These Go to Eleven

 

Because Foch rejected German requests for a ceasefire while the Armistice was being negotiated … sixty-seven hundred and fifty lives were lost and nearly fifteen thousand men were wounded. Worse yet, British, French, and American commanders made certain that the bloodshed continued at full pitch for six hours after the Armistice had been signed. The delegates in Foch’s railway carriage put their signatures to the document just after 5 A.M. on November 11th … Nonetheless, Allied soldiers scheduled to attack that morning did so until the very last minute.

– “A Hundred Years After the Armistice,” New Yorker, November 5, 2018

 

Perhaps the above unfortunates at least found time that morning to contemplate how neat triple elevens looked.

For solemn consideration of two veterans of later wars, please read the latest post on my obit site. It’s about enemy soldiers who met unusually and died in circumstances both probably would not have imagined.

 

Rocktober

 

Last Sunday I drove forty-five minutes to see Twin 1 perform in a choir. I was happy to do it, and I’d happily do it again; rest assured few are those for whom I would ever thusly inconvenience myself.

That evening I was settling into my chair with the paper when I got a text from my friend Owen: Still on for tonight?

My stars, I’d forgotten that we had tickets to a show! I was exhausted, for Twin 2 had kept me awake half the previous night with various nonsense. And the club is in Allston, which, from where I live, it’s pretty much easier to get to New Hampshire. Plus: Sunday night.

What follow, Gentle Reader, are musings on the show.

 

Continue reading “Rocktober”

Chucklehead

 

The other day I realized I didn’t know what civilization was, which ordinarily would not give much pause, for I am resigned to incomprehension regarding humanity, but the thing was I had to teach “civilization” as a vocabulary word. So I looked it up.

As ever with the Shorter Oxford, I get easily distracted, and this time among my diversions was the word chuckler.

Golly, it doesn’t mean what I expected:

 

 

Naturally, my first thought was that The Chucklers would make an excellent band name, but Merciless Google says: too late.

 

Continue reading “Chucklehead”

Thinking Fast and Slow

 

In Science I teach that Earth has been around for a long time, and in Ancient Civilizations I teach that humanity has been around for a long time.

Monday I’m taking the latter class out to the football field to recreate this video, that they might see which has existed longer:

 

 

Well, it really puts perspective on things though, doesn’t it?

***

One of humanity’s better endeavors has been putting up those little free library boxes. There’s one at the playground, and I never cease to marvel at the volumes that find their way in. Last week I picked up The Timetables of History.

The early 500s music scene wasn’t much, apparently:

 

But in the 540s, daily life went downhill fast:

 

Handel With Care

 

 

He was stubborn, astute, determined, cunning, art-loving, gregarious, solitary, humorous and wonderfully compassionate and generous in his dealings with the Foundling Hospital, the Fund for Decayed Musicians and the Lock Hospital for women in distress.

-Review, Handel in London: The Making of a Genius, Financial Times, September 29/30, 2018

 

Fund for Decayed Musicians? I had to look that up. Turns out it’s legit, and has a much nicer name now.

You’ll have to look up the hospital on your own, though.

 

Let’s Get Lost 2

 

In my labors to become less bad at math I encountered the word subitize. I had not known this was a word, but apparently there are five-year-olds who do.

I’ve been trying to learn combinatorics (another word I’d not known existed). That binomial coefficient, man: exclamation points, n choose k … Pete choose headache!

 

 

I’ve read a few books on math now and am distressed that my childhood experience replicates in middle age: math is easy at first, quickly gets very difficult, and not long thereafter loses me completely.

E.g. I’m reading Mathematician’s Delight (on the strength of its title and groovy cover). The author was a British professor of mathematics, and he has a kindly, assured tone that makes it seem like he’s invited me over for a fireside chat.

It starts off well:

Professor: Owing to the accidental fact that we possess ten fingers, the multiplication tables depend on this number 10. If we had eight or ten fingers, the patterns would be different.

Pete: [sips port, chuckles amiably] Quite right!

But in a few pages he’s talking about a fire-watching rota:

Professor: How long will it be before Alf and Bill are again on duty together? Alf and Charlie? Bill and Charlie?

Pete: [drains glass] Uh, can I have a pencil and paper? And what’s a fire-watching rota?

And then Alf and Charlie start wrapping ropes around posts to lower an injured comrade:

Professor: Now what will happen if we wind 0.301 of a turn on one post, and then 0.477 on the next?

Pete: [asks for coat]

 

See also: Let’s Get Lost 1

Scaling Up

 

 

This week’s Science class got me thinking about Frank Zappa. All I knew about him was that he was a good musician and that he’d given his children names that, uh, never made my shortlist. So I watched a documentary on him.

An interesting cat, to be sure, but I’m afraid music based on the chromatic scale is not my thing. A guy in the film decried how it’s dismissed as “wrong note music,” but that sounds (tee hee!) right to me.

I was impressed that, for his fifteenth birthday, Zappa asked to make a telephone call to Edgar Varèse (no, I’d never heard of him either). I think for my fifteenth birthday I asked for the “Armageddon It” cassingle.

 

Image result for frank zappa

 

There was mention in the documentary of Eric Dolphy, which always reminds me of this passage in The Wind-Up Bird Chronicle by Haruki Murakami. Not only does it capture how I feel about the chromatic scale, it will sound right to those who’ve ever tried to chat with me:

It was as though we were speaking in different languages. If the Dalai Lama were on his deathbed and the jazz musician Eric Dolphy were to try to explain to him the importance of choosing one’s engine oil in accordance with changes in the sound of the bass clarinet, that exchange might have been more worthwhile and effective than my conversations with Noboru Wataya.