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Olympic sports can be divided into two categories: ones which I could not conceive of doing myself (gymnastics, platform diving, etc.), and ones which are more relatable, even though I know I’d never have the skill (archery, rowing, cycling, etc.).  Running is of the latter variety, insofar as I know what it is to run, and even race against another person.  The difference, naturally, lies in the level of talent.  I cannot run a hundred meters in ten seconds.  That is simply incredible.  Olympic track events are, to me, the essence of athleticism.  The footrace is sport in its purest form.  And since I know what it feels like to run, and since I know I couldn’t run a 26 mile marathon in two days–much less two hours–I am in awe of these athletes.

I intend to write about my Chicago vacation in detail soon–probably tomorrow–and link to a gallery of the hundreds of photographs I took while in the Windy City, which must surely be among the world’s greatest towns.

For now, though, I thought I’d reflect on something that struck me as interesting during some reading today.  Apparently I am not the only one who considers June 20 to be about the happiest day of the year.  I say about because I am a bit more partial to May 28 for personal reasons, but the first day of summer is the longest day, and in my eyes that makes it good for the same reason that late December is bad: dark = unhappy.

This year, as luck would have it, I spent June 20th fulfilling a lifelong dream of attending a Chicago Cubs baseball game at Wrigley Field.  It was everything I wanted it to be and more.

In any event, though the days are now getting shorter, there is still a long summer to look forward to, and a visit to our nation’s capital seems likely in November.  I am surprised how much I am enjoying travel.

My Uncle Tom (file photo) left me a message the other night.  In it he said that he was out somewhere where Bobby Brown’s “My Prerogative” was being played.  He said he remembered how significant that song was to me, and brought up something I hadn’t thought of really to this degree, namely that that song actually changed my life.  I guess that’s true.  Had that song not sucked so bad I would probably have continued listening to popular radio in 1988 rather than explore the broad spectrum of earlier, better rock music.  So, in a way, Bobby Brown did me a favor.  But in another, more accurate way he single-handedly destroyed civilization.

My local Fox affiliate shows an hour of The Simpsons each night at seven o’clock, and tonight were two astoundingly great episodes: the legendary “Brother from the Same Planet” and a forgotten gem, “The President Wore Pearls”.

“Brother from the Same Planet” was the 14th episode from Season 4 (1992-1993) - surely The Simpsons‘ golden age.  Among countless hilarious lines, I particularly like when Homer and Pepi (”I love you, too, Pepsi”) are star-gazing and Pepi asks Homer to name some of the constellations.  “…And that Big Dipper looking thing is Alex…the Cowboy”.

“The President Wore Pearls” is an against-the-odds masterpiece from the otherwise lackluster Season 15 (2003-2004).  Watching it tonight I was inclined to believe it was from Season 5, so strong is the writing.  In fact, I’ll go out on a limb and say it’s in my Simpsons Top 10.  It even has several songs, which I contend are the zenith of entertainment.

On a similar topic, a few nights ago, they replayed another top drawer episode, “Homer’s Barbershop Quartet”, and it made me feel very old.   Towards the beginning, when Homer is explaining to the kids why they had never heard of his fame, he explains that it was eight years before, in 1985.  Now 1985 is 23 years ago!

A three-panel painting by Francis Bacon (not the philosopher, unfortunately) entitled Tryptich, 1976, has sold at auction for over $86 million.  Although I certainly know what I like and what I don’t, I can’t claim to be an art expert by any means.  I’d love to hear from someone who is an expert who can defend such an astonishing price for what I consider a completely underwhelming painting. 

 Maybe I just need more education.  I recognize that the more you learn the more you can appreciate things that once appeared to make no sense.  And I am apt to defend abstract music that others may call noise.  Towards the end of the semester, as I was leaving a class in the Music Building, there were a hundred identical metronomes set up on a brick wall, all clicking away at different tempi.  It was György Ligeti’s Poème Symphonique.  There are no actual instruments, and, by its very nature the music has a huge degree of unpredictability and every “performance” will be different; the metronomes swing back and forth until they stop, at different times depending on how much they were wound.  I wouldn’t compare it to the Missa Solemnis, but for what it is it’s okay. 

Of course, nobody can put a price on a hundred clicking metronomes.  And if they could, it wouldn’t be $86 million.