Greetings, friends. (IX)

Greetings, friends. I hope you are well. The big news here is that Besha and I went to the Oregon Symphony last night to hear a two-fer: Brahms’s Symphony no. 4, one of my all-time favorites, followed by Itzhak Perlman performing Bruch’s Violin Concerto no. 1.

The evening’s aperitif was a piece by Samuel Barber called Overture to The School for Scandal, which was lively and delightful. The composition cast Barber in a very different light from his better-known, and IMHO, dreadfully boring Adagio for Strings. The overall impression was almost cinematic, as if Barber had been busy during his conservatory days consuming a steady diet of Stravinsky and maybe Gershwin. Which he probably was.

About Brahms 4, well, what is there to say. His last symphony is the culmination of the entire Romantic era of Western music, plain and simple, and I will fight anyone who wants to debate me on that.

Last night’s orchestra performance was impeccable. After the crashing finale to the opening Allegro, the conductor paused, then turned to the audience to quip, “… and that was just the first movement!”

The conductor was himself an entertaining curiosity. A guest at the Oregon Symphony, Norman Huynh’s regular gig is apparently with the Bozeman Symphony Orchestra, which might or might not have accounted for his presentation. Bounding on to the podium in a well-tailored suit and a flashy pair of Nikes, he introduced the program with a few nerdy wisecracks, and then proceeded to dive in with visible enthusiasm.

By the end of the symphony’s third movement, he was conducting the orchestra with all the physicality of an NFL linebacker, heaving up and down, sawing both arms vigorously along his torso to exhort the cellists to really lean in, and cueing the triangle with a waggle of his fingers extended high over his head.

All I can figure is either (a.) Huynh simply comes from a fresh school of classical conducting that recognizes the need to energize modern (especially younger) audiences by abandoning the stuffy formality of hide-bound tradition, or (b.) freed temporarily from the confines of Bozeman, Montana, to journey to Portland and conduct the illustrious Itzhak Perlman, he was merely in his finest devil-may-care fettle. He was probably both, come to think of it. Either way the guy was great.

Speaking of great, Perlman was simply virtuosic on the concerto, as you would probably expect. I had never even heard of Bruch before the concert, and even the apparently prolific composer, who was a contemporary of Brahms, once hiumself confessed:

Fifty years hence, Brahms will loom up as one of the supremely gifted composers of all time, while I will be remembered chiefly for having written my G minor violin concerto.

Sorry, dude. My bad! Let me not be too quick to agree.

So Perlman wheeled up on his motorized chair, and then the next fifteen or so minutes that followed were a whirlwind of glissandi and arpeggi, with the rest of the orchestra gamely tagging along like children imitating an adored parental figure. I am not the biggest fan of violin concertos generally, and sometimes I think they are more for the players than the audience. It’s honestly difficult for a layperson like me to really appreciate just how fucking difficult a piece like that is to play.

In spite of my ignorance, I’m sure it was plain to everyone in attendance that we were witnessing greatness. Astonishingly, Perlman played the entire thing from memory, without the benefit of sheet music. It’s always such a treat to get to witness up close a person, who is indisputably among the best in the world at what they do, doing that thing. You can’t help but wonder in delight at the sheer breadth of human potential.

Anyway, it was a good concert.

Last night makes the second of two dates out on the town that Besha and I have had since I moved to the Portland area. The first one, for what it’s worth, was a pro wrestling tournament. Her dear friend Laura is married to a gentleman named Bryce whose job is refereeing televised professional wrestling. That’s a job someone gets to have. He even has his own fans, whose ranks apparently include luminaries like John Darnielle of Mountain Goats fame, and John Fetterman, the iconic Senator from the great state of Pennsylvania.

So when AEW came to town, Bryce offered us complimentary tickets to the show. Besha and I showed up with a poster board sign reading “BRYCE: BIG FAN OF YOUR WIFE” that the security guards made us throw away. Anyway, we had a great time, eating cotton candy and popcorn, and trying to distinguish the faces from the heels.

Overall I think my immersion in the urban cultural life of Portland, Oregon is off to a great start.

Meanwhile, I’m writing this from 30,000 feet above the border between the great states of North and South Dakota. I’m en route to New Hampshire, to spend another week and a half working with Adah to untangle our late mother’s estate and effects. Apparently there is a snowstorm in progress in northern New England, but my flight hasn’t been delayed. Yet. Pray for me, please.

But let’s take a moment to consider the miracle that is transcontinental air travel with in-flight Wi-Fi. My grandparents were born in country houses without electricity, and I get to swan through the very skies themselves while posting memes to Mastodon.

This time I brought the CO₂ monitor I got for Besha awhile back as a proxy for COVID-19 exposure hazard. The two are not really correlated, but the CO₂ measure does at least provide a sense of how well ventilated a space is.

The monitor we use is an Aranet 4. The little dingus is pocket sized, and updates an e-ink display only every few minutes, so it basically runs forever on 2 AAA batteries. It measures not only CO₂ but also temperature and humidity. It’s not inexpensive, but it is absolutely a satisfyingly well-designed piece of technology. Of course I learned about it from Rick. Who else?

Ambient outdoor CO₂ concentration runs (sadly for humanity!) to around 450 to 500 ppm. Besha’s house in the wintertime, with four mammals cooped up together and doggedly respirating all the time, averages 1,000 ppm. Indoor spaces at PDX this morning ranged from 600 to 800 ppm.

The 737 I’m on? When I boarded, the engines were off and so was the ventilation. I sat down and noticed that the CO₂ concentration was 3,700 ppm. I put my coffee down and masked up post-haste.

By the time boarding was done, the concentration was up to almost 4,700 ppm. I’m about halfway across the country and the CO₂ level has holding steady for the last couple hours at 1,600 ppm.

According to peer-reviewed research,

In fact, at 1400 ppm, CO2 concentrations may cut our basic decision-making ability by 25 percent, and complex strategic thinking by around 50 percent, the authors found.

And the pathogen load, which as you may recall was the original point of measuring the cabin CO₂ level? You ask, as a woman in the row behind me coughs wetly.

I am never flying not masked ever again.

Wish me a safe trip, please. If you’re reading this, I send my love. Ceterum censeo pro vigilum imperdiet est. I hope you have a wonderful day!