At dinner the other night, two of our good friends whom we are visiting in London, Daniel and I asked “who is more British?” The two Brits listed their relatives–neither had a heritage that was mostly British. Daniel, who is Eurasian, listed Humphreys and Davies in his family tree–Welsh names. My father looked into our family tree some years back, saying that Bourland is Scotch-Irish. We went to the internet to research our respective family crests and were all amused by the images a mottoes. I trotted out my family names: Rhodes, Yelton, Arnold, Netterville… To my shock, I was more British than anyone at the table, even though my family has been in America since the 1700s. Go figure.
I had avoided watching the recent “Who the [bleep] is Jackson Pollock?” thinking the story and punchline were all too predictable: woman finds painting in thrift shop, doesn’t realize it is a Pollock, she sells it and becomes rich. Well, this doesn’t exactly happen that way.
The protagonists in the film are two world-renown experts on art who declare that, despite the fact Pollock’s fingerprints are found on the back of the painting, it isn’t really an original Pollock — because they say so, and they should know. This was an enlightening moment, as this is the way the world works — both politics and art.
I may have spoiled the plot for you, but it’s a worth while film to watch.
A man, who I’ll call Arthur, died in 2006 at age 60, leaving everything to his mother. He was a professor of zoology. In the case that he died before his mother, which he did, his mother was to give certain things to UCLA. Some were earmarked for the Music Department. His mother died recently and several boxes of stuff were left for us to come pick up. I went down and went through them. Several boxes of LPs, mostly old recordings of romantic violin music; lots of not terribly good paintings and odd photographs that he made; a photocopy of the manuscript of the Brahms Violin Concerto; framed pictures of Rodin sculptures, and other house pictures. Also, was a large book of his poems, writings, and philosophic musings — really, a kind of diary of his life. In his living trust, besides his violin and money, the most important item that is mentioned many times is his diary. I decided to take the diary home and read it, which I did this morning.
The poems were not very good poems, rather stream of consciousness observations of the world, and whatever was going on in his life at the end. There were many pages of scientific musings that, not being my area of expertise, may or may not be of interest to the scientific world. He includes an unanswered registered letter he wrote to Stephen Hawking in the ’70s. There is a chapter on his mid-life crisis, written on his 40th birthday. There are some photos in the book, but they are all of him, standing in front of statues or buildings around the world — and no one else. He doesn’t mention anyone else in the whole book except for a beautiful Spanish boy that he met in 1967 whose hand he had the pleasure of kissing.
The wizened, older Arthur revisits the wild and crazy younger Arthur with annotations in pencil, made and initialed by him later in life with comments like “not true” or “not the whole story.”
My guess is that Arthur was a big pot enthusiast, as most of the book seems like stoned ramblings. But where was his life? It all seemed inside his head. If this guy was a zoologist, you wouldn’t know it from any of his personal writings. If he was a professor, there is no evidence that he ever had a student in his life. This diary was his escape from everything and everyone. I did a search on his name and found only an appearance of his year of birth and year of death, and that a year before he died, he and his mother made a contribution in the memory of a friend to a their synagogue. Other than these two citations, he had no internet presence at all.
Why did you die at age 60, Arthur? Did you like people? What did you do when you traveled all over the world? Did you meet anyone, other than the people who took YOUR picture?
The most amazing part of reading the book was landing on the final page. He had an order form for the book. One copy would be $52; he then made a list of the prices if you purchase 5-10, 10-20, 20-50, and if you bought over 100 copies, they’d be $34 each. I couldn’t believe that he really imagined that this book had any commercial potential. But clearly, this was one of his most sacred and prized possessions. And it is now in my hands. I really don’t know what to do with it, but keep it, like I do so many other things, and show it to the appropriate person from time to time. What happen to the millions of other diaries that get left to be found by family or strangers?
I hope someone misses you, Arthur; and if not, I certainly am thankful for inheriting your strange little time capsule. [Top picture: Self Portrait of the Arthur (no date); Lower picture: Arthur's Fantasy (1981)]
I thought it was peculiar that my fabulously new, hi tech Acura TL would have a cassette deck. I knew the end was coming for the audio cassette, but didn’t realize how soon that it would be.
Today, I got out my trusty old Sony Professional Walkman cassette recorder, and for the first time since 1972, it didn’t work. I had another one around the house with a double well: it too was broken. I looked online and saw that they do still exist, but being impatient I went to my local Best Buy, Radio Shack, Guitar Center, and Target — all looked at me like some relic of the past and said that they don’t carry cassette decks. Blushing, I left to return home and placed my order on ;Amazon for an Ion cassette deck that outputs to USB so that I can archive the cassettes that I have not yet digitized.
If any of you have valuable cassettes, transfer the data SOON, or you’ll lose it.
I’ve been to quite a few weddings over the past few years and have written about most of them. The one last week in Las Vegas took the cake. As I went through the event, it was a bit shocking, but in retrospect saw it as Performance Art, which may or may not have been intentional.
We flew into Vegas around noon on Friday, in time to get to the Palms to see the Imax showing of the new Star Trek movie (terrific!). Afterwards we went upstairs to their blissfully smoke-free lounges for a light lunch. We were surprised that there wasn’t any gathering of the clan for a dinner and party, the night before the wedding, so we took the opportunity to go to Fleur de Lys for an elegant dinner. We were shocked to see the enormous piece of wall art that features 3500 pink roses in little vials with water, that are kept fresh every day by some dedicated worker. This seemed mind-boggling for being out in the middle of the desert.
We stayed in the Luxor which was fine. The smoky casinos really bugged me this time. The view from the 21st floor was amazing. One takes “inclinators” to traverse the pyramid, not elevators. Daniel referred to the experience as a cross between a subway and an elevator. On the way back to the room we stumbled upon the bride and groom, drinking with friends at one of the many elegant bars. We chatted for a while, and I turned in early.
The next morning we got to spend time in the spa and get deep-tissue massages. Finally, we got some direction as to a group activity: we were to meet near the exit at 4:45 to go to the chapel. The small group took taxis to the Graceland Chapel, where we were let out and led back behind the building to a parking lot, where the groom was already visiting with his family and friends, drinking beer. “Tailgating” is the term they used. Luke warm Coors lite isn’t my idea of a civilized offering, but to go with the flow, I had one.
It was a surreal event: drinking beer in the back of the Graceland Chapel, waiting for the groups ahead of us to finish. It was a warm night. There we were across the street from a bail bonds shop, and a store called WEED, next to a couple of out of business offices. After a half hour, the bride arrived in the white limo with her girl friends. She stayed in the limo, to pump the drama of her exit. And when she finally came out she had a cigarette that she kept dramatically gesturing around, making us feel as though she were going to put a hole in her dress. No, it was just part of the act. The bride is an actress, and a very good one. Her face is quite expressive, and she used those two assets all night long.
Finally, we were whisked into the little chapel. We all took our places with great anticipation. We were warned no photography or recordings could be made, as there were already 3 cameras in various places around the room, for a DVD copy of the service.
The groom walked in and proceeded to the front to wait. Then, a fellow, who turned out to be the officiant, appeared at the back. A chunky pleasant fellow with a gray suit and a book in his hand. Then, the bride walked in. The officiant stood in front of the bride to explain what was about to happen. “Who are you?” We heard her say. “Why are you telling me this?” More mumbling.
Then Elvis walked in. He chatted with the bride. The accompaniment to “Falling in Love Again” kicked in. Elvis offered his arm to the bride and they walked up the very short aisle to the front, while Elvis tried to sing (the arrangement was out of his range, but no matter: the reverb and slapback was effective).
There were some amusing dramatic moments in the exchange of the vows. When asked to be faithful forever, she looked at us with a puzzled expression, then at the officiant, and said “I guess that’s a YES.” And to “…until death do us part?” she responded “How ’bout two years? five years? YES!” The groom later groused that she got more laughs than he did. Well, she did.
The after-wedding party was at the Stratosphere a few miles away on the 103rd floor. A stunning view. Being the snob I seem to be, the libations were wanting in quality, so I drank water until around midnight and then decided that we would return to the Luxor. The bride, and her new sisters-in-law had disappeared into the ladies lounge, and the smell of smoke was coming through the door. Fearless, I walked in to say goodnight to our wild bride who was already three or four sheets to the wind. ROGER BOURLAND! THERE ARE 364 OTHER NIGHTS OF THE YEAR FOR YOU TO SLEEP AND TONIGHT IS NOT ONE OF THEM. YOU ARE NOT LEAVING! I smiled and gestured a little kiss. Was THAT an air kiss? she furiously yelled. I leaned closer and kissed her on the lips. Then, one by one, all the other smoking women, came up and gave me a kiss as well. I heard them all agree that “I only have ever kissed my husband, how cool!” I cut it short after doing the rounds, but then the door flew open and a furious staff member came in yelling that he was going to press charges about their smoking in the girls room. They all put out their butts and fled. A few minutes later, police appeared, went in, started laughing, and then left.
Although we promised to meet up with the bride and groom back at the Luxor, we never found them. The bride was last scene shooting craps in the casino in her wedding dress. What a character and what a weekend!
I am finally reading Oliver Sacks’ terrific MUSICOPHILIA. It has truly been a life-changing read. In it, he discusses musical hallucinations. I had always assumed that everyone had a constant playlist going in their heads as I do, but I guess not. My brain is full of earworms as well as an enormous playlist of songs and pieces of music that never stop. It gets in the way of my reading, going to sleep, sex, and most things that require concentration. I now know that my condition is rather unique and incurable.
When I am composing, whatever I work on plays in my head constantly. When I get to know a piece of music or a new song, it’s in my head constantly. Evidently, I’ve got it easy: some people have their internal radios going at full blast. Mine is softer, so that if there is talk, music, or white noise, I don’t hear it as much. Some people’s musical hallucinations do slice and dice to songs and they have chunks from different songs that get all jumbled together.
I roared with sympathetic laughter reading about one poor woman who gets an annoying earworm where she hears DING DONG DING DONG (where the DONG is a fifth lower) that repeats over and over for hours. Poor girl. My most annoying earworm is a fragment from Stravinsky’s FIREBIRD that loops and loops and loops and never resolves.
I recommend this book to all, but especially musicians.
OMG You go girls!
Music can color a scene in ways one might never suspect. [Thanks to John Schrag.]
This commercial makes me very nervous. And since when do we pronounce “lava” la-vuh?
