That Really Happens

My New Hat ATLANTA – The University of Florida has a series of television advertisements that depict men and women in a variety of situations and places, each wearing some article of clothing bearing the UF logo, and greeting one another with a friendly “Go Gators!” The ads have struck me as a bit silly. Who does that? I have learned over the last couple days that a lot of people do that.

Walking around Atlanta with my cap bearing a large F, I have repeatedly been salutated, “Go Gators!” So, my skepticism about those UF advertisements, and their claim that “the Gator Nation is everywhere” has been misplaced.

Blown Away

I have never seen a tornado in person. But I confess to having a bizarre curiosity. It isn’t that I am drawn to danger. On the contrary, I am not one inclined to try BASE jumping, SWAT teaming, Ice Road Trucking, or any other perilous occupation. Tornadoes fascinate me, however. I have watched storm chasers on the Weather Channel and thought, “that would be such a neat occupation”. But the reason I will never be a professional storm chaser—aside from the fact that it may not be a real job—is the same reason that I am intrigued by tornadoes: they are so powerful, but so inexplicable.

Scientists know what conditions birth tornadoes, and can use radar and other means to identify and track tornadoes. But even if tornado predictions were one hundred percent accurate, and even if meteorologists could give ample warning to people in the path of danger, they could still not explain the bizarre and almost unbelievable destruction wrought by tornadoes.

On NBC Nightly News this week, Brian Williams was standing atop debris in Joplin, Missouri. Behind him, a devastated landscape, with great heaps of splintered wood and twisted metal suggested the ruins of a home or business, and a mangled mass of automobiles lay piled one upon another. Williams turned to a small tree, standing erect, with some branches broken at the ends, and pointed out that it had no bark. It was, he said, as if someone had come by and sanded it smooth. Around him, dozens, perhaps hundreds, of other trees bore the same unbelievable mark of tornadic contact. Then BriWi held up a black plastic garbage can – the kind used by countless municipalities across America. It had been speared by a long, dull piece of wood, which remained partly lodged within the container.

I couldn’t understand this sort of destruction. I still cannot.

I have lived through hurricanes. I have seen homes shorn of roofing shingles. I have seen trees toppled and homes crushed. I have seen waters rise and flood low-lying areas. But I cannot comprehend a force of nature that leaves a tree standing naked with no bark. How fast must the wind blow to strip a tree bare? If I had a steel adze I doubt I could slice the bark off my live oak tree, and even if I could, it wouldn’t look so clean. Saw mills use enormous machines to accomplish the same feat. A wind that blows hard enough to do that ought to rip the tree from the earth itself.

Likewise, what force would be required to drive a board through a tough plastic trash can? We have all seen video of two-by-fours being fired through sheets of plywood. But in those tests the plywood is firmly fixed in some stationary position. The same machine that launches lumber at high speed would surely cause a plastic trash can to go flying before it could pierce its walls, right?

Any force of nature that can rip the asphalt clean off a road ought to be feared as well as fascinate.

The Kitchen: Part One – Wallpaper

Every home remodeling exercise experiences a glitch of some sort. If anyone—in an older house, at least—has ever decided to, say, re-do their kitchen, and then proceeded smoothly from start to finish without a setback, I’d like to hear about it. We have changed many things since buying this house six years ago. I’ve painted the exterior twice, repainted every interior room, hung wallpaper, applied wainscoting, installed crown molding, manufactured built-ins, replaced baseboards, hung new doors, installed new flooring in three rooms, replaced a sink and a toilet, run all new coax, and built two closets from scratch. But the kitchen project now underway represents, perhaps, the zenith of all our home remodeling projects, and it almost just turned into a fiasco.

Dining Room - After Wallpaper is lovely. That is, I have a great appreciation for beautiful wallpaper designs, and always enjoy seeing rooms in which pretty wallpaper has been skillfully applied. A couple years ago, for example, I hung some beautiful wallpaper in the dining room. But hanging wallpaper is a drag. This isn’t because wallpaper is in-and-of-itself difficult to work with, but because every room has its own imperfections that make the job harder. There are minor obstacles, like electrical switches and outlets, windows and doors, and assorted wall fixtures. And there are major hurdles, like odd corners and angles. Sometimes you find several obstacles in one drop. Imagine, for instance, a situation in which you must work around a soffit with three angles, a corner with two, an electrical outlet, and door trim. Corners, which seem so simple in everyday life, present one of the biggest challenges. If they are even slightly out of plumb (and they almost always are), great care must be taken to navigate the corner. A terrible multiplying effect makes one incorrectly navigated corner a huge problem down the road. These are all known dangers. There are unknown dangers, too, and I just encountered the mother of them all.

Cabinets Out First, I know one is not supposed to buy all the wallpaper for a project in one shot. This is because slight variations in color from one batch to the next may be visible when installed. This was something I had considered when we bought two extra rolls of paper to go along with another two we had purchased a couple years ago. The original plan had called for this particular grey and blue floral pattern to be hung in the bathroom, whenever that project came around. But Miriam’s affection for the design grew and grew, and eventually she decided she’d like to have it in her new kitchen. Thus, two more rolls were ordered. When they arrived I held the rolls side by side and found the colors to be identical, and felt no discomfort at our violation of a sacred rule of wallpaper.

Wallpaper Back in March, I began hanging wallpaper in the kitchen, which we had already emptied of all cabinets and appliances. That in and of itself was a huge job, but it got done with minimal calamity. I had four rolls of grey and blue Orla Kiely wallpaper sitting on a table in front of me. I selected one and went to work. I began at the southeast corner of the kitchen because that is the corner one sees first when entering the room. I hung the paper on the left side of the corner, then made another drop on the right side, and made a perfect match of the corner, staying plumb on both sides. I considered it a sort of miracle. I proceeded to do the south wall first, primarily because it presented the biggest challenge, and I wanted to get it out of the way. I’d have to go around a door, and cut away around several outlets, and an odd soffit or bulkhead on the west wall above where the cabinets will go. After I finished the south wall, I went back to the east wall, and continued moving to my left from the first drop I made at the corner. I worked around a window with no particular difficulty, and was making fine progress by the time I reached the end of my second roll.

Wallpaper I ripped the celophane of the third roll of paper, and held it up to the wall to make a dry fit with my previous drop. Something wasn’t right. The color was fine – identical, really. But the pattern was off. It looked identical. That is, it was definately the same gray and blue hydrangia floral pattern. But I could distincltly see the blue of the flower along the edge of this third roll, while on the first two, the blue of the bud didn’t reach the edge of the paper. At first I thought, okay, this is unfortunate, but I can overlap slightly, and it will still work. But then I noticed something much, much more serious. Even if I were to try and overlap, the grey leaves and blue flowers in the third and fourth rolls simply didn’t match up to the grey leaves and blue flowers of the first and second rolls. I held my tape measure up and saw to my horror that the repeats were completely different. The repeat on the first two rolls I hung (which, remember, were already glued to the wall) was twenty-five inches. The repeat on the third and fourth rolls was thirty inches. Disaster. It wasn’t that the thirty-inch pattern had an extra set of leaves between the buds so that, if I had to I could creatively cut and make it work; everything was just slightly larger, meaning no matter what I might try, it would never match up. Ever.

I stood there for a while to consider my options. I thought I recalled Miriam telling me something about this wallpaper no longer being available.  And, in any event, it was expensive paper. Tracking down and buying two more rolls would still likely require pulling down what I had already hung, which would be a huge waste. Then I figured it out.

As I said, I started at the southeast corner, worked west along the south wall, before returning to the corner and working north up the east wall. This was not entirely chance, since I had my reasons, but it was a great bit of luck for me, because the exact place I ran out of the twenty-five-Wallpaper inch pattern coincided exactly with where the refigerator and pantry will go when installed. I could transition from the twenty-five-inch pattern to the thirty-inch pattern at a spot that will be permanently hidden behind cabinetry. That is what I did.

I hung the first drop of thirty-inch pattern, which did not match the twenty-five-inch pattern at all. I made it to the end of the east wall, made the turn to the north wall, cut around the door and the electrical box, and got all the way to the west wall with only a couple feet of paper left to spare. I had not had an inch of the twenty-five-inch pattern left to spare when I made the transition. It occured to me that had I not started where I did in the southeast corner, and had I not done the south wall first, I would not have been able to make it work. Had I, for instance, begun with the east wall, by the time I realized the papers didn’t match, I’d have been stranded in the middle of an exposed wall with no way to hide the incongruity. Wallpaper The cleverest bit of deception I attempted to employ in this fiasco involved the position of the flower buds. As I said, the thirty-inch pattern simply does not match the twenty-five-inch pattern side-by-side. But since the patterns will never be seen next to one another, I got lucky. I just picked a place where I wanted to make the bunches of blue flowers appear to line up. I found that with the first two rolls I hung, the blue flowers fall about four inches from the ceiling. So I made sure that when I made my tansition to the thirty-inch repeat I had blue flowers fall about four inches from the ceiling. The eye is less likely to notice that the flowers forty inches down from the ceiling don’t match with what’s on the opposite wall, but the line near the ceiling is more noticable.

Wallpaper So, an epic disaster was narrowly avoided. In future posts I will tell you how I installed cabinets, wainscoting, various trim.

A (Bad) Pitch for New Music

In a New York Times blog post yesterday, a fellow named David Lang makes an interesting analogy between two seemingly unrelated things I love dearly: baseball and classical music. He argues, in essence, that many fans of both revere the history of these endeavors. That is, baseball fans pay frequent homage to the great players of yesteryear, while classical fans idolize long-dead musicians. This much is indisputable. Indeed, just this week I watched a program about the best right fielders in history (Roberteo Clemente, obviously, topped the list), and I reguarly listen to recordings of music by composers centuries in the grave.

“It turns out”, writes Lang,

that classical music fans do a lot of the same remembering and measuring as baseball fans. Both baseball and classical music have a great sense of history, a tremendous respect for the past, and a slew of nerdy people like me who want to know all the details. Both are made of people who argue passionately with each other about who was the greatest. We handicap our favorite composers and performers, we buy 20 recordings of the same piece just to be able to argue about interpretations. We want to know as much about where we have been as we can.

The strange thing is that music fans and baseball fans remember the past with very different results; appreciation of the past helps baseball fans enjoy the game in front of them, while sometimes classical music’s illustrious past can keep us from enjoying what is happening right now. Can it be that loving what we have heard before has the potential to make us love what we are hearing now just a little less?

What Lang really argues, then, is that classical music fans, unlike baseball fans, are largely unwilling to go have new experiences—to hear new music—while baseball fans, by and large, embrace the new with the old. Thus, in St. Louis, Albert Pujolz stands side-by-side heroes like Ozzie Smith, Stan Musial, and Rogers Hornsby.

Lang’s logic fails, I am afraid. That is, he has incorrectly framed his analogy. When concertgoers yawn or boo their way through music by new composers, their actions do not correspond to baseball fans rejecting new players or teams. Nor does appreciation of new talent in baseball contrast with rejection of new composers in music. Dyed-in-the-wool fans of classical music might indeed believe that nobody can compare with Toscanini and Furtwängler, Callas and Björling. But those are subjective assesments. Statistics can tell us whether Roy Halladay is better than Walter Johnson based on a variety of criteria, and baseball fans will still argue about it.  The proper analogy is this: concerts and baseball games are the performances; baseball players and musicians are the performers; and baseball itself and music itself are the fundimental elements.

Baseball is essentially the same game it was a hundred years ago. The game your great grandfather watched at Forbes Field was the same one played at Three Rivers Stadium that I watched on television as a child, and it is the same one played at PNC Park today. The stadiums are different, and some say less charming; the uniforms are different, and some say less distinctive; the players are different, and some say less honest; but the game of baseball is the same, and it is the game itself that forms an unbroken line stretching from the present day to the distant past: a national covenant made generations ago, an unbreakable bond with our ancestors, and a legacy that we bequeath to our sons and grandsons.

Classical music today is not the same as it once was. Concertgoers today don’t watch the same “game” they used to. C. Ghallager, recognizing the incongruity in Lang’s argument, puts it far better than I ever could:

Imagine going to baseball games where all the rules changed, to the point where sometimes there were 4 inning games, other times pitchers would throw a square object back and forth to hot dog vendors, there were often no bats or batters, players stood on their heads in the outfield according to their horoscopes, and sometimes there were no players or game at all, just a groundskeeper running from home to first base, over and over and over. Fans would need to be subjected to reams of sports writers’ analysis “explaining” what was and wasn’t happening in complex new terms of basism, playality, and batterificence, with mathematical equations demonstrating why the brand of mustard used at the ballpark was intrinsic to the performance. Oh yeah, and sports critics would deride anyone who actually took the field with a ball and glove as being “derivative.”

As one who loves both baseball and music (including much that would be described as “modern” music), I find Gallagher’s analogy apt.

Reason to Love YouTube No. 12

I am always at least a year behind on the latest internet sensations, so it might not be surprising, then, that I was only just made aware of this video, thanks to my brother-in-law, Maynard. It’s perfect.

UPDATE: Aah! I love this so much for so many reasons. First, I love that the video is called “Zombie Kid Likes Turtles”. That’s a perfect summary. Next, I love that this kid seemed destined to answer that way no matter what the question. The reporter could have asked him what he did on his summer vacation, and I suspect he would have answered “I like turtles”. Finally, I love how the reporter seems taken aback by the answer, as though she isn’t sure if she heard him right, or if he is, perhaps, not all there.

This video, which nobody would ever have seen in the days before the internet, is exactly why I love YouTube.