one of the darker sides of technology

In a report on this year’s World Economic Forum in Davos, Switzerland from the March 5 New Yorker:

There’s a software firm by the name of Tibco, based in Silicon Valley, which has generated data-sorting software for companies such as Amazon, FedEx, Goldman Sachs, eBay airlines, and the Department of Homeland Security. They have also designed a program for Harrah’s, the well-known casino, which “can figure out when a gambler is about to encounter a loss of such magnitude that it will cause him to leave the casino and perhaps never come back. The casino’s Luck Ambassadors [I'm not making this up] will then offer the gambler a free meal or a ticket to a show. . .and distract the gambler long enough to entice him to return later, to continue losing money in palatable increments.”

Well, at least it’s palatable.

 

so much for those delusions (of grandeur)

Just discovered that there’s a website called “alexa” that can track the traffic to your blog, so I thought I’d go see what I could see.

Here’s what I saw:

Wow.

6,048,024.

How many blogs do you think there are out there, anyway?

It also showed this graph:

Ouch.

(I’m including the category “Blatant Self Promotion.” Is that ironic?) (Or just sarcastic?)

 

“Clarity” Paintings by Jason de Graaf

“Clarity” Paintings by Jason de Graaf.

Really stunning paintings that you won’t believe aren’t photographs. Thanks artstormer!

so we should be happy, then

Yes, we should. Congratulations to Ms. Kilburn. I’m sure she’ll do a wonderful job.

But pardon me if I pour a little cynicism into the soup by posing two questions:

First of all, why is this the first female band conductor hired by a prestigious academy that has been operating for 50 years, an offshoot of an arts camp founded in the 1920s?

Secondly, (pointing out again that I don’t disagree that we should all celebrate these milestones), it still angers me that these ARE milestones, and that they warrant celebration.

(Yeah!)

Criminy.

Should it be exciting to see women moving into the “men’s” areas of the arts? For decades it was considered appropriate for women to play the piano (as long as it was only a “little”; it was not, appropriate for her to be “too good” or to seem to care “too much” or to try “too hard”). It was also acceptable for her to sing, and to study musicology. Eventually it was even expected that women interested in music as a career would be a piano or voice teacher, or study music education and teach in an elementary school.

It was NOT considered suitable for a woman to do something so vulgar as to play as a brass or woodwind instrument, nor strings (especially not a cello, as the sitting/instrument placement position would be unseemly at best.) Nor was it seemly for a woman to be a composer. Felix Mendelssohn claimed that his sister Fanny was a much better composer than he was, and valued her opinions and input regarding all of his musical compositions; but she was not “allowed” to published her own.  Clara Schumann was a concert pianist, but her “career” really took off after Robert’s hospitalization and then death from mental illness, probably because it was considered absolutely necessary for her to pursue this career in order support her family. When Gustav and Alma Mahler began their relationship, Gustav wrote her a letter, telling her that he was looking for a wife, not a colleague, and that it would only make things complicated if they were both to pursue careers as composers (can you imagine?). Amy Beach willingly gave up her performance career at the request of her new husband, and became Mrs. Henry Harris Aubrey Walker Beach.

A woman should certainly NOT be so presumptuous as to place herself at the front of an ensemble and tell the musicians, some of whom one could expect would be men, what to do and when or how to do it.

This from a blog post with the headline "Why Most Women Managers Are Bossy." The post is written by a man. Big surprise.

Sheesh.

Just in case you think I’m being paranoid, let’s look at some numbers:

At the college where I teach there are eight full-time faculty plus the director. Two of them are women — the head of the piano area, and the head of the theory/composition area. Less than 25%.

At the college where my husband teaches women constitute 3 of 8 brass faculty, 1 of 7 piano faculty, 1 of 7 string faculty (harp), 3 of 7 woodwinds, 1 of 8 conductors (choral), 1 of 6 music theory, and 3 of 6 music education.

This is 10 out of the listed 49 full-time positions. 20%. This is shameful. Granted I haven’t included voice which is 3 and 3, or composition, which is 0 for 4. Hmmmm. Not really helping.

Just to pick another large school in my state with a reputable music program, let’s look at the numbers at the University of Michigan:  All ten conductors are male; two of the eleven jazz faculty are women, although five of the six music education professors are women (see?); two of fourteen full-time positions in percussion/winds/brass are held by women. Six of fourteen music theorists are women, so that’s pretty good, but really?

If we omit the music education professors, we have 10 out of 39. Still around 25%

I believe I pointed out in a previous post that even most of the VISITING performers to the Interlochen Visiting Artists concerts are men.

How can this be?

If you look around in a piano studio or a school band or orchestra or choir, or even at the most prestigious arts camps like Interlochen, the majority of the students are women.

Where do they go?

And why isn’t anybody else noticing, or doing something about it?

Oh, yeah. We’re celebrating.

I forgot.

Guess I was too caught up in my domestic tasks and my pre-menstrual/perimenopausal mood swings to notice.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I wonder, if I had read this 20 years ago. . .

I posted a link to redamancylit.wordpress.com which quoted part of this article on my facebook page. A friend pointed me to the entire article. I feel the need to quote it below — and wonder, if I had read it 20 years ago if I would have recognized its truth, and done much of it differently. Probably not, because I probably thought I was doing it that way at the time. I’m probably still not.

One of life’s persistent challenges, I guess.

Nevertheless. . .

Anna Quindlen on Motherhood

All my babies are gone now. I say this not in sorrow but in disbelief. I take great satisfaction in what I have today: three almost adults, two taller than I am, one closing in fast. Three people who read the same books I do and have learned not to be afraid of disagreeing with me in their opinion of them, who sometimes tell vulgar jokes that make me laugh until I choke and cry, who need razor blades and shower gel and privacy, who want to keep their doors closed more than I like. Who, miraculously, go to the bathroom, zip up their jackets and move food from plate to mouth all by themselves.

Like the trick soap I bought for the bathroom with a rubber ducky at its center, the baby is buried deep within each, barely discernible except through the unreliable haze of the past.

Everything in all the books I once pored over is finished for me now. Penelope Leach., T. Berry Brazelton., Dr. Spock. The ones on sibling rivalry and sleeping through the night and early-childhood education, all grown obsolete. Along with “Goodnight Moon” and “Where the Wild Things Are,” they are battered, spotted, well used. But I suspect that if you flipped the pages dust would rise like memories. What those books taught me, finally, and what the women on the playground taught me, and the well-meaning relations –what they taught me was that they couldn’t really teach me very much at all.

Raising children is presented at first as a true-false test, then becomes multiple choice, until finally, far along, you realize that it is an endless essay. No one knows anything. (emphasis mine) One child responds well to positive reinforcement, another can be managed only with a stern voice and a timeout. One boy is toilet trained at 3, his brother at 2. When my first child was born, parents were told to put baby to bed on his belly so that he would not choke on his own spit-up. By the time my last arrived, babies were put down on their backs because of research on sudden infant death syndrome. To a new parent this ever-shifting certainty is terrifying, and then soothing. Eventually you must learn to trust yourself. Eventually the research will follow.

I remember 15 years ago poring over one of Dr. Brazelton’s wonderful books on child development, in which he describes three different sorts of infants: average, quiet, and active. I was looking for a sub-quiet codicil for an 18-month-old who did not walk. Was there something wrong with his fat little legs? Was there something wrong with his tiny little mind? Was he developmentally delayed, physically challenged? Was I insane? Last year he went to China. Next year he goes to college. He can talk just fine. He can walk, too.

Every part of raising children is humbling, too. Believe me, mistakes were made. They have all been enshrined in the Remember-When-Mom-Did Hall of Fame. The outbursts, the temper tantrums, the bad language – mine, not theirs. The times the baby fell off the bed. The times I arrived late for preschool pickup. The nightmare sleepover. The horrible summer camp. The day when the youngest came barreling out of the classroom with a 98 on her
geography test, and I responded, What did you get wrong? (She insisted I include that.) The time I ordered food at the McDonald’s drive-through speaker and then drove away without picking it up from the window. (They all insisted I include that.) I did not allow them to watch the Simpsons for the first two seasons. What was I thinking?

But the biggest mistake I made is the one that most of us make while doing this. I did not live in the moment enough. This is particularly clear now that the moment is gone, captured only in photographs. There is one picture of the three of them sitting in the grass on a quilt in the shadow of the swing set on a summer day, ages 6, 4 and 1. And I wish I could remember what we ate, and what we talked about, and how they sounded, and how they looked when they slept that night. I wish I had not been in such a hurry to get on to the next thing: dinner, bath, book, bed. I wish I had treasured the doing a little more and the getting it done a little less.

Even today I’m not sure what worked and what didn’t, what was me and what was simply life. When they were very small, I suppose I thought someday they would become who they were because of what I’d done. Now I suspect they simply grew into their true selves because they demanded in a thousand ways that I back off and let them be. The books said to be relaxed and I was often tense, matter-of-fact and I was sometimes over the top. And look how it all turned out. I wound up with the three people I like best in the world, who have done more than anyone to excavate my essential humanity.

That’s what the books never told me. I was bound and determined to learn from the experts. It just took me a while to figure out who the experts were.

unforeseen consequences

"Nutrition" Information per Twinkie

 

 

 

 

This might be a problem for Hostess, but it can’t possibly be a problem for anyone else.

 

instead of what I should be doing. . .

Which is getting my act together to start another college semester tomorrow, what I’m doing is thanking Quieter Elephant for, and humbling accepting, his* nomination for The Versatile Blogger award.

I suppose I “qualify” because I write about just about everything. Here I always feared that this just revealed me to be a jack-of-all-trades-master-at-none, at best, or, at worst, a scatter-brain. Who knew that this meant I was  “versatile”? Versatile’s good, right?

So now I get to face the challenge of figuring out how to display this lovely badge on my site (little help from any of you techies out there?), and to follow the “rules”  — although I am reassured that there are no “blogging police” out there, I am, if nothing else, a rule-follower, so here goes.

The Rules: 

1. Thank the award-giver and link back to them in your post.

2. Share 7 things about yourself.

3. Pass this award along to 15 or 20. (This is going to be difficult for me, despite my claim to be a rule-follower. I barely have time to keep up with writing on my own, and don’t think I even read 15 or 20 blogs. I’m going to count on the reassurances of not being policed, and recommend only those I know well enough to do so with integrity.)

4. Contact your chosen bloggers to let them know about the award.

Seven Things About Me

1. I tried, one year at Thanksgiving, when one of my sisters was asking what we were thankful for, to be thankful for cheese. She thought I was kidding. I wasn’t. I love food — good food, healthful food, interesting food, strongly-flavored food, and even better if this delicious food is being served with interesting wines. You will often find on this blog recipes or reports of our latest delicious creations. I also think that the four food groups (I know, it’s a pyramid now, but work with me) should be cheese, chocolate, wine, and coffee. Somehow I can’t see that going over, although, if you have those four, I’m pretty sure the rest of the good stuff works its way in somehow.

2. I want to be loved, admired, respected. I often joke that, as the 6th of 8 children, I have a tremendous need for external validation, and nothing pleases me more than any form of being patted on the head (“Me! Me! Pay attention to me!). This award definitely qualifies, so, again, thank you! Unfortunately, sometimes this means I talk too loud, say too much, and cry too often (when I feel I’m being overlooked or undervalued).

3. I’m three years into my second marriage, to the man of my dreams. I was married before for nearly 20 years, to a very kind, good man with whom I had very little in common and therefore virtually nothing to talk about. The wresting away, with the fear of hurt to my children, was the most difficult thing I have ever done. My husband, (known to you as Husband,) is everything I ever wanted in a husband — besides the fact that he cooks, does laundry, shops, insists on making my coffee every morning — he’s my best friend, lover and favorite companion (I hope this doesn’t embarrass him).

4. I wish I could live at least ten different lives. I want to write, paint, make sculptures in my garage and collages out of photos and stones and scraps of paper, take pictures, travel, be a surgeon, fly a plane. I want to be a tall black woman with fabulous hair, a nerdy scientist who finds the cure for cancer. I want to read every great book ever written, watch every great movie ever made. There just can’t be enough time in one life to do all that I want to do.

5. I’m perpetually conflicted. While I feel all of the things above, I feel the need to work countless hours at work I’m not always sure is what I want to do anymore, and I don’t always take as good of care of myself as someone who wants to live 300 years should.

6. Wow. I’m at 6 already. I didn’t think I’d get this far.

7. I love writing on this blog. I find myself thinking about this more than I think about anything else I “do.” I wish I could make a living at it.

Blogs I recommend

Misfits Miscellany: this and that for all things literary

Blog con Queso: many ways of looking at the world and being a woman

Running in Circles: don’t we all?

This is not that Blog: So funny! Makes me want to go out and get a digital drawing pad, even though I can’t draw

Mocha Momma: Love her!

Treacle Talks:  Her banner reads “planning to get sauced on life’s juice: stumbling her way to getting there.” Exactly!

Mannered Gold: Her banner reads “Mumbling with enthusiasm; typing with inflection.” Exactly! (Again; is it okay if I say that twice?)

Roger Ebert’s Blog: You might think it’s just going to be about movies, but it’s about so much more.

The Bloggess: She’s probably already nominated, and won, but she’s funny, irreverent, generous, and real. My favorite combination. I wish she lived next door so she could be my neighbor/best friend that my husband worried about when we went out together at night.

On to my next task.

Thanks for reading!

*I assume it’s a “he” because what woman would name her blog after an elephant?

fascinating!

Fascinating: extremely interesting or charming : captivating

Barbara Walters’s list of the 10 most fascinating people of 2011:

American Reality Royalty the Kardashian family, Simon Cowell, stars of television’s hit comedy “Modern Family” Jesse Tyler Ferguson and Eric Stonestreet, MLB star and New York Yankees Captain Derek Jeter, American business tycoon/author/television personality Donald Trump, pop singing sensation Katy Perry, and quite possibly the most famous sister in the world — Pippa Middleton.

Um, no.

Modern Family I’ll give her, because it’s television, and she probably has some kind of quote for having to have so many TV people, and it’s not the worst show in the world.

New York Yankees Captain Derek Jeter because he’s actually a good athlete, and not the worst role model in the world.

But the rest of them? Ugh. Nothing remotely interesting. Exactly the opposite, actually.

You mean like which of the Kardashian’s supposedly has the biggest behind? How snarky/not snarky is Simon these days? What’s up with The Donald’s hair? What would Katy Perry do/be if she actually could sing? And Pippa? What’s her claim to being interesting? being Kate’s sister? Bet she loves that distinction, as we all have throughout eternity. (“Oh, you’re _________’s sister/daughter/mother/friend!” Can’t I just be me?)

I don’t even know if I can come up with 10 for 2011. Maybe that’s the problem — she has so little to work with.

1. The Sand Dancer guy I posted about yesterday.

2. Leo DiCaprio

3. Julien Barnes

4. Christopher Hitchens (can I nominate someone posthumously?)

5. Jude Law

6. Melinda Gates?

7. Amanda Palmer?

8. Theo Jansen

9.

10.

Little help?

who knew fashion was so important at the age of 10?

Only Daughter went through her daily fashion crisis this morning. I don’t remember it being this big of a deal how I dressed when I was ten, but I guess I was wearing uniforms to school until I was in high school (good Catholic girl that I was), so the only choice in the matter was what color shorts we wore under our skirts so we could play soccer and climb trees and not be made fun of by the boys. Even the color of our socks was regimented.

Anyway, this is obviously a big deal to her, and I would like to be more sympathetic, but the logical part of me wants to point out that 1. she’s only 10 and 2. aren’t there more important things to worry about, like eating breakfast and packing a decent lunch and making sure she put her homework in her backpack and maybe taking the dog out to pee?

I guess not.

The specifics vary, but the crises can usually be categorized into one of two groups:

1. This outfit was made for a 10 year old (and she’d rather look 20).

2. This shirt/jacket is too “baggy.”

The solution to each problem is, in order:

1. Wear big loud flashy jewelry or the sparkliest scarf she can find

2. Rubber band the shirt into a big knot in the back, cinch the waist with a belt, and/or tuck the bottom 1/3 of the jacket up underneath itself so it looks like a shrug, never mind if the jacket is made of denim or filled with down.

When she comes and asks how it looks, and it usually looks either chronologically inappropriate, or ridiculous, I feel the need, out of concern for honesty, to tell her what I think, no matter how hard it may be for her to hear. Inevitably she stomps off in a huff with a toss of her hair over her shoulder and a lot of muttering as she goes off to find something else. Often my suggestion is simple, such as “remove that rubber band from the back of your shirt, you look like you’re growing a tail,” or “you really shouldn’t wear a tank top, a sweater, a jacket, AND a belt, plus you’re going to need a coat. . .”

. . .and yet it requires a complete wardrobe change.

After 25 minutes of trying to look like Tavi

this morning, she came back out in jeans and a tie-dye sweatshirt.

week 4, but who’s counting?

Many interesting things have been learned in the past few weeks.

Dexter would like to share some of them with you:

1. Sniffing nonchalantly all around the kitchen as a decoy from the true destination — the cat’s food dish — has not been entirely effective. Thinking in a Mr. Magoo voice “What, I’m just wandering around, and just happen to be over here by the cat’s food, but that doesn’t mean anything” doesn’t seem to help either.

2. They still want me to pee outside, even when it’s raining. This seems unreasonable, and I would like to appeal, but I’m not sure of the proper channels, nor that my case would be heard with impartial minds. The cat seems to think I’m a Philistine, but I’m too frightened by all those stairs to see where it is she goes, which leads me to

3. The cat seems to think I’m a Philistine, which reeks of discrimination, and to resent the fact that I “get” to go outside, while she seems to have earned some type of privileged status, of which she does not seem to be the least bit grateful. She stays in the warm comfort of home, and to add insult to injury, gets to eat whenever she bloody well feels like it, whereas I have to wait for The Superior Beings to deign to put my food dish down for what seems like, like 10 seconds? This does not, on the whole, seem to be fair. I would present this argument, but imagine there might be a pithy, meaningless response such as “life’s not fair,” and no meaningful action taken. One must choose how one spends one’s energy, after all.

4. The cat also does not like to “play.” I don’t understand this. I’m nothing if not a barrel of monkeys. I prance, I jump, I prowl, I chase things around the kitchen and bite at their legs. This is “fun.” She, on the other hand, only minces around the kitchen on her dainty little paws, and yowls and hisses at the slightest provocation, and seems particularly perturbed when I try to initiate the bite-her-legs game while she is eating from her omnipresent cat dish. On second thought, perhaps she just does not like to have her meals interrupted. I will try again tomorrow.

5.  There are yummy things to be found out in the greenery out by the back fence (near where the “hammock” whatevertheheckthatis used to be), and under the deck. I can’t understand why my owners are so distressed when I try to bring bits of these things into the house, nor what they mean when they say I have “dog breath” and “might end up with worms,” or perchance need to have something called “greenies.” Note to self: research this at the first opportunity. I think they might be overreacting.

6. They give me these stick things I like to chew, (Yum!), but they won’t stay in my crate. I need either solid walls, or opposable thumbs.  I also need to learn how to spell opposable.

7. I hate to keep returning to this peeing thing, but sometimes, when I pee outside, I get a treat, and sometimes I only get pats and cheers. This inconsistency is confusing. Does anyone know if something could be done about this? I also like to pee and poo where I choose, and having to be on this thing called a “leash” is really messing up my mojo. Even if I run over to the neighbor’s yard, I’ll come back, eventually. What’s the worry?

Finally, here’s a clip of a humiliating moment from this morning. The things I do to make these people happy.

Dancing Dexter, kind of