funding

So, a long time back -- back when I was in college, in fact -- a group of us undergraduate (or maybe even graduate; I can't remember) music students were sitting around in the television lounge waiting for it to be eight o'clock so that the weekend movies would start. Every Saturday, the Resident Advisor who was on-call for the day would go out and get two movies, which they would show downstairs for anybody who wanted to watch.

Oh, side story here. I was a Resident Advisor for a couple of years, and showing movies was one of my favorite parts of the Resident Advisor responsibility list. Being cheap myself, I took full advantage of the money they allocated to us for movies and went out on Saturday mornings to get whatever big-budget blockbusters happened to come out on video that weekend. When Independence Day came out, I walked the two miles to Blockbuster and waited there for four or five hours until a copy came in; as a result, the movie nights that I put on usually ended up as standing room capacity, with people jammed into every available inch of space.

The taste of each Resident Advisor was pretty indicative of the audience that would show up for the movie nights. Binky, as I recall, was very much into alternative films, international films, and thought-provoking films that did well in independent theaters. Julie, another Resident Advisor friend of mine, was very much into period pieces and romances.

My movie nights were the most popular. And I'm not just saying that.

One day while I was standing behind the front desk making up a sign, a student came around the corner to ask the front desk worker what the movies were going to be for that evening.

The front desk worker didn't know.

"Well then, who's on-call?" the student wanted to know.

The front desk worker leaned back to quiz me with an eyebrow. I acknowledged my responsibility by flashing him with the pager.

"Yuhri," the desk worker told the student, who promptly yelled, "Score!" and dashed off to tell his assembled buddies.

Anyway, we were waiting for eight o'clock to roll around so that I could start the movie. I was idly chatting with some of many students who had already gathered; the television was on, but turned to PBS:  that's Public Broadcasting Station for those non-Americans out there, government-run cultural television, the US version of the BBC.

PBS, which doesn't normally do commercials, was promoting a forthcoming program that they were planning on airing later on in the week. "Yanni, at the Acropolis." Yanni himself, curly-haired, mustached, robed in flowing white linen things, was shown at the piano, tossing his head back in a dramatic fashion under mood lighting of a peculiar blue color.

". . . surrounded by the magnificant ruins of Greece," the female announcer was saying in a beautifully rounded British accent.

Mind you, classical musicians aren't too fond of Yanni. Classical musicians aren't too fond of any men who grow their hair in very long ringlets, perform under pastel lights that gently change hue with the music, toss their heads dramatically, and play music that eventually gets recorded onto CDs and distributed to Macys for performance in their elevators. We feel the same way towards Yanni that the British would feel about Britney Spears becoming the next Princess of Wales.

"Why the hell is PBS doing a special on Yanni?" somebody wanted to know.

And then it happened.

". . . Yanni," said the announcer, "the future of classical music."

The room went dead silent for a moment.

Then, as one voice, we, the students of Eastman School of Music, the future of classical music in America, yelled, "WHAT THE FUCK?!"

And this is why I'll never donate money to PBS.

On the other hand, I'd be happy to donate money to NPR, if I ever had any.