"Why waste money on psychotherapy when you can listen to the B Minor Mass?" ~Michael Torke

Mr. Torke was referring to Bach's Mass in B Minor. It is perhaps one of the most beautiful pieces in the repertoire of what we commonly refer to as "classical music". Like what we have done to good literature, pop culture has all but abandoned listening to concert and classical music in favor of tuning in to see what Flavor Flav is up to on VH1. Yes, this posting is a rant... Fairly recently, I was on the phone with my brother Dan, a school teacher in Manhattan. While we were on the phone he was appalled, (not too strong a word), to find out that I had no idea who Flavor Flav was. Those of you who have spent any time at our house fully realize that I rarely watch television, that Kathleen rarely watches television and that our children's viewing is strictly limited as to time. My brother admonished me for not being up on "pop-culture". My "ignorance about culture" would interfere with my ability to know a bit more about my children. After this alarming phone conversation, (alarming not because I did not know who Flavor Flav was, but because my brother Dan actually dressed up like Flavor Flav for his students on Halloween), I asked all of my children from Maureen right down through Magdalene just who Flavor Flav was. I can happily report to you that they did not know who Flavor Flav was.

I believe that Mr. Flav has a television show thta is not only one of the most misogynist television shows that our sons and daughters have been assaulted with, but by far one of the most inane. In the show, "Flavor of Love", each contestant is given a nickname by Flav and is referred to by that nickname for as long as she remains in the competition. Flavor of Love features a clock ceremony where contestants who are not eliminated receive gold clocks to wear around their necks with their picture behind the hands of the clock. When a contestant is eliminated, her real name is then revealed, followed by a champagne toast.
There are a few basic elements of the show's format that have been consistent through each season of production. Throughout the season the contestants compete for intimate dates with Flav, (what a treat that must be!), by competing in various challenges. Another typical component of the show is the involvement of the women's ex-boyfriends. This usually occurs when there are 6 or less contestants left. Also, Flav brings the few remaining women's parents, (who must be part of the Brittany Spears/Lindsey Lohan Parent Support Group), on in the third or second to last episode. After all, what parent would not love to have their child go on an intimate date with Mr. Flav. Finally, the season finale takes place in a tropical destination. The two finalists and Flav spend the last two days at a luxurious resort proceeding his final decision.
The week following the finale an all-cast reunion is typically aired. A host spends this time reviewing the most memorable moments and interviewing the contestants after they have seen the season. This is also when you find out if Flav is still with the woman he chose and what they have been up to since the season wrapped.
VH1 has also introduced an Internet component into the show. Viewers can create profiles, interact with contestants and other fans, and stay current with news at flavorofloveworld.com. In season 3, fans even got to vote online to elect five of the contestants. Ironically, Flav sent 4/5 of them home in the premiere episode.

Sadly, Flavor Flav is one raindrop in a storm misogyny. Moreover, all of us, (yours truly is guilty as charged as well), happily or at least ignorantly let our children watch media that is base, foolish and without any redeeming intellectual quality. And then, quite often, we are angry and upset at those same children when they make bad choices or, at least, questionable choices.

I don't know if you have had a conversation with a young person who are not your children lately. Most of the time they don't talk. They play games on their hand held. Mostly they don't write, but might punch out a few words on AIM, (and then with syntax and grammar so breathtakingly bad). If they talk they talk about movies, movies, movies, t.v., t.v., t.v.

Rarely, are children called upon to be interesting and inspiring. Often they are called upon to get a job.

Last night, in Montreal, I went to the OSM, Orchestra Symphonique de Montreal. Playing that evening was Andrew Wan.

Mr. Wan is a violinist. He has toured world wide, is an orchestral leader, concertmaster of the Julliard Orchestra and has recorded with several orchestras. He received his Bachelor of Music and Master of Music Degrees from the Julliard School of Music in NYC. He also teaches at the Julliard School He plays a 1743 Guarneri del Jesu violin. He is a master in what he does and has such a confident intelligence about music performance that it shows with his demeanor and articulation on his instrument. The fact that he and other famous violinist, (pianist, oboists, etc.) are not known is one of the many scandals of our time.

Last night in Montreal he gave a great performance of Mozart's 5th Concerto for Violin. It was done so well that even the orchestra applauded him. He is not well known because he treats his mothers and sisters decently, he has not spread details of his private life and sexuality all over television and the internet and he unashamedly has faith in God. He is far from being a person that our youth today would look to for inspiration. On the other hand, Brittany, Linsday, Pamela, Christine, well... you get the idea, are icons and "inspiration" for those who enthuse about the "tragic" circumstances these empty-headed, but fully bankrolled nuts subject us to.

I'm ranting because I deal with kids a lot each day. Most of the girls I deal with are in trouble, pregnant too early, beaten up by their boyfriend/husband/or whoever. All of them are poor. It is a part of my practice that I do not like talking about too much because it is upsetting and frustrates me. It is also why I have been very demanding with my daughters -- some of you think too strict -- but I am exceedingly proud of them for the effort and demands they place on themselves and the high expectations they have of others. Most of the boys I deal with care neither for the girl they are living with and getting free and easy sexual benefits from, and are, like the girls they have assisted in condemning to poverty, ignorant. Due to their parents, an uncaring society, and a willingness on all our parts to look the other way their disaffected kids are having other children who are more than likely headed for a lifetime of poverty and frustration.

If you don't think that our pop culture has made things worse then, simply put, you are wrong.

Cody's Blue Ribbon Day

Bompa, Cody and Tipsy with Trophy and Blue Ribbon:
"Tipsy is the best horse in the barn!"




The first place winner and his support team!




Dazed and Confused... out in space~~~


This is the cart that Cody drove with lots of help from Bomma and Bompa!!!

heyyyy

ok so this is when we were going to see an opera! it was very pleasent. and made you want to fall asleep. this europe trip was great! a lot of excitment and a couple mental breakdowns(lauren & sandy) but overall it was a great trip!

Preview of The "Two Nichols Make a Dime" Blog

"Manly"
I believe that Claire would concur that she and I have gotten ourselves in some of the most awkward situations. Many of these situations have been products of our "volunteer experiences." These experiences were required of all the summers I remember since I became a teenager. Actually, I remember being quite young when my mother would take us to bring sugar cookies, in the shape of flowers, to the residents at our local nursing home. I remember walking down the halls with the taste of sugar-cookies in my mouth and a very distinct smell enveloping my nostrils. I was always glad to be home afterwards. But it sure felt good to talk about what a good person you were by telling them what you did with part of your weekend. Telling people this, especially as little girls always made a good impression. This experience that I shared with my mother and sister is good, at least what I can remember of it, maybe that's the point.

At any rate, Claire and I had to come up with places, each summer, to volunteer. This is the part of the summer we dreaded. We were in charge of our own destiny, we were able to choose where we would spend the humid hours of the summer in Northern New York. Deciding on a place entailed much heavy sighing and rolling our eyes. The end product is "yes it was a good experience," but knowing what lies ahead, or rather not knowing what lies ahead but knowing the amount of time that will go into it is a daunting feeling.

Almanzo Wilder. He is known for being married to the author, Laura Ingalls, and his childhood remains in the memories of many, because of her book "Farmer Boy." If you have visited us in Malone, I am sure we have brought you to his homestead, which is now a historical site. It is a quaint red house with white shutters and it also has a barn that had to be rebuilt because it was struck by lightning. Archeological students from a college nearby found the original foundation of this barn and they created the barn based on Almanzo's drawings. Apparently, he was only a few inches off of the measurements he gave from memory. There is a little bookstore/museum that is next to the farm. The Wilder farm also is the site of Civil War re-enactments every summer, where people get to play dress up. Of this Claire and I are guilty. There are photos that document this point of our childhood when we simply didn't know better, but we should have. All I have to say is that these pictures are perfect blackmail, if my parents were ever looking for it.

Why, you might ask, do I know so much about this quaint little home in Burke, N.Y? It is the site of our volunteer experience in the summer of 2003. This was a nerve-wracking experience, to say the least. Claire and I were unsure as to what our duties would entail. Cleaning, cash register, research? We walked in the first day, and got a private tour of the place (A tour we have taken every summer up to that point, at least twice.) At the end of the tour, our tour guide informed us that we would be giving the tours that summer, on the three days a week we were there. I'm sure she saw the shock and horror that we felt, because I felt my jaw drop and my eyes widen. The possibilites of embarassment were endless and they were racing through our minds. How are we supposed to remember all of the information? That question was answered immediately when we were given a booklet of information that we were to study (we were not allowed to bring it on the tour). When Claire and I got home we studied quite a bit and we still felt jittery about the next day, where we would be giving a tour.

When we got there, we gave our first tour with our tour guide, we will call her "Ellie," and she supervised it and put in little pieces we missed. All in all, we did a fine job! She was pleased, and so were we. We settled into a routine during that day, in regard to when Claire would speak and when I would speak. It was a good day. The next day, however, did not go so smoothly. It was an early, foggy morning and Claire and I pulled up in the silver van and sat there with our Dunkin' Donut's coffee and donuts and realized the hours ahead would be long, especially with the promise of rain in the foreboding grey clouds. The honeymoon was over. We decided we better go in, after our breakfast. When we walked in we had time to talk with her about the tour times. We both insisted we do the tours together, just incase we forgot anything, the other would probably remember. She agreed, probably more than we knew at the time. So we started off with a group that came from South Carolina. They were not properly dressed for the "summer" in the North Country. The were wearing shorts, tank tops, and parkas. As Claire and I brought them around the museum we heard the wind whistling as it was rushing by the little building. We took our time and indulged in all of their questions as we dreaded the outdoor part of the tour.

It was time. We all went outside, the parkas were sails on a ship during a storm. Then it quieted down as we made our way between the museum and the barn. Claire and I were both, not in the mood. Not at all. Our group was more interested in their next question than our answers. So, it made for a longer than usual tour. It was Claire's turn to discuss Almanzo's ancestors and how they came upon this plot of land and built their home and barn. She also usually went into a bit of the genealogy she had studied from our little booklet of facts. Instead she told the peppy group, "Almanzo's ancestor's came through the... the trees"... and then, in response to the questioning and blank looks on the groups faces and the sheer horror and disgust on mine, she pointed to the woods across the street. There was a moment of silence. There was a point in that moment where I thought about how awful this was and how all of my friends were pool side, sipping on lemonade. Then I decided the tour was mine. Not one word would I let Claire speak. I went through the entire tour as fast as possible. I don't thing our group knew what hit them. When they left, they looked as though they barely survived the storm, with their parka's limp and their faces, sullen.

Claire and I duked it out after the tour, had a few terse words, and then managed to give tours to colorful crowds of people for the remainder of the summer. Yes we survived. The following summer volunteer experience was in California...

It is impossible to experience one's death objectively and still carry a tune. -- Woody Allen

This is a concert that I waited for over many years. For decades now, Woody Allen has played clarinet with his New Orleans Style jazz band at the Carlysle Hotel in New York City almost every Monday night.

This year he came to Montreal. Claire, Danny Stone, (college student at SUNY Buffalo) and Erin Duffy, (former balet student at Ottowa, CA and now a freshman at the University of Vermont) -- both Claire's friends joined me at the Place D'Art in Montreal for a great, great concert.

It was Woody Allen himself who said that 80 per cent of success is showing up, and sure enough, just walking on the stage of Place des Arts’ Salle Wilfrid Pelletier earned him an almighty cheer from the audience. There he was with his oversized black-rimmed glasses, legs crossed and leaning back in his chair, both feet tapping away to the rhythm of his New Orleans Jazz Band. So the fact that his subsequent first notes elicited laughter rather than more cheers could, if we’re being kind, just be attributed to his demeanour. Even the way Woody sits is funny. Maybe listeners were remembering their favourite embarrassing moment in Annie Hall or Manhattan. But maybe, more likely, they were caught off guard by the strange sound being produced by his clarinet – a sound so squeezed, it’s a wonder anything comes out at all. Squeaks, buzzes and the odd identifiable note turned out to be the beginning of Woody’s first solo of the night. But did it really matter? My guess is that most of the audience was dying to hear Woody speak more, but he made it clear he was here for his music. For the whole set, he sat resolutely as just one of the band. And so the band played on, seven white guys strumming through old-time hymns and gospel marches. Sometimes the trumpet or trombone player got up to croon a verse or two. For Woody, playing the clarinet has been a lifelong labour of love, and that’s a pleasure to witness no matter what the sound ends up being.

Okay so he's no Benny Goodman, but give Woody Allen a break. He and his New Orleans Jazz Band gave a great show. A bunch of old guys getting together and jamming out some classic ragtime – what's not to love? Yeah, Allen squonked his way through the first few numbers, but when he warmed up he revealed a real feel for the music, even getting into some creative syncopation toward set's end. And his bandmates were characters, every one of them. The trombonist and trumpetist played it straight, but brought the songs to life when they had the spotlight. The banjo player was a riot, grinning ear to ear throughout, letting off the occasional "woop" and convincing Allen to come back for not one but five or six encores, and even to play a few more tunes in what was likely a rehearsed routine. The drummer was the best, staying almost perfectly still all evening, moving only his wrists, and maybe a foot, just enough tap out a light rhythm. Then, on one of the last encores this understated drummer sang like a New Orleans nightengale. Add piano and standup bass, and you've got a party. Allen for his part was borderline narcoleptic, keeping his head down when he wasn't playing (to let his bandmates shine), springing to life long enough to take a solo or play off the others. Several members got up to sing a song, the drummer surprising everyone with a great voice when his turn came, late in the show. All in all, a hoot, allowing us to rediscover the fun and unpretentious poetry in an often overlooked style of jazz, and to see a pop culture icon in another light.

More on the Jazz Fest later...

By the way, will someone other than Maureen, Claire, Isaiah, Al and I write on this?????????? If you don't I swear I'll go into "edit" on this thing and change the name to "The Outlaw Blog".

-- Joe