, there is one final whirlwind statement, and then an amazing effect occurs as two lines, one ascending and one descending, cross each other before the final smash. This is the wind-ensemble’s emulation of a pianistic effect, that of the “double run”, in which the pianist starts one hand at one end of the keyboard, the other at the other end, and then executes an ascending run and a descending one simultaneously. Grainger was a great pianist, and this effect springs right from that part of his imagination. Wonderful stuff.

We dabbled with some other Grainger works over the next two years, the most memorable of which (to me) was the Children’s March: Over the Hills and Far Away, and the brilliant Lincolnshire Posy, which is a collection of six short — but remarkable — settings of folk songs.

Grainger fascinates me for some of the same reasons that Berlioz fascinates me: he eschews “standard” forms, in favor of rigorously following his own ideas and musical ideals. If you want a fresh listening experience and you’ve never heard Grainger, go treat yourself.

UPDATE: As of 6-26-04, I have removed the MP3 of “Shepherd’s Hey”.

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Thanks for the input, Mr. Laden. (Is “bin” your middle name, by the way?)

Let me just say that I find the idea that I should in any way base my decision on whom to vote for this November on some kind of armchair psychoanalysis of who Osama bin Laden wants to win, an idea I’m seeing in play lately (here’s Kevin Drum on the subject), is just plain stupid.

I doubt very much if Bin Laden gives a shit who wins the election, and I know for a fact that I don’t care what Bin Laden wants about anything. Unless it’s a large bullet, delivered at great speed and from short range, into his prefontal lobe.

(I’m writing this in one Mozilla tab as Skeptical Notion is loading in the other, and I see that Morat’s thoughts on this are identical to mine.)

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Score one for the gentleman from Iowa City!

I check MeFi pretty regularly, even if I somehow manage to always miss the incredibly sporadic sign-up period, so I can never post. But somehow I managed to completely overlook this thread about a series of children’s books I loved when I was a kid. Luckily for me, Sean pointed them out.

The books are collectively referred to as The Great Brain books, and the author is John D. Fitzgerald. I actually avoided these books like the plague for several years, after reading the back cover description and figuring that there was no way on Earth that a series of books set in 1890s Mormon Utah could possibly be interesting.

Well, as was my wont as a kid, eventually I committed a blunder serious enough to warrant the immediate revocation of my television privileges. And as in nearly all such cases, the time period set for the return of TV wasn’t days or weeks, but simply that my mother handed me the first two Great Brain books and said, “No TV until you’ve read both of these. And I know these books, and I’ll quiz you.” (Yup. The problem with having a sharp tack for a mother is that in the event you actually do manage to put one over on her, not only does it work only once, but she makes you regret it greatly when she finally finds out.)

Anyway, the books are indeed set in Mormon Utah (I don’t recall if it was just before Utah achieved statehood, or just after — I could look it up, I guess, but I’m lazy just now) and center on a family named Fitzgerald, who are Irish Catholics living amongst the Mormons in a town called Adenville. (Not that there was a great deal of religious angst in the books. There was a little, but not much at all. Except for one very sad episode involving the town’s singular Jew.) “Papa” ran the town’s newspaper; “Mamma” ran the household; and the three sons — Sweyn, Tom, and John — all did their thing. John is actually the first-person narrator for the books, and the title The Great Brain refers to Tom, who is easily the smartest kid in Adenville but who pretty much refuses to use his powers for good. Instead, he’s basically a very slick con-man, constantly coming up with bizarre schemes to swindle his friends out of treasured possessions or money.

This probably sounds a bit mean-spirited, and maybe in a way it is, but Tom also has a way of getting his comeuppance eventually (one very ill-advised scheme, involving a wooden raft and some rapids, nearly gets him and a couple of other kids killed). These books were a lot of fun to read, although one does wish for someone to just look at Tom and say, “God, you are so full of shit!”

Much less well-known is Fitzgerald’s “grown-up” book covering some of the same territory, Papa Married a Mormon. I’m not sure how much of the children’s books is based directly on Fitzgerald’s own life, but for some reason I suspect that Papa Married a Mormon is a bit closer to the truth. This book is more of a history of John Fitzgerald’s family, centering on the move west by John’s father and uncle, and then focusing on John Sr.’s courtship of the Mormon girl he falls in love with at first sight. It’s been a long time since I read this book — my mother once happened to find a copy at a used book sale — but I remember liking it very much. Anyone with fond memories of the Great Brain books is urged to track down Papa Married a Mormon, if possible.

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