Sunday, July 29, 2007
The Girl from Ipanema
So we’re all out at a jazz club in the Village. I’m tired, it’s late, and I hate jazz, so the likelihood of me enjoying myself is low. They’re playing standards, and I’m drifting away, and then it hits me- Sander, I’ll give you one dollar if the next song they play is not Girl from Ipanema. But you have to give me ten dollars if it is. Quick, what do you say?
Well Sander sort of agreed, and we listened attentively as they fiddled around before the next song. The tension mounted as they counted out the next tune, and although the first two notes of the song were a descending minor third, the following notes bore no relationship to Girl from Ipanema, so I pushed a dollar bill across the table to TR, defeated but not outright dejected. After all, what were the odds?
I gave it a minute just to be sure they weren’t doing some kind of extended introduction before they broke into the song, and then after a few minutes I had given in to my loss.
A little bummed, and a little poorer, I sat there – again bored, the thrill of the bet having worn off. I looked over at TR and the words just fell out of my mouth- If they play Girl from Ipanema any time from now until the end of the night (we were at the end of the first set) he would have to give me twenty dollars. If not, I’d drop one more.
Well this made the whole thing more interesting, and I eagerly awaited the next song to earn back my money.
TR, feeling the same excitement (in fact, ten fold) leaned over and said- this is how you could fund your orchestra, Dave. Just don’t write up a program and have people place bets as to what pieces you’ll perform. It’s just like standards in jazz- everybody’s heard them, and they’re probably a little tired of them. But if you wait on the edge of your seat to see if you’ll profit from the opening measures of the Reformation Symphony, you might just get a little into it.
Now I should stop and say that with my orchestra, nobody was tired of the pieces when we played them. Even when we programmed Eine Kleine Nachtmusik, veteran musicians approached me saying they had heard stuff they’d never heard before in that performance. So that’s that.
But if I were to start an orchestra in Vegas, this is exactly what I’d do.
When the musicians walked on and there were four clarinets, the odds would go up that it was Mahler and not Monteverdi, for example, so there would be a little skill and knowledge involved. And it wouldn’t matter how boring the concert was, because people wouldn’t be listening anyway except for the first four measures (which maybe is all you’d get out of them anyway). But the concert could be as boring as you please, and there would still be the thrill of expectation in the air. ‘How much would I make?’
Ugly, TR, but I’ll betcha if somebody comes across this little blog, it will pop up out there in no time. Or maybe one could set up some kind of OTB and base the orchestra in Belarus or something and simulcast to dirty hovels across the world. The possibilities are endless. Clearly.
I left the club early that night, so I’m living a bit with Schroedinger’s bet, not knowing whether I’d lost or won. But the thrill carries on nonetheless.
D
Thursday, July 26, 2007
Briefly. . .
The road trip part of this blog is winding down and what remains is not very interesting. Perhaps some day I will recount previous road adventures
from one of the dozen or more cross country excursions I've made over the past several years. But as for this one, Home for Now is now Home for Now, if you catch my drift, and the topics will move off the road a bit and more onto the bustling streets of New York City.
But have no fear, dear reader, there's lots more ahead. Mitt Romney is on his way, along with excursions into the world of mathematics, some of my favorite pictures, and trying to get my car inspection certificate from the guys out in Jamaica (no luck so far. . .).
So look forward to a change of scenery in the upcoming posts. It will be a pleasure to bring you all the latest updates from a fixed location. . .
. . .at least for now.
On the road again
I know, I know, you're thinking what's with the tabouli? I mean- it's tabouli, right? not even falafel.
And I know where you're coming from, man, but with Omar it's just different.
You see, a couple of years ago I was seeing this raw food girl and we had a little road trip of our own. We took raw food 'cooking' classes in Northern California and ad libbed a raw-food road trip that spanned from Los Angeles to Vancouver to Banff and all the way back down again, hitting nearly every raw-food joint along the way (and there are plenty). But of all the places we visited, Omar's in Salt Lake City had to be the best. He had just opened and we only heard about him by chance when the Wild Oats came up short on raw supplies and the worker there pointed us across the street to the vitamin store where Omar had his counter in the back.
The menu was small but thoughtfully prepared. Raw food people are fond of saying that "love" is one of the ingredients in their food (it's even on the label sometimes), and with Omar, honest to goodness, you can taste it. As I recall, Omar is Lebanese, and there is a middle eastern bent to the whole menu. The tabouli uses hemp seeds (or was it sprouted quinoa?) instead of the usual bulghar wheat, and instead of pita, a quartered cabbage head serves as chips to scoop up the parsley-y mixture.
I remember we ordered everything on the menu (we did that a lot) and the tabouli took us both by surprise as one of the tastiest raw food dishes we had ever had.
Everyone who has gone to college has had Middle Eastern Food. It's cheap, quick, and they're always open late. But the mossy goop that comes on your veggie platter at the generic west village falafel joint is never especially appealing. One can picture Turks, Greeks, Israelis, and Saudis all telling their children to eat their tabouli or they won't gt any dessert. Kind of like Brussels Sprouts of the Levant.
So Omar's tabouli was a nothing short of a revelation.
When I got to Salt Lake, Omar had just run out of tabouli. I was pissed, and in my best New York City Passive Aggressive said, I drove 3,000 miles for tabouli and you're out?
Well I should use that one more often, because it turns out he was actually saving a batch for some function the next day, but upon hearing my guilt trip, broke it out for me and Lauren (Thanks Mom!).
And it was worth the wait. As was the hummus and the wrap and the two kinds of dessert and the whole vibe including the creepy raw food people that hang out in the back of the shop.
After Omar's, we went by the book store to pick up a copy of The Breakfast Club which had been on the night before on TBS, mostly censored. I enjoyed the pre-pube flashback and wanted to get the unvarnished version, realizing that I had no idea what about 1/3 of the movie was about when I was 9 and that even if the whole part about the weed hadn't been cut, it wouldn't have made any difference since we didn't understand that anyway back then (Thanks Mrs. Reagan!)
We hung out with L's room mate, played some guitar, and I tried to muster a night's sleep in the punishing summer heat of their basement.
Next morning was for green juice with Lauren and Joy and then off to New Hampshire.
The trip would take about 40 hours of driving, give or take, straight down I-80 to Cleveland, then pick up I-90 towards Albany, then some weaving along US-4 in Vermont, 89 South, 91 North, then some back roads to Plymouth for the 8 o'clock show.
If you've never driven across country, there are several different strategies you can use. You can hustle, you can sight-see, you can take detours, you can check out obscure restaurants and natural wonders, etc. But no matter how you do it, 14 hours a day of driving is about what you can take - and then you'd want to chill for a day or so before doing it again.
Well this was the first time I'd opted to just make hours with minimal excursions. It came to about 12 hours, 3 days in a row, and then about 4 or 5 the day of the concert. There was one side trip to the vegan restaurant in Omaha (so-so) and then getting lost in Toledo for 3 hours looking for Wi-Fi and a health food store (no luck). I also got to visit with my friends Jeb and Andy for half an hour in Cleveland before making miles to the Finger Lakes region and a late night thunderstorm.
Monday, July 23, 2007
Fireworks! - or - Fireworks
By the end of the day I was still in town, so I saw the first fireworks go up. It got me thinking.
The first thing was that part of me was still actually excited to see them. The second thing was that I was bored out of my mind. After that I berated myself (only the slightest bit) for not getting more out of this unique experience, then I got bored again and wanted to go, but then I stuck around a bit to see if maybe it would get interesting, then it would almost, but I couldn't really justify the rest of the time I was spending waiting around for a few big moments, and then. . .
I remembered what it was like to be at the Symphony.
Soon I would discover many similarities between modern Fireworks and modern Classical Music performance, and this made my time there a whole lot more useful
First of all they both used to be kinda cool but are now somewhat outdated - both largely due to technology, the electric guitar and the tape recorder on the one hand, and digtitally enhanced visual effects that one sees everywhere in the movies and on TV on the other. But it was the kind of thing folks go to once or twice a year, mostly out of a sense of tradition or habit but not for genuine in-the-moment enjoyment.
As far as the actual performance, in the execution of fireworks and of a classical symphony (performed by a modern orchestra) there are even more stunning similarities: there seemed to be no dramatic 'arc' in the presentation of the fireworks - it was simply one pretty firework popping up after another one, no particular time, no particular order, no particular drive to the top, just bang bang bang, one after the other. Maybe it would be a big one, maybe it would be a little one. Maybe it would be green maybe it would be orange and yellow. Maybe there would be one, maybe there would be a bunch of little ones. Maybe it wouldn't even go off at all. Either way, there was no basic structure holding the thing together - as in an atonal composition, it could have ended at any point and the audience would be equally unsure whether or not it was really over or if they were just reloading for next round.
Similarly, in a modern day classical music performance, there is virtually no phrasing. There is no overall direction to any particular series of notes. They are executed in the most even, undifferentiated manner possible. There is no building up to a climax, nor is there any descent to a nadir. The natural pauses and breaths that separate sentences and ideas in spoken language find no place in the musical renderings. Each note is played exactly after the next with phrases and natural pauses all rammed together like a run-on sentence. The audience’s experience is therefore pretty dull. Occasionally a loud, majestic section might emerge from the orchestra which they can enjoy and participate in emotionally. But those big moments have no real context, no lead in from the preceding material—they are not part of any sort of dramatic unfolding. They’re just shots in the dark, leaving the whole piece to be experienced as just a random string of big moments. If people were permitted to talk at classical concerts (as they once were) they would ooh and aah at the same big moments they do at the fireworks display – and then they would carry on with their casseroles.
Maybe people would prefer just a condensed series of big, big fireworks, skipping past the frilly stuff- like an excerpt CD from "The Ring". But then, I suppose, people would just make bigger fireworks, making the old big ones look small – like some kind of arms race in the sky.
I am not sure I'm making myself clear on this vis a vis the musical stuff.
I am still a pretty convicted Schenkarian, and I do believe that a piece of music unfolds through time in a particular way that requires a certain respect for dramatic direction. Like a story, you have a beginning, usually stable enough, that turns into conflict, keeping your interest all the way through, then growing to a high point of tension with some sort of denoument and a coming down to round the thing out. While you might not know it from hearing a performance, musical compositions (until the early 20th century) follow a very similar template. There is a grounding in a key followed by various twists and turns away from that key, then finally a return to the key with all of the deviations resolved satisfactorily. Along the way there are mini side-plots and adventures, and if you pay close enough attention each and every phrase declaims itself in a certain way and demands its own special 'turning.' (not tuning, turning)
This is all written into the composition, but it is incumbent on the performer to 're-creatively' hear, organize, and inflect the meanings that are implied by the musical text. This happens so infrequently in modern performance that it is almost unheard (of) - it is a Rumsfeldian unknown unknown - that conservatory trained musicians don't even know that they don't know they aren't delivering the message of the piece.
If you're not understanding what I'm getting at (and it would be easier to demonstrate aurally), I can draw a parallel with speech delivery for actors. Good actors tend to deliver a line with an understanding of the context of the line, where the peak of tension and emphasis is in each sentence and how several sentences can build together to make up a complete idea. If there are several lines in a scene, a good director will build them into a climactic moment, perhaps moving the camera in for each successive line until the most intense moment. But the director will also know not to give away the goods in each scene. He knows that the overall film has an arc of its own and that the most intense photography will have to wait for the most intense moments. Without this, one would generally be bored to tears during an otherwise engaging drama. It would be flat - just the way people tend to hear symphonies- or everything would be an 'event' making the thing equally unbearable. One friend of mine described a trip to the symphony as the feeling of waves of sound running over him. While that was no doubt what he felt, I hesitate to believe that that is what Beethoven & Co. had in mind when they wrote those pieces- they had a story in mind, an arc, a building to a climax through the medium of time and sound, not the endless lapping of waves on the shore (even the shore builds towards a climax at high tide). But you are unlikely to have any such experience in the modern rendering of classical works. Just bring your swim trunks and let the waves roll by.
Or just go watch the fireworks.
I had a teacher in Conservatory who used to play with Eugene Ormandy in the Philadelphia Orchestra. When things weren't going well at rehearsal, Ormandy would say to the orchestra, "The important thing is to begin together and to end together. What happens in between- the audience will be none the wiser."
I have never liked Ormandy very much, and with a musical ethic like that, it's really no wonder. But that's about what you get with a modern performance (although these days the middle is usually together too). It's enough to play the correct sequence of pitches and rhythms and that's it. If you 're ever flipping through the TV dial and you see the TV Guide channel, you might sometimes hear what it's like to hear "actors" delivering lines (off of the teleprompter) and having absolutely no idea what they're saying. They're just phonating, randomly emphasizing certain words (usually words like "exciting" or "amazing") even if they have no importance to the meaning of the sentence. When it's in English, we can often get the meaning after the fact if all of the words are delivered (this is hardly ideal - and what, after all is art without ideals? Just spectacle). With music, though, the audience generally needs more security from the performer in terms of knowing what he/she is talking about.
To literally be carried away by the tide of the drama is what performance is all about. A master artist will be able to guide the audience through the events of the storyline, and the audience can let go and experience the meaning in an emotionally logical way - but this requires the performer know where he is going before he gets there. One can not simply sight-read word after word or note after note and hope to arrive at a greater understanding of the whole piece. Like a sherpa in the mountains, one must know the route before one can bring somebody else (the audience) along, otherwise, without this leadership, there is deep discomfort and uncertainty in the public, and they can not enjoy their experience.
This is where art becomes transportive. But not so much on the TV Guide channel, the Symphony, or the Durango Fireworks display.
For a moment I thought, maybe regionally it’s ok, like here in Durango to have a ho-hum fireworks display, kind of like having a ho-hum regional orchestra. You might be impressed for the few moments when the brass plays loud or the violins play something fast, but the rest of the time you just kind of sit there, waiting for something special to happen.
You spend a lot of time waiting. But perhaps in New York it’s better (though if the orchestra analogy remains, that’s not very likely), although really it will probably be just bigger and more expensive, still formless and devoid of feeling, direction, and passion.
Friday, July 20, 2007
A day behind, Part II - or - Another Day Behind
In the morning, Carol insisted I clean my car out completely then wash and shampoo the interior and run the whole thing through a car wash. Needless to say, I was resistant. While I haven't yet come across a complete explanation of deep messiness, I have read about many correlations between the non-linear method of keeping one's home (or vehicle) and the creative, "visual-spacial" learning personality. Something about the way the thing exists in space must connect in a way to the time in which you last used it, so that time becomes the physical act of archaeological digging rather than the abstract, seeming arbitrary, logic of the organized filing cabinet. But I'm not really sure. At the time this took place, I generally considered myself to be of the undesiring-to-be-cured segment of the messiness pop. So it was with great reluctance that I allowed Carol persuade me to dig through the piles - and puddles - that gave my car its inner distinction.
The process was painless, mostly, but at the end of it, I felt very much naked, like a prudishly trimmed French poodle. Nonetheless, I knew that much like any other bad haircut, the mess would eventually come back. With me it was about 3 or 4 days - some water bottles on the floor, coffee cups, cherry seeds in bottles and in plastic baggies, a couple of napkins, some apricot pits (some ap-flesh still attached) and soon things were feeling like home again.
But we're already ahead of the game.
I wanted to leave - and quickly - to get to my concert in New Hampshire, but my friend Lauren was up in Salt Lake City, and I thought it might be cool to see her up there (and have the tabouli at Omar's again. . .mmmm). But that would be cutting it close time-wise, and after losing a day on my radiator, I would really need to hit it.
So I woke up early and packed up the car. Took fifteen minutes, and I was ready for the road at 9 am. Just one more thing - I couldn't find my car keys. Nowhere. Haha, I thought, they're probably in my car, but I can't find them because it's too clean. But I looked and looked and looked and looked, but nowhere. I retraced my steps, I unpacked the bags, the car, the boxes, repacked, unpacked, repacked, unpacked, maybe 5 times throughout the day. The day ended around 7 pm unpacking the trunk for the umpteenth time.
But before I tell you where the keys were, I have to say that it does a number on your head when 1 and 1 don't add up. You begin looking in irrational places like rooms you haven't been in since the last time you used the keys. You start assuming somebody has stolen them out of the car, that Carol has hidden them, that a bird flew off with them. . .anything. For a moment I tried giving up on the keys and called Chrysler to get a new set made - the locksmith wouldn't do it. But it was Sunday, and Chrysler was closed, and I needed, needed, to hit the road.
This is what brought me to unpack over and over again, fruitlessley for the entire day- that I needed to go. And though it wasn't exactly triumphant, my discovery of the key did send a slight hat tip towards my Capricornian value of perseverance. Retracing the steps I had used to re-organize the trunk, I deduced that my keys might have fallen out of my pocket while I was leaning forward to straighten my tools. But then the keys would have fallen into. . .the spare tire. I'm talking they were inside the metal hubcap on the bottom of the tire, almost invisible but for the setting sun. So there had gone my day. . .it took a little while to cool down, and I decided to spend the night rather than drive through scenic Utah in the dark. But first thing in the morning, off I went to SLC through Monticello and Moab (organic juice bar in both, by the way). A stunning ride, and I pulled in just in time for dinner.
Oomar's Tabouli. . .the best.
Junk Yard, Part II
pretty much a bust. So if an experience is worth a thousand words, then I think I've pretty much paid this one off.
The radiator was a '91, by the way, and it wasn't a Laredo. So it was the wrong radiator for my Jeep. Too small, too lightweight, but the guy would give it to me for $40 - down from $125. Not bad, but if it didn't work, I would be out for the labor, and for what? May as well buy a new one, I remember thinking. And I did.
Let me say a little about the stuttering guy. There's not too much to say, other than he was very friendly. And in order to say anything more about the stuttering guy, I really should say some more about Farmington.
Farmington, NM is in the Northwest corner of the state. It's the largest city in the four-corners area, and its population is primarily Hispanic and Native American. Anyone else in the region - who is not overtly oriental - is considered "Anglo." I have never seen a black person in Farmington. When I lived in Durango, I took exception to the word Anglo - which was used to define me who has not a drop of Anglican blood in his body. I suppose it would be the same way a Mongolian would feel about being called Japanese. Somehow I expected Americans to be ignorant of other cultures more than their own, but really I'm not even sure if this makes any sense.
Farmington is basically blue collar and very blue collar. Things are slow, there's lots of alcoholism, and I think only one strip club. Carol lives up in Aztec, the next town to the north. Aztec is a lot smaller and a lot weirder, in that way only a littler town can be. There are all the serious Jesus people, but there are also a whole mess of big time New Agers and UFO people. Until recently, they even had a UFO sighting storefront on Main Street. You could walk right in, look at photos, maps, and I think a couple of meteorites.
Well, that's gone, but there is a new herbal shop that moved up from Farmington and the Maiden & the Crone bookstore which also sells some botanicals. There's the Thai place, Rubio's (Mexican), and the Atomic Bistro which is not open very much but is the closest thing to the Columbus Avenue Bakery in Northern New Mexico.
Speaking of Atomic, that may be part of the problem. Supposedly there's some kind of nuclear experimental area near Farmington where they had some kind of underground bomb go off as part of a tourist thing. Not really sure, but it wouldn't surprise me one bit. New Mexico is every bit the weirdest state in the Union. And if it's because they're all microwaved, then that's as good an explanation as any.
So what I'm saying has a little to do with class. I have been told that I overextend myself to feel brotherly with my fellow man, regardless of education, wealth, or social caste- perhaps to a point not necessary. I often find it difficult to tell people where I'm from when I'm out of New York, because it defines me a little too narrowly - something I'm usually anxious to get out of, a definition that is. In a weird way, the problem gets even worse when I meet New Yorkers outside of New York. Where are you from? The City. Oh me too. What part? The Upper East Side, you? Oh, Far Rockaway. And all of the sudden I feel like Louis the XIV. So it's an issue, and it's one we haven't fully worked out as a culture and I haven't fully worked out as an individual.
But I had a moment, up there with the stuttering guy on the top of lot 6 as I watched him clip, unscrew, and generally yank my radiator from the deceased Chrysler. We talked briefly about where we were from and what the hell was I doing all the way the hell out here. And for a moment I saw it very clearly how I was passing through but for him this was his world - and this junkyard in particular where he seemed a tolerated guest, and yet it seemed to him as much home as anything. What must it be like for a stutterer in blue collar Farmington? Where would he find his place? Likely on the edge of the society, and that's precisely where we were. He was undertaker and exhumer all in one and he was here in his own human niche in the econo-motor world. And I stood on my class as easily as ever I have in my life. The young aristocrat from New York City out in the desert, and it was all very fine.
The part was the wrong fit for my Jeep, so the whole experience had a parenthetical quality to it. And yet it was just that, like someone opened up the wrong veil for a while so I could see behind, then closed it up like the back of a magician's trick. Just a touch of Oz here in the Land of Enchantment.
Thursday, July 19, 2007
Junk Yard
Before going to Johnny's (the other one) for my new radiator, I made a real Western-style attempt to get one from the salvage yard. It's not just the hippies that recycle. The junk yard is the fungus of the automobile industry. It is a niche in the ecosystem of econo-motors where the decomposers dwell and make life out of death in secret, Haephestian ways
.
We went up to pull a radiator out of an old Jeep parked - forever - in lot 6. But there was no delicacy in the operation - no respect for the vehicle, its resale value perhaps, its dignity as an active motor being, useful to its master and wily in the ways of the road. No. This was hell, this was the flesh as grass of the Scriptures, this was the afterlife in all its guises, Purgatory, Valhalla, the River Styx, and there, off to the side was the '91 Jeep, radiator still in tact, ready to be hauled off for resurrection in my '95.
Looking at all these cars, parked and gutted, was a a really humbling experience. What could symbolize Phallic pride more than the automobile? And yet here, as if in a morgue, the libido-less vehicles lay, almost beyond shame, but more like the un-dead, uncertain of their futures on this earth. Eerie and sad, yet at the same time I felt like I was privy to something that the run of the mill bourgeoisie would never see. There are secrets the peasants know that they will never share with their masters. Religious rites, nature fairies, and ancient burial grounds that are too simple to be appreciated by the aristocrats, yet which carry immense power. Lot 6 wasn't on anybody's map. It was me, the stuttering guy, and a crowbar. Even the car we drove to Lot 6 was dead- it had been in an accident and was already half decomposed itself. There were all sorts of things missing out of the control panel, there was no key, so the stuttering guy used a screwdriver (which he kept jammed in the air conditioning vent) to start the thing. The windshield was completely smashed in, and the doors didn't work.
I know, I know, gentle reader, you're thinking - this doesn't sound too different from the car you're driving. But you'll have to believe me, this was in a whole different state. This was Charon, the boatman, himself crossing back and forth between Hades and the world of the living (sort of). This car was in no ways fit to be driven - but we weren't really driving - does a ghost ever really drive? No they just float, fearless of death or accident, across the firmament to their desired goal. And so floated we, up the hill at about 30 mph to lot 6 where my radiator awaited.
A day behind
So to backtrack, I actually did have to put in a new radiator. 3 bottles of goop total was what I needed to get my car to Johnny's Radiator (different Johnny) in Farmington. The radiator replacement would run around $350. No biggie. But because there was so much goop in there, they decided they wold need to do a backflush to get all the excess goop out of the plumbing. Again no biggie- until they broke the water pump during the back flush. It was hard to muffle the chi-ching sound behind the 'whoops,' but I'll give theme the benefit of the doubt. $300 more and no car til the morning.
By the way- a note about the word "til". I have done no research on this, but to the best of my reasoning the word "til" is an abbreviation of the word "until." Like 'til. Over the past several years, however, the spelling "till" has popped up everywhere- and I mean everywhere. This began happening around the same time Microsoft figured out how to do that underline spell check that happens while you type. On my computer (both PC and Mac), the word "til" is always underlined as misspelled. If, however, I add an additional "l", the underlining goes away, and my flashbacks to 4th grade English class subside. But what the hell is till? That doesn't make any sense. How would "until" become "till"? Is the second "l" decorative? Is it meant to be pronounced? Is it a reverse place holder for the missing "un" like the French circumflex holds the place for the Latin "s"? No. Can't be. What it can be, however, is that "til" just never got added to spell check, and the closest thing the computer could come up with as a proper spelling would be the word describing what you do to topsoil on a farm. But the people who type on laptops, don't generally work at farms. Most of them have probably never seen a farm (which is fine, I suppose, because most of what they eat comes not out of the ground but off of an animal or out of a chemical plant.). Are we really this disconnected, people? Is no one man enough to step forward and say "'til' is an abbreviation, damn it, and I don't care what no squiggly little red line indicates."
Alas, no. Till is everywhere. And the record will be changed to accommodate the cowardice of nerds everywhere, too afraid to look bad in front of Big Brother Gates, watching us through the eyes of that annoying little paper clip guy. I'm sure some day, Webster will sneak in a new definition for till - origin uncertain - like some W. signing statement - stealthy in the night, resetting the official text.
But I've had enough of it. I can stay silent no longer. Til will be til and till will be till. At least as long as I blog. And so be it.
The vehicle was ready the next morning. But I had already been thrown off schedule. Johnny (yeah, that one) had a concert in New Hampshire that was in "the middle of July" which I took to be the 18th or 19th but which was in actuality the 12th and the 13th. My plan had been to drive leisurely back to catch the show and then visit with some friends in New England. But once I found out the actual dates I needed to trim the fat, so to speak, of my drive home. Time was creeping in, and there wasn't a day to waste waiting around for my car. But waste it I did, and a new level of patience became required of me which I had never known could exist.
I am by nature a restless kind. I don't like to feel trapped, and I don't like to have my motion or options inhibited very much. This is the essence of Western American concepts of Freedom and it is one of the fundamental chords with which I resonate out here (there by now). So when the lady from the radiator shop dropped me off in downtown Farmington while they worked on my car, I was already uneasy. "About four hours," she told me. Damn. This would suck, but it would be bearable.
But it became harder. Downtown Farmington is pretty slow. It's one of those stalled re-vitalization programs for American cities' downtowns, and the only real signs of modernization are the coffee shop where I spent 80% of my day and the pub where I didn't spend any. I walked up and down Main St. and Broadway looking for someone to help me fix my bracelet. No luck, but it killed some time. I had an unpleasant phone conversation after about 45 minutes of waiting, and it fouled the rest of my day (actually the rest of my week). So I was pacing around downtown Farmington, in a really bad mood with no freedom. Sucked.
The four hour mark came and went and still I had heard no word (that rhymes). So I called to check in. Be ready in a half hour. 20 minutes later I get the call - broke the water pump - can you finish it tonight - no probably not - I really need my car, man - ok, try calling back at 5:30 - ok. . .5:20 call - nope, can't get it done, come back by 9am - shit, thanks.
Called Carol and she picked me up. Crappy, crappy day, but she was very sweet. Suggested going out for sushi (in Farmington?), but wasn't up for it. Don't eat when you're upset, is my motto, and waiting around grumpy in 3-digit heat had gotten me pretty upset. Now I was a day behind in getting back to NH for the concert.
Saturday, July 14, 2007
Sam Brownback- and so much more
So I’m in Iowa today, and in Iowa there are only two things to talk about- corn and primary season. Well, the corn is everywhere, so there isn’t much need to discuss it, so that leaves Primary Season. It turns out that on the radio they play little snippets of all the major Presidential Candidates’ speeches so that the Iowa Caucus, who I’m told take their responsibilities as first voting state quite seriously, can get a real sense of what each candidate is about.
Today it was Sam Brownback, Republican Senator from Kansas. He launched into his plan for an alternative flat tax- that is, a regular, predictable tax, progressive, I believe, by income. This tax would lay alongside the old tax system which citizens could continue to use if they chose to. Brownback pointed out that in the old system, the rich pay much fewer taxes because of loop holes and deductions.
Now generally I could give a shit about tax policy. I guess I still look at it like they did in the old Boss days in New York- it’s basically a bribe you give the government to keep them off your back. But as I get older, or I should say as I have more political power than I did when I took my class on Urban History in the 9th grade, I have become more philosophical about taxes, though no less bored by them. As a trained classical musician, and as the sitting Chairman of the Board of my own 501(c)3 Non-Profit organization, however, Brownback’s passing scorn of ‘deductions’ caught my ear- but not in the way you might think.
Despite running my own non-profit, I am not particularly in favor of the concept of the tax-exempt status for certain organizations that ostensibly “serve the public.” That is the magic phrase that qualifies one as a non-profit organization- that one serve the public. Thus, Schools, Hospitals, Arts Organizations, Religious Organizations, and Environmental Organizations are all exempt from paying taxes and are able to receive tax-exempt donations (and in fact are often required to) from the public. So as a church owner, you pay no property tax on your church lot. As a school teacher, you pay no taxes on the erasers you buy for your classroom- or the chairs, video equipment, computers, microscopes, pencil sharpeners, dowels and construction paper, hockey equipment, or toilet paper. And as a Symphony Orchestra, you can solicit donations with the promise that all contributions will be tax-deductible. Also you get a discounted postal rate.
The government, then, passively assumes a percentage of the operating costs that you would normally have to pay were you any other “for-profit” organization- whether that organization made an actual profit or not. It is a form of subsidy to pay for things which the government considers to be a “public good.”
I have always taken issue with this concept, particularly regarding the arts. Is there a way that anyone could articulate – articulate – in which the public benefits more from hearing the Franck D minor Symphony more than from hearing “Oops, I Did It Again” live in concert at the Colloseum? I can’t think of one. The argument which I would expect to hear (though it holds only a few droplets of water) is that somehow the Franck Symphony is “better “ for you or is more “culturally” meritorious. Ignoring that those are standards impossible to define, we could also mention that the same Orchestra that performed the Franck also performed pop concerts at Tanglewood that summer featuring excerpts from Cats and an arrangement of a Frank Sinatra Song. Getting harder to discern cultural superiority here- especially when you move from Britney to Sgt. Pepper.
In the arts what non-profit really refers to is the fact that no one really wants to hear/see the music/opera/ballet/18th Century Baroque Sculpture exhibit. Or at least not in the numbers that would offset the incredible labor intensity required to put them on. What does it cost to put on an Opera, say at the Met? Let’s say about $150 - $200 per service for each player in the orchestra (conservatively). That’s 80 players, so $16,000 per rehearsal times six rehearsals plus 6 performances a week. Plus all the stage guys, plus all the lighting guys, plus all the costume guys, plus all the costumes, plus all the ushers, plus all the ticket takers, plus all the chorus members, plus the sets themselves, plus moving the sets, plus the truckers, plus the soloists ($25k per night maybe each), plus the conductor, plus plus plus plus. These quickly amount to about a half a million to one and a half million a night. They sell such and such number of tickets per night and that takes a bite out of their operating costs.
But even the most popular orchestra in the country doesn’t offset its costs by ticket sales alone. Their real bank comes from contributions. Big ones- from people and organizations who can’t wait to let it be known how classy and cultured they are. And this is the real issue for classical music as a non-profit- and the reason why the art will never develop so long as it remains protected from normal taxation: The people and institutions who give money to these organizations do not do so out of pure magnanimity (yes, Mr. Smith, you were right here too). Yes they do get the little tax break, but for most of them the more important gain is the social prestige of donating to something so sophisticated, so bettering as the Symphony- which could not survive but for their own noblesse. No, the masses alone would not support such treasures, so it is incumbent on the elite to subsidize it on behalf of the general public.
So despite the classical music industry’s professed desire to bring in young people, to bring in the general public, to make concerts more accessible, the hand that’s really feeding them benefits from them being elitist, snobby, and superior to the masses. If orchestras went ahead and delivered concerts that were appealing to regular people, then there would be no incentive for the Gottrocks’s of the world to donate to them- there would be no prestige, no cultural kudos. So the classical music industry is chasing its tail- and too often catching it- with large donations to create patronizing programs to ‘educate’ the public as to why the performances they don’t like are good for them. Perhaps they should take a lesson from the spinach lobby to see how much Americans like being told what’s good for them. I still haven’t seen a McBrussel Sprout platter behind the Golden Arches, and I don’t expect I will.
But what if we did away with non-profit status for the orchestras? What if we let them fend for themselves- give the people something they would want or just give up the ghost and move to Germany where the culture commands that people like what they are supposed to and not ask too many questions. Well we had an instance of this with my orchestra, The Wild Ginger Philharmonic back in the 90s. Let’s just say that people loved our concerts. There were people who disliked them too- but these people hated them - passionately (a reaction that would please any artist) - they didn’t just walk away without noticing or fall asleep. We had blue haired old ladies and blue haired college students and everyone in between standing in the aisles to hear us play. To one of our concerts a devoted fan invited none other than Brooke Astor, hoping to land us a fat check to get the endowment going. After the first piece he leaned over to Ms. Astor and said, “How can you give money to the New York Philharmonic after hearing something like this?” And that was the end of Wild Ginger’s relationship with Brooke Astor. She walked right out and never returned. We didn’t have to market to people or convince them that it would make them do better on their SATs. They came of their own volition, cheered with real heart, and made financial contributions from their own pocketbooks. But there was no reward of social status for their participation- only a great fucking time.
So for a while I have been considering the real value of non-profit-hood to the world of Classical Music. And while I had played with the idea, it was not until I heard Sam Brownback’s sound byte that I began seriously thinking about whether the same truths (as I saw them) were relevant to the other non-profit status beneficiaries.
So forgive the preamble, as I realize that I have not yet even posed my question regarding Mr. B’s tax policy- my question is- would there remain in his system any mechanism for tax-exempt status at all? Could people still get any deductions in his flat tax system, or would that be it? That’s my question. Right-wingers are notorious for their support for pulling funding for PBS, NPR, and the NEA. Would they really consider a wholesale removal of the concept of non-profit status in America?
Brownback himself is an ordained minister of some sort, so he is certainly involved with a certain sector of the non-profit world- the church. But anyone who follows modern-day Christianity knows that there is no shortage of funds flowing into the religion, and that the rise of the mega-church and televangelist has transformed the experience of Christianity from anything it had resembled previously- and in a completely American style (innovative, efficient, and without any style). In fact many of the modern churches are run on an entirely corporate model, based on giving the people what they want. You want meaning, purpose, direction, a way to raise your kids and keep them out of trouble? Buy God. And the membership is enormous. No hell and brimstone here, just community, emotional support, lots of music, and the occasional rapturous experience. Not bad for a few hundred bucks in membership dues- taxed or otherwise.
So perhaps Mr. Brownback feels the same way about ol’ time Religion that I feel about ol’ time Classical Music. I would not be surprised.
But religion was not my point of inquiry regarding exemption from tax exemption. It was one of my other favorite subjects, education.
Columbia University has an endowment in the billions. They are the largest owner of real estate in Manhattan. They’re doing fine. Yet not one penny of their real estate is taxed, nor are the capital gains from their investments. So they have benefited enormously from non-profit status. Were they taxed like a normal company, their liability would likely be 100s of millions of dollars a year. But instead it’s nothing.
Like other schools, they get the bulk of their capital from two sources- tuition and public or private contributions.
There are a few problems with this. First of all, the existence of tuition makes attending Columbia University an impossibility for millions of intelligent Americans- not to speak of third world internationals whose education might even be considered more important for global peace and prosperity.
Next, the bulk of public contributors make donations for the same reason as for classical music- the prestige of donating to something somebody deems to be important. (I will concede right away that there is an enormous amount of important research being conducted at universities. My point here is that it is not up to a democratic process to decide what makes these things important, and any academic can tell you there are tremendous amounts of waste in the Uni way of doing things. Fun or not, those are dollars that could be spent in other, more productive ways. But they won’t be, because there’s not as much prestige in many of those other ways. This is a longer discussion that aims at core problems with research and the scientific method. For another day.)
As for private donations, of the graduated who give back- and here let’s drop down a tier to a less prestigious College, say Sarah Lawrence- those graduate donors who are worth cultivating by the development office (and thus those who may have some influence in the school) will be only the most successful graduated, say 5 – 10 % of alums making significant contributions in the millions of dollars. So the monetary votes of those SLC grads working at Starbucks simply will not count- and with no cost to the school or impact on its curriculum, values, or methods. Only the rich’s voice will be heard, and presumably their voice will favor that which is already in place (with some tweaks), because that is what brought them to their state of richness The Starbucks barista might be angry and embittered, resenting the school that taught him nothing about life, but he would be in no position to do anything about it. Were he to bang on the door of the dean’s office, they would simply call security and have him escorted out. The people for whom the curriculum worked would have the red carpet rolled out with the credit card machine waiting at the other end.
[NB: this point could be argued extensively, but it is not central to my case, and so I will leave it as is- food for thought).
Before I go on, let me state for the record that I waste little love on academic institutions in general and that I find the modern approach to education deeply, deeply flawed. It would be my hope that if my proposal to drastically reduce the voting age were to move forward, kids would soon enough realize that compulsory schooling of the sort we have now is not in their interest, and they would lobby to strike down laws mandating attendance in schools as well as laws prohibiting child labor (with some protections and provisions- of course). Free from the compulsion to attend school, serious, effective, and nurturing models of learning would be created spontaneously by those to whom education is most important- the young people themselves. But this is for another posting as well.
Back to the point.
My first impulse, then, would be that eliminating non-profit status for schools would be a good thing. But then who would pay for education? Would only those institutions with legacy funds be able to continue operations? That would be unfair to say the least, and it would contribute to real academic stagnation- not that there is that much competition between schools (another symptom of protectionist-ed fields)- the competition is dumped rather on the prospective students, vying for status and acceptance by institutions relying, again, largely on prestige to recommend them- a system I find perplexing and problematic.
It is worth repeating what one author, James Herndon, said about institutions: An institution’s first, and usually unstated, goal is self-perpetuation. Whatever is in their mission statement comes after that one. All the lofty goals of improving society, etc., come after paying the rent, the faculty, and the bureaucracy that runs it. Forgive the cynicism here (I’m quoting a cynical author), but few Americans can afford to work productively for an institution that has a sunset clause built into its mission. People have tended to want to keep their jobs as long as possible, at least if they are expected to commit real effort and energy to them.
So it is not hard to see how this arrangement can easily conspire against the interests of the students, the ones whose interests the institution ostensibly serves. The best teachers, after all, are the ones who make themselves obsolete- they convey their information, they teach the students how to learn for themselves, and like so many male arachnids, their task completed, they simply expire. Since most professors don’t want to expire, there is a natural power struggle built into the teaching relationship (a parallel exists in any inter-generational relationship, including parent-child) in which there is an incentive in the teacher to prevent the student from achieving intellectual independence, as such independence would render the teacher obsolete=powerless=dead. Whether this is enacted overtly (as in music conservatories) or more subtly (as I expect would be the case in liberal arts schools), it is a fact of human nature that must be dealt with in a society.
(Indian culture tends to deal with this religiously, as teachers see themselves as vessels for information flowing from the gods, their reward is a certain amount of prestige and social deference. But in America, we have no such thing- or only very little of it. We don’t want societally granted prestige- we want money, with which we can buy prestige on our own.)
So how to we generate a system of education that is genuinely student centered?
Easy. And no need for tax breaks, at least not for the schools.
Higher education (let’s start with that) would be absolutely free of charge to students.
But there would be a contract. Upon graduation, or shortly after, a small percentage (say ½ a percent) of the student’s annual income (salary) would go to back to the school until retirement, say 70 years of age
This system would inextricably link the life interests of the student with the financial interest of the schools.
In the current system, once the student forks over his tuition, the school is under no obligation to do much of anything. They can teach Ping-Pong for 4 years and call that an education (or Art History, perhaps). But under the new system, schools would have to think seriously about the entire life future of the student- starting with the basics: If the student drops dead at 35 by eating too many Big Macs, the school has just lost 35 years of income. Therefore basic life skills would factor heavily into the initial curriculum. 4 or 5 failed marriages can drain the coffers pretty quickly too and cause bankruptcy. How about general life skills about building relationships- and not just the fruity new age kinds. Schools would have to do research (on their own dime) to find ways of getting along that really work for people, and they would have to find ways to teach those ways effectively to their students.
And then the whole manner of teaching changes- how things are taught, what is deemed important is no longer ‘deemed’ but is discovered- if reading Chaucer adds enough to one’s quality of life that it allows for more productivity and more income, then Medieval English would be a good investment. Otherwise, not so much. Note: I am a firm believer in the value of leisure, reflection, and learning for learning’s sake. Presumably the proportional value of this would be factored in to a school’s calculus.
A school that taught the students nothing useful would receive nothing useful (i.e. dollars) in return and would fold. A school like Juilliard that graduated hundreds of Starbucks baristas would be entirely bankrupt, unable to function. If they wanted to raise money, they would have to demonstrate the worthiness of their mission- and do so without the tax-break incentive to donors.
The same would go for research institutions. Research is indeed valuable to society, and factored into that ought to be a certain amount of inefficiently spent time. But this money can be raised separately from the education funds. Generally student research is a form of slave labor, pardoned by the prestige and sophistication of the work they are doing and the institutions that permit it. So another system would need to be in place.
Eventually, schools would be competing amongst themselves for the best high school students (if such a thing still exists), very much the way the virtually-for-profit football wing of the school already does.
Prospective students would also think seriously about whether or not college was a useful option for them. Could they learn as much on their own without being indentured to Harvard for the rest of their lives? Right now there is virtually no choice for a promising 18 year old than to spend $100,000 to be taught by graduate assistants for 4 years. Why not turn the tables and empower the student- on whose fortunes the collective depends far more than the institutions themselves.
Economic prejudice would also end with this system, as less well to do families would have the same opportunities as wealthier families. This would also contribute positively to racial and cultural integration. Business works best when it is color blind, and this would indeed be a business relationship.
Another positive effect of this system would be that high school “education” would be less concerned with ‘getting into college” than real life excellence and utility. Again, de-schooling the culture would have a significant positive effect on all of this.
Also, instead of a fixed percentage being given back to the school, other arrangements could be made: perhaps a Medical student could defer back payments until he was 35 but pay a slightly higher percentage. There could also be some sort of buy-out arrangement for the ultra rich. Presumably a four year college education is not worth ½ a percent of a CEO pulling seven figures each year. Some sort of figure could be agreed on in advance to release the student from his obligation to the school.
The flip side would also need to be taken into account. There are many (and ought to be many) who pursue a career out of love for their field with the predetermination that they will live a modest life. I personally believe that this thinking is unnecessarily limiting, and that even someone who enjoys sea horse biology can still find a way to become wealthy given the right frame of mind. So I leave this to others to ponder. Perhaps remnant specialized, not-yet-profitable centers could be in place to accommodate such people. Or some cut of the 1/2 percent would be used as a kind of ‘tax’ to even the playing field for those choosing less profitable professions.
Now, could the system be corrupted? The short answer is- very likely. Research could be distorted to push students towards excessive financial achievement at the expense of personal happiness. Financial gain is hardly the only measure of life success, and there would need to be some system in place to assure that quality of life be valued appropriately (although this has generally been an issue skirted by American Institutions “What defines Quality of Life, anyway?”). Again, in the long term, schools found to be abusing the education of their students would see a drastic drop in attendance (remember, they’re competing for students, not the other way around), and any temporary gain would not be worthwhile. A smart school would therefore set up effective checks on the power of its administrators.
I believe that the teachers’ salaries should be directly tied to the school’s annual financial gains. So that each teacher receives a certain percentage of the school’s annual earnings. The difficulty with this is that teachers would not realize the rewards of their effort until 20 – 40 years after those efforts, so some alternate system would need to be put in place. Perhaps the teachers could be paid an estimated rate and in twenty or thirty years be required to give a refund – not to go below a certain amount – or be given extra funds if their students turned out to be especially successful. This would be a little more complicated, but if there were certain guarantees, then it might work. Perhaps a better system could be worked out.
If this system seems too restrictive – in the sense that it views education as simply a means for making money in the narrow free-market view of the world – then perhaps some 20 % of the education would be required to be reserved for. . .Art History, Chaucer, whatever. The money to pay for it might even be able to be collected from the students themselves or through some kind of donation system. But a strict cap would have to be placed on what percentage of the budget could be used for school-reimbursed time.
The other non-academic aspects of College life could be outsourced so that the students participate as real workers in research facilities or as part of a volunteer book club, chess club, fencing team, etc. The truth is only people with adequate money will be able to devote serious time to these other activities anyway. So it will be the rich who can afford them and the rich who would be able to send their kids to liberal arts college, where they would have done these activities otherwise, anyway. Those who make adequate money through the new system will be able, later in life, to pursue ‘extracurricular activities’ with more freedom, having become wealthy themselves.
That’s the start of the plan, anyway. There is no doubt much to be argued about, but this should get the ball rolling on a discussion.
So thank you, Mr. Brownback for causing me to contemplate the value of non-profithood for those outside my own industry. I probably won’t vote for you, but your candidacy has already been of service to my imagination.
Thursday, July 5, 2007
Part 2
Well, sadly, and despite my triumph in Santa Fe, my car once again overheated in the parking lot of Nature’s Oasis in Durango, a 3 hour drive from Albuquerque. I had to rethink my plans. I could probably patch up the radiator with another bottle or two of goop from City Market (here at $3.75 a bottle), but I couldn’t be sure it would hold over the several high mountain passes between here and Silverton – 9000 feet in the sky.
Better to be stuck here in a parking lot within walking distance of food, shelter, and souvenir shops than to be stuck on the side of the road on the Million Dollar Highway. Actually- getting stuck on the side of that road wouldn’t even be the worst scenario. There being so few turn-offs on that highway, and the overheating coming on as quickly as it does, I might have just found myself in the middle of the lane with angry patriots with guns lined up behind me trying to get to the marching band performance.
No, it was a wiser move to bide my time in Durango and meet up with my friends tomorrow. The only thing I would really miss would be Carol wearing her big red white and blue “Old Glory” blouse- which nobody in New York believes really exists but which I saw at least two or three other times today in Durango.
No biggie. Walked around DRO for a couple of hours, drank some tea, had some fruit, downloaded a whole mess of music, and just caught the tail end of some sort of Bar-B-Q fair with some 15 different smokers all out hawking their hocks (excuse me). Since I stopped eating flesh foods some time ago, I have continued to take pleasure in watching others gorge themselves on that which I once loved. There wasn’t any way I could have gotten my brother to fly in in time to partake of the various BBQ samplings that afternoon (he lives in New York), but I spent at least 30 seconds trying to think if there might be some way. . .
Traveling has humbled me in many ways. I have become respectful of the differences between people and peoples, and at this point in my life I have stopped mocking small towns for their provincialism, ignorance, and general low standard of excellence. That leaves me with very little to say about the Independence Day parade that made its way down Main Ave. that evening from 5:00 - 7:00 pm. There were bagpipes, a rarity in these parts.
I stuck around until just after sunset to watch the fireworks and then took off for Farmington to spend my night. All it took was one more bottle of goop to get my car up and running. How do you like that?
550 to 516. Straight down Main, left on Scott, left on Broadway. Motel 6 is just up on the left at Bloomfield Road.
Interlude
I love Motel 6.
Love ‘em.
And I would hate to have left you with the impression that the Southeastern Motel 6’s are somehow poorly maintained or otherwise undesirable. They are not- only inasmuch as everything in that part of the country is kind of downtrodden and moldy. It’s just the nature of the beast. Desert vs. Swamp.
So let’s lay that to rest. Motel 6- my number one choice.
In fact, I’m in one right now- Farmington, New Mexico. (Room 238 for the historians) I was a bit concerned that I wouldn’t be able to find a room tonight, it being the 4th of July.
Hotels in Durango were starting at $150 a night, and those hotels weren’t even in Durango. Also, for reasons passing understanding, there are no Motel 6’s in Durango. Farmington is the closest. And what I realized tonight was that during festive seasons and holidays when it’s hard to find hotels in nice, resorty-type places, I can instead go to the places that all the people who are in the nicer, resorty-type places came from. In this case, that would be Farmington, NM. Plenty of rooms- $35 plus tax. Beat that.
Let me also say something about character here. I tend to think of myself as a pragmatic person. That is to say, the packaging is nice, but what’s really in the thing? In the Ned Rorem model of everybody being either “French” or “German,” I generally fall pretty squarely (and squarely) into the German category. The frill and froo-froo I am generally willing to do without, provided the thing itself, Der Ding, is of high general quality.
So that’s why I love Motel 6. Always clean, always the best price, and never too much detergent in the room so I wake up with rashes from the bleach in the sheets and a headache from breathing in Industrial “Glade” all night. Reliable, inoffensive décor, and very, very consistent.
Yup. Love Motel 6.
Part 1
I have in the past, though- with many things. The transmission hasn’t worked properly in about 2 years- won’t kick in to 5th gear, and a couple of times I’ve leaked the fluid dry, so it’s a real mess in there.
One morning I came out to find my bumper had been front ended, and it was hanging off the front of the car. For a while I drove with it like that but eventually substituted bungee chords for the raging will power that had held in place before. The right front blinker has never worked since then, and the headlight is pitched a bit off in a funny direction.
But that’s not all. There’s an oil leak from one of the gaskets, the rear dif is empty, and the four wheel drive, well let’s just say, the last time I had to pull out of the mud, it took two days to cool down to normal.
Then there are the small things- the radio sometimes thinks there’s a tape in even when there isn’t – then it doesn’t - then it does – like it can’t make up its mind. In the mean time, though, I can’t get radio or tape to work properly, so I’m on audio stall. I find the problem becomes more frequent when I’m in Santa Fe. Go figure. The scan button which scans for “in tune” stations is busted (but only sometimes) so it keeps scanning even when you don’t want it to. Then it goes back to the original station, because it has already begun rescanning before it has settled on an new in-tune station. Given that the antenna is half broken, it’s hard enough to get clear signals anyway, so the numbers just keep on whizzing by endlessly, like race cars doing false start after false start.
The sun roof has never worked properly, and the rear driver-side door doesn’t lock with the rest of the doors, so it either sits open or you have to lock it separately by hand. But they were like that when I bought it.
There’s also the giant spider-shaped crack in the windshield which occurred during a completely un-sublimated episode of road rage. I actually punched the thing with my fist. What was that all about?
The coolant is perpetually low, yet the oil temperature has always been normal, and the rear lights that light up the license plate are out too. Then there’s the rear window wiper, the dashboard that’s detached from the instrument panel, and the oil pressure gauge that works completely on its own schedule- ever since I left it in a parking lot in Vegas for 2 months.
The various odors and such we can leave for another time.
It’s my car. And all of these things I have learned to deal with intelligently. I always take extra care when making right turns since I have no front blinker. I have learned to patiently scan megahertz by megahertz using the “tune” button (only the up one- the down one sends it spiraling again)- and I’ve set 87.9 as the #1 preset so I can always start from the beginning of the dial.
I have stopped washing my windshield for fear of exacerbating the crack. I carry jugs of distilled water with me to top off the continuous radiator leak (did I mention the radiator leak?).
This is all to say that car trouble, up until now, has been no trouble. A slight inconvenience, but no cause to bring the thing into the shop.
But this time was different. This time the engine was overheating, and that’s something you don’t want to mess with. When the engine overheats, the cylinders and the whole engine head can warp, and that’s the end of the engine. And in a 12 year old car with 185,000 miles on it, that’s the end. You’re done. That’s when you call NPR and have them haul it off for you for one of their auctions.
So yesterday evening, I was driving out of Santa Fe (radio worked fine this time, thank you) up towards Colorado Springs, but just after leaving town I noticed the oil temp rising almost to the red line. I pulled off the road immediately and powered down. A little bit of steam came out from under the hood. “Shit,” I thought and said aloud simultaneously. There I was in the middle of the desert, stuck.
I went through my checklist- oil temp up means no oil or no coolant coming into the engine. No problem.
Miraculously, from my perch on the side of the highway, I could see a gas station across the freeway and across another road paralleling the freeway. Now gentle reader, you may think I am embellishing here, but I am not. While at first glance I may not strike you as the Indiana Jones type – actually at first glance I may strike you as exactly the Indiana Jones type (we’ll leave that for you to decide) – I am actually pretty nimble when it comes to scaling freeway side walls and jumping barbed wire fences.
So that’s right. I took off my flip flops and put on my more rugged Nikes for the climb, and off I went to the gas station- my years of training as a New York City J-Walker had me well prepared to traverse I-25 North and South- though, gentle reader, should you find yourself in a similar situation, note that the cars on the freeway move much faster than they do in Manhattan- even than they do in Brooklyn (the other boroughs I can’t attest to). Also the frontage road was crossed without issue.
At the gas station I picked up 6 quarts of oil and 3 gallons of water- Wait, I thought, I would have to drag these back to the car, and going down the sidewall might be harder than going up.
4 quarts, then, and just two gallons of water for the radiator.
Availing myself of all resources, I asked the clerk at the gas station if the problem might be other than the ones I had thought of.
“Well, you never know,” he said. “Could be the water pump, a leaky hose or something. You could try that stop-leak stuff over there on the shelf. That stuff works great.”
4 quarts, 2 gallons, and about 4 ounces of goop back to the car.
The goop I left in the car, wanting to try my own ideas first. Though the oil dipstick read full, I added another quart and then added a full gallon of water to the reservoir tank, as the radiator cap was too hot to take off.
Well that was the adventurous part of the story, so I’ll fast-forward past signing up for AAA, getting towed to the garage just after closing, hustling to get a rental car and a pick up, as well as a hotel room on Independence Day Eve. Keep fast forwarding to where the shop says they’ll stay open late to fix the water pump for cash, blah blah blah, $600, nope $425, nope $300, OK, its not the pump, it’s the radiator itself, $900 to replace, part won’t get here for 3 more days, can’t help you now, too late for rental car pick up. . .fast forward. . .
So I drive off in my car towards Albuquerque to spend the night in Motel 6. It’s late by now, and I’ve written Colorado Springs off the plan, cause I need to get to Silverton in the afternoon to meet my friends for the 4th of July. No sweat. The Motel 6 in NW Albuquerque is pretty nice- dry, not all damp everywhere like the Motel 6’s in the South East. I’m just happy to be in my own car, and happy the clerk recommended that 2 dollar bottle of goop to get me through the night.