Folklife Number Six

I’m cur­rently in Seat­tle, work­ing at the North­west Folk­life Fes­ti­val for the sixth con­sec­u­tive year. (Posts from pre­vi­ous fes­ti­vals here, here, here, here, and here. I’m once again work­ing as the Sig­nage Coor­di­na­tor, over­see­ing all the signs and ban­ners for the 4-day fes­ti­val. Things have run rel­a­tively smoothly for me despite some unex­pected set­backs, like the removal dur­ing the past year of a num­ber of trees from which I usu­ally hang ban­ners. I’m worn out though; I’ve been get­ting to Seat­tle Cen­ter between 7 and 8 a.m. for the last week, and leav­ing between 6 and 11 p.m. Tomor­row, the last day of the fes­ti­val, I plan to go in a lit­tle bit later. It’ll be a late night though, as we start to tear things down as soon as the fes­ti­val is over.

Israel Shotridge -
Tlin­git Mas­ter Carver

The weather has been beau­ti­ful, and I’ve had a fair amount of time to walk around and enjoy the fes­ti­val. We (the staff) were given coupons for free meals from var­i­ous food ven­dors, so I’ve been stud­ding myself with fes­ti­val food for the past few days. Tonight I had my favorite fes­ti­val dish: the black­ened salmon Cae­sar salad from Scotty’s. That rep­re­sents just about the pin­na­cle of fes­ti­val nutri­tion; my other selec­tions have included Ben & Jerry’s Half Baked ice cream and an ele­phant ear.

I’ve had a chance to play with my new cam­era some more. I’m still get­ting the hang of it, but I’ve man­aged to get a few decent pic­tures. I’ve posted 30 or 40 of what I’ve shot so far. I’ll prob­a­bly have some more after tomor­row. Click any of the thumb­nails above to visit the gallery.

World Percussion Ensemble

I still haven’t had a chance to play with my new cam­era as much as I’d like, but I did take a bunch of pic­tures last week­end at the UW World Per­cus­sion Ensem­ble con­cert. I’d planned to just take a few shots to see how my cam­era does under low-light (no flash) con­di­tions. But, I was asked to take pic­tures for the ensemble’s use, so I took pic­tures through much of the con­cert. The cam­era I’m used to is an old Pen­tax P3n film cam­era — man­ual focus, man­ual wind, etc. So, I got a lit­tle shutter-happy with my new toy, which is auto-focus, dig­i­tal, and very fast. I ended up shoot­ing 482 pic­tures dur­ing the hour-long con­cert. Of course, not all of these were good, as I was using the occa­sion as a learn­ing oppor­tu­nity (plus, the light­ing was bad and per­cus­sion­ists move alot when they play). Still, I was able to give the per­cus­sion stu­dio about 150 decent shots, and have posted 33 here.

Stiff

Stiff
By Mary Roach
W. W. Nor­ton & Com­pany, 2004
World­CatLibrary­ThingGoogle BooksUW-Madison

In Stiff, Mary Roach explores what hap­pens after death. Unlike most oth­ers who address this topic, she does not con­cern her­self with ques­tions of heaven, hell, rein­car­na­tion, or any­thing else to do with souls or life forces; Roach is inter­ested solely in the var­i­ous things that hap­pen to our bod­ies post-mortem. She, of course, explores the more or less “usual” activ­i­ties in which corpses are involved: embalm­ing, bur­ial, cre­ma­tion, decom­po­si­tion, etc. She also inves­ti­gates rel­a­tively new environmentally-friendly mor­tu­ar­ial options like tis­sue diges­tion and com­post­ing. But, the bulk (and most inter­est­ing parts) of the book are dis­cus­sions of less con­ven­tional treat­ments of or uses for cadavers.

The med­ical pro­fes­sion has need for a rel­a­tively steady stream of cadav­ers for the pur­poses of test­ing pro­ce­dures and edu­cat­ing stu­dents. Today, these needs are met through anatom­i­cal gifts and unclaimed bod­ies from morgues. These sources have not always been avail­able, how­ever. In the 18th and 19th cen­turies, bod­ies were often obtained through unscrupu­lous means. Doc­tors and med­ical schools often turned a blind eye to the activ­i­ties of their sup­pli­ers, which typ­i­cally included grave rob­bing and — on at least one well-publicized occa­sion — murder.

Beyond sim­ple anatomy lessons, doc­tors and sci­en­tists have had a vari­ety of uses for cadav­ers, how­ever they were obtained. Some are sub­jected to impact test­ing to deter­mine the proper tol­er­ances for crash-test dum­mies. Oth­ers are used to test the effec­tive­ness of body armor. A grow­ing num­ber of cadav­ers are used for var­i­ous types of sur­gi­cal train­ing and prac­tice — includ­ing cos­metic surgery. In the past, they have been used for an array of more bizarre and ethically-questionable exper­i­ments, rang­ing from attempts at rean­i­ma­tion to recre­ations of Jesus’s crucifixion.

Roach man­ages to strike a very del­i­cate bal­ance between gal­lows wit and respect for the bod­ies about which she writes. In this, she mir­rors many of the peo­ple she inter­views — peo­ple who work with cadav­ers every day. Thus, Stiff is often laugh-out-loud funny while also being highly inter­est­ing and infor­ma­tive. Inves­ti­ga­tion of the med­ical and sci­en­tific uses for cadav­ers obvi­ously made a last­ing impres­sion on Roach: she devotes the final chap­ter to thoughts about what she wants done with her own body when she dies.

Jeopardy!

Yes­ter­day after­noon, Veron­ica and I went to a tap­ing of the Jeop­ardy Col­lege Cham­pi­onship at UW’s Kohl Cen­ter. I’d been excited about Jeop­ardy com­ing to cam­pus since it was announced some­time last fall. I’d ini­tially hoped to audi­tion for the col­lege shows, but only under­grads are eli­gi­ble. Bah. Oh well, see­ing the show live was lots of fun, any­way. We attended the last of four tap­ings (con­ducted over the space of two days), so we got to see the two final games of the tour­na­ment. It was very inter­est­ing to see how a game show is filmed and how many peo­ple are involved in putting it on.

As we entered the arena, we were handed shiny Jeop­ardy pom-poms and tow­els to wave for the ben­e­fit of the cam­eras as we cheered. Once basi­cally every­one was seated (there were roughly 3500 peo­ple in atten­dance), we got to watch the con­tes­tants play a quick prac­tice round. Then the show’s 83-year-old announcer Johnny Gilbert took the stage and told us a bit about how the tap­ing would pro­ceed, what our cues to applaud were, and when to be quiet. He warned us that if any­one yelled out an answer, they’d have to stop tap­ing, dis­qual­ify the clue, and start again with a sub­sti­tute clue. Amaz­ingly, this never happened.

Our View of the Set

The shows them­selves were fun to watch, but the best part of the whole expe­ri­ence was the com­mer­cial breaks. Dur­ing these, Alex Tre­bek would wan­der the aisles, answer­ing ques­tions posed by audi­ence mem­bers and telling sto­ries. He’s really quite funny, and was obvi­ously play­ing to the col­lege audi­ence. When asked what he plans to do if he ever retires from the show, he started walk­ing back to the stage and replied “I’ve thought about found­ing a char­i­ta­ble orga­ni­za­tion of some sort, to try and do some good in the world.” Only when he’d almost reached his podium did he add “… or maybe I’ll just stay home and drink.”

Delayed Gratification

Dur­ing the sum­mer between my two years at FSU, I paid a visit to Mis­sion San Luis in Tal­la­has­see. The site is owned by the State of Florida, and is home to recon­struc­tions of some of the Apalachee and Span­ish build­ings that stood on the site in the 17th cen­tury. You can read more about it in my orig­i­nal post or at the offi­cial web­site.

Dur­ing my visit, I was puz­zled by a dia­gram painted on an inte­rior wall of the fri­ary. Var­i­ous peo­ple quickly informed me that it’s a Guidon­ian hand — an early musi­cal teach­ing device that I’d some­how missed in my music his­tory classes. In addi­tion to ask­ing about the dia­gram here, evi­dently I also sent a ques­tion to some­one at the mis­sion via e-mail.

I say “evi­dently,” because I don’t recall send­ing such a query. But, yes­ter­day, I received the fol­low­ing mes­sage:

Dave,
The hand on the wall of the fri­ary (con­vento) is called the Guidon­ian hand. Start­ing around the 11th cen­tury, monks pointed to the knuck­les and fin­ger­tips to indi­cate pitches to be sung. This range of notes on the Hand is also called the gamut. Gen­er­ally, Catholic choirs in small areas were made up of young boys. The hand helped them learn chants for the mass, but it was used mostly for the first two years. After that, staff nota­tion was learned. Hope this helps!

Yes­ter­day. I vis­ited the mis­sion in June 2005.

Com­i­cally, the sender’s sig­na­ture con­tained a link to a cus­tomer sat­is­fac­tion sur­vey. I’d take the sur­vey, but I’m not sure whether it would be more appro­pri­ate to give high marks for “Respond­ing to all mes­sages… even­tu­ally” or “Clean­ing up after one’s lazy predecessor.”

Ex Libris

Ex Libris
By Anne Fadi­man
Far­rar, Straus and Giroux, 2000
World­CatLibrary­ThingGoogle BooksUW-Madison

In this col­lec­tion of essays, Anne Fadi­man cre­ates vignettes of a life full of — indeed, insep­a­ra­ble from — books. Her love affair with books began before she could even read: she eschewed build­ing blocks, pre­fer­ring instead to real­ize her archi­tec­tural imag­in­ings with stacks of her father’s books.

Fadi­man divides her time between dis­cus­sions of books them­selves and of the act of read­ing them. In addi­tion to her early expe­ri­ence with books as struc­tural mate­r­ial, she writes about the joy of sec­ond­hand book­stores, “mar­ry­ing” her library with that of her hus­band, her infant son’s bib­lio­phagic ten­den­cies, dif­fer­ing opin­ions on the proper way to treat one’s books, her family’s pen­chant for proof­read­ing every bit of printed text they encounter, and a bevy of other book-related topics.

Fadiman’s writ­ing is charm­ing and delight­fully witty, while at the same time man­ag­ing to be quite infor­ma­tive. Ex Lib­ris is a great read for any­one who reads late into the night, obsesses over how to arrange books on book­shelves, or is pow­er­less to resist the allure of a used-book store.

Little Big Band

This year, I’ve been play­ing the UW Lit­tle Big Band. The smaller of the school’s two jazz ensem­bles, it’s really more of a combo than any sort of big band. We had our first con­cert of the semes­ter last week, and I’m mark­ing the occa­sion by finally get­ting around to post­ing the record­ings from last semester’s con­cert. Last semes­ter, our group con­sisted of me on bas­soon, Mike Bailly on vibra­phone, Kyle Strohmaier on piano, Ben Willis on bass, and Ali­son Jeske on drums, with our coach Les Thim­mig on flute. Vocal­ist Mandy Comp­ton joined us for a cou­ple of tunes, and Mike Mix­tacki and Ian Dis­jardin pro­vided some Brazil­ian per­cus­sion for Ser­e­nata. Our instru­men­ta­tion is slightly dif­fer­ent this semes­ter, but I’ll get to that when I post our lat­est concert.

Any­way, the way the group is set up, we play a whole bunch of tunes in our rehearsals, then vote on actual con­cert reper­toire a few weeks before a con­cert. Once the pro­gram is set, each mem­ber of the group is respon­si­ble for arrang­ing one tune. We do a bit of work­shop­ping of the arrange­ments dur­ing rehearsals, and arrive at the con­cert with more or less fin­ished prod­ucts. A cou­ple of rehearsals before the con­cert, we also pick who will take solos on which tunes.

One thing we haven’t decided on by con­cert time is the nature of the blues we’re going to play. Les, our coach, sim­ply announces that we’re going to play the blues, gives us a key and a tempo, and we’re off. Unfor­tu­nately, the record­ing cut off his pat­ter (not to men­tion our pen­sive looks as we silently pray that he won’t call out an awk­ward key).

You can find the con­cert at davewells.us/littlebigband.html. Enjoy — after all, it’s not every day that you hear a bas­soon play­ing jazz.

Maestro

Maestro
By John Gard­ner
Grand Cen­tral Pub­lish­ing, 1995
World­CatLibrary­ThingGoogle BooksUW-Madison

Louis Pas­sau, at age ninety, is the world’s most-accomplished and best-loved orches­tral con­duc­tor. Thus, it is no sur­prise when a con­cert in cel­e­bra­tion of his birth­day sells out in min­utes. But, some­thing else is dri­ving pub­lic inter­est as well: the immi­nent release of a book which claims to link Pas­sau to the Nazis dur­ing World War II. This rev­e­la­tion, along with some clas­si­fied infor­ma­tion about the mae­stro, draws the inter­est of Amer­i­can and British intel­li­gence agencies.

Pas­sau is will­ingly taken into cus­tody fol­low­ing the cel­e­bra­tory con­cert, but then two attempts on his life are made in rapid suc­ces­sion. Semi-retired British agent Her­bie Kruger man­ages to almost single-handedly save Pas­sau in the sec­ond and more sophis­ti­cated attempt. In order to get the con­duc­tor out of harm’s way (and ensure that the British SIS gets the infor­ma­tion it wants with­out CIA, FBI, or NSA med­dling), Kruger squir­rels him away with the help of some old friends.

With some coax­ing, Pas­sau agrees to tell Kruger what he wants to know. But, there’s a catch: the con­duc­tor is only will­ing to tell the entire story of his life, in order. Thus, the rel­e­vant bits will be told in their proper places, sur­rounded by the con­text Pas­sau con­sid­ers indis­pen­si­ble for under­stand­ing his actions. What fol­lows is a long and com­pli­cated tale with more twists, illicit deal­ings, and intrigue than the intel­li­gence agen­cies (or gos­sip colum­nists, for that mat­ter) had guessed.

As Kruger lis­tens to Passau’s auto­bi­og­ra­phy, he fig­ures out that he and the mae­stro are con­nected in some unex­pected ways — and that Pas­sau isn’t exactly telling the whole truth. Through­out this whole process, the two must also stay one step ahead of both the com­pet­ing intel­li­gence agen­cies and Passau’s would-be assas­sins.
I found Mae­stro to be a fairly enjoy­able read. It’s rare that clas­si­cal music is fea­tured in a work of fic­tion — espe­cially a spy novel. It’s evi­dent that John Gard­ner has a pretty exten­sive knowl­edge of the sub­ject. My only real com­plaint about the book is Gardner’s pen­chant for name-dropping within Louis Passau’s life story. He ties the con­duc­tor to so many real-life peo­ple of all sorts that the tale strains credibility.

The Serpent and the Rainbow

The SERPENT AND THE RAINBOW
By Wade Davis
Simon & Schus­ter, 1997
World­CatLibrary­ThingGoogle BooksUW-Madison

As an anthro­pol­ogy stu­dent at Har­vard in the mid-1970s, Wade Davis quickly tired of read­ing ethno­graphic stud­ies; he longed to do field­work him­self. He decided, more or less on a whim, to go to the Ama­zon — fol­low­ing the exam­ple of a like-minded friend who’d moved into an Eskimo set­tle­ment a month after decid­ing to leave Cam­bridge for the field. The first step in Davis’s jour­ney was a visit to Har­vard professor/botanist/explorer Richard Evans Schutes for advice and South Amer­i­can connections.

While the trip to the Ama­zon would turn out to be a rel­a­tively minor episode in Davis’s career, his acquain­tance with Schutes would prove to be much more use­ful. Schutes sent Davis on a num­ber of eth­nob­otan­i­cal assign­ments, cul­mi­nat­ing in the one that is the focus of this book: the search for the fabled Hait­ian zombi poi­son and its recipe.
Davis’s search for the poi­son takes him all over Haiti — from a psy­chi­atric insti­tute in Port-au-Prince to noc­tur­nal cer­e­monies in the secret meet­ing places of voudoun (more famil­iarly writ­ten as “voodoo”) soci­eties, from a derelict mermaid-themed night­club to a sacred water­fall in the moun­tains at the island’s cen­ter. With the help of local col­lab­o­ra­tors, he gains entry into many areas and spheres of Hait­ian soci­ety nor­mally closed to out­siders. Every step in Davis’s long quest brings him closer to not only the secret of zombi poi­son, but to an under­stand­ing of the com­plex social and his­tor­i­cal con­texts that gave rise to the voudoun reli­gion and the prac­tice and process of zombification.

Davis pep­pers his account with dis­cus­sions of Hait­ian his­tory, voudoun soci­ety and beliefs, and the his­tor­i­cal and eth­nob­otan­i­cal aspects of the var­i­ous pos­si­ble ingre­di­ents of the zombi poi­son. He man­ages to do this in such a way that the diver­sions never dis­tract from his main nar­ra­tive. Rather, they serve to pro­vide con­text and gen­er­ally enrich his tale. The Ser­pent and the Rain­bow reads almost like an adven­ture story (which is is, to some degree), but also man­ages to be very educational.

I picked this book up used at Elliott Bay Book Com­pany in Seat­tle, but it retains the orig­i­nal price tag on its back cover. Nor­mally I peel stick­ers off my books, but this one was worth keep­ing: it’s from a place called “Rev. Zombie’s House of Voodoo.”

P.S. — I’m a bit behind on my book reviews — I actu­ally fin­ished read­ing this book in August. I’ll try to catch up a bit, espe­cially dur­ing my spring break, which is next week. I’m 16 books behind at the moment though, so it may take awhile.

DMA Chamber Recital Poster

Here’s the poster I whipped up for my upcom­ing cham­ber recital. I’ll be play­ing Mozart’s Sonata K. 292 for bas­soon and cello, Heitor Villa-Lobos’s Bachi­anas Brasilieras No. 6 for flute and bas­soon, Fran­cis Poulenc’s Sonata for clar­inet and bas­soon, Jean Françaix’s Trio for oboe, bas­soon, and piano, and György Ligeti’s Six Bagatelles for wood­wind quin­tet. The recital is March 1st, and I’m work­ing with Chelle Casareale, Dave Cecil, Vince Fuh, Les­ley Hughes, Ching-Chieh Hsu, Garry Kling, and Laura Kling. As usual, I’ll post the record­ing as soon as pos­si­ble after the performance.

 

This Morning, By the Numbers

Dis­tance from my apart­ment to the UW Human­i­ties Build­ing: 3.1 miles
Aver­age travel time via the num­ber 9 bus: 17 min­utes
Time bus boarded this morn­ing: 9:20 a.m.
Time spent on the bus: 1 hour 5 min­utes
Dis­tance trav­eled: 1.1 miles
Dis­tance walked: 2.0 miles
Time spent walk­ing: 35 min­utes
Out­side tem­per­a­ture dur­ing walk: 8°F
Buses passed while on foot: 4
Classes missed: 1
Hooray for snow, ice, and a short­age of road salt.

French Revolutions

French revolutions
By Moore, Tim
St. Martin’s Press, 2002
World­CatRead OnlineLibrary­ThingGoogle BooksUW-Madison

The Tour de France is prob­a­bly the most gru­el­ing phys­i­cal tra­vail that any­one actu­ally chooses to under­take. The annual race lasts three weeks, and cov­ers about 2,250 miles. And those aren’t easy miles (well, kilo­me­ters, really), either. The exact route changes every year, but rid­ers always face mul­ti­ple for­mi­da­ble Alpine and Pyre­nean climbs. Just fin­ish­ing the race is con­sid­ered a major accom­plish­ment, and each year a num­ber of highly-trained, über-fit cyclists drop out part-way through.

Amaz­ingly, author Tim Moore is well aware of these facts when he decides, almost on a whim, to ride the Tour’s route (not in the race itself) on his own. Moore makes this deci­sion not after years of train­ing, nor even fol­low­ing years of avid recre­ational cycling. No, Moore chooses to tackle the route of the Tour after years of watch­ing the race on TV and a cycling career that has con­sisted mainly of drunken rides home from the pub.

Nev­er­the­less, he begins mak­ing prepa­ra­tions for the ride of his life, read­ing up on the tour and its rid­ers, and start­ing a (very) mod­est exer­cise reg­i­men. Moore doesn’t even really think about buy­ing a road bike until less than two weeks from his date of depar­ture. Know­ing just enough about bikes to know that he is woe­fully unqual­i­fied to make such a pur­chase on his own, he con­sults an expert. Moore finally orders his gear, and it arrives — three days before he set out.

Moore arrives in France with his newly acquired gear, but with­out a pre­cise route. He has a small overview map clipped from a cycling mag­a­zine, but the pre­cise route of that year’s Tour has not yet been revealed. So, he makes rough guesses based on where the tour has gone before and how far he feels he can ride each day. As one might expect, Moore’s body and soul take a beat­ing over the course of his ride. But, by the end, he’s come a long way towards becom­ing one of the hard­ened hill-climbing machines who inspired him in the first place.

While much of the ride is ago­niz­ing for Moore, but he recounts his expe­ri­ences with comedic flair, and an eye for absur­dity (both his own and that he encoun­ters). The book is a won­der­ful mix of Moore’s per­sonal quest, an account of trav­el­ing through the French coun­try­side, and his­tory of the Tour de France. It comes off like some­thing Dou­glas Adams might have writ­ten, had he decided to do some­thing for which he was com­pletely unqualified.

Nevada State Railroad Museum

Last Mon­day, I paid a visit to the Nevada State Rail­road Museum in Car­son City. I’ve always been fas­ci­nated by trains — I used to spend long hours play­ing with my elec­tric train set, tak­ing over as much floor space in the liv­ing room as I could get away with. I still like watch­ing trains go by, and have taken some rail­road pho­tos before. The museum is small, but they’ve man­aged to pack quite a bit into the avail­able space. Also, they’ve done a pretty good job with the inter­pre­tive signs that accom­pany each exhibit. The museum’s col­lec­tion and exhibits focus on the Vir­ginia & Truc­kee Rail­road. The V&T was a short line that ran from 1870 until 1938 1950, con­nect­ing the mines in and around Vir­ginia City with ore pro­cess­ing plants in Car­son City and Reno. Pas­sen­ger trains ran between these cities and sur­round­ing com­mu­ni­ties, as well. Update: See NSRM vol­un­teer Jim Lohse’s com­ment on this post for more about the final days of the V&T.

V&T #22 — Inyo

The crown jewel of the museum’s col­lec­tion is Vir­ginia & Truc­kee Loco­mo­tive #22, which was given the name Inyo. The Inyo was built in 1875 by the Bald­win Loco­mo­tive Works in Philadel­phia, PA. The loco­mo­tive pulled both freight and pas­sen­ger trains on the V&T for about 50 years, being more or less retired in 1926. This yeo­man ser­vice surely earned the Inyo the admi­ra­tion of its engi­neers and crew, but its real fame did come about until later. In 1937, Para­mount Pic­tures acquired two loco­mo­tives and a num­ber of rail­cars from the V&T for use in movies. The Inyo’s first on-screen appear­ance was in the Jerome Kern/Oscar Ham­mer­stein musi­cal High, Wide, and Hand­some. The loco­mo­tive also appeared in Union Pacific, Red River, and The Great Loco­mo­tive Chase. But, the role in which I know the Inyo best is in the old TV show “The Wild Wild West” — the 60s series on which the hor­ri­ble Will Smith/Kevin Kline movie was loosely based. Para­mount sold the Inyo to the State of Nevada in 1974, and sub­se­quently under­went restora­tion to its orig­i­nal appear­ance and functionality.

In addi­tion to the two loco­mo­tives pic­tured above (and their ten­ders), the main museum build­ing cur­rently houses a box car, a flat car, and a cou­ple of pas­sen­ger coaches. There are a cou­ple of smaller-scale exhibits as well. HO-scale mod­els of var­i­ous his­toric pas­sen­ger trains are dis­played in a case next to a work­ing HO lay­out. A small case con­tains items from Nevada’s “Merci Car” — one of 49 box­cars given to the cit­i­zens of the US by France fol­low­ing World War II. My favorite of the smaller exhibits was “Loco­mo­tive Sto­ries of the V&T.” This con­sists of exquis­itely detailed hand­made mod­els of six­teen V&T loco­mo­tives, cre­ated by George L. Richard­son and donated to the museum. The mod­els are accom­pa­nied by pho­tographs of the orig­i­nal loco­mo­tives in ser­vice, infor­ma­tion about their con­struc­tion and use, and details about their cur­rent sta­tuses and post V&T uses, if any.

Turntable and Roundhouse

The museum grounds include a num­ber of things out­side the main build­ing. A Union Pacific caboose (pic­tured above) sits on rails just out­side the museum proper. Not far from that is a round­house with accom­pa­ny­ing turntable. The muse­ums col­lec­tion is much larger that what is on dis­play, and at any one time, a few of its pieces are under­go­ing restora­tion. Although I wasn’t able to inves­ti­gate fur­ther, I assume that this round­house is used for both stor­age and restora­tion. A short track encir­cles the museum grounds, con­nect­ing to the round­house and serv­ing a small recre­ated sta­tion. Steam trains and gas-powered motor­cars tra­verse this track dur­ing warmer months — I look for­ward to revis­it­ing the museum when they’re running.

A Good Man Is Hard to Find and Other Stories

A good man is hard to find and other stories
By Flan­nery O’Connor
Har­court Brace Jovanovich, 1977
World­CatLibrary­ThingGoogle BooksUW-Madison

In this col­lec­tion of sto­ries, Flan­nery O’Connor looks at the darker side of life. Many of her sit­u­a­tions and char­ac­ters are far­ci­cal, but the inher­ent humor is usu­ally of the dark­est sort. Tragedy, in one form or another, is present in every story; none has a truly happy ending.

O’Connor draws on her back­ground in the south­ern U.S. for her char­ac­ters and set­tings. She makes exten­sive use of dialect in her dia­logue. In the past, I’ve been some­what annoyed by this tech­nique, but O’Connor does it very effec­tively (the fact that I grew up in the south may have added to my appre­ci­a­tion of it.

I liked these sto­ries, but that is not to say that I nec­es­sar­ily enjoyed each one as I read it. I found it best to take them one at a time, allow­ing for a break in between. Some of O’Connor’s char­ac­ters are so awful and her sit­u­a­tions so twisted that one needs a lit­tle time to digest them. That said, I would still rec­om­mend this col­lec­tion as mas­ter­ful short fiction.

Tahoe From Above

Last Sun­day, my mom and I drove back up to Tahoe, this time to the south end of the lake. Just on the Cal­i­for­nia side of the CA/NV bor­der lies the Heav­enly Moun­tain Resort, a pop­u­lar des­ti­na­tion for skiers and snow­board­ers. We weren’t there for the ride down the moun­tain, though; we were there for the ride to the top, and the views it would afford of the lake and other sur­round­ing moun­tains. The lower end of the ski area is actu­ally quite a way up the moun­tain, and is acces­si­ble either by road, or by a 2.4-mile-long gon­dola lift (our choice).

Gon­do­las Leav­ing the
Bot­tom Station

The gon­do­las leave from a sta­tion that sits at about 6,200 feet, less than a half mile from the shore of Lake Tahoe. As you ride to Malcolm’s Deck — the first stop — you climb an ear-popping 3,000 feet or so. In the photo at left, the ver­ti­cal white line on the left side is the path the gon­do­las take up the moun­tain. The Deck sits below the actual ski area, and is solely for sight-seeing. On the day we vis­ited, the resort was packed with skiers and snow­board­ers, but they all con­tin­ued up the moun­tain, leav­ing the Deck much less crowded. The view from 9,123 feet is spec­tac­u­lar — you can see prac­ti­cally all of the 191 square miles of lake sur­face, and moun­tains in every direc­tion. Smaller and closer sights include inter­est­ing rock for­ma­tions, snow-covered conifers, and lit­tle chick­adees flit­ting around in the snow.

After we’d had our fill of the view (and hot choco­late), we hopped back into a gon­dola and rode to the bot­tom of the ski area. This actu­ally involved a neg­li­gi­ble change in ele­va­tion — we only climbed another 30 feet or so. The resort actu­ally strad­dles the state line, and at the ski area, one has to choose between Cal­i­for­nia trails (to the right) or Nevada trails (to the left). We stayed only briefly at the top, then again boarded a gon­dola for the trip back down the moun­tain. As it was early in the day, few peo­ple were trav­el­ing back down, and we man­aged to get a gon­dola all to our­selves. The view trav­el­ing down the line was quite impressive.

As usual, click the pho­tos above to view the entire gallery.

Christmas at Lake Tahoe

We cel­e­brated Christ­mas in Car­son City this year, where my mom recently started a new job as the Folk­life Pro­gram Coor­di­na­tor at the Nevada Arts Coun­cil. We spent the morn­ing extract­ing good­ies from our stock­ings, gorg­ing our­selves on crème brûlée French toast, and unwrap­ping presents. After a bit of loung­ing around, we bun­dled up, piled into my mom’s car, and set out west towards Lake Tahoe.

Car­son City lies at about 4,800 feet above sea level, and the sur­face of Lake Tahoe is at 6,229 feet. Between the two lie some of the Sier­ras, which we crossed via Spooner Pass (at 7,146 feet) on U.S. 50. We approached the lake sort of in the mid­dle of the east­ern side, and our first view as we emerged from the moun­tains was absolutely breath­tak­ing. We drove a lit­tle ways towards the south end, stop­ping a cou­ple of times along the way to enjoy the scenery and take some pic­tures. At our sec­ond stop, we came upon the M.S. Dixie, one of a num­ber of Mis­sis­sippi River pad­dle­wheel­ers that have been brought to Tahoe over the years.

Next, we turned around and headed for Incline Vil­lage at the north end of the lake. We stopped once more along the way at a spot with lots of big rocks along the shore. I ven­tured out as far as I could onto the rocks, in order to get a good look into the water. Lake Tahoe is amaz­ingly clear, with an aver­age vis­i­bil­ity of around 70 feet. This has appar­ently declined in recent years, with ear­lier mea­sure­ments of water clar­ity top­ping 100 feet. A vari­ety of fac­tors are thought to have caused the decrease in clar­ity, most of which are directly related to human activ­i­ties on, in, and around the lake. For­tu­nately, it seems that the com­mu­ni­ties around Tahoe are becom­ing aware of their own impact on the lake, and are work­ing to pre­vent fur­ther con­t­a­m­i­na­tion.
As usual, click any of the pic­tures above to view the whole gallery.

Yucatan Deep

Yucatan deep
By Tom Mor­risey
Zon­der­van, 2002
World­CatLibrary­ThingGoogle BooksUW-Madison

Mike Bryant is a world-class cave diver and div­ing instruc­tor. After dis­cov­er­ing a pre­vi­ously unknown (to non-natives) cenote, or water-filled sink hole, in the jun­gles of Mex­ico, Mike and his men­tor Pete Wiley attempt a record-setting dive. Equip­ment fail­ures at 1,100 feet pre­vent Mike from reach­ing the bot­tom of the cenote. But, for unknown rea­sons, Pete never makes it back to the top. Mike returns to Florida and his work as a dive instruc­tor, but the cenote and his friend Pete are never far from his mind. Five years after the fate­ful dive, Mike receives a let­ter inform­ing him that his exclu­sive div­ing rights to the site will soon expire, and that Vik­tor Bel­lum — a com­pet­ing diver and all-around shady char­ac­ter — is prepar­ing to make an attempt. Against the wishes of Brid­get, his girl­friend and dive part­ner, Mike begins plan­ning and out­fit­ting another expe­di­tion to Mex­ico. As his team makes prepa­ra­tions at the Well of Sor­rows (K’uxulch’en, the Mayan name for this cenote), it becomes read­ily appar­ent that some­one — or some­thing — will do almost any­thing to keep Mike from reach­ing his goal.

The syn­op­sis I just gave is in the spirit of the one that appears on the book’s back cover. These two sum­maries each describe a fairly run-of-the-mill adven­ture book. The sug­gested cat­e­go­riza­tion pro­vided on the cover bears this out: “Fiction/General/Suspense.” How­ever, this is only partly truth­ful. In actu­al­ity, Yucu­tan Deep is an Evan­gel­i­cal Chris­t­ian adven­ture novel. There is very lit­tle on the book to tip a prospec­tive buyer off to this fact. One hint is to be found in Morrisey’s bio: “A pop­u­lar speaker, he is also active in both youth and prison min­istry.” The only other indi­ca­tion comes in the last sen­tence of the blurb: “Yucu­tan Deep is a taut tale of loy­alty, greed, and the well­springs of faith and life.” These two clues are present, but there is noth­ing that explic­itly reveals the book’s true nature.

So,” you may be won­der­ing, “what makes an Evan­gel­i­cal Chris­t­ian adven­ture novel dif­fer­ent from a reg­u­lar one?” The short answer: lots of Jesus. A more com­pre­hen­sive answer is that the cli­max of the plot com­prises not only the height of the action, but also the height of Mike Bryant’s exis­ten­tial cri­sis and the point of his becom­ing (under­wa­ter, of course) a Born-again Chris­t­ian. This con­ver­sion comes about after Mike makes an under­wa­ter escape that he attrib­utes to God, but that James Bond or Dirk Pitt would have ascribed to skill, luck, and the abil­ity to impro­vise under pres­sure. The char­ac­ter who is largely respon­si­ble for Mike’s con­ver­sion is a mis­sion­ary who works with iso­lated native peo­ples in Mex­ico (ugh… another rant for another time). This mis­sion­ary — named Elvis — is an ex-surfer who, were this book ever adapted for the big screen, would best be played by a youngish Keanu Reeves, circa Point Break. Elvis actu­ally says things like: “Dude, mir­a­cles are my boss’s spe­cialty!” Now, if Elvis’s surferisms were the most offen­sive aspect of Yucu­tan Deep, I could just write the book off as intended for a dif­fer­ent audi­ence. Unfor­tu­nately, this is not the case.

The book’s por­trayal of the indige­nous peo­ple to whom the cenote is sacred is often closed-minded and igno­rant. Mor­risey cre­ates a fic­tional tribe of Mayan descent who have had very lit­tle con­tact with the out­side world. He then makes this tribe evil, or at least mis­guided (in any case, ripe for “sav­ing”), by hav­ing them throw their sick and dying into the cenote, in a twist on Mayan sac­ri­fice. Of the Mayan belief that sacred cenotes are a sort of por­tal to rebirth in the after­life, Elvis says that it’s the same prin­ci­ple as a Chris­t­ian heaven, “it’s just a ter­ri­ble dis­tor­tion of it.” Later in the book it is revealed that this new form of sac­ri­fice (the sick and injured, rather than the healthy and will­ing) was insti­gated by the med­dling of a deceit­ful white man, anyway.

In another part of the book, the tribe’s leader agrees to a sim­ple test of the valid­ity of his reli­gion and the exis­tence of his gods. Should the test fail, he is fully pre­pared to con­vert to Chris­tian­ity and per­suade his peo­ple to do the same. I sup­pose this is the sort of thing career mis­sion­ar­ies fan­ta­size about: whole groups of peo­ple who are will­ing to give up cen­turies of rit­ual and tra­di­tion in the face of sim­ple chal­lenges of their beliefs. I hardly think that any Catholic would denounce his or her faith if his or her post-Communion stom­ach con­tents were shown not to include any human blood or flesh.

Tom Mor­risey also badly con­fuses the con­cepts of faith and con­fi­dence in empir­i­cal sci­en­tific data. The div­ing equip­ment that Mike plans to use for his sec­ond attempt at div­ing the cenote has under­gone rig­or­ous test­ing to ensure that it will prop­erly func­tion under the con­di­tions to which Mike will sub­ject it. The equip­ment has, of course, never been tested in the cenote at the tar­get depth — that wouldn’t be a test, that would be the real dive. But, Elvis inter­prets Mike’s will­ing­ness to use the gear as pow­er­ful faith; thus, he tells Mike that he pos­sesses the strength of faith nec­es­sary to become a Born-again Chris­t­ian. Mike sim­ply accepts this, appar­ently not real­iz­ing the mas­sive dif­fer­ence between the two.

Please, don’t read this book, or for that mat­ter any­thing else that Tom Mor­risey may have writ­ten. If you want an under­wa­ter and/or archae­o­log­i­cal adven­ture novel, go with some­thing by Clive Cus­sler or Dou­glas Pre­ston. And please remem­ber — espe­cially when shop­ping in thrift stores or used book shops, as I was when I pur­chased this — you can’t judge a book by its cover.
Read my ini­tial reac­tion to learn­ing the true nature of Yucu­tan Deep here.

Stupid, Not Stirred

A cou­ple of weeks ago, I was read­ing a food/kitchen gad­get blog, when I came across this prod­uct: the War­ing Pro WM007 Pro­fes­sional Elec­tric Mar­tini Maker. “Cool,” I thought, “it would be won­der­ful to turn a dial to ‘dry,’ press a but­ton, and sec­onds later receive a per­fectly mixed mar­tini.” Then, I actu­ally read the product’s descrip­tion on Ama­zon:

The ulti­mate in con­ve­nience and class, this commercial-quality mar­tini maker allows for effort­lessly prepar­ing a mar­tini at home. The unit’s pol­ished stainless-steel 20-ounce cock­tail shaker fea­tures a built-in strainer, while its touch­pad ensures easy oper­a­tion. Sim­ply add favorite mar­tini ingre­di­ents using the 1-ounce shaker cap, turn the appli­ance on and watch the green olive light up, press Shake or Stir, and voila–a time­less cock­tail is made. The cock­tail shaker and cap clean up eas­ily by hand, and the unit’s exte­rior can be wiped down with a soft cloth. Great for a quiet evening at home or ele­gant cock­tail par­ties, the 60-watt elec­tric mar­tini maker mea­sures 10−4÷5 by 7 by 15 inches and car­ries a five-year lim­ited motor warranty.

Wait… “Sim­ply add favorite mar­tini ingre­di­ents…?” The device doesn’t have chilled reser­voirs for the gin and ver­mouth? And you have to mix them your­self? And pro­vide your own ice? A lit­tle more online dig­ging shows that some sites claim that the machine “shakes or stirs a mar­tini until it reaches the opti­mal drink­ing tem­per­a­ture of 34° F,” while in the same breath say­ing that the “shaker moves up and down vig­or­ously dur­ing the shake cycle and gen­tly rotates in stir mode, meld­ing the ingre­di­ents dur­ing either cycle for 60 sec­onds.” Which is is? 34° or 60 sec­onds? It can’t always be both. Unless you’re work­ing with pre-chilled gin and ver­mouth, 60 sec­onds of either stir­ring or shak­ing would result in a great deal of ice melt­age, unnec­es­sar­ily water­ing down the drink.
Let’s recap. You pay $99.95 (plus tax/shipping) for the machine. You mea­sure the ingre­di­ents. You pour the ingre­di­ents. You add the ice. The machine wig­gles the shaker — either up and down (‘shaken’) or in a cir­cu­lar motion (‘stirred’) prob­a­bly for much longer than nec­es­sary. You pour the mar­tini. You wash the jig­ger and the shaker. You find a place to store the bulky uni­task­ing device. Wow, aren’t mod­ern con­ve­niences wonderful?

Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows

Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows (Book 7)
By J. K. Rowl­ing
Thorndike Press, 2007
World­CatLibrary­ThingGoogle BooksUW-Madison

This, the sev­enth and (sup­pos­edly) final Harry Pot­ter book was the first for which I was ready when it was released. I did not, how­ever, join the crowds of peo­ple who stood in line to buy it at mid­night on its first day of sale; I enjoy the books and movies, but I’m not a Potter-head (or what­ever they like to call them­selves).
NOTE: If you’re a part of the (prob­a­bly) small group that plans to read this book but hasn’t yet, you might want to stop read­ing here.

I had fun read­ing Harry Pot­ter and the Deathly Hal­lows, but it left me want­ing in a num­ber of ways. The first of these has to do with the expo­si­tion and con­clu­sion: they are vir­tu­ally non-existent. I sup­pose I can accept the lack of expo­si­tion — tech­ni­cally there are six books’ worth of intro­duc­tion to this install­ment, and jump­ing right into the action in some­what effec­tive as a lit­er­ary tech­nique. The six pre­vi­ous books, how­ever, also make the lack of a sat­is­fac­tory con­clu­sion even more unac­cept­able. The entire series reaches its cli­max in this final install­ment — a cli­max that includes the deaths of some fairly major sup­port­ing char­ac­ters — and the denoue­ment is per­haps the short­est of any of the books. The flash for­ward at the very end wasn’t help­ful, either — it cre­ates more ques­tions than it answers.

Another com­plaint I have is the com­plex rela­tion­ship between Harry and Volde­mort and the con­trived expla­na­tion for Harry’s sur­vival. Volde­mort acci­den­tally made Harry into a hor­crux when he tried to kill the young boy. He then some­how acci­den­tally made Harry invin­ci­ble when he used Harry’s blood in his res­ur­rec­tion. So, a part of Voldemort’s soul is in Harry, which can’t die unless Harry dies. Mean­while, a part of Harry is in Volde­mort, pro­tect­ing Harry from death, due to the pro­tec­tions placed on Harry by his mother. When Volde­mort tries to kill Harry for the final time, this con­vo­luted rela­tion­ship some­how makes the killing curse ric­o­chet around, remov­ing the piece of Voldemort’s soul from Harry, killing Volde­mort, and allow­ing J.K. Rowl­ing to get away with let­ting her pro­tag­o­nist live. Con­ve­nient, huh?

There were a few other more minor annoy­ances, the most promi­nent of which was yet another hissy fit from Ron. He once again gets mad at Harry and stops talk­ing to him. He goes so far this time as to aban­don Harry and Hermione as they’re on the run. Haven’t we been through this enough already? Has Ron had zero char­ac­ter devel­op­ment dur­ing the seven years of the series?

Again, I did enjoy read­ing Deathly Hal­lows, but it doesn’t pro­vide a com­pletely sat­is­fac­tory end­ing to the series. Per­haps Rowl­ing is plan­ning some sort of book that will give more details about what hap­pens to all of the char­ac­ters fol­low­ing Voldemort’s demise (and keep the money rolling in).

The Secret Agent

The secret agent
By Joseph Con­rad
Oxford Uni­ver­sity Press, 2004
World­CatLibrary­ThingGoogle BooksUW-Madison

Adolf Ver­loc seems to be the antithe­sis of a covert agent — he’s slow, fat, lazy, and appar­ently inept. How­ever, these latent char­ac­ter­is­tics are pre­cisely what keep peo­ple from sus­pect­ing that he’s any­thing other than a sim­ple shop­keeper with socialist/anarchist lean­ings. In real­ity, he is an agent of an unnamed Euro­pean gov­ern­ment sta­tioned in Lon­don to infil­trate anar­chist groups and report on their activ­i­ties. Ver­loc is sum­moned to the Embassy by Mr. Vladimir, a recently pro­moted offi­cial who has a new task for the agent.

Vladimir feels that the Eng­lish are not doing enough to rid them­selves of anar­chists, and that they need to be spurred into action. The most effec­tive way to do this, he feels, is to con­vince the anar­chists to carry out a bomb­ing so heinous that the British gov­ern­ment will be forced to take swift and deci­sive action. Thus, the task he gives to Ver­loc is to engi­neer an attack on the Green­wich Obser­va­tory, a bas­tion of sci­ence and mod­ernism, within a month.
Some­what shaken by this direc­tive, Ver­loc returns to the storefront/home he shares with his wife Win­nie and her mother and men­tally chal­lenged brother Ste­vie. He begins to plan the bomb­ing, using his estab­lished anar­chist con­tacts to gather infor­ma­tion and mate­ri­als. At this point in the nar­ra­tive, the plot jumps ahead in time and the point of view shifts away from Ver­loc. The bomb­ing has taken place, but it soon becomes appar­ent that some­thing went awry in its exe­cu­tion. The reader is left to fig­ure out what hap­pened, along with the police.

In this book, first pub­lished in 1907, Con­rad adds polit­i­cal intrigue and covert oper­a­tions to a detec­tive story — cre­at­ing, in essence, one of the first (maybe the first) espi­onage nov­els. Conrad’s use of mul­ti­ple lev­els of plots, iden­ti­ties, and agen­das eas­ily matches the com­plex­ity of any present-day spy nov­els. The book’s theme of a ter­ror­ist attack staged to pro­voke a gov­ern­ment response and enable expanded police pow­ers res­onates eerily today, mir­ror­ing some recent con­spir­acy theories.

As in every­thing else of his that I’ve read, Conrad’s prose is often beau­ti­ful, despite the fact that it is fairly dense. His descrip­tions of peo­ple are quite good, but that at which he truly excels is descrip­tions of set­tings and atmos­phere. The Author’s depic­tions of Lon­don — espe­cially its darker cor­ners — are vivid and truly draw the reader in. I think that Heart of Dark­ness is still my favorite Con­rad work, but The Secret Agent comes in at a close second.