I had been meaning to post this story on the bleak news about West Nile virus. Okay, this bad boy is worse than we thought, but we're not powerless, oh no, simply deluded and wobbly.
As any semi-regular reader knows, I love DDT. (See one such post here) I think it's a human advancement right up there with Salk's polio vaccine (don't get me started on the anti-vaccine lobbies), and we ought to be using it today to save the millions of people in developing nations who are painfully debilitated and/or killed by malaria. Even in America, where its use was also banned, though fortunately only after we'd made substantial progress through spraying, not only is West Nile on the rise, but we're seeing new emergences of dengue fever- remember when that funny name was a punchline? It's unconscionable and foolish that we've allowed this decades-old internalization of well-debunked junk science to petrify into a knee-jerk gospel of ignorance that contributes to catastropic and remediable human suffering.
In my opinion, Live 8 is a celebrity strokefest which will only put more money into the hands of tyrants like the butcher Mugabe. Meanwhile, if we seeded Africa with low-cost and easy-to-distribute DDT, we'd be guaranteed to save lives, impacting people in a way that tinpot dictators couldn't coopt to feed their own hunger for Mercedes. Let me paint the picture.
Aside from the obvious joy or relieving suffering, we'd increase the potential for Africa since more people would be alive to care for their now-orphaned children. We'd increase the wealth and productivity since we'd have large majorities without the chronic malnourishment and dehydration from persistent diarrhea that keep so many from being able to work for their own and their communities' welfare. If you wonder (with a touch of superiority) why Africans are still living as so many do, realize that the horrible physical circumstances which decimate the population preclude steady education, consistent social institutions, and actually affect basic brain development. Chronic illness keeps Africa from using its own creative potential for progress. Healthy Africans could create beneficial, working societies that would, I hope, topple regressive oppressors from their seats of power. Be sure that tyrants want checks from the West, written against our impotent pity. They don't want DDT.
I had not expected to find myself in bed with Phyllis Schlafly today. Really ever. However, as I read her well-presented Townhall article on the issue, I wonder whether I, too, haven't absorbed someone else's dusty propaganda without getting the facts. I'm giving you the straight-up chance to rock me, Phyllis, 'cause anyone for DDT can't be all bad!
Here's your online, bubble wrap connection. Sure, some may find it boring and pointless, but to some it's transcendently theraputic. Thanks, Bonnie, for the link. I do mine on manic mode.
Tuesday, June 21, 2005
Monday, June 20, 2005
Natalee Holloway Nauseum, 100 Wacky Kickers
UPDATE: All below still applies, but my recent follow-up to this story is here.
I didn't have anything to say about Natalee Holloway's disappearance until a recent saturation of media input made me realize this story highlights questionable priorities across the board. I'll assume you know the basics. If not, bone up here.
1) I'm getting this out of the way early. Nothing pardons crime, however, sending your underage children to another country without pretense of scholastic value or edification, but merely to party on foreign beaches with a tiny cohort of non-parental chaperones may not be the greatest idea if you intend them to remain sober, unmolested, uninfected, etc. It's not my place to say what people should do with their own children and their extra money, but it's excessive for my taste. Whatever happened celebrating high school graduation with a nice party and a watch?
2) FoxNews' Greta Van Susteren did a long interview with Natalee's mother to ask how she feels. Unless the situation is surprisingly nifty and fun, this doesn't exactly meet the definition of news. Having a child go missing with the probability of at least foul play and likely murder must be a living nightmare. Perhaps a soul-sucking ordeal of fear and pain and horrible fantasies? You need only be human to imagine that. Broadcasting a mother's helpless tears and pleas for ten minutes is not news, it's facilitating exploitative rubber-necking. How does this help anyone find the girl?
3) This case is operating at a snail's pace among the Aruban constabulary. The Attorney General, explaining the two-week delay in searching a suspect's home and car after his detention, says that they can't just "go in there like a cowboy." This not-so-subtle swipe at our own commander-in-chief displays local frustration in having American citizens and law enforcement breathing down their necks. The implication is that their system better protects the innocent, however, it's their own very civilized regulations that allow them to detain anyone for 116 days without charges! Obviously, it's this Carribbean bias against haste that means no one thought it logical, after detaining suspects, to do anything but interview them... for days... and a week... then again. While locals push back against turf encroachment, where is the girl?
4) In another example, last night, Fox News found a retired island police investigator to interview. Offering zero facts about the normal approach or course of investigations, he assured viewers briefly that the police were doing "their utmost." Of course he knows the suspect's father, but wouldn't call himself a friend. No, this man's overriding and passionate concern was the airing of suspects' photos on American TV. He was disturbed by this outrage against their Geneva Convention rights, and demanded that the investigation be more correctly directed toward the Holloway family and their publicity of their daughter's disappearance. He was visibly offended that the interviewer did not allow him to expand on his theme, though he wedged in repeated mentions of how the FBI ought to spend its time. If criminal charges are ever filed, perhaps such items can be debated in the ICC at The Hague where we're going on which dusty year of the Slobodan Milosevic trials? But in the meantime, would a real investigator's focus be on media coverage of an uncharged suspect or on the girl?
5) He's not alone, though. The MSM in America also took this case as an opportunity to look at itself, specifically whether a missing teen who's a pretty blonde gets more coverage than, say, an unattractive member of another race. This might seem like a legit question to some, but my question is why the story always returns to the media's submersion in its own importance as the organ of information? It's not about you! It's about the girl!
6) There are multiple polls and stories circulating about whether you'll be less likely to visit Aruba after this and how it may affect their tourism. Various boards are offering statements about how safe and cozy it is on their island. It may be true, but- in the parlance of a stright-shooting pal- I don't give a whore's fart for their press releases until they FIND THE GIRL!
In whatever sad state she may be, Aruba must provide tangible proof of Natalee Hollway's fate. It's the only thing that will make Americans relax their pressure, it's the only thing that matters, and the only issue I want to hear about from our homegrown tragedy-mongers or Aruba's convention bureau.
WACKINESS HERE: If you're just here for the oddities, there's an overflow of awesomeness today. Thanks, Dr. Sanity, for this week's Carnival of the Insanities. Number 17 pointed me to the 50 Worst Hairstyles of All-Time (with captions). Another can't-miss is Phat-Phree's 50 Coolest On-Screen Rides.
I didn't have anything to say about Natalee Holloway's disappearance until a recent saturation of media input made me realize this story highlights questionable priorities across the board. I'll assume you know the basics. If not, bone up here.
1) I'm getting this out of the way early. Nothing pardons crime, however, sending your underage children to another country without pretense of scholastic value or edification, but merely to party on foreign beaches with a tiny cohort of non-parental chaperones may not be the greatest idea if you intend them to remain sober, unmolested, uninfected, etc. It's not my place to say what people should do with their own children and their extra money, but it's excessive for my taste. Whatever happened celebrating high school graduation with a nice party and a watch?
2) FoxNews' Greta Van Susteren did a long interview with Natalee's mother to ask how she feels. Unless the situation is surprisingly nifty and fun, this doesn't exactly meet the definition of news. Having a child go missing with the probability of at least foul play and likely murder must be a living nightmare. Perhaps a soul-sucking ordeal of fear and pain and horrible fantasies? You need only be human to imagine that. Broadcasting a mother's helpless tears and pleas for ten minutes is not news, it's facilitating exploitative rubber-necking. How does this help anyone find the girl?
3) This case is operating at a snail's pace among the Aruban constabulary. The Attorney General, explaining the two-week delay in searching a suspect's home and car after his detention, says that they can't just "go in there like a cowboy." This not-so-subtle swipe at our own commander-in-chief displays local frustration in having American citizens and law enforcement breathing down their necks. The implication is that their system better protects the innocent, however, it's their own very civilized regulations that allow them to detain anyone for 116 days without charges! Obviously, it's this Carribbean bias against haste that means no one thought it logical, after detaining suspects, to do anything but interview them... for days... and a week... then again. While locals push back against turf encroachment, where is the girl?
4) In another example, last night, Fox News found a retired island police investigator to interview. Offering zero facts about the normal approach or course of investigations, he assured viewers briefly that the police were doing "their utmost." Of course he knows the suspect's father, but wouldn't call himself a friend. No, this man's overriding and passionate concern was the airing of suspects' photos on American TV. He was disturbed by this outrage against their Geneva Convention rights, and demanded that the investigation be more correctly directed toward the Holloway family and their publicity of their daughter's disappearance. He was visibly offended that the interviewer did not allow him to expand on his theme, though he wedged in repeated mentions of how the FBI ought to spend its time. If criminal charges are ever filed, perhaps such items can be debated in the ICC at The Hague where we're going on which dusty year of the Slobodan Milosevic trials? But in the meantime, would a real investigator's focus be on media coverage of an uncharged suspect or on the girl?
5) He's not alone, though. The MSM in America also took this case as an opportunity to look at itself, specifically whether a missing teen who's a pretty blonde gets more coverage than, say, an unattractive member of another race. This might seem like a legit question to some, but my question is why the story always returns to the media's submersion in its own importance as the organ of information? It's not about you! It's about the girl!
6) There are multiple polls and stories circulating about whether you'll be less likely to visit Aruba after this and how it may affect their tourism. Various boards are offering statements about how safe and cozy it is on their island. It may be true, but- in the parlance of a stright-shooting pal- I don't give a whore's fart for their press releases until they FIND THE GIRL!
In whatever sad state she may be, Aruba must provide tangible proof of Natalee Hollway's fate. It's the only thing that will make Americans relax their pressure, it's the only thing that matters, and the only issue I want to hear about from our homegrown tragedy-mongers or Aruba's convention bureau.
WACKINESS HERE: If you're just here for the oddities, there's an overflow of awesomeness today. Thanks, Dr. Sanity, for this week's Carnival of the Insanities. Number 17 pointed me to the 50 Worst Hairstyles of All-Time (with captions). Another can't-miss is Phat-Phree's 50 Coolest On-Screen Rides.
Sunday, June 19, 2005
Six-Legged, Two-Penised Malaysian Puppy named Lucky.
I don't usually post on Sundays, but today's AP story provided a strange and wonderful follow-up to yesterday's one about sadder puppy fates. Spare me the jokes about any creature with two penises being lucky. Okay don't, but make sure they're funny.
--- I wrote the above then decided to search for an example of the kind of thing I meant and I couldn't find one. Oh, there were tons of web sites and lots of material, but as I feared, nothing struck me funny. And can we get some one-liners posted, please? Everything's essay-length, shaggy dog format. Perhaps jokes simply stink in print. If a person telling me a joke screws up or forgets the set-up, or experiences paroxysms of hysterics long before the punch line (like 5 year-olds frequently do), I always find that infectiously amusing. But for me, the form known as the joke acquires humor in the delivery not the content. Anywayyyyy---
The puppy was apparently abandoned outside a Chinese temple and is being cared for by the temple committee...devotees feel that the unusual dog is a bearer of good fortune and have named him Ong Fatt, or the Lucky One.
I did wonder whether the extra parts are residuals of an undeveloped twin (eeuwww) and what the reaction would be to a similarly formed young human. Social labeling as "accursed" or "lucky" can be as arbitrary as lethal in certain geographies, but I suppose my overall feeling is happiness for any oddball with a loving home. You represent hope for us all. Welcome to the World, your Ong Fattness!
--- I wrote the above then decided to search for an example of the kind of thing I meant and I couldn't find one. Oh, there were tons of web sites and lots of material, but as I feared, nothing struck me funny. And can we get some one-liners posted, please? Everything's essay-length, shaggy dog format. Perhaps jokes simply stink in print. If a person telling me a joke screws up or forgets the set-up, or experiences paroxysms of hysterics long before the punch line (like 5 year-olds frequently do), I always find that infectiously amusing. But for me, the form known as the joke acquires humor in the delivery not the content. Anywayyyyy---
The puppy was apparently abandoned outside a Chinese temple and is being cared for by the temple committee...devotees feel that the unusual dog is a bearer of good fortune and have named him Ong Fatt, or the Lucky One.
I did wonder whether the extra parts are residuals of an undeveloped twin (eeuwww) and what the reaction would be to a similarly formed young human. Social labeling as "accursed" or "lucky" can be as arbitrary as lethal in certain geographies, but I suppose my overall feeling is happiness for any oddball with a loving home. You represent hope for us all. Welcome to the World, your Ong Fattness!
Saturday, June 18, 2005
PETA stands for Preferred Euthanasia and Thoughtless Aftermath?
If you believed this strident activist group was about sparing animals' lives at any cost and subsequently encouraging vegetarianism and fashion choices without animal hides, you've misunderstood their opinions and initiatives. Apparently the group merely advocates a preferred method of death and believes the health restrictions about disposal of animal carcasses and waste are an oppressive straitjacket to liberty.
Today, Page Six reports two [PETA] employees were caught tossing the corpses of 31 orphaned dogs they had "euthanized" into a Dumpster outside a Piggly-Wiggly store in Ahoskie, N.C. ...Ahoskie police chief Troy Fitzhugh told PAGE SIX that up to 80 dead dogs, including seven puppies, had been illegally dumped in the area over the past four weeks...PETA insists that its method of euthanasia, lethal injection, is more humane that the local methods — .22-caliber rifle or poison gas. The local shelters knew the dogs "adopted" by PETA were doomed to die, PETA claims — but local officials say they were told the organization would find homes for the animals, not slaughter them. ...PETA president Ingrid E. Newkirk told us, "We have a history of communications with these shelters. They know we provide free euthanasia services. We drive down there to euthanize their animals."
I had only heard rumors that PETA actually euthanized animals, but hadn't seen it confirmed. Now, it's not only confirmed, it's defended by their president. No-kill shelters do exist, but PETA doesn't run them. Apparently no pet cemeteries either. Does that seem incongruous to you given their accuse-of-Nazism-first and vandalize-later M.O. toward other organizations and businesses involved with animals? While they hound and badger (no pun intended) KFC about their practices with chickens, PETA President Newkirk defends as "good people" these paid employees tossing rotting puppy cadavers that they killed into a grocery store dumpster. It demonstrates not only complete disregard for disposal and sanitation of animal waste (regulations PETA contentiously monitors for others' adherence) but what must be seen as a contemptuous attitude towards the bodies of the innocents they claim to protect. Even the local pound will cremate. A loving owner might bury. And PETA's defense is that gassing or a single shot to the head is so much crueler that lethal injection? For the record: If I'm doomed to die by unnatural causes, I don't care which method they use as long as it's quick.
Let the suicidal and terminally ill be informed. PETA are not just annoying finger-pointers who want you clad in hemp while gassily bloated from soy protein isolates. They're officially declaring themselves your glossy, celebrity-endorsed source for free euthanasia. And although they can't guarantee your decaying body won't be dumped and befouling a water supply somewhere afterwards, you will get what you paid for.
Today, Page Six reports two [PETA] employees were caught tossing the corpses of 31 orphaned dogs they had "euthanized" into a Dumpster outside a Piggly-Wiggly store in Ahoskie, N.C. ...Ahoskie police chief Troy Fitzhugh told PAGE SIX that up to 80 dead dogs, including seven puppies, had been illegally dumped in the area over the past four weeks...PETA insists that its method of euthanasia, lethal injection, is more humane that the local methods — .22-caliber rifle or poison gas. The local shelters knew the dogs "adopted" by PETA were doomed to die, PETA claims — but local officials say they were told the organization would find homes for the animals, not slaughter them. ...PETA president Ingrid E. Newkirk told us, "We have a history of communications with these shelters. They know we provide free euthanasia services. We drive down there to euthanize their animals."
I had only heard rumors that PETA actually euthanized animals, but hadn't seen it confirmed. Now, it's not only confirmed, it's defended by their president. No-kill shelters do exist, but PETA doesn't run them. Apparently no pet cemeteries either. Does that seem incongruous to you given their accuse-of-Nazism-first and vandalize-later M.O. toward other organizations and businesses involved with animals? While they hound and badger (no pun intended) KFC about their practices with chickens, PETA President Newkirk defends as "good people" these paid employees tossing rotting puppy cadavers that they killed into a grocery store dumpster. It demonstrates not only complete disregard for disposal and sanitation of animal waste (regulations PETA contentiously monitors for others' adherence) but what must be seen as a contemptuous attitude towards the bodies of the innocents they claim to protect. Even the local pound will cremate. A loving owner might bury. And PETA's defense is that gassing or a single shot to the head is so much crueler that lethal injection? For the record: If I'm doomed to die by unnatural causes, I don't care which method they use as long as it's quick.
Let the suicidal and terminally ill be informed. PETA are not just annoying finger-pointers who want you clad in hemp while gassily bloated from soy protein isolates. They're officially declaring themselves your glossy, celebrity-endorsed source for free euthanasia. And although they can't guarantee your decaying body won't be dumped and befouling a water supply somewhere afterwards, you will get what you paid for.
Friday, June 17, 2005
The Gender of Text, the Mess of Art, and Lost Thermidor
1) Writers tend to wonder how they come across in print. Who might you think I am or how might you imagine me if you didn't know? The Gender Genie takes text, preferably at least 500 words, either fiction or non, and algorithmically guesses the author's gender. (HT: Bookslut) The program will display your stats, highlighting words and indicating whether they're associated as male or female. I pasted pages from my new novel and from this blog. It was wrong about me twice since, apparently, I'm literarily canted quite differently from my chromosomes. How did it work for you?
2) This article from the Chronicle of Higher Education recounts with historical and educational meatiness the drift and degradation of art from studio practice to radicality for its own sake and self-expression...The audience for modern art long ago gave up expecting or wanting skills, talent, or beauty from artists and willingly acceded to the idea that an artist is a creative outsider whose usefulness lies mainly in being critical of everything. Think "court jester" without the humor.
But Laurie Fendrich doesn't just critique. She offers interesting and specific suggestions to reintegrate the ideals of art that inspired history's masters into current curriculums. She concludes: In any event, the most crucial job at hand is to steer art students away from the self-congratulatory, self-indulgent deconstructionesque platitudes that increasingly guide their educations. After all, why major in art just to become a half-baked social scientist?
I view it as a Denmark kind of place. Cold, well-run--a clean, beautiful, pristine city where you can have a nice life and bring up kids and not have a lot of stress. After living in Europe, Chicago reminds me of some of those cities. He's right in the nicest sense.
Eugenides has cultivated a passion for the Cape Cod Room at the Drake Hotel, and I approve heartily, except when he discourages the Tribune's reporter from ordering the lobster thermidor. LT is one of the dishes that in my youth was cultural shorthand indicating the acme of style and taste. Others included pheasant under glass and baked Alaska. I not only love the idea of these dishes, but when well-prepared, they're wowser. I order these and other such antiquated entrees whenever I see them, because they wouldn't be on any nice joint's contemporary menu unless someone championed them. That champion is usually the chef. And that means good eatin'.
While in Atlantic City, I was at a restaurant that had flounder a la francais with lump crabmeat on its permanent menu. This unusual entree with a mostly-neglected fish signaled me that it was probably a chef's favorite. I consulted with the waiter to confirm, and I must report it was lip-smackingly delicioso. If you want something great, don't just order the ubiquitous chicken or even the simple lobster tails. Order something from the specials list and enjoy the chef's fresh enthusiasm for seasonal ingredients. Order something distinctive that the chef is proud of and excited about serving. Order the Bookbinder's soup.
2) This article from the Chronicle of Higher Education recounts with historical and educational meatiness the drift and degradation of art from studio practice to radicality for its own sake and self-expression...The audience for modern art long ago gave up expecting or wanting skills, talent, or beauty from artists and willingly acceded to the idea that an artist is a creative outsider whose usefulness lies mainly in being critical of everything. Think "court jester" without the humor.
But Laurie Fendrich doesn't just critique. She offers interesting and specific suggestions to reintegrate the ideals of art that inspired history's masters into current curriculums. She concludes: In any event, the most crucial job at hand is to steer art students away from the self-congratulatory, self-indulgent deconstructionesque platitudes that increasingly guide their educations. After all, why major in art just to become a half-baked social scientist?
Even when I was in undergrad in Art (lo these many years ago) it was quite common to structure one's curriculum so that by graduation, one had merely a scattershot portfolio of a couple sculptures, prints, drawings, paintings, multimedia projects, and/or videos that represented an uncohesive bunch of teacher-assigned subjects and nothing beyond novice level mastery of any medium. I learned to manage drawing and painting better than I'd expected given my late arrival to art, but even my last semester, I never had more than one painting class at a time and no department-assisted focus on a theme, technique, or topic that would've led to richer development at least within a limited area. I think I would've graduated with better work and capabilities by spending the first two years in technical survey and art history, and digging deeply into critique, individual artistic evolution, and skill mastery as a junior and senior.
I applaud Fendrich's analysis and her efforts, and I don't underestimate how incendiary it is to make such comments from within art school academia. After another recent and disappointing report from my alma mater, I listed my collected rules for modern art at the bottom of a previous post. They're still guaranteed to rocket any current student into the pantheon of overexposure. And I'm still begging to be saved from the ugly and obvious.
3) Pulitzer Prize-winning novelist Jeffrey Eugenides has relocated to Chicago.I view it as a Denmark kind of place. Cold, well-run--a clean, beautiful, pristine city where you can have a nice life and bring up kids and not have a lot of stress. After living in Europe, Chicago reminds me of some of those cities. He's right in the nicest sense.
Eugenides has cultivated a passion for the Cape Cod Room at the Drake Hotel, and I approve heartily, except when he discourages the Tribune's reporter from ordering the lobster thermidor. LT is one of the dishes that in my youth was cultural shorthand indicating the acme of style and taste. Others included pheasant under glass and baked Alaska. I not only love the idea of these dishes, but when well-prepared, they're wowser. I order these and other such antiquated entrees whenever I see them, because they wouldn't be on any nice joint's contemporary menu unless someone championed them. That champion is usually the chef. And that means good eatin'.
While in Atlantic City, I was at a restaurant that had flounder a la francais with lump crabmeat on its permanent menu. This unusual entree with a mostly-neglected fish signaled me that it was probably a chef's favorite. I consulted with the waiter to confirm, and I must report it was lip-smackingly delicioso. If you want something great, don't just order the ubiquitous chicken or even the simple lobster tails. Order something from the specials list and enjoy the chef's fresh enthusiasm for seasonal ingredients. Order something distinctive that the chef is proud of and excited about serving. Order the Bookbinder's soup.
Thursday, June 16, 2005
Nanny Cavalcade, Port-a-Lets for Everest
Well, yesterday brought a ka-bong letter on my latest novel. I haven't given up on it yet, but such events push me toward discussing topics distant from my own failures. Like this one.
Today, I was walking the dogs just as the sprinkling rain began. Suddenly, I spied an inchworm working its way along the sidewalk to 2nd Ave, perhaps for cocktails at donatella&davidburke? Its signature locomotion was as cheery and wonderful to see as it was incongruous in this cement Legoland. May one of the following delight you.
1) Walter Williams takes on the newest cash cow, safety belt laws. I hate the ones I'm required to wear, and resist the back seat versions even though people have recently told me gruesome, true stories about life-changing accidents. Thank goodness I'm still free to be backwards.
2) It's not my fear of heights. The "virus-laden poo" is the reason I don't climb.
3) More proof that hypersensitive PC-ness turns normal people into a bunch of histrionic, thin-skinned, tantrum-prone toddlers. A civil society of mutual respect should not require becoming as duplicitous and mealy-mouthed as... I'll say it ... a career diplomat. However, if you disagree, you'll be comforted by this Mark Steyn article from the Telegraph. As violent crime continues rising in England, miscreants like Sam Brown are pounced upon by six officers and a fleet of patrol cars, jailed overnight, and fined for speculating on the sexual orientation of an officer's horse.
4) In a topic I've ranted on before, Anne Applebaum of the Washington Post points out that the greatest increases in airport security have come from the airlines themselves. Current security screening is intrusive, time-consuming, costly, and doesn't work. Our latest father and son tag team of aspiring dirty-bombers from California were discovered through their patterns of international travel. We should re-privatize airline security. We'd get rid of the patdowns of 8 and 80-year olds, increase the technology in luggage and cargo screening, and put security personnel to work gathering intelligence not plastic buckets.
5) The celebrated American character isn't extinct yet. A grandmother gets stuck in her bathtub for five days. A friendly neighbor kid notices her absence and actually gets help. Her family isn't suing the bathtub maker, they're buying handrails. And our plucky heroine celebrates her freedom from porcelain with a Parliament 100 and a Coke. Rock on!
Today, I was walking the dogs just as the sprinkling rain began. Suddenly, I spied an inchworm working its way along the sidewalk to 2nd Ave, perhaps for cocktails at donatella&davidburke? Its signature locomotion was as cheery and wonderful to see as it was incongruous in this cement Legoland. May one of the following delight you.
1) Walter Williams takes on the newest cash cow, safety belt laws. I hate the ones I'm required to wear, and resist the back seat versions even though people have recently told me gruesome, true stories about life-changing accidents. Thank goodness I'm still free to be backwards.
2) It's not my fear of heights. The "virus-laden poo" is the reason I don't climb.
3) More proof that hypersensitive PC-ness turns normal people into a bunch of histrionic, thin-skinned, tantrum-prone toddlers. A civil society of mutual respect should not require becoming as duplicitous and mealy-mouthed as... I'll say it ... a career diplomat. However, if you disagree, you'll be comforted by this Mark Steyn article from the Telegraph. As violent crime continues rising in England, miscreants like Sam Brown are pounced upon by six officers and a fleet of patrol cars, jailed overnight, and fined for speculating on the sexual orientation of an officer's horse.
4) In a topic I've ranted on before, Anne Applebaum of the Washington Post points out that the greatest increases in airport security have come from the airlines themselves. Current security screening is intrusive, time-consuming, costly, and doesn't work. Our latest father and son tag team of aspiring dirty-bombers from California were discovered through their patterns of international travel. We should re-privatize airline security. We'd get rid of the patdowns of 8 and 80-year olds, increase the technology in luggage and cargo screening, and put security personnel to work gathering intelligence not plastic buckets.
5) The celebrated American character isn't extinct yet. A grandmother gets stuck in her bathtub for five days. A friendly neighbor kid notices her absence and actually gets help. Her family isn't suing the bathtub maker, they're buying handrails. And our plucky heroine celebrates her freedom from porcelain with a Parliament 100 and a Coke. Rock on!
Wednesday, June 15, 2005
Improper Convertibles. Mind if My Mind Wanders?
I'm recovering my equilibrium after the gypsy feel of vacationing across multiple destinations. I'll admit that I love the anonymous, nomadic, anything-is-possible freedom that I feel while traveling, but nonetheless, I'm happy to be home. There are big goals to tackle here, and honestly, even just during a week, things have begun unraveling in the homestead. I've got piles of mail to cull, errands and to dos, and my air conditioner started leaking some fluid last night that buckled the parquet floor tiles into splintered teepees.
I'd mentioned awesome convertibles in my last post before vacation. The article I linked did not mention the 2005 Ford Thunderbird , but they should have. I'm sure the 10-best folks had their reasons, but as I traveled the roadways, it was that sleek machine that repeatedly caught my eye. It has that rare quality of looking good from every angle. So often a goofy backend or lousy silhouette disappoints a car that made the angels sing at first view. The Thunderbird's styling was uniformly tasty. Even if it has a slightly European feel compared to the traditional T-bird ideal, it was blissfully appealing whether in my rearview, through the passenger window or as I tailgated. My favorite among the few I saw was a metallic turquoise/sea foam color that I don't see on the website. Probably custom. Ford should add it.
One of the upsides of returning home was I got an e-mail from my friend (whose new novel I pimped in the same pre-vacation post) asking whether I'd be interested in writing a little book review. The magazine concerned is called The Improper and claims to be "a view askew from Manhattan to Montauk." But looking at the cover, doesn't it seem almost staid to cover the Hamptons by reporting on shiny hotties with names from Page Six? Anyhoo, no staff member had time to read the book before deadline today thus creating an interesting opportunity for me. Being the fiction writing type, I have accumulated zero in the way of press clips, so I was eager to get one. I'll take any validation, really, but more on that later. To date, my only other presence in a periodical was a candid photo topping an article about a hair salon I visit that appeared in a freebie gay weekly in Chelsea. You can't recognize the head's me without knowing, but since it's not entirely the kind of thing I could send to my grandmother without significant editing and explanation, it's probably for the best.
I don't know whether the approach I took for the Improper's minireview- yes, even 200 words requires an angle- suits their skew, but I liked it. My friend seems happy with it, and it wasn't too much to write compared to the quantity of blather I produce here on a semi-regular basis. My problem is not producing quantity, it's the time to make it usable. Those two paragraphs, not styled like my fiction, but for publication I hope, took me at least four hours. I merely begin with writing. The enduringly painful part is when I revise, re-edit, reread, repeat. Back to my validation whine.
There are established career writers who are not terrific craftspeople. But once you've got a publisher and audience that accept your style, you can concentrate on creating other aspects of your story like plot and pace. I tool and retool my style, because I don't have anyone to tell me to stop, that it's good enough, that I could safely transition to improving my craft as I go. My fiction style is different from what's here. Quite. Probably why I enjoy the relative looseness of this venue. Oh, I haphazardly correct for basic grammar, punctuation, and typos, but I don't agonize over sentence variation, paragraph structure, parallelism, sequencing, word choice and all the other possible permutations that allow a page of fiction to consume hours of concentration.
I still hope that I'll become better at what I do, turn a corner, and experience streamlined creativity as opposed to this microscopically self-conscious process. How I'd love to focus on storytelling, far beyond this phase of endlessly dissecting the page's every squiggly bit of detritus. I understand that the writing must be a fitting vessel for the story, but some people seem to deal with it effortlessly like great jazz musicians improvise. They don't worry about whether they're playing triplets, their minds are on the tune. Not me. Not yet. So I must get back to work. As my old boss used to say: Enjoy Your Life and Goodbye.
I'd mentioned awesome convertibles in my last post before vacation. The article I linked did not mention the 2005 Ford Thunderbird , but they should have. I'm sure the 10-best folks had their reasons, but as I traveled the roadways, it was that sleek machine that repeatedly caught my eye. It has that rare quality of looking good from every angle. So often a goofy backend or lousy silhouette disappoints a car that made the angels sing at first view. The Thunderbird's styling was uniformly tasty. Even if it has a slightly European feel compared to the traditional T-bird ideal, it was blissfully appealing whether in my rearview, through the passenger window or as I tailgated. My favorite among the few I saw was a metallic turquoise/sea foam color that I don't see on the website. Probably custom. Ford should add it.
One of the upsides of returning home was I got an e-mail from my friend (whose new novel I pimped in the same pre-vacation post) asking whether I'd be interested in writing a little book review. The magazine concerned is called The Improper and claims to be "a view askew from Manhattan to Montauk." But looking at the cover, doesn't it seem almost staid to cover the Hamptons by reporting on shiny hotties with names from Page Six? Anyhoo, no staff member had time to read the book before deadline today thus creating an interesting opportunity for me. Being the fiction writing type, I have accumulated zero in the way of press clips, so I was eager to get one. I'll take any validation, really, but more on that later. To date, my only other presence in a periodical was a candid photo topping an article about a hair salon I visit that appeared in a freebie gay weekly in Chelsea. You can't recognize the head's me without knowing, but since it's not entirely the kind of thing I could send to my grandmother without significant editing and explanation, it's probably for the best.
I don't know whether the approach I took for the Improper's minireview- yes, even 200 words requires an angle- suits their skew, but I liked it. My friend seems happy with it, and it wasn't too much to write compared to the quantity of blather I produce here on a semi-regular basis. My problem is not producing quantity, it's the time to make it usable. Those two paragraphs, not styled like my fiction, but for publication I hope, took me at least four hours. I merely begin with writing. The enduringly painful part is when I revise, re-edit, reread, repeat. Back to my validation whine.
There are established career writers who are not terrific craftspeople. But once you've got a publisher and audience that accept your style, you can concentrate on creating other aspects of your story like plot and pace. I tool and retool my style, because I don't have anyone to tell me to stop, that it's good enough, that I could safely transition to improving my craft as I go. My fiction style is different from what's here. Quite. Probably why I enjoy the relative looseness of this venue. Oh, I haphazardly correct for basic grammar, punctuation, and typos, but I don't agonize over sentence variation, paragraph structure, parallelism, sequencing, word choice and all the other possible permutations that allow a page of fiction to consume hours of concentration.
I still hope that I'll become better at what I do, turn a corner, and experience streamlined creativity as opposed to this microscopically self-conscious process. How I'd love to focus on storytelling, far beyond this phase of endlessly dissecting the page's every squiggly bit of detritus. I understand that the writing must be a fitting vessel for the story, but some people seem to deal with it effortlessly like great jazz musicians improvise. They don't worry about whether they're playing triplets, their minds are on the tune. Not me. Not yet. So I must get back to work. As my old boss used to say: Enjoy Your Life and Goodbye.
Tuesday, June 14, 2005
Gassy Communists, Hatin' Socialized Medicine (redux), and Wacky Nigerians
I am back and scatterbrained. However, in my absence, such nuggets of goodness have accumulated in the browser and inbox that I have much to share. Thanks to April and the Scrivener especially. While I was narrowly focused on the trivia of local landscapes, the international world blazed with interest.
1) British expats who've retired to the cheap, sunny eastern coast of Spain are losing their patience for being repeatedly gassed in their homes and robbed by feuding international criminal gangs while unconscious. Do tell. Vigilante patrols are the result. (Registration to the Telegraph may be necessary to read this, but the process isn't too intrusive and worthwhile since their content is reliably provocative.) Do you think that Europeans might ever become concerned enough with the condition of their own communities that they stop ignoring decay or fainting into the spindly arms of the Barney Fife-like state at every sign of lawlessness?
2) Since you've already registered, you can read this piece by Mark Steyn on the fascinatingly and innately camoflaged nature of Chinese society and how the Communist Party may yet puncture the illusion of the industrial powerhouse. This reminds me of a friend from Hong Kong who described to me how schoolgirls from the wealthiest families had special silks and even fur sewn into the linings of their uniforms. The richness was for secret and personal delectation, not public knowledge. This canny reticence about revealing the true nature of things is inculcated from childhood, and only underscores how confident prediction about the future of this world power defies the prudent.
3) HA! And HA again! It's unkind to dwell on I-Told-Yous while people suffer needlessly, but I applaud the Canadian Supreme Court's landmark decision slamming their national health care. George Zeliotis of Quebec, a patriot in my view, was denied replacement of a painfully arthritic hip for a year (shades of Sweden's Prime Minister anyone?) and was also informed that it was illegal to leave the coutry for health care or to pay for surgery through private insurance. Instead of quietly skirting the system as so many do- including Canada's Prime Minister who visits a private clinic- Zeliotis took a stand and sued. Canada is the only nation besides Cuba and North Korea to ban private insurance. You'd think the company alone would give the Canucks pause. Noting the deficiencies of quality and timely treatment endemic to their system, the court determined that "access to a waiting list is not access to health care." Three of the seven judges actually wanted to declare the entire national health-care system unconstitutional. This is progress.
As an exercise in contrast, read Michael Barone's article about how in the current American marketplace, HSAs (Health Savings Accounts) are being rapidly adopted by businesses despite Congress' impotent wrangling over absolutely everything. I suppose we should be grateful that while they're deadlocked, they can't make anything worse. Meanwhile, affordable, self-directed health coverage, especially for serious conditions, is quickly and measurably increasing for Americans while overall costs have begun to drop.
4) What would a newscast be without ending on a wacky kicker? In that spirit, I give you an international update from Nigeria where local businesspeople attended seminars at the new Abuja Sheraton ("the running water was a nice touch!) to enhance their effectiveness in e-mail marketing. Topics included:
Are 10 Million e-mails a day Too Many?
Grammatical Errors: What's the Optimal Number?
The effectiveness of using all UPPERCASE letters
With a continental breakfast of two slices of bread, a hard-boiled egg, and a cricket, this five-star event was a slam dunk. More details here.
1) British expats who've retired to the cheap, sunny eastern coast of Spain are losing their patience for being repeatedly gassed in their homes and robbed by feuding international criminal gangs while unconscious. Do tell. Vigilante patrols are the result. (Registration to the Telegraph may be necessary to read this, but the process isn't too intrusive and worthwhile since their content is reliably provocative.) Do you think that Europeans might ever become concerned enough with the condition of their own communities that they stop ignoring decay or fainting into the spindly arms of the Barney Fife-like state at every sign of lawlessness?
2) Since you've already registered, you can read this piece by Mark Steyn on the fascinatingly and innately camoflaged nature of Chinese society and how the Communist Party may yet puncture the illusion of the industrial powerhouse. This reminds me of a friend from Hong Kong who described to me how schoolgirls from the wealthiest families had special silks and even fur sewn into the linings of their uniforms. The richness was for secret and personal delectation, not public knowledge. This canny reticence about revealing the true nature of things is inculcated from childhood, and only underscores how confident prediction about the future of this world power defies the prudent.
3) HA! And HA again! It's unkind to dwell on I-Told-Yous while people suffer needlessly, but I applaud the Canadian Supreme Court's landmark decision slamming their national health care. George Zeliotis of Quebec, a patriot in my view, was denied replacement of a painfully arthritic hip for a year (shades of Sweden's Prime Minister anyone?) and was also informed that it was illegal to leave the coutry for health care or to pay for surgery through private insurance. Instead of quietly skirting the system as so many do- including Canada's Prime Minister who visits a private clinic- Zeliotis took a stand and sued. Canada is the only nation besides Cuba and North Korea to ban private insurance. You'd think the company alone would give the Canucks pause. Noting the deficiencies of quality and timely treatment endemic to their system, the court determined that "access to a waiting list is not access to health care." Three of the seven judges actually wanted to declare the entire national health-care system unconstitutional. This is progress.
As an exercise in contrast, read Michael Barone's article about how in the current American marketplace, HSAs (Health Savings Accounts) are being rapidly adopted by businesses despite Congress' impotent wrangling over absolutely everything. I suppose we should be grateful that while they're deadlocked, they can't make anything worse. Meanwhile, affordable, self-directed health coverage, especially for serious conditions, is quickly and measurably increasing for Americans while overall costs have begun to drop.
4) What would a newscast be without ending on a wacky kicker? In that spirit, I give you an international update from Nigeria where local businesspeople attended seminars at the new Abuja Sheraton ("the running water was a nice touch!) to enhance their effectiveness in e-mail marketing. Topics included:
Are 10 Million e-mails a day Too Many?
Grammatical Errors: What's the Optimal Number?
The effectiveness of using all UPPERCASE letters
With a continental breakfast of two slices of bread, a hard-boiled egg, and a cricket, this five-star event was a slam dunk. More details here.
Friday, June 10, 2005
SC to DC to AC AtLast!
UPDATE: I am now home with adequate facilities to fix the myriad errors in the post below. However, I'm leaving the mess as is. First, to demonstrate how the clumsy web TV interface combined with rotten navigation and a keyboard as sticky as a toddler's cheek to create a horrific situation that certainly earns me your pity and a pat on the head. Second, I hope you'll see how much editing I do on your behalf, even to crank out posts at my usual level of error-riddling.
AFter SC, I spentabout two days in Washington D.C., and speedsighted many historic spots under the relentless blaze of the sun. I had underestimated the brigades of matching-shirted young miscreants on summer group trips that would be mocking and sweeating in competition with me at every venue. Many of the monuments were impressive in concept and stonework, but in gneral, the grassy verges bordering such sites as the Vietnam Memorial and surrounding the reflecting pool were raggedly chewed weed islands floating in seas of barren dirt. The Smithsonians were hodge-podge, though Air & Space was cool and the Nat'l Art Gallery notable in both its collection and its sparse attendance. The Lincoln Memorial could mist up anyone, but time and again, the wide vistas and medians of uneven dandelions and drifting brown dust made me wish Frederick Law Olmstead were around today to give our capital the landscaping it deserves.
Leaving D.C. this morning, we headed to Atlantic City to finish the week with decadence. On the way through Maryland, Delaware, and New Jersy, I saw a few items of note. I saw a graveyard with a huge number of heart-shaped headstones in pink granite to the extent it looked like it had become a local fad. I saw a trailer park being advertised in a way I'd never seen before, as a "picnic grove community." And I saw the worst name for a 55+ retirement development ever: Cranberry Run.
Having learned more about our nation through exhibits and mileage, having arrived safely at Bally's where a foully designed web TV device with a sticky keyboard and lousy controller just barely allows me to check in briefly, I'm going to wish you all well and hit the tables! My America in her grandeur and squalor. How I love her.
AFter SC, I spentabout two days in Washington D.C., and speedsighted many historic spots under the relentless blaze of the sun. I had underestimated the brigades of matching-shirted young miscreants on summer group trips that would be mocking and sweeating in competition with me at every venue. Many of the monuments were impressive in concept and stonework, but in gneral, the grassy verges bordering such sites as the Vietnam Memorial and surrounding the reflecting pool were raggedly chewed weed islands floating in seas of barren dirt. The Smithsonians were hodge-podge, though Air & Space was cool and the Nat'l Art Gallery notable in both its collection and its sparse attendance. The Lincoln Memorial could mist up anyone, but time and again, the wide vistas and medians of uneven dandelions and drifting brown dust made me wish Frederick Law Olmstead were around today to give our capital the landscaping it deserves.
Leaving D.C. this morning, we headed to Atlantic City to finish the week with decadence. On the way through Maryland, Delaware, and New Jersy, I saw a few items of note. I saw a graveyard with a huge number of heart-shaped headstones in pink granite to the extent it looked like it had become a local fad. I saw a trailer park being advertised in a way I'd never seen before, as a "picnic grove community." And I saw the worst name for a 55+ retirement development ever: Cranberry Run.
Having learned more about our nation through exhibits and mileage, having arrived safely at Bally's where a foully designed web TV device with a sticky keyboard and lousy controller just barely allows me to check in briefly, I'm going to wish you all well and hit the tables! My America in her grandeur and squalor. How I love her.
Wednesday, June 08, 2005
Gator Blogging to D.C.
This is my first chance with serious wifi access. I think the titling may be rough, but it's working. SC was magnolias and gators and golf, tropical plants, beaches, crustacean buffets and grits. Although I knew there were more golf courses per capita in SC than any other state, apparently they're counting minigolf, too, Driving around Myrtle Beach and environs, I must've seen more than 50 courses myself. My aunt said there are at least 100, and the local chamber of commerce got defensive when the governor said "Charleston has history, and Myrtle Beach has miniature golf." To mollify the room of irate businessmen, the gov backpedaled, explaining, "Some of my best friends play mini golf."
The themes run mainly to jungle/safari and pirate/volcano island with the odd, ancient pyramid-building civilization. And though, after seeing a few, all the astroturfed hills and blue-dyed lagoons and plaster giraffes look the same, I'm sure to experts the nuances are manifold, At the moment, I'm in the airport waiting to fly to D.C. I hope to get proper access and surfability there, and hope to acquire more witty charm by landing, too.
The themes run mainly to jungle/safari and pirate/volcano island with the odd, ancient pyramid-building civilization. And though, after seeing a few, all the astroturfed hills and blue-dyed lagoons and plaster giraffes look the same, I'm sure to experts the nuances are manifold, At the moment, I'm in the airport waiting to fly to D.C. I hope to get proper access and surfability there, and hope to acquire more witty charm by landing, too.
Saturday, June 04, 2005
Oh, am I READY for Vacay!
Starting tomorrow, I'll be vacationing in various places along the East coast. Today there's laundry, packing, notes for dogsitter, blah, blah, blah. But in my heart, I'm already there.
I have tested the concept, and I should be able to blog from the road. I have a Palm Tungsten C with wifi, and a little setup from AvantGo that should make it work. I think links and formatting may be a little challenging, but I think it'll be fun to try.
Anyhoo, for today, if you want to get your head into the vacation mindset, here's a survey of lavish, tasty convertibles from MSNBC. The downside is they link you to a Forbes site with annoying splash screens and auto slide shows. Still, seeing some of these beauties is worth a tiny hassle. Which would you pick? It's hard to argue with the Boxster, but I must disagree that the new Mustang relies too much on retro styling. Beauty doesn't go out of style. I've always believed if you put modern automotive technology in some of our favorite classic silhouettes, even as limited editions, you'd need bigger spreadsheets to chart the profits. Look at the VW Bug and PT Cruiser. Make today's responsive, monster-engined muscle car in 1967's Mustang body and you could name your price, I'd say.
What's a vacation without idle reading? This week, a friend of mine, Laura Caldwell, has released her fourth(?) book, Look Closely, a suspense set in a resort town that's perfectly sized to shove into a beach bag for a getaway. Her last effort, The Year of Living Famously, is an effervescent trip through the world of overnight celebrity and, based on the reports of people to whom I've recommended it, a can't-miss choice for sand and sun. But if your tastes run to the grittier, seamier side of Hollywood noir, you can read John Scalzi's Agent to The Stars free online, or order your own hardcopy. Scalzi is also the author of the critically and popularly acclaimed scifi novel, Old Man's War, a fresh tale of old minds in young bodies that many compare to Heinlein and Haldeman. I put links to Amazon pages, but that's not a tacit endorsement, merely a way to display the goodies.
For my plane ride tomorrow, this one: Fade to Blonde from the also retro, but oh-so-hip Hard Case Crime, the home of newly hard-boiled reprints and original paperback issues. At $7 a pop, sporting glorious cover art from masters of the form, you'll want a subscription to receive the newest pulp monthly. I'm planning a rewrite of another manuscript of mine into a more copacetic form that I can pitch to this imprint. Reading every title they've made is simply research. That's right...research.
I'm practically taking a working vacation. How do I expense the sunscreen?
I have tested the concept, and I should be able to blog from the road. I have a Palm Tungsten C with wifi, and a little setup from AvantGo that should make it work. I think links and formatting may be a little challenging, but I think it'll be fun to try.
Anyhoo, for today, if you want to get your head into the vacation mindset, here's a survey of lavish, tasty convertibles from MSNBC. The downside is they link you to a Forbes site with annoying splash screens and auto slide shows. Still, seeing some of these beauties is worth a tiny hassle. Which would you pick? It's hard to argue with the Boxster, but I must disagree that the new Mustang relies too much on retro styling. Beauty doesn't go out of style. I've always believed if you put modern automotive technology in some of our favorite classic silhouettes, even as limited editions, you'd need bigger spreadsheets to chart the profits. Look at the VW Bug and PT Cruiser. Make today's responsive, monster-engined muscle car in 1967's Mustang body and you could name your price, I'd say.
What's a vacation without idle reading? This week, a friend of mine, Laura Caldwell, has released her fourth(?) book, Look Closely, a suspense set in a resort town that's perfectly sized to shove into a beach bag for a getaway. Her last effort, The Year of Living Famously, is an effervescent trip through the world of overnight celebrity and, based on the reports of people to whom I've recommended it, a can't-miss choice for sand and sun. But if your tastes run to the grittier, seamier side of Hollywood noir, you can read John Scalzi's Agent to The Stars free online, or order your own hardcopy. Scalzi is also the author of the critically and popularly acclaimed scifi novel, Old Man's War, a fresh tale of old minds in young bodies that many compare to Heinlein and Haldeman. I put links to Amazon pages, but that's not a tacit endorsement, merely a way to display the goodies.
For my plane ride tomorrow, this one: Fade to Blonde from the also retro, but oh-so-hip Hard Case Crime, the home of newly hard-boiled reprints and original paperback issues. At $7 a pop, sporting glorious cover art from masters of the form, you'll want a subscription to receive the newest pulp monthly. I'm planning a rewrite of another manuscript of mine into a more copacetic form that I can pitch to this imprint. Reading every title they've made is simply research. That's right...research.
I'm practically taking a working vacation. How do I expense the sunscreen?
Friday, June 03, 2005
Can Esteem or Rocking be Taught?
Should I be worried that every current news story reminds me of a rock-n-roll comedy?
1) If you haven't yet seen it, here's the USA Today article surveying the excess of esteem accomodations in modern education from "tugs of peace" to disallowing recess tag since some "victim" has to be "It." The natural, important lessons of maturation are undermined by people who would bubble-wrap childhood, despite the fact that the adult world, where lucky people will spend the vast majority of their lives, is full of sharp corners that grown-ups need to have learned to navigate. Here's a corker:
Purple is replacing red as the color of choice for teachers. Why, you may ask? It seems that educators worry that emphatic red corrections on a homework assignment or test can be stressful, demeaning — even "frightening" for a young person.
This recalled to me a conversation from Spinal Tap about the amp knobs that dialed up to 11, or as Nigel Tufnel pointed out, "One louder." Marty DiBergi asked, "Why don't you just make ten louder and make ten be the top number and make that a little louder?" Reply: "These go to eleven."
What if we make purple the new red and then purple becomes the new frightening color?
I always thought red grading marks were historically used for visibility. In early days of Xeroxing, when it turned out red pen didn't photocopy well, some teachers switched to green which did. At the time, we students didn't get confused even though "green means go" and is the color of springtime and currency. We didn't misunderstand that answers marked in green were not being singled out for celebration, although now I feel my schoolmates and I may have been adaptable in ways considered inconceivable today. Our unique resilience aside, I'm suprised that experts haven't advocated lavender scenting to accompany the ink's color for the aromatherapy benefits to students' jangled nerves.
2) There is a documentary called Rock School. The site lauches with annoying music (bad design) which you can stifle by clicking the Dude with Amp icon in the lower right corner. Apparently there's a real place in Philly where Paul Green aims to cultivate rock's future heroes as graded by inches of coverage Rolling Stone, a crummy way to judge music in my view. Maybe this is all a great idea, but I'm not sure you can force lightning into a bottle that way.
I laughed like a loon during Jack Black's comedy, School of Rock. But part of what was so funny was the absurdity of turning rock into study modules, flow charts, and Venn diagrams. Jimi Hendrix ergo Lenny Kravitz carpe Joplin sum Zeppelin. The kids in that movie were carefully selected musicians with rock backgrounds, except for the classical keyboardist (playing a classical keyboardist) who had to learn off-screen how not to simply follow the score, but to internalize and emulate the rhythmic rolls of the Doors' Ray Manzarek.
Not all, but most rock is composed of simple forms, like blues, country, and gospel are. There are musical wizards who elevate the complexity and technicality, but it isn't necessary in order to make heart-wrenchingly wonderful music. Nuances of expression within simplicity are what either rock your socks off or fall flat. Far from being the result of polished calculation, new sounds and techniques often come from the ignorant work-arounds of self-taught and/or impoverished musicians. Putting together rock bands like choreographed pop horrors can't guarantee a rockin' product even if it helps the kids' musicianship, which is a worthwhile goal on its own merit. But far more elusive than mere catchiness is the rock song that hauls a$$ to Boot Stompintown.
I prefer the classic model of youths in garages and basements. Soundproofing, paying too much for lousy equipment, having fun, writing songs, fighting over band names and logos, breaking up, changing members, getting better, and figuring out what your unique contribution is as you ride Mother Nature's own rock band continuum.
1) If you haven't yet seen it, here's the USA Today article surveying the excess of esteem accomodations in modern education from "tugs of peace" to disallowing recess tag since some "victim" has to be "It." The natural, important lessons of maturation are undermined by people who would bubble-wrap childhood, despite the fact that the adult world, where lucky people will spend the vast majority of their lives, is full of sharp corners that grown-ups need to have learned to navigate. Here's a corker:
Purple is replacing red as the color of choice for teachers. Why, you may ask? It seems that educators worry that emphatic red corrections on a homework assignment or test can be stressful, demeaning — even "frightening" for a young person.
This recalled to me a conversation from Spinal Tap about the amp knobs that dialed up to 11, or as Nigel Tufnel pointed out, "One louder." Marty DiBergi asked, "Why don't you just make ten louder and make ten be the top number and make that a little louder?" Reply: "These go to eleven."
What if we make purple the new red and then purple becomes the new frightening color?
I always thought red grading marks were historically used for visibility. In early days of Xeroxing, when it turned out red pen didn't photocopy well, some teachers switched to green which did. At the time, we students didn't get confused even though "green means go" and is the color of springtime and currency. We didn't misunderstand that answers marked in green were not being singled out for celebration, although now I feel my schoolmates and I may have been adaptable in ways considered inconceivable today. Our unique resilience aside, I'm suprised that experts haven't advocated lavender scenting to accompany the ink's color for the aromatherapy benefits to students' jangled nerves.
2) There is a documentary called Rock School. The site lauches with annoying music (bad design) which you can stifle by clicking the Dude with Amp icon in the lower right corner. Apparently there's a real place in Philly where Paul Green aims to cultivate rock's future heroes as graded by inches of coverage Rolling Stone, a crummy way to judge music in my view. Maybe this is all a great idea, but I'm not sure you can force lightning into a bottle that way.
I laughed like a loon during Jack Black's comedy, School of Rock. But part of what was so funny was the absurdity of turning rock into study modules, flow charts, and Venn diagrams. Jimi Hendrix ergo Lenny Kravitz carpe Joplin sum Zeppelin. The kids in that movie were carefully selected musicians with rock backgrounds, except for the classical keyboardist (playing a classical keyboardist) who had to learn off-screen how not to simply follow the score, but to internalize and emulate the rhythmic rolls of the Doors' Ray Manzarek.
Not all, but most rock is composed of simple forms, like blues, country, and gospel are. There are musical wizards who elevate the complexity and technicality, but it isn't necessary in order to make heart-wrenchingly wonderful music. Nuances of expression within simplicity are what either rock your socks off or fall flat. Far from being the result of polished calculation, new sounds and techniques often come from the ignorant work-arounds of self-taught and/or impoverished musicians. Putting together rock bands like choreographed pop horrors can't guarantee a rockin' product even if it helps the kids' musicianship, which is a worthwhile goal on its own merit. But far more elusive than mere catchiness is the rock song that hauls a$$ to Boot Stompintown.
I prefer the classic model of youths in garages and basements. Soundproofing, paying too much for lousy equipment, having fun, writing songs, fighting over band names and logos, breaking up, changing members, getting better, and figuring out what your unique contribution is as you ride Mother Nature's own rock band continuum.
Thursday, June 02, 2005
The Skunk of Trust. The Hazzards of Marriage.
Last night, I was talking to a friend, an artist and writer who actually doesn't hit the internet like a crack monkey after its fix pellets- unlike whom?
I introduced her to the idea of blogs. She was delighted to learn how they assist international exchange, reasoned debates and unstructured conversations. I described how blogs give people a safe way to reach out to others sharing their deeply personal concerns. I told her how they've allowed people on the ground in remote places and oppressive situations to become citizen journalists, how the distributed nature allows truths to filter to the surface quickly in the maelstrom of reactions. It was wonderful to restate for virgin ears what invigorates me about the fabulousness of the blogosphere, even if after all that, the sort of thing that I try to do here seems spindly by comparison. But it's an exciting world, right? And better that screwdrivers don't try to become hammers. So here's today's contrarian jumble.
1) Scientists are studying whether oxytocin is a hormone that helps people trust each other. "Of course, this finding could be misused," said Ernst Fehr of the University of Zurich, the senior researcher in the study, which appears in Thursday's issue of the journal Nature. No offense, Ernie, but you might be getting beyond yourself here.
There's a BIG difference between getting people to gamble away near-worthless experimental "monetary units" without consequence and getting them to trust in situations with real stakes. Also, should I have to point out that the less than 200 subjects were all 20-something men, a pretty nonrepresentative sample whose "trust" only increased 17% over the control group? I believe if the "trustee" were an attractive coed in a low-cut blouse versus a science geek, we could induce a greater change in behaviors than that. Don't get me wrong, the area of inquiry is interesting, but extremely preliminary. So am I alone in perceiving the article's lede as a trifle overheated?
Trust in a bottle? It sounds like a marketer's fantasy, like the fabled fountain of youth or the wild claims of fad diets. Yet that's what Swiss and American scientists demonstrate in new experiments with a nasal spray containing the hormone oxytocin... The researchers acknowledged their findings could be abused by con artists or even sleazy politicians who might sway an election, provided they could squirt enough voters on their way to the polls.
I just adore when they sex up the science and distort the results, don't you? But let's say we have now spawned a rash of cheats and crooks squirting people randomly. It's downright irresponsible not to cover how long the affect lasts and how you control the object of someone's trust. It's like this reporter and these researchers haven't even watched Love Potion No. 9.
2) This is the man who won the job as VP of the Dukes of Hazzard Institute. I'd been following the story since encouraging a friend and occasional reader to apply for the position. Well you'll have to cry into your Boss Hogg commemorative pillow, Daisy, 'cause it's too doggone late now. (HT: KJL, The Corner)
3) I'm traveling soon to celebrate a couple's 65th wedding anniversary, but they're pikers compared to the record holders, 100 year-old Florence whose been married to 105 year-old Percy for 80 years. (HT: ditto)
4) Who says rockers aren't smart? Still, we knew the genuis wouldn't be a drummer, didn't we? Jeff "Skunk" Baxter played with Steely Dan and the Doobie Brothers, but now he's one of our nation's top (self-taught) counter terrorism experts who began with his first crack at a rudimentary missle defense system. WOW, Skunk. That is some righteous gray matter, dude. (HT: PowerLine)
I introduced her to the idea of blogs. She was delighted to learn how they assist international exchange, reasoned debates and unstructured conversations. I described how blogs give people a safe way to reach out to others sharing their deeply personal concerns. I told her how they've allowed people on the ground in remote places and oppressive situations to become citizen journalists, how the distributed nature allows truths to filter to the surface quickly in the maelstrom of reactions. It was wonderful to restate for virgin ears what invigorates me about the fabulousness of the blogosphere, even if after all that, the sort of thing that I try to do here seems spindly by comparison. But it's an exciting world, right? And better that screwdrivers don't try to become hammers. So here's today's contrarian jumble.
1) Scientists are studying whether oxytocin is a hormone that helps people trust each other. "Of course, this finding could be misused," said Ernst Fehr of the University of Zurich, the senior researcher in the study, which appears in Thursday's issue of the journal Nature. No offense, Ernie, but you might be getting beyond yourself here.
There's a BIG difference between getting people to gamble away near-worthless experimental "monetary units" without consequence and getting them to trust in situations with real stakes. Also, should I have to point out that the less than 200 subjects were all 20-something men, a pretty nonrepresentative sample whose "trust" only increased 17% over the control group? I believe if the "trustee" were an attractive coed in a low-cut blouse versus a science geek, we could induce a greater change in behaviors than that. Don't get me wrong, the area of inquiry is interesting, but extremely preliminary. So am I alone in perceiving the article's lede as a trifle overheated?
Trust in a bottle? It sounds like a marketer's fantasy, like the fabled fountain of youth or the wild claims of fad diets. Yet that's what Swiss and American scientists demonstrate in new experiments with a nasal spray containing the hormone oxytocin... The researchers acknowledged their findings could be abused by con artists or even sleazy politicians who might sway an election, provided they could squirt enough voters on their way to the polls.
I just adore when they sex up the science and distort the results, don't you? But let's say we have now spawned a rash of cheats and crooks squirting people randomly. It's downright irresponsible not to cover how long the affect lasts and how you control the object of someone's trust. It's like this reporter and these researchers haven't even watched Love Potion No. 9.
2) This is the man who won the job as VP of the Dukes of Hazzard Institute. I'd been following the story since encouraging a friend and occasional reader to apply for the position. Well you'll have to cry into your Boss Hogg commemorative pillow, Daisy, 'cause it's too doggone late now. (HT: KJL, The Corner)
3) I'm traveling soon to celebrate a couple's 65th wedding anniversary, but they're pikers compared to the record holders, 100 year-old Florence whose been married to 105 year-old Percy for 80 years. (HT: ditto)
4) Who says rockers aren't smart? Still, we knew the genuis wouldn't be a drummer, didn't we? Jeff "Skunk" Baxter played with Steely Dan and the Doobie Brothers, but now he's one of our nation's top (self-taught) counter terrorism experts who began with his first crack at a rudimentary missle defense system. WOW, Skunk. That is some righteous gray matter, dude. (HT: PowerLine)
Wednesday, June 01, 2005
My Own Mercurial Carnival. Librarians Rule!
Editorial UPDATE: Even with my jazzman lifestyle, this post was ready hours and hours ago, but I couldn't publish. My cable connection seems to have an internal setting tripped when I've expended the most effort that I'm least likely to wish to duplicate, and my internet service subsequently goes belly-up with what I perceive as a smirk on its LCD. Now I'm at the local Wifi coffee bar with the rest of the Smendricks, because I'm too mulish to give up some things even when I really should. UPDATE 2: My laptop's infinitesimally short battery life means I'm back home now. Still trying. I must've succeeded if you can read the following.
Thanks to all those who stopped by for the first time yesterday! Today's mish-mash shows how far I can surf down an indulgent rabbit hole from one, puny notion. Here's how it happened.
I read through the medical carnival, Grand Rounds , yesterday, not just to see my own blog's nifty name in red letters again, but skimming for interesting items as I'm wont to do. I found Overlawyered's demands by "disabled" doctors (read to see whether you'd like any of these incompetent whiners as your physician). I also found my way to Respectful Insolence's scientifically meaty debunking of the highly-publicized hypothesis that asserts unproven mercury poisoning from vaccinations is the cause of autism. Orac, the M.D. who "knows", points out that autistic children simply don't "demonstrate the known symptoms of mercury toxicity." By contrast, the victims in this Telegraph article do, but it's because mercury is one type of poison the grande dame of mystery, P.D. James, discusses in her review of the crime writer's resource, The Elements of Murder.
I myself have ranted recently about the dangers of discouraging childhood vaccination in developing countries and even our own. Partly as a result of reactionary vaccine hype, our benevolent friend polio's making a comeback. So perhaps we can forgive Scarlett Johansson, star of the new cloning thriller, The Island, for not knowing it was ever gone. "I mean, if they could eliminate diseases like Alzheimer's and polio that would be incredible. On the same note, people may say you're playing with fate or the idea of people creating a master race or being able to choose their children's eye colour - and that seems quite strange to me. However, I think that the positive outweighs the negative." Maybe, Scarlett, but here's an MSNBC article on bioethics wondering whether Bill Gates (or other geeky innovative types) would have been allowed to be born if prospective parents could delete all variations from normalcy.
In scifi TV and movies, the members of the alien horde always resemble each other. I was going to find a link to demonstrate, but you try searching "star trek aliens" and see how much miscellaneous crap you get. Anyway, they show up like a marching band, wearing the same outfits, with the same color faces, same antennae and hairstyles or lack therof. Utterly homogenous among themselves, even though the backwards humans still manifest differences in type like Uhura vs. Scottie vs. Sulu. I think Rodenberry was trying to demonstrate that future civilization won't be about optimizing life for unique individuals (liberty is tre' devolutionary) but instead, the future is in achieving genetic standardization. Mediocrity by design, catch the wave!
Anyway, back to my mercury kick. Sure, I found the obvious stuff about the planet and astrological significance (see dates for retrograde at bottom, even if you- like the author- claim not to believe). And there's also an article about NASA's Mercury probe spacecraft, published, interestingly enough, on the English version of the Chinese People's Daily, Xinhua. And here's some tweenage girl's blog , Mercury's Star, neglected since 2002. That's definitely not "active" blogging, if you follow this WSJ article on how blog numbers are tracked. But that's not nearly all! There's the Manhattan Mercury newspaper of Manhattan, Kansas; the women's pro basketball team, the Phoenix Mercury; and the upcoming concept vehicle, the Mercury Meta One, a partially zero-emission (PZEV) hybrid diesel with collision mitigation braking. Whew! When I've got leisure time, all the surfing and culling is fun, even if I did learn that my brother would be allowed to use a page of unsupported pseudohistorical tripe like this as a footnote for a middle-school history paper.
However, when you really need information that's fast and dependable, it can still be frustrating and difficult to know where to go. People need and want repositories of trustworthy, substantiated facts, and they want opinion clearly labeled as such. Internet searching has come lightyears from its origins, but it still takes people of sense to provide intelligent guideposts toward relevant, high-quality sources. I guess what I'm saying is: Reference Librarians Still Rock! (and they're dead sexy, too).
P.S. Here's a story I couldn't wedge into my premise about a dog with a rubber duck in its guts for 5 years. Coherent? Erudite? That's me all the way.
Thanks to all those who stopped by for the first time yesterday! Today's mish-mash shows how far I can surf down an indulgent rabbit hole from one, puny notion. Here's how it happened.
I read through the medical carnival, Grand Rounds , yesterday, not just to see my own blog's nifty name in red letters again, but skimming for interesting items as I'm wont to do. I found Overlawyered's demands by "disabled" doctors (read to see whether you'd like any of these incompetent whiners as your physician). I also found my way to Respectful Insolence's scientifically meaty debunking of the highly-publicized hypothesis that asserts unproven mercury poisoning from vaccinations is the cause of autism. Orac, the M.D. who "knows", points out that autistic children simply don't "demonstrate the known symptoms of mercury toxicity." By contrast, the victims in this Telegraph article do, but it's because mercury is one type of poison the grande dame of mystery, P.D. James, discusses in her review of the crime writer's resource, The Elements of Murder.
I myself have ranted recently about the dangers of discouraging childhood vaccination in developing countries and even our own. Partly as a result of reactionary vaccine hype, our benevolent friend polio's making a comeback. So perhaps we can forgive Scarlett Johansson, star of the new cloning thriller, The Island, for not knowing it was ever gone. "I mean, if they could eliminate diseases like Alzheimer's and polio that would be incredible. On the same note, people may say you're playing with fate or the idea of people creating a master race or being able to choose their children's eye colour - and that seems quite strange to me. However, I think that the positive outweighs the negative." Maybe, Scarlett, but here's an MSNBC article on bioethics wondering whether Bill Gates (or other geeky innovative types) would have been allowed to be born if prospective parents could delete all variations from normalcy.
In scifi TV and movies, the members of the alien horde always resemble each other. I was going to find a link to demonstrate, but you try searching "star trek aliens" and see how much miscellaneous crap you get. Anyway, they show up like a marching band, wearing the same outfits, with the same color faces, same antennae and hairstyles or lack therof. Utterly homogenous among themselves, even though the backwards humans still manifest differences in type like Uhura vs. Scottie vs. Sulu. I think Rodenberry was trying to demonstrate that future civilization won't be about optimizing life for unique individuals (liberty is tre' devolutionary) but instead, the future is in achieving genetic standardization. Mediocrity by design, catch the wave!
Anyway, back to my mercury kick. Sure, I found the obvious stuff about the planet and astrological significance (see dates for retrograde at bottom, even if you- like the author- claim not to believe). And there's also an article about NASA's Mercury probe spacecraft, published, interestingly enough, on the English version of the Chinese People's Daily, Xinhua. And here's some tweenage girl's blog , Mercury's Star, neglected since 2002. That's definitely not "active" blogging, if you follow this WSJ article on how blog numbers are tracked. But that's not nearly all! There's the Manhattan Mercury newspaper of Manhattan, Kansas; the women's pro basketball team, the Phoenix Mercury; and the upcoming concept vehicle, the Mercury Meta One, a partially zero-emission (PZEV) hybrid diesel with collision mitigation braking. Whew! When I've got leisure time, all the surfing and culling is fun, even if I did learn that my brother would be allowed to use a page of unsupported pseudohistorical tripe like this as a footnote for a middle-school history paper.
However, when you really need information that's fast and dependable, it can still be frustrating and difficult to know where to go. People need and want repositories of trustworthy, substantiated facts, and they want opinion clearly labeled as such. Internet searching has come lightyears from its origins, but it still takes people of sense to provide intelligent guideposts toward relevant, high-quality sources. I guess what I'm saying is: Reference Librarians Still Rock! (and they're dead sexy, too).
P.S. Here's a story I couldn't wedge into my premise about a dog with a rubber duck in its guts for 5 years. Coherent? Erudite? That's me all the way.
Tuesday, May 31, 2005
Is it Me or He Who Misses the Point? (Not I)
Okay, I know the grammar of the title is wrong, but I preferred the sound, and so broke the rules. That's a typical fiction writer for you.
Thanks, Dr. Sanity, for adding me to this week's Grand Rounds. See Sense of Soot at the end of the second paragraph of red links. A few of you may laugh when you read it.
Here's an oddball Reuters story about a Welsh reverend who's installing Wi-fi in his church for the pleasant convenience and diversion of attendees of services. Rev. Keith Kimber says, "I have no problem with people quietly sending an email or surfing the Internet in church, as long as they respect the church."
But they won't respect the church if the reverend himself devalues it to nothing more special than a coffee bar. Isn't that the point? We look for diversion when stuck in places we don't respect or despise, like train stations and hospital waiting rooms. If Kimber's loftiest goal is to get butts into seats, regardless of whether the attached consciousnesses are making even token efforts to engage with the presented content, I would suggest a future career in university recruiting where that thin notion of success is lauded.
Those with active minds that wander need peaceful surroundings to keep redirecting our thoughts back to larger, neglected issues of human existence. If you've ever tried to immerse yourself in a movie when a Gameboy player or Blackberry freak's seated next to you in the theatre, how much more difficult will it be to concetrate on the divine with pews of disinterested timekillers paging the box scores and porn on all sides?
Compromises to appease the common majority may be good for fast-food franchises, but lousy policy if Rev. Kimber's goal is to communicate so-called eternal truths. Maybe he'd simply be happy to have the kind of church whose chief products are lively rummage sales and well-attended potlucks. Maybe St. John's already is that kind of church, but a venue is most likely to become a place of special reverence and affection, a place to think uncommon thoughts, when it doesn't reflect the sameness of other spheres of life. What are ever-present are places with cacophanous throngs, employing further noise as background decor, parading short-term dazzles for those with the tastes of magpies and the attention spans of gerbils.
Even aside from our usual environments, the unsacred is carried within our undisciplined minds. Peaceful, beautiful, contemplative quiet is at a premium in current civilization. Reverend Kimber is reinforcing the modern myth that any worthwhile endeavor is material and diversionary. Transcendence beyond that which decays and which fails to feed the spirit's deepest hungers will be just that little bit scarcer and harder to find. Thanks for holding up the side, pal.
Thanks, Dr. Sanity, for adding me to this week's Grand Rounds. See Sense of Soot at the end of the second paragraph of red links. A few of you may laugh when you read it.
Here's an oddball Reuters story about a Welsh reverend who's installing Wi-fi in his church for the pleasant convenience and diversion of attendees of services. Rev. Keith Kimber says, "I have no problem with people quietly sending an email or surfing the Internet in church, as long as they respect the church."
But they won't respect the church if the reverend himself devalues it to nothing more special than a coffee bar. Isn't that the point? We look for diversion when stuck in places we don't respect or despise, like train stations and hospital waiting rooms. If Kimber's loftiest goal is to get butts into seats, regardless of whether the attached consciousnesses are making even token efforts to engage with the presented content, I would suggest a future career in university recruiting where that thin notion of success is lauded.
Those with active minds that wander need peaceful surroundings to keep redirecting our thoughts back to larger, neglected issues of human existence. If you've ever tried to immerse yourself in a movie when a Gameboy player or Blackberry freak's seated next to you in the theatre, how much more difficult will it be to concetrate on the divine with pews of disinterested timekillers paging the box scores and porn on all sides?
Compromises to appease the common majority may be good for fast-food franchises, but lousy policy if Rev. Kimber's goal is to communicate so-called eternal truths. Maybe he'd simply be happy to have the kind of church whose chief products are lively rummage sales and well-attended potlucks. Maybe St. John's already is that kind of church, but a venue is most likely to become a place of special reverence and affection, a place to think uncommon thoughts, when it doesn't reflect the sameness of other spheres of life. What are ever-present are places with cacophanous throngs, employing further noise as background decor, parading short-term dazzles for those with the tastes of magpies and the attention spans of gerbils.
Even aside from our usual environments, the unsacred is carried within our undisciplined minds. Peaceful, beautiful, contemplative quiet is at a premium in current civilization. Reverend Kimber is reinforcing the modern myth that any worthwhile endeavor is material and diversionary. Transcendence beyond that which decays and which fails to feed the spirit's deepest hungers will be just that little bit scarcer and harder to find. Thanks for holding up the side, pal.
Sunday, May 29, 2005
Oh So Brief Holiday Blogging. Pop music blows.
In this AP story, it's reported that a phone ring tone called Crazy Frog Axel F is set to conquer the top of the UK pop charts, edging the latest single by Coldplay.
"Music purists might not be too happy at the prospect of the "Crazy Frog" outselling Coldplay, but it shouldn't come as that much of a surprise when you consider its huge novelty appeal and the massive amount of exposure it is currently getting," said Castaldo.
I've got news for them. There ain't much difference to me. To music purists, or even simply those who like something nonsucky, the drop from Coldplay to Crazy Frog ringtones isn't nearly as far as the headfirst plummet music took to get to Coldplay in the first place. Where the heck is the rocking, the beauty, the angst, the coolness, you puerile vaporheads?!
Eleven year-olds aren't noted for their discernment. Hand the keys of the culture castle to them and the rest of us get nothing cool to see and hear. What we need is a national moratorium on excessive allowances and splurging by guilt-ridden parents. If the disposable income from the pre-pimple set dwindled, the entertainment industry would have to start pitching stuff for grownups, or at least to least high-schoolers. Tell me that high-schoolers can do more than whine and sulk. Tell me they're still capable of grooving or swinging, or- dare I hope- rocking.
I may be shopping in public venues later suffering involuntary music injections from the crappy store sound systems. Barkeep, innoculate me with another shot of Misty Mountain Hop. Please.
"Music purists might not be too happy at the prospect of the "Crazy Frog" outselling Coldplay, but it shouldn't come as that much of a surprise when you consider its huge novelty appeal and the massive amount of exposure it is currently getting," said Castaldo.
I've got news for them. There ain't much difference to me. To music purists, or even simply those who like something nonsucky, the drop from Coldplay to Crazy Frog ringtones isn't nearly as far as the headfirst plummet music took to get to Coldplay in the first place. Where the heck is the rocking, the beauty, the angst, the coolness, you puerile vaporheads?!
Eleven year-olds aren't noted for their discernment. Hand the keys of the culture castle to them and the rest of us get nothing cool to see and hear. What we need is a national moratorium on excessive allowances and splurging by guilt-ridden parents. If the disposable income from the pre-pimple set dwindled, the entertainment industry would have to start pitching stuff for grownups, or at least to least high-schoolers. Tell me that high-schoolers can do more than whine and sulk. Tell me they're still capable of grooving or swinging, or- dare I hope- rocking.
I may be shopping in public venues later suffering involuntary music injections from the crappy store sound systems. Barkeep, innoculate me with another shot of Misty Mountain Hop. Please.
Friday, May 27, 2005
Memorial Day: Will it be Bowling or Beaches?
If you're still stuck at work and surfing the web to survive those last agonizing moments before beginning a three-day weekend, you should cast your mind forward to the holiday fun that awaits.
1) As I said in my competetive eating post, I do consider bowling a sport. At last, someone's made a documentary about these unsung athletes called The League of Ordinary Gentlemen. Christy Lemire's review begins:
It's hard to imagine Tiger Woods scraping ice off the roof of his mobile home after winning The Masters. Or Andy Roddick driving himself to the U.S. Open, then staying in some motel in Queens. Or Alex Rodriguez having to supplement his income with nightly karaoke gigs after Yankees games.
Did she say karaoke? I already knew bowlers rocked! This film reveals the personal trials and triumphs of the kings of the sport and highlights efforts to increase exposure and fan support. As a kid in Texas, I can tell you there were fewer cool and comfy places to hide from the midday's solar strafing than a frigidly airconditioned, unwindowed bowling alley. Bowling alleys combine undeniable climatological comfort with often cheap weekday rate packages, ubiquitous snack bars, and game rooms with arcade machines or at least pool. That's summer fun, ya'll. Roll a few this weekend for the veterans. Among other noble ideals, their sacrifices mean you can enjoy one of America's idiosyncratic leisure subcultures. Beer Frame!
2) For those of you heretics who'd rather celebrate the holiday baking yourselves while covered in goo and laying on grit- too much like breaded catfish fillets for my enjoyment- here's Dr. Beach's review of the top 10 sandy stretches based on 50 different criteria including facilities, management, scientific, and ecologic factors. Has there ever been a popular beach that didn't waft more latrine odor molecules than a NY Subway? The good doctor is actually a scientist in coastal research, but is it a coincidence (or a divine message in billboard-sized letters) that his real surname is Leatherman?
I'm betraying my bias here, but it's probably just my bitterness that my flounder-colored skin doesn't respond to solar radiation with anything but blisters and flakes. Ignore me. Until next week, enjoy the sun, you golden beauties!
1) As I said in my competetive eating post, I do consider bowling a sport. At last, someone's made a documentary about these unsung athletes called The League of Ordinary Gentlemen. Christy Lemire's review begins:
It's hard to imagine Tiger Woods scraping ice off the roof of his mobile home after winning The Masters. Or Andy Roddick driving himself to the U.S. Open, then staying in some motel in Queens. Or Alex Rodriguez having to supplement his income with nightly karaoke gigs after Yankees games.
Did she say karaoke? I already knew bowlers rocked! This film reveals the personal trials and triumphs of the kings of the sport and highlights efforts to increase exposure and fan support. As a kid in Texas, I can tell you there were fewer cool and comfy places to hide from the midday's solar strafing than a frigidly airconditioned, unwindowed bowling alley. Bowling alleys combine undeniable climatological comfort with often cheap weekday rate packages, ubiquitous snack bars, and game rooms with arcade machines or at least pool. That's summer fun, ya'll. Roll a few this weekend for the veterans. Among other noble ideals, their sacrifices mean you can enjoy one of America's idiosyncratic leisure subcultures. Beer Frame!
2) For those of you heretics who'd rather celebrate the holiday baking yourselves while covered in goo and laying on grit- too much like breaded catfish fillets for my enjoyment- here's Dr. Beach's review of the top 10 sandy stretches based on 50 different criteria including facilities, management, scientific, and ecologic factors. Has there ever been a popular beach that didn't waft more latrine odor molecules than a NY Subway? The good doctor is actually a scientist in coastal research, but is it a coincidence (or a divine message in billboard-sized letters) that his real surname is Leatherman?
I'm betraying my bias here, but it's probably just my bitterness that my flounder-colored skin doesn't respond to solar radiation with anything but blisters and flakes. Ignore me. Until next week, enjoy the sun, you golden beauties!
Thursday, May 26, 2005
Talking to Myself
Sometimes, dear Reader (meaning me), I know I'm only talking to myself here. Just whistling a tune in a graveyard where the only people who might relate are the artists and philosophers whose sayings I collect in a little notebook. Luckily, they're mostly dead strangers, or they might rightly consider themselves above such an unwilling exchange with me.
I have more unproven ideas than energy. I mistrust my capacity to execute. Even minimal acknowledgement, much less success, seems distant and hardly inevitable. This is whining and compaining, I admit. But even this doubt and grimness serve as a kind of fuel for working.
It's tempting to escape to my balcony, try to pick up a smoking habit, and give up the day to drinking. Of course I won't. But not because I feel myself to be so gifted that I would deprive the world if I didn't keep trying. In fact, I'm less comparatively sure of my own talents than ever. No, today I'll do at least a couple things for my unborn career because I've grown too stubborn to quit. And because I acknowledge that in borrowing support from those who care about me, my freedom to pursue this folly is an inestimable luxury. Further, I'm unwilling to give up my identity as a writer despite the fact many people find my current claim to it illegitimate. I'm resisting the permanence of failure even though I know it's a strong possibility.
No one will be harmed if I stop. No one will be saved if I succeed. That is the truth of most writing, perhaps especially fiction. But what remains within this formless, meaningless endeavor is a little spark that I experience as purpose. This silly thing I've found that feels like what I'm supposed to do. So I'll do it. Knowing there are a thousand ways I could be more useful to the world that all seem worthwhile but false.
Thanks, me. I needed that.
I have more unproven ideas than energy. I mistrust my capacity to execute. Even minimal acknowledgement, much less success, seems distant and hardly inevitable. This is whining and compaining, I admit. But even this doubt and grimness serve as a kind of fuel for working.
It's tempting to escape to my balcony, try to pick up a smoking habit, and give up the day to drinking. Of course I won't. But not because I feel myself to be so gifted that I would deprive the world if I didn't keep trying. In fact, I'm less comparatively sure of my own talents than ever. No, today I'll do at least a couple things for my unborn career because I've grown too stubborn to quit. And because I acknowledge that in borrowing support from those who care about me, my freedom to pursue this folly is an inestimable luxury. Further, I'm unwilling to give up my identity as a writer despite the fact many people find my current claim to it illegitimate. I'm resisting the permanence of failure even though I know it's a strong possibility.
No one will be harmed if I stop. No one will be saved if I succeed. That is the truth of most writing, perhaps especially fiction. But what remains within this formless, meaningless endeavor is a little spark that I experience as purpose. This silly thing I've found that feels like what I'm supposed to do. So I'll do it. Knowing there are a thousand ways I could be more useful to the world that all seem worthwhile but false.
Thanks, me. I needed that.
Wednesday, May 25, 2005
Segmented Sleep and Psychic Tits (cheep, cheep)
After my link-rich and almost coherent posting yesterday on a single topic, I am drained. For the nonce, I must remove to my recamier and napping blanket. Here are topics which may interest. Or not. I'm too spent to care.
1) Hat tip: Arts & Letters daily. What interests me about this New Yorker review of A. Roger Ekirch's At Day's Close: Night in Times Past is not that he took 20 years to write it, though that does make me feel better about my own literary output. What fascinated me was that citing references to first and second sleeps, Ekirch asserts, "until the close of the early modern era, Western Europeans on most evenings experienced two major intervals of sleep bridged by up to an hour or more of wakefulness.” The author references Plutarch to John Locke as evidence of this long-accepted truth, and he also restates a study showing broken sleep developing among people deprived of artificial light. The biological state of the body during this mid-might wakefulness may have been conducive to certain kinds of reflection. So, if you're like me and often experience, long after bedtime, an awakening with inspirations and the compulsion to haunt your own home before returning to sleep, this might explain the phenomenon.
2) I don't have problems with psychics for "entertainment purposes only." For example, here's a link to Ian Rowland, whom I've never seen but I've heard is amazing. He's entertaining, mystifiying, funny and admits his prodigous talent in "mind-reading" represents hard-learned skills in psychology and the fundamentals of magic. I did Tarot card readings at my high school carnival to raise money for the Spanish Club. Bow down to the coolness, really.
Even if I'm skeptical whether most self-professed psychics could sense a reuben sandwich without standing in a deli, people delight in thrill rides, horror movies, and dipping their toes into the paranormal waters. However, they can tend to submerse themselves dangerously when under stress and painful trauma. Here's a Townhall article by John Stossel about psychics, some charging exorbitant fees, clamoring to aid a desperate woman whose sister disappeared. I can only hope there's a special subterranean circle for those who defraud the grieving.
3) You only tolerated the other items to get to this one, didn't you? Well, tits then. Bearded Tits, Long-tailed Tits, Marsh Tits, Sombre Tits, Willow Tits, Crested Tits, Coal Tits, and Blue Tits. Yesterday, Instapundit referenced a blog that caught Reuters mislabeling a nature photo as a blue hummingbird in India, a creature more mythical than the Phoenix. But following nested links, I further discovered in Silflay Hraka's blog, Adventures in Journalism , this older revelation of a sadly misjudged Great Tit.
Boy, the search strings from eleven year-olds are going to drive the traffic today. HA!
1) Hat tip: Arts & Letters daily. What interests me about this New Yorker review of A. Roger Ekirch's At Day's Close: Night in Times Past is not that he took 20 years to write it, though that does make me feel better about my own literary output. What fascinated me was that citing references to first and second sleeps, Ekirch asserts, "until the close of the early modern era, Western Europeans on most evenings experienced two major intervals of sleep bridged by up to an hour or more of wakefulness.” The author references Plutarch to John Locke as evidence of this long-accepted truth, and he also restates a study showing broken sleep developing among people deprived of artificial light. The biological state of the body during this mid-might wakefulness may have been conducive to certain kinds of reflection. So, if you're like me and often experience, long after bedtime, an awakening with inspirations and the compulsion to haunt your own home before returning to sleep, this might explain the phenomenon.
2) I don't have problems with psychics for "entertainment purposes only." For example, here's a link to Ian Rowland, whom I've never seen but I've heard is amazing. He's entertaining, mystifiying, funny and admits his prodigous talent in "mind-reading" represents hard-learned skills in psychology and the fundamentals of magic. I did Tarot card readings at my high school carnival to raise money for the Spanish Club. Bow down to the coolness, really.
Even if I'm skeptical whether most self-professed psychics could sense a reuben sandwich without standing in a deli, people delight in thrill rides, horror movies, and dipping their toes into the paranormal waters. However, they can tend to submerse themselves dangerously when under stress and painful trauma. Here's a Townhall article by John Stossel about psychics, some charging exorbitant fees, clamoring to aid a desperate woman whose sister disappeared. I can only hope there's a special subterranean circle for those who defraud the grieving.
3) You only tolerated the other items to get to this one, didn't you? Well, tits then. Bearded Tits, Long-tailed Tits, Marsh Tits, Sombre Tits, Willow Tits, Crested Tits, Coal Tits, and Blue Tits. Yesterday, Instapundit referenced a blog that caught Reuters mislabeling a nature photo as a blue hummingbird in India, a creature more mythical than the Phoenix. But following nested links, I further discovered in Silflay Hraka's blog, Adventures in Journalism , this older revelation of a sadly misjudged Great Tit.
Boy, the search strings from eleven year-olds are going to drive the traffic today. HA!
Tuesday, May 24, 2005
Sharin' the Hate (of socialized medicine)
The following two stories from across the pond got me thinking about how much I dread and despise the notion of universal, government health care. (Thanks, Scrivener) There are many links, since I wanted to provide some background. I'm not just playing Dixie out my hindquarters on this one.
Here are recent, inciting outrages: "A nine-year-old boy has died after an operation to treat his severe epilepsy was cancelled because Britain's top children's hospital had run out of money." AND "The National Health Service should not have to give life- prolonging treatment to every patient who demands it because that would mean a crippling waste of resources, the Government said yesterday."
These reminded me of another story announcing the Swedish prime minister delayed his hip surgery for 8 months in order to demonstrate solidarity with the common Swede who pays taxes for the privilege of waiting in line for medical aid. Of course, when the press release touting the P.M.'s egalitarianism was announced, no one mentioned how the pain and impediment might affect the quality of the job he was supposed to be doing for his constituents (or that living with treatable pain isn't a humane burden to inflict on anyone in the name of "care"). Here's a Canadian couple who, instead of waiting for the wheels of their system to grind, flew to Belgium and (gasp) paid for their own surgeries by refinancing their mortgage. They call it "the best investment they've ever made."
People gripe and huff about American Big Pharma, portraying the industry as an evil cabal seeking to gouge the sick and vulnerable out of their last dimes. This spin exists despite the fact that drug spending as a portion of health care hasn't increased since 1960 and pharmaceutical management of medical conditions often reduces the need for more drastic and expensive treatments later. Another fact many don't consider is that new drugs or devices can take 15 years of expensive investment before getting to market while many in development never make it at all. Also, since generic drugs can legally be manufactured 7 years after the original is marketed, there is a limited window of time for corporations to recoup their initial investment and make the profits required to fund new research.
Glaxo Smith-Kline wants you to know that Pharma profit margins aren't higher than other American industries who aren't simliarly resented. GSK also posts their own argument as to why price controls stifle innovation and reduce quality of care. But many simply assume that scientists working for corporations, as opposed to universally benevolent institutions like academia or the government, don't care whether their work helps humanity, and these unethical Frankensteins let their money-grubbing bosses' agendas overwhelm their attachment to reason and their vocations.
However, a BIG factor in this debate which I don't see covered enough is that another reason for the high price of American pharma is that we actually SUBSIDIZE socialized medicine abroad! Our Congress has actually passed international trade agreements that mean American pharma can't negotiate decent prices for their products in countries with centralized health spending. If you weren't aware of it, read this Senate policy paper stating, "Many of today’s industrialized countries impose strict price controls on pharmaceuticals despite their developed economies. These price-control policies inhibit fair and equal market access between the United States and its trading partners, causing U.S. consumers to shoulder a disproportionate share of the increased worldwide spending on pharmaceuticals." We've been propping up other countries' still-collapsing, shoddy medical services with Cadillac drugs sold to them at Yugo prices. And that means the prices are higher here in the free market to compensate for the inequity elsewhere.
My takeways:
1) If I'm ill, I don't want any bureau dictating which treatments I'm able to consider. I don't want anyone deciding for me whether I have adequate quality of life to merit its continuance. If I'm willing to pay, and to waive my right to punitive litigatory claims should any unorthodox decisions bring me harm, I want access to whatever I think I need. As we've seen, case-by-case decision-making is not easily accomodated by Central Control. But no one is more alone than in suffering, and it's a time when individual cases and desires must reign paramount.
2) If all medical payment comes from a single piggy bank, bureaucratic inefficiency and corruption become endemic and one-size-fits-all treatment plans are a necessity. Citizens begin to lose touch with the direct cost for health, feeling that health is the gov't's concern alone, taking less and less responsibility for their own choices. Haven't we all seen people take something they didn't want just because it was free? When people spend from their own wallets directly, they tend to make more careful determinations, reducing wasteful expenditures and shopping for bargains on essential components. Individuals across various professions can negotiate trade-in-kind with health care providers, and are more likely to feel the spirit to support private health initiatives and charities which can provide customized health care to those in need.
3) Universal Health Coverage would require a national ID and centralized recordkeeping. For many who say they support the idea, these obvious consequences don't seem important, though I keep hearing them yell about the Patriot Act which doesn't yet reach this level of invasiveness. I don't want anyone who can hack a single database to have access to all my personal data and medical history. I don't want some obscure gov't agency to decide behind closed doors that they can include my information in studies without my knowledge. I don't want them to decide to publish my information to someone who they believe (though I may disagree) has a compelling reason to want it. That could be incredibly corrosive to individual liberty and the much-vaunted, though elusive "Right to Privacy."
4) Most people grit their teeth every time they have to suffer through the horrors of governmental administration. IRS, DMV, and passports are all painful, and sometimes unjust, hassles. People who are currently collecting from welfare, Medicaid, and unemployment make legitimate complaints abouts inefficiencies, inability to redress errors, inconsistency and poor quality among the government employees who simply ride out their tenures to retirement, immune to the personal accountability and performance evaluation common in the private sector. Now, we should put our lives in their hands?
If you want more and more health care news and commentary regarding the benefits of the free market and private health care versus centralization, look at Andrew K. Dart's Socialized Medicine page.
Here are recent, inciting outrages: "A nine-year-old boy has died after an operation to treat his severe epilepsy was cancelled because Britain's top children's hospital had run out of money." AND "The National Health Service should not have to give life- prolonging treatment to every patient who demands it because that would mean a crippling waste of resources, the Government said yesterday."
These reminded me of another story announcing the Swedish prime minister delayed his hip surgery for 8 months in order to demonstrate solidarity with the common Swede who pays taxes for the privilege of waiting in line for medical aid. Of course, when the press release touting the P.M.'s egalitarianism was announced, no one mentioned how the pain and impediment might affect the quality of the job he was supposed to be doing for his constituents (or that living with treatable pain isn't a humane burden to inflict on anyone in the name of "care"). Here's a Canadian couple who, instead of waiting for the wheels of their system to grind, flew to Belgium and (gasp) paid for their own surgeries by refinancing their mortgage. They call it "the best investment they've ever made."
People gripe and huff about American Big Pharma, portraying the industry as an evil cabal seeking to gouge the sick and vulnerable out of their last dimes. This spin exists despite the fact that drug spending as a portion of health care hasn't increased since 1960 and pharmaceutical management of medical conditions often reduces the need for more drastic and expensive treatments later. Another fact many don't consider is that new drugs or devices can take 15 years of expensive investment before getting to market while many in development never make it at all. Also, since generic drugs can legally be manufactured 7 years after the original is marketed, there is a limited window of time for corporations to recoup their initial investment and make the profits required to fund new research.
Glaxo Smith-Kline wants you to know that Pharma profit margins aren't higher than other American industries who aren't simliarly resented. GSK also posts their own argument as to why price controls stifle innovation and reduce quality of care. But many simply assume that scientists working for corporations, as opposed to universally benevolent institutions like academia or the government, don't care whether their work helps humanity, and these unethical Frankensteins let their money-grubbing bosses' agendas overwhelm their attachment to reason and their vocations.
However, a BIG factor in this debate which I don't see covered enough is that another reason for the high price of American pharma is that we actually SUBSIDIZE socialized medicine abroad! Our Congress has actually passed international trade agreements that mean American pharma can't negotiate decent prices for their products in countries with centralized health spending. If you weren't aware of it, read this Senate policy paper stating, "Many of today’s industrialized countries impose strict price controls on pharmaceuticals despite their developed economies. These price-control policies inhibit fair and equal market access between the United States and its trading partners, causing U.S. consumers to shoulder a disproportionate share of the increased worldwide spending on pharmaceuticals." We've been propping up other countries' still-collapsing, shoddy medical services with Cadillac drugs sold to them at Yugo prices. And that means the prices are higher here in the free market to compensate for the inequity elsewhere.
My takeways:
1) If I'm ill, I don't want any bureau dictating which treatments I'm able to consider. I don't want anyone deciding for me whether I have adequate quality of life to merit its continuance. If I'm willing to pay, and to waive my right to punitive litigatory claims should any unorthodox decisions bring me harm, I want access to whatever I think I need. As we've seen, case-by-case decision-making is not easily accomodated by Central Control. But no one is more alone than in suffering, and it's a time when individual cases and desires must reign paramount.
2) If all medical payment comes from a single piggy bank, bureaucratic inefficiency and corruption become endemic and one-size-fits-all treatment plans are a necessity. Citizens begin to lose touch with the direct cost for health, feeling that health is the gov't's concern alone, taking less and less responsibility for their own choices. Haven't we all seen people take something they didn't want just because it was free? When people spend from their own wallets directly, they tend to make more careful determinations, reducing wasteful expenditures and shopping for bargains on essential components. Individuals across various professions can negotiate trade-in-kind with health care providers, and are more likely to feel the spirit to support private health initiatives and charities which can provide customized health care to those in need.
3) Universal Health Coverage would require a national ID and centralized recordkeeping. For many who say they support the idea, these obvious consequences don't seem important, though I keep hearing them yell about the Patriot Act which doesn't yet reach this level of invasiveness. I don't want anyone who can hack a single database to have access to all my personal data and medical history. I don't want some obscure gov't agency to decide behind closed doors that they can include my information in studies without my knowledge. I don't want them to decide to publish my information to someone who they believe (though I may disagree) has a compelling reason to want it. That could be incredibly corrosive to individual liberty and the much-vaunted, though elusive "Right to Privacy."
4) Most people grit their teeth every time they have to suffer through the horrors of governmental administration. IRS, DMV, and passports are all painful, and sometimes unjust, hassles. People who are currently collecting from welfare, Medicaid, and unemployment make legitimate complaints abouts inefficiencies, inability to redress errors, inconsistency and poor quality among the government employees who simply ride out their tenures to retirement, immune to the personal accountability and performance evaluation common in the private sector. Now, we should put our lives in their hands?
If you want more and more health care news and commentary regarding the benefits of the free market and private health care versus centralization, look at Andrew K. Dart's Socialized Medicine page.
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