For about 5 minutes at around 10:30 AM on most days, shortly after my first cup of coffee has kicked in, I have a very positive and optimistic outlook on life. It doesn’t last much longer. But at that point, I believe good things will happen, and that I can make good things happen.

I sort of understand the impulse, but it’s still a little annoying to me when people walk up to the urinal and flush before peeing, as if to say, “That water is not pristine enough to receive my urine.” I suppose it’s similar to those who don’t like “remnants” in a toilet they are about to use. Maybe it’s a natural animal instinct. After all, cats and dogs are often very particular about where their waste is deposited. Not sure what underlies it, but it’s there and true nonetheless. But shouldn’t we be able to overcome the impulse? What’s the point of flushing before you yourself defile? I almost never walk away from a urinal without flushing, so the prefatory flush is not a personal affront to me. But it does annoy me. Admittedly, though, I’m more annoyed at the person who left without flushing. Once in a while I’ll step up to the urinal and look below to see a thick, deeply rusty-colored puddle of urine--more like a highly concentrated human spray than a urine. This annoys me, first because the person didn’t have the courtesy to flush, but also because he clearly hasn’t drunk a glass of water in decades. It’s evidence of sloth in my mind, and I don’t like sloth. So please drink plenty of water and flush after peeing (but never before). Simple rules to live by.

There is another restroom phenomenon which I find funny. There are two urinals—one at a normal height and the other for a child. People always use the regular urinal if available. That’s understandable. Now if someone has just finished at the regular urinal when another person walks in, the guy walking in will take the second (and low) urinal instead of the regular urinal, even though the regular is available to him. People don’t like to step into space recently occupied by someone who was pissing. I think the same is true for people choosing between vacant stalls. A recently vacated stall is less desirable. I suppose that’s understandable, given the potential for smells. But the urinal really brings home the point. There’s really very little reason to avoid the recently vacated urinal, as far as I can tell.

The other day I stepped up to the urinal and almost stepped INTO a pool of urine on the floor. Who does that? Well, I immediately formed an answer in my mind to that question, someone on my floor who might do such a thing—a particularly lethargic and knuckle-headed person whose personal hygiene habits I know nothing of. It just seems to fit him… Well, I’ve done that a time or two myself—what male hasn’t had an accidental misdirection. But I clean up after myself. No one should be stepping into urine.

I recently finished reading Ray Bradbury’s Martian Chronicles. In a few unimportant ways, it’s dated. But mostly it still holds up today. The one thing that struck me as I read the first few sections was how different the orientation seems to me today. In Bradbury’s mind the aliens are always being invaded by the exploring earthlings—we’re the occupiers. Today earth is always invaded, infiltrated or overwhelmed—we’re the occupied. It’s perhaps not too flippant to say that something profound, and probably profoundly sad, has occurred in the American psyche over the last 25 years or so.

I’m now reading a collection of short stories by Annie Proulx. It’s solid writing. Before settling on these stories, I toyed with reading Electra by Sophocles—I’ve never really read any of the classic Greek dramas, so it feels high time… But I didn’t get far before getting distracted by other books on the shelf. I turned to The Ambassadors by Henry James, still wishing to spend my precious reading time with the classics. But it’s just too much effort for a questionable return. I’m sure those out there who love his writing will roll their eyes, but his prose is so labored and so very unnecessarily dense. I say “unnecessarily,” understanding that it’s his style and one has to embrace it. But the man knows no economy of words. Why say something in one short sentence when it can be said with more labor in ten lengthy sentences? (I can’t very well argue this point effectively with an author of the stature of Henry James, but when does poor writing pass into brilliant, stylized prose? I love Proust, and he certainly can be charged with some of the same faults, yet I don’t feel it with him. I LOVE Proust with a deep sense of personal connection. I don’t love James. While working through the third page of the novel I found myself irretrievably distracted by how the words seemed to align perfectly on the page so that the spaces between them created a perfectly straight diagonal line across much of the page. Imagine the chances! Also, the contractions all had odd spaces between the verb and the contracted “not”—did n’t. How could I read an entire book with that nonsense.) I used to have the time and inclination to invest in such writing, but as I get older, I’m feeling a greater urgency to read as many varied works as I can. If I spend umpteen weeks reading this James book, I will have missed the chance to read three other contemporary works. It’s just not worth it. Still, a part of me feels guilt. I’m always arguing the case for investing the time and effort in difficult things because there’s often great reward in it. Don’t always take the easy course. I’m often making that point with music. People complain about “difficult” or immensely obtuse new music and want nothing but easy, tuneful pleasantries. The lazy ignoramuses. I don’t know how to reconcile this with my rejection of James. But all the same, I reject him. I’ll read my Proulx stories and move on to another contemporary author after that. It's decided.

Someone with a cubicle on the main thoroughfare of my floor at work has recently taken to displaying two large calendars--one with a new picture of a kitten every month, and the other with a picture of a puppy. Clearly she thinks (and I’m assuming it’s a she, though I’ll need to verify) that everyone will enjoy these photos. The thing is--she’s right. Who wouldn’t enjoy large glossy photos of kittens and puppies every time they leave their desk to go to the restroom or kitchen area?

A while ago Ann and I went to a wedding. It was conventional, so very conventional. I like the couple, so I don’t mean to malign them or their wedding. Actually, I liked the location of the reception—a nice museum in the heart of Rochester. But, for example, the music… Of course I focus on that. Pachelbel’s Canon and Ode to Joy. Lord. Did they even try? Some effort, please. Does anything say “I have no ideas and no input on this” more than these musical selections? Well, before the wedding, Ann and I were (purely co-incidentally) listening to our own wedding music, which I had collected on a CD. I made the selections—my (sole?) contribution to the event. But having now re-listened to the selections, I stand by them all, with perhaps a few alternatives. (Of course, one thing to keep in mind—there was no thought given to whether the music could be performed live. Live performances would have been too complicated for our ceremony, and we were happy with recordings. ) Here it is:

Prelude:

• Appalachia Waltz by Mark O’Connor. Ok, I think this is a terrific piece, but it’s become rather popular for weddings. So now I might have chosen in its place something else--the music from the balcony scene from David Diamond’s music for Romeo and Juliet. I LOVE this piece, sooo beautiful, and it holds special meaning for me—will always remind me of Ann. But I think Appalachia Waltz was still the right choice, given the setting in the Adirondacks.
  
• Philip Glass: String Quartet #4, third movement. This is a profoundly beautiful piece. This and a movement of his 5th quartet are among my favorite pieces ever. I keep telling Ann that she can have this played at my funeral (a recording—needn’t be a live performance, of course). (Why leave these things to chance? Otherwise someone will be playing a George Beverly Shea rendition of “Amazing Grace” at my funeral. Please, no.)

Processional (as Ann was coming down the hillside towards the lake):

• A piano rendition of Gershwin’s “The man I love” played by Alan Feinberg. I know what you’re thinking—The man I love!?! But there were no words. We just enjoyed the wonderful melody, full of nostalgia. It worked.

Recessional

• G Song by Terry Riley, played by the Kronos Quartet. I LOVE this piece. It’s accessible and lovely, yet new and a little unusual. It has a slightly celebratory feel, but a little somber too. Perfect for a wedding, and I’m surprised it hasn’t been picked up by string quartets.
  

Cocktail music before dinner

• I chose a lot of music from the 20s and 30s, Gershwin and Cole Porter tunes, Joplin rags, a few Kurt Weill songs. My only reservations here were that I didn’t include some newer music, and that with Weill (also see Cohen below), it wasn’t completely American music. If I had to do it all over again, I would have included some music of Michael Torke, probably his Overnight Mail and the Telephone Book. Jazzy, hip and fun. Would have been perfect.
  

First dance

• Leonard Cohen, "Dance Till the End of Love." This song, and a few others from the same album of 10 New Songs, is *our* music, if anything is. It’s heavily infused with emotion for us (or at least for me). I mean, if Ann were to die, this would be the music that would instantly make me weep. So it’s personally meaningful, which is exactly as this event should be. Pick something that means something to the two of you. (But pick something good, people.) I think this song is perfect. Credit Ann for this and the song below.
  

Last dance

• Leonard Cohen, "Here it is." It’s really the same as above, though a little more somber. A perfect ending.

Lately I’ve been listening to a lot of Christopher Rouse. I’ve come to believe he’s one of the great composers writing today. His violin concerto is utterly satisfying music to me, and it was written in Fairport, New York, just moments from my home. It’s a rather traditional piece—one might say even a little old fashioned. It almost seemed a little corny upon the first few listening, when the orchestra enters and strikes big, bold chords with timpani and crashing cymbals. The passage that follows reminds me a little of Rachmaninoff’s Isle of the Dead, which I also love—cellos and basses in slow movement beneath the surface noise--suggesting the rising and falling of deep waters, and the rocking of a boat above. As a side note, in a few passages he uses the celesta to beautiful effect. This violin concerto is wonderful from start to finish, and it will surely be among the great concertos of our time. His piece Rapture is also wonderful. It reminds me a little of Joe Schwantner’s music, which I suppose is no coincidence. Rouse’s concerto for percussion is good, though generally I dislike percussion as unmusical. (I share Rorem’s opinion on this. I think only Reich, with his marimbas, has been able to make beautiful music for percussion.) I’ve gone back and re-listened to Rouse’s cello concerto, and have discovered that it is also very strong. The second movement is beautiful. That first movement is a little rough going for me, though. From the cello concerto I went to the trombone concerto, which won Rouse a Pulitzer Prize. Surprisingly, it’s remarkable. I had low expectations, given all I assume about the trombone, but he manages to create a convincing piece of orchestral music using this otherwise banal brass instrument as the focal point. It’s serious music through and through—not a light moment in sight. But it’s really wonderful, and of our times. His flute concerto is also good, though I haven’t given it as much listening as I should. Finally, the guitar concerto is growing on me. The guitar is such a hard instrument to balance against the volume of a full orchestra, and I still wonder if he’s solved that problem completely, but I like the piece. His two symphonies are good, though I don’t think they reach the level of his concertos. I’m looking forward to new music from this composer, because he seems to be getting better and better as he gets older. My interest in Rouse was renewed because I heard a little of his piano concerto on the radio. Without knowing whose music was being played, I thought to myself, this is a great piece (although I couldn’t begin to truly understand it upon one listening), and this composer is a composer to be reckoned with. And after waiting to hear who it was, I discovered that it was indeed Rouse. I wish there was a recording of that piano concerto. After Rouse, I took a tour through Stravinsky, mostly his post-Le Sacre pieces. I always end up pausing for extending times on his concerto for piano and winds—a wonderful and under-played piece—and his Concertino, which is short but perfect. The last few days I’ve returned to Michael Torke. I can’t say enough about him. So satisfying to listen to. I want to hear more. I hope new recordings are coming. Finally, I spent a few weeks listening to Elgar. I’d never heard his first symphony. He’s a great one. Now I’m a little adrift, listening to a few Mozart operas which I’ve never listened to—Marriage of Figaro and Cosi Fan Tutte. But I need something else.