Marine Corp Historic Half Marathon Race Course

Sunday morning, 7:00 AM, I become a runner again.

Nad and I are running the Inaugural Marine Corps Historic Half Marathon this weekend, held in my (sorta) hometown of Fredericksburg, VA. I am so not trained. For those of you who are, check out this write up of the course by the WhiteKenyan:

I met up with B, M and a few other guys Sunday morning and we ran the “Historic” Marine Corps ½ Marathon coarse for our long run. It was pouring rain when we started but in the upper 50’s so it wasn’t too bad.

The Expo Center has tons of parking and there are lots of parking lots near by so it won’t be bad getting there to morning of the race.

Most of the first mile is flat. As you make the left onto Cowan Blvd. there is a small hill. After the mile 1 marker there is a medium hill that takes you over I95. It’s pretty much downhill through the mile 2 marker and the rest of Cowan Blvd. After making a right onto Keeneland Road there is a short fairly steep hill. After cresting the hill it’s downhill to the mile 3 marker. Route 3 is pretty much flat from what I remember. You run up a decent hill after making a left onto Williams Street. As you approach UMW and your left it’s downhill to the 4 mile marker. After making a left onto Sunken Rd. there is a slight uphill followed by a slight downhill. The coarse weaves through the neighborhood as you pass mile 5 and follow Kenmore back to Williams Street. There is a bit of and incline when you’re on Williams street before making a left onto Washington. There is a nice downhill as you pass mile 6. After mile 6 it’s mostly flat as you run though Old Town F’burg until about 8 ½ miles. There is a short hill after going underneath Route 1. There is a little bit of a downhill around mile 9 ½. You will be on the canal path as you pass mile 10 (pretty much flat).

About mile 10 ½ as you turn onto Mary Washington Blvd you start to climb the most significant hill of the race. The hill actually flattens out about half way up it for little bit. The first half is less steep then the second half. By the time you hit the traffic circle at mile 11 it flattens out and there is a downhill as you turn and run down Cowan. Keep in mind once you turn on Cowan you are running the opposite way from Mile 0-2. There is a step hill as you approach I95 but it’s nothing after getting up the hill by the hospital. Once you get to the top of the over pass it’s down hill then flat the rest of the way.

Over all the most significant hills are as you cross the 95 overpass (both ways, ~mile1.25 and just before mile 12). The beginning of Williams Street at ~3.5 miles). And finally the Hospital hill from mile 10.5 to 11.

I’m probably slightly bias on what is considered a hill since we run these roads all the time but it’s really not that bad. Get ready to have some fun!!! See you May 18th.

Give the people what they want?

In all honesty, I can't STAND "Take the 'A' Train."

It grates on me almost as much as "Satin Doll," which is my #1 most hated song. I love me some Duke, but I could honestly live out the rest of my life never hearing either one of those two tunes again!

I was just raging about "A Train" the other day to Joseph. Which is why I sat in complete shock, giving him my dirtiest teacher glare, when the other night at his Garage hit, near the end of his second set, I heard the iconic piano intro to "Take the 'A' Train." "WTF?", I glared with my eyes. He gave me a "give the people what they want" shrug and launched full on into the opening melody.

"Yeah! Take the A Train!" exclaimed the boyfriend of my friend whom I was sitting with.

"Excuse me," I muttered, deciding this was the ideal time for a bathroom break.

A few minutes later I returned to the bar, and became cognisant of an increase in noise level. Why are these half drunk trendy twenty-somethings sitting next to me all of a sudden so rowdy? And my awareness was shifted back to the band, where the pianist, Brooks Hartell, was banging out a 6 chorus, perfectly crafted, fantastically inspired stride piano solo, and the people were actually cheering him on!

I shut my eyes and for half a second felt transported back into "the day." The day when the unknown pianist sat at the out of tune piano at the local speakeasy playing for the non-musicians who actually liked the blues licks and improvised solos, inspiring them to dance and become rowdy, giving "jazz" the reputation of being devil music. This is what is must have been like, when people liked jazz and appreciated jazz, and the music was more about the sounds as they happened and less about the harmonic analysis or intellectual composition techniques.

We jazzers certainly like to (dare I say) over-think our music. There has been a lot of discussion recently regarding the place of vocabulary (read the comments) and education (IAJE's bankruptcy) within the vast, yet vague world of jazz. These are complicated issues with circumstantial answers. And yet I can't help but feel that we as jazz musicians, whose very nature is intrinsic to making order out of chaos, bring on the complexities of our genre ourselves. Our world is very small, very young, and currently very under-appreciated. It's hard for us to just let music be music, be it bebop, third stream, dixieland, big band, avant garde, or any other sub-genre of jazz. We feel the need to understand and define every aspect of the creation of the music, the social impacts of the music, the education or "street cred" of the music, and the category that the music falls into. Our egos are easily bruised and we look to one another for validation.

It is because of this jazz trait that I can't let "The 'A'' Train" go. I can't help but ponder the popularity of the song. Is it because it's about a subway line (an unreliable one at that!) in NYC and everyone (including New Yorkers) are fascinated with anything NY? Is it because Duke did an exceptional job of promoting this song back in the day so that it became ingrained in everyday life? Perhaps it was the educational system who chose this song as it's token jazz tune, thereby brainwashing America into thinking it is the only good jazz tune. Or maybe it's because that opening line is just so damn catchy?

Why? WHY! my over analytical brain screams! Duke, and others, had so many great songs, why was THIS the one that is recognizable by almost every non-musical person out there?

And then I think...

What does it matter? Aside from perhaps wanting to discover a magic formula for making my own tunes so popular, does it really matter why audiences love "Take the 'A' Train?" At least it's a Duke tune and not some crap like "Yakkity Sax."

And the thing is, it does work like magic!

For the first set and a half, Joseph and his quartet played a great balance of standards and originals. It was wonderful playing, but they really could have been up there reciting scales over and over for all the patrons of the restaurant cared. No one applauded after solos, and no one acknowledged the band when they were introduced at the end of the set. That's not so abnormal, as the venue is after all a restaurant and bar, not a jazz hall. However, after hearing "'A' Train," the now drunk twenty-somethings were all into the music, cheering for all the tunes, and even staying for all 4 sets. All of a sudden the music was alive to them, and there was an energy and communication in the room. Isn't that what we as musicians, any musician regardless of genre, strive for? A connection to the listener?

Now I think it's safe to guess that the drunkards did not stick around because they were instantly transformed into active jazz listeners, eager to interpret the improvisations and arrangements of the tunes to come. But it is highly likely that the music created such an energy and vibe that fit the mood of the pending hook-ups, that the crowds stayed, if not for the genius of the music, but for the environment it created. I think we need to realize that our music does still serve that function. While we with our educated compositional minds do yearn to express and communicate various personal agendas with our music, we need to remember that if we want to call our music jazz, then we need to embrace the historical roots of jazz as (deep breath)... entertainment.

The word "entertainment" has a negative connotation these days. I hear "entertainment" and I think Britney Spears, cheesy chick flicks, and rag mags. But entertainment is defined as "something affording pleasure, diversion, or amusement, esp. a performance of some kind."

Our music is amazing in that it has the ability to be intricate, multi-layered, and in need of a (musically) intelligent listener to fully grasp the fullness and genius of the music. At the same time, the music can appeal to those who simply want to be diverted, pleased, and amused. We need not always have both goals within the same song, set, or performance. I do think there is a time for a more serious concert performance, and a place for the "lite" set. I also think it is possible to achieve both at that same time. Regardless of the your intent as a musician, I don't think we should value one goal above the other.

It is for that reason that I feel a bit ashamed of my elitist reaction to "the 'A' Train." My snobbery doesn't help the cause of jazz, or the essence of music for that matter. I won't quit trying to perfect the high level of expression and storytelling I hope to achieve through my compositions, but when it comes to playing for a young crowd, on a Saturday night, at a bar, after a long work week, isn't it okay, especially if it helps reel listeners in, to just count off a swing beat, and give the people what they want?

Celestial Bodies

I got my first Lois Greenfield calendar back in 2001, I think.

I never tire of seeing each month's amazing depiction of dancers caught mid-movement in a sort of immortal expression. I find the strength and poise of the dancers' bodies frozen by Greenfield's quick eye to be an inspiration of creative expression, and motivation to get back in the gym!

I was quite saddened this year when I could not find the 2008 Breaking Bounds calendar and have been with out my monthly dose of awe. So I was very excited when I received an email from Dance New Amsterdam announcing an exhibit of Greenfield's work.

Celestial Bodies opened last night in the gallery at Dance New Amsterdam, my favorite dance studio in the city. DNA, as we like to refer to it, has really remade itself in the last few years. When I first started taking class there in 2004, they were located in SOHO in a run-down converted factory on Broadway, and was called Dance Space Center. The place had an established, gritty feel to it that will never be replaced by its new shiny and polished studios, now located in the Financial District. But with the location and name change, many new opportunities have presented themselves to the dancers of DNA. The current location offers a theater, studio and office space rentals, a pilates and wellness studio, performance opportunities, and now, an art gallery.

Joseph and I arrived to the opening night reception fashionably late. We barely managed to snag the last two glasses of the obligatory free wine before the drink table closed. I was a bit disappointed to see that there were only two walls of photographs on display; we made our first round in under 5 minutes. With our second lap, wine securely in hand, we lingered and were more comfortable whispering impressions of the photographs. Not unlike listening to a new CD for the first and second times, far more detail and emotion stood out on this second walk through. Words such as "discomfort," "sensual," and "biblical" were exchanged in a pseudo-intellectual attempt to see more depth in what at first glance are simply mostly naked, really fit men and women. We marveled at the use of fabrics and mirrors to create a multi-dimensional image. We had fun playing (if not geeky) games of "what sounds/music do you hear looking at this picture" and "which photos would you collect in a set for your living room wall."

The space is rather small and I scanned it religiously on the slim but possible chance of seeing someone I knew. My presence in the dance world was too short lived, but several dancers that I went to school with and others that I met during my three summers at the American Dance Festival are here in NY working professionally and are affiliated with DNA. I am constantly yearning to resubmerge myself into the world of modern dance, both as a musician and a dancer.

As expected, after attending this exhibit, seeing the beautifully photographed dancers as well as the living, breathing dancers who were also in attendance, my motivation to return to dance is renewed. Chambers Street, where DNA is located, is quite a trek for ten or so photographs, but if you have some time, or happen to be in the area, a stop into the gallery will yield nothing if not an awesome appreciation for the dancers' sculpted bodies, and perhaps elicit an emotion or two to inspire and motivate you toward your innermost aspirations.

"Celestial Bodies" will be on exhibit until Aug 31. Dance New Amsterdam is located at 280 Broadway, 2nd Floor (entrance on Chambers). Gallery hours are 9 a.m. to 9 p.m., Monday–Sunday. 212.625.8369

The Sandman finally Entered, and a slow death followed

Today the Jazz Band made it from the beginning of my crude arrangement of Metallica's Enter Sandman all the way up to the half time section. But before the horn section could shout, "Sleep with one eye open, gripping your pillow tight," I died. The music, or lack of, heartbrokenly killed me. Or killed whatever sliver of hope I had left in my being that the band will be able to pull of ES on our May 22 concert.

It would have been kinder if my death had come quickly. But as cruel and unusual deaths go, mine was dragged out for maximum pain, over the entire 50 minutes of today's third period.

The first stab was delivered by a 5th grade trumpeter, who informed me that there had been too much homework over spring break, from which we just returned this week, to practice. Right, I replied. Practicing was part of that homework. A pause, then blank stares. And I died a little bit.

In a futile attempt to not give up sweet life so easily, I gave (yet another) rather stern lecture about the importance of practice. I brought home my point by sharing the anecdote of the time Jo Jones threw a cymbal at Bird for daring to play so badly on a jam session. As the band sat in awed silence at the thought of physical violence as a repercussion of a poor performance, hopefully remembering that our concert is now three weeks away, I felt a premature victory. Then a 6th grade tenor sax player asked, Who is Charlie Parker? And I died a little more.

From here on it was the proverbial snowball set in motion down the hill, gathering speed and size, its only goal to take me out Indian Jones style:

My 6th grade 2nd chair electric guitar player forgot her music, and I died.

My 6th grade bass player forgot his bass, and I died again.

The D string on my 1st chair electric guitar player's guitar snapped when I foolishly tried to tune his permanently screwed down strings. He of course, has the main riff of the song, and for the rest of the class he played it an almost half step flat, allowing me to die even more.

My two tenor players still don't remember how to finger F# (IT IS APRIL OF THEIR SECOND YEAR OF PLAYING!!!!) and as I leaned over to reprimand their laziness, I realized the reason they were not making eye contact with me was not because they were ashamed, but because the shirt I wore was just a little too low cut for those 5th and 6th graders! And I died yet again.

After too many four bar isolations, with too many reminders of fingerings, explanations of where 2 is and how many beats a quarter note rest get, repeated demonstrations of steady eighths on the drum set (AGAIN!) and last ditch efforts of Just listen to how I sing it and copy that, we tried one final run through...

(dramatic pause)

The opening riff was in a new, indistinguishable key, there was a noticeable lack of bass, the drummer's eighth notes hailed from some undiscovered dimension like Earth 527, the tenors honked, the trumpets strained, the pianists' hands were moving but I heard nothing over the noise that was akin to a Reich phase, and as we reached measure 36 (that's right folks, we've been working on this for over 2 months now and we can only get to measure 36), I took an invisible knife, stabbed myself in the heart, and collapsed onto the dirty auditorium stage floor... and died my final death.

Memorial services will be announced later this week. Condolences can be made in the form of chocolate, foot massages, and tequila shots.

_____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

POST SCRIPT: Classroom violence is no joking matter, and is all too real. I use the above expression of being killed by the music because that was truly my emotional reaction to today's rehearsal. I felt like I had been stabbed in the heart. I mean no disrespect to teachers and students who deal with real violence at schools, a place which should be a safe haven meant to foster growth and education, not fear and duress.

Mariposa

My favorite lesson that Fran and I do with kindergarten involves the second track of the Putumayo World Playground CD called "La Mariposa." Go here to listen to the first minute of the tune. It's about a Bolivian slave dance called the Morenada. It's fun, catchy, and I like singing along because I feel like I'm speaking Spanish. The syncopated chorus of con las manos, con las pies, la morenada, gets pleasantly stuck in my head all the time.

That, however, is not the reason I have once again committed blog negligence.

I really have no excuse this time around. No looming deadlines, no marathons, not even a big copy job. I've had nothing. In fact, it's been that nothing that I've greatly enjoyed the past month or so. So much that I have not blogged, or even kept up with my blog reading (so my apologies to my sudden lack of commenting!). My Google reader shows over 500 unread entries.

And speaking of Google reader... I'm not sure I prefer using a reader to just visiting a blog. I can never access comments, and I enjoy looking at the writer's blog format. Perhaps I'll use the reader just to alert me to new entries, then click directly onto the blog of choice for a change.

And speaking of change... in the spirit of reentering the world of productivity, I have lofty goals of undergoing a slight reorganization and refocusing of this blog. But more on that later (if I can get around to it, that is).

In the meantime, I am leaving the apartment for the afternoon to enjoy New York in the spring, which, by the way, is simply enchanting, and to lie in the sun and daydream of mariposas.

The Passion

An exact quarter of my mom’s homemade lemon meringue pie.

That’s what I had for breakfast this morning. I haven’t eaten sweets since Tuesday, Feb. 5, and I had to make up for lost time.

Veteran readers and close friends all know that for the 40 days leading up to Easter, I observe Lent by abstaining from sweets. I’ve been doing this for years. I love the challenge, and feel detoxified from the Christmas gorging. Plus… there is just something about Lent.

No, I don’t really practice my Catholic upbringing any more. But I am certainly grateful for it, particularly the Lenten season.

It was during Lent that I experienced one of the most profound and influential musical experiences of my childhood which fueled and ignited my passion for music, and had a direct impact on the direction I would take music in my life.

When my father was stationed at Quantico, VA for the second time, I was in grades 3-7. This was the time in my life when we were most active in the church; my mom played guitar for the Saturday night masses, and I sang in the children’s choir which sang in the Children’s Masses (once a month I think). I’ve mentioned this before, but the director of the children’s choir and the Saturday night Folk Masses was named Carol Hayes. She had the most beautiful singing voice I had ever heard and in many ways I idolized her almost as much as Wonder Woman. Listening to her and my mom play every week definitely showed me how meaningful and fun music could be.

One year, the CYO (Catholic Youth Organization) staged a Living Stations of the Cross. Mrs. Hayes and my mom were involved in producing the music for this presentation which used only narration, silent acting, and music to tell the story behind each station. I remember sitting up in the choir loft with my mom, peering over the railing, and watching the tragic story unfold to the mournful melodies of the choir. I remember how eerie and shocking it was when the music cut out, heightening the drama as a boy portraying Jesus was nailed to the cross- the silence interrupted by the sounds of the hammer hitting the wood and the boy crying out sent bolts down my spine and still cause my stomach to flip when I think of it now. I had never at that point in my life been so moved or felt such passion as a result of music and drama. I was brought to tears, which I innocently let fall.

In the following years, I became more involved in the Living Stations, singing and later (after a move to Camp Lejeune, NC) directing the music. I remember searching for instrumental incidental music (as I now know it’s called) and settling on the soundtracks from Somewhere In Time and Bram Stoker’s Dracula (still two of my favorite scores). I remember cutting and cuing the tapes (yes, cassette tapes- this was the early 90s folks!) and fading the music in and out as I watched the action below with a hawk’s eye so that I could perfectly time the music for ultimate dramatic effect.

My 9th grade year was my last involvement in the Living Stations as a bad experience involving a youth retreat, the beach, and Zima severed our relations with that church. In the years since, my distance from the Catholic Church has grown considerably. But I am always brought back just a little at Lent. I have never forgotten the passion felt first as an observer and later as a participant in the Living Stations.

More importantly, I attribute those Living Stations experiences to my drive to tell stories and portray dramatic empathy through my compositions. It’s practically impossible for me to write anything if there is not a story, real or fictional inspiring it. I understand now that it is that same emotional reaction that I had to the Living Stations that I hope to create for my listeners and players.

Today on Easter Sunday, as I type away on the Amtrak heading back to NY, eating my mom’s homemade tea cookies to the envy of my seat partner, I marvel at the realization that my life’s goals may not have been cosmically predetermined, but rather a result of an isolated experience. And I can’t help but smile as I am again reminded that children do not always learn the lesson you are trying to impress upon them. I remember the Living Stations like I do my dreams- by the emotion felt during the telling. I do not remember what each of the stations is about, or even how many there are, but I will not forget the lesson of how music (or lack of) can be used to tell a story. And because of that experience, no matter how distant I find myself from the spiritual meaning of Easter, I will always be brought back, just a little, by the music.

On a side note...

Does anyone else using Blogger have problems with the html and image formatting? I find their interface extremely frustrating and unreliable. What I see in the compose view, and in the preview view, is never what I see when I publish the blog. I am always forced to edit the post over and over trying to get spacing, etc. correct. It seems to adjust on it's own when I hit the "publish" button.

Anyone else have this problem? Thoughts? Suggestions?

Mingus in the New Frontier

The last couple of weeks have been good comic weeks for me.

I'm back on board with Birds of Prey. I've always loved Black Alice and wished Gail had used her more. I'm finally warming to Misfit and am over the ridiculous robot destruction of Metropolis.

I am also surprisingly enjoying Teen Titans: Year One. Okay, maybe that's not surprising as I am a sucker for all Year One stories.

More accurate is the kick I got out of Tiny Titans. Maybe I've been teaching elementary school too long now, but I found the little tykes adorable and the light story lines refreshing.

I am also psyched about the return of The Gunslinger. I love Jae Lee and Richard Isanove's art and don't think I could have imagined Hambry or it's inhabitants any better. I loved reading the Dark Tower and book 4, though a slower read then the last 3, was one of my favorite of King's worlds. I haven't started The Long Road Home yet, but look forward immensely to it.

However... the highlight of the past few Midtown trips has by far been Justice League: The New Frontier.

I became a huge fan of JLTNF a couple years ago when a friend loaned me the original singles. I am currently saving up for the $75 Absolute HC edition.

I thoroughly enjoyed the animated version that just came out and regret not springing for the extra bonus edition DVD. I thought the art stayed consistent with the original comics, and loved the opening music (though found some of the later scoring to be a little too cliche superhero fanfarish). The total running time was around an hour and half and so a lot of the supporting story lines were cut, which was the only real downfall.

In addition to the DVD, I picked up the supplemental Justice League: The New Frontier Special. I read this while in the laundromat and shared it with a little 4 or 5 year old that was hanging out while his mom was doing laundry. He was really into it and I considered giving him the comic, but then got really greedy and kept it for myself.

My favorite out of the three stories was the last one, featuring Wonder Woman and Black Canary (SPOILERS) infiltrating a Playboy type night club (will WW never be able to escape association with Playboy?!) It was my favorite only for the following two reasons:

Wonder Woman's Burning Breastplate

and

Charlie Mingus Cameo... sorta

Now, this is the Mingus Trio as drawn by J. Bone:


Here is a picture of the Mingus Trio circa 1951:

Notice a distinct difference in instruments and, um, race? The bass player in the comic definitely looks white to me, but if Cooke was in fact referencing Charles Mingus, then he should have been drawn to match Mingus's mixed heritage of Chinese, Swiss, and African-American decent (this according to Wikipedia.)

I did a cursory Internet search of trios that Mingus played with in the 50's and could find no instance of him playing in a trio with a pianist and trumpet. Not that he didn't. In fact, if anyone knows of such an ensemble, please let me know! The trio that I did come across most often is the one pictured above, with Tal Farlow (guitar) and Red Norvo (vibes) in 1950 and 1951.

While I appreciate the nod to one of my favorite jazz musicians, I do wish the proper research had been done to assure authenticity.

Superman Day

Happy Belated 70th Birthday, Superman!!

On February 29, in addition to Leap Year, many fangirls and boys celebrated the birth (sorta) of the Man of Steel. But as with, well everything in the DCU, there is controversy regarding Big Blue's b-day.

Supermanhomepage.com explains:

Superman's creators Jerry Siegel and Joe Shuster designed the Man of Tomorrow around 1932 but it took six years of rejections for the pair to sell the character. Finally, in Action Comics #1, Superman debuted. The comic magazine, an anthology which included other stories including DC mage Zatara, was cover-dated June 1938. As anyone who reads comics today knows, comic books -- like magazines -- are post-dated several months so Action Comics #1 actually hit newsstands (remember there weren't any comic book stores back then) in April 1938. So naturally, with a first appearance in April of a comic dated June, we celebrate Superman's anniversary in February. Wait a second, that doesn't seem right.

The idea that Superman's birthday is February 29 initially began as a lark. DC editors explained tongue in cheek in comic book letter columns that Superman remained eternally youthful because he was born on Leap Day, February 29, which occurs only once every four years.

When DC celebrated Superman's 50th anniversary in 1988, they treated February 29 as the Man of Steel's birth date. Even a "TIME" magazine cover-story (March 14, 1988 cover dated magazine) commemorating the 50th anniversary (with a cover by John Byrne) declared for all of America that Superman's birthday is February 29.

DC even held a Leap Day birthday party for Superman's 50th in 1988 which I attended (and I cannot believe that was 20 years ago). The party was held at the Puck Building in downtown Manhattan. There were cheerleaders clad in Superman sweaters. Superman artist Curt Swan was there signing autographs. There was a Superman cake. Party goers got to walk through a room made of Kryptonite (actually green lights and cellophane). And of course there were truckloads of Superman merchandise for sale to those in attendance. I remember it well.

Except it was all a lie if comic book continuity had anything to say about it.

In 1950, Action Comics #149 claimed Superman was born on Krypton in October. However, in 1958's Action Comics #241, it's revealed that Superman celebrates both the date of his birth on Krypton and the date his rocket landed on Earth. The birth date given in this 1958 comic was June 10. Then in Superman #263, Clark Kent's birthday is revealed to be June 18 and it's explained that this is the day his rocket landed on Earth. Notwithstanding these stories, a 1976 calendar published by DC Comics listed February 29 as Superman's birthday.

None of these previous revelations mattered anymore after 1986. Writers John Byrne and Marv Wolfman rebooted Superman's continuity from scratch in the comics. In Byrne's "Man of Steel" miniseries, which introduced the rebooted Man of Tomorrow, Superman isn't born until he reaches Earth. His Kryptonian parents, Jor-El and Lara, grew baby Kal-El in a genetic incubator of sorts. The Kryptonian escape rocket was essentially built around the matrix. When the rocket landed on Earth, the matrix opened up and the infant Kal-El was technically born on Earth when the Kents removed the baby from the ship.

In this post-"Crisis on Infinite Earths" rebooted DC Universe, Clark Kent's birthday is in November. Shortly after the Kents brought the baby back to their Smallville farm, there was an early snow storm which kept them isolated from their rural neighbors for several months. When Spring came, the Kents told the neighbors that Clark was their natural born son.

To confuse matters more, on episodes of TV's "Smallville", Clark celebrated several birthdays in episodes that aired in early May (and a season five episode declared Clark's birthday to be May 3). Except the first meteor shower which brought Clark's rocket to Earth in the first episode of Smallville" took place on October 16, 1989. This makes sense as Smallville High School was celebrating its homecoming the day of the meteor shower. Kal-El emerged from his rocket looking like a three-year old toddler. He even walked from the rocket to the Kents' truck which was overturned by the meteor shower. This is consistent with the origin story as it was told in 1978's "Superman: The Movie" where it was revealed the trip from Krypton to Earth took three years. In "Superman", Kal-El is an infant when he leaves Krypton and a toddler able to walk on his own on his arrival. This continuity is also embraced by 2006's "Superman Returns".

Whenever Clark Kent and/or Superman were "born", Superman the fictional character celebrates 70 years of fictional existence in 2008. DC Comics has not made any official pronouncement of Supes' birthday being February 29 this year as they did back in 1988. The city of Cleveland, Ohio -- hometown to Superman's creators Siegel and Shuster -- plans to celebrate the 70th anniversary in June.

Absent any consensus on when Superman and/or Clark Kent were born, the Superman Homepage honors the Leap Day tradition. Happy Birthday Superman!

I too, plan to pay my homage to Supes.

Today I work from home with a little lite copy-work. In honor of Superman I am currently wearing my favorite Superman PJs (ah, the joys of working from home!) and plan to watch (listen to) a random mix of Superman movies, Lois & Clark episodes, some old Max Fleischer cartoons, and maybe even a CD or two of the radio series, depending on how long it takes to enter this music.

Happy Birthday Superman!

Anywhere But Here: The I Finally Finished Blaine Edition

Eight hours. That's how long it took to clean and prepare the score and parts for Blaine, the sax quintet + bass + drums that I've been slaving over the past 2 months. Do you know how many episodes of Gilmore Girls that is, blaring in the backround as I painstakingly move around measure numbers? (Good thing I got the complete series for Christmas this year!)

Why do I always underestimate this part?

Here's where I wish was now that I'm finished:

Rock pool at Bronte Beach, Sydney