Off to reunite with college pals in St. Louis and celebrate the beginning of another cyclical journey around the blazing yellow orb I have named Herbert. No blogging for a while.
Oh, that's how they get away with charging $5.55 for the lo mein dinner special: it's mostly rice. I was mislead. Good luck convincing me to buy it next time.
Wait, never mind, the rice was only on one side. The other side is chock-full of tasty lo mein. False alarm.
This is great. No really, it is: the mere formation of an organization like the Discovery Institute is an implicit admission that any creationist theories are wholly untenable. Every time counter-evidence mounts to sufficient levels, its strong proponents back off a hair. First, they stubbornly conceded that the world might not have been created exactly 4k years ago. Then it was the begrudging acceptance that it might not have been created in 7 days. Now they've adopted the theory of intelligent design, which accepts the path of evolution, but not the guiding principles.
If you connect the dots, a clear progression emerges towards a sane and rational acceptance of the best available theories (i.e. some form of a secular evolutionary hypothesis) based on the best available evidence (i.e. all logical human knowledge and inquiry... ever), complete with the categorical jettisoning of certain antiquated, vestigial, anachronistic notions regarding the origin of the species first posited around itinerate campfires when the best guess we could muster was to explain our very existence by deifying the frightening noises in the sky that accompanied bright flashes of light during a rainstorm.
If you're on one side of a debate, and you continually reformulate and revise your argument so that each time it appears more and more like your opponent's while they hold firm to (or worse, strengthen) their claim, something's fishy.
Of course, as Kuhn noted, scientific disciplines are fluid, dynamic organisms, undergoing paradigm shifts in mini-revolutions much akin to the biological theory of punctuated equilibrium espoused by Steven Jay Gould and others - in a sense, the body of scientific enquiry itself is always subject to the pressures of evolution, albeit on a much more abstract and intangible level. One (hackneyed) corollary of this progression is that there will be no "ultimate" or final answer (much as biological evolution produces no "final" creature), but instead a continuing path of further investigation and refinement of explanatory schemas. I therefore do not begin to purport that the scientific community will arrive at some all-encompassing and eminently verifiable theory of life, the universe, and everything, merely waiting around and playing MENSA games while the rest of us catch up. I'm just noting that there seem to be a few of us (and by "us", I mean all members of the human race) out there who are lagging by a few millennia, centuries, or decades (not limited to the scope of this particular debate). For every visionary trying to innovate, there's a reactionary trying to stagnate (though this may be a good thing - but I'll save my tirade on the perils of overly-rapid mass change for another day).
Anyway, if Ohio adopts this, then I guess it's time to start saving money for private school.
It's always funny when you stumble upon something with ostensibly revealing implications about your last post(s), even if you were aware of them in the first place.
Didn't we all realize this in high school? Oh well, guess the guy is just trying to sell books, no harm in that.
So it's Christmas again. There's a comforting routine to be found in the usual motions and surroundings of Dec. 25th, and this year is not very different, save for a few key exceptions:
1) the weather outside is indeed frightful (I'm not accustomed to this). A constant sleet practically beckons "come outside if you have a masochistic fetish for pneumonia."
2) I find myself sitting at home in my cozy (read: cramped) apartment celebrating (read: drinking bud light tallboys) Christmas alone for the first time.
Why am I at home alone on this, a day for family? It's really an intricate confluence of several factors (details available upon request), some self-imposed, some circumstantial, and yet others the timely will of the fates. Suffice it to say that if I had really exerted some willpower, I most likely could have made it back to sunny southern California, so if there's a need for culpability, it can be placed squarely on my shoulders.
That's ok. My family may be 3,000 miles away (farther away than Mexico City, and nearly as far as London), but at least I still have my chums upon whom I can always depend to lift spirits*, right?
Regrettably, no. It seems everyone has decided to prioritize their familial mirth above my quixotic need to be entertained, failing to assuage my insipid ennui. The sheer audacity of this act will not easily be forgotten.
I don't mind solitude, though I've never craved it, but I abhor isolation. Admittedly, it's more than a little ironic to claim that I'm stranded all alone (woe is me!) amidst one of the denser* population centers in the country, but I'm not the type to depend on the kindness of strangers. It takes a lot of time and effort for me to forge friendships, but when I do they're usually intensely rewarding and life-long. This being said, one serious danger with having a few tight-knit mates as opposed to a plethora of acquaintances is the significantly stronger likelihood and impact of absence(s). If I had the vast network of a social butterfly, there would no doubt be a few stragglers with whom I could chill* in this freezing rain.
No bother, there are a multitude of alternate means of amusement.
I actually carried on a whole conversation with myself last night, half because the mood was right and half to see what it was like. Oddly, it didn't strike me as abnormally strange. We all tend to have an inner dialogue (the classic image being the devil and angel haughtily perched at the moral and physical extremes of one's shoulders) and verbalizing it wasn't so far of a stretch as to give rise to self-doubts of my sanity.
Next I plan to smear peanut butter over every square inch of my body and single-handedly reenact the battle of Antietam. I shall be the vessel through which General Ambrose Burnside lives anew.
I don't have anything else interesting to say right now.
I woke up this morning feeling like a baker's dozen Indonesian refugees were trying to smuggle themselves into the country via my sinuses. I arrived at work two hours late to find that half the office had contracted the plague as well. We all squarely blame Dorsia (venue for the holiday party), which had uppity wait staff and weak drinks. My productivity has fallen like... [funny simile].
Managed one long-exposure shot at the holiday party. The soothing blue glow of the catwalk almost makes you forget that life is one fleeting, hellish torture session filled with awkward social situations where you feel more comfortable secluding yourself in a corner of the room and taking long-exposure snapshots than forcing small-talk with coworkers who are older, more mature, and far wiser than you are.
Whoa... I swear I have more self-esteem than that last sentence would lead you to believe.
I had a dream last night where my dog Thurston and I saved a woman from being poisoned, by feeding her shredded $5 bills, before fleeing an oncoming forest fire (which was futile, because given her weakened condition, I doubt she could have escaped being consumed by the imminent blaze). I woke up with an irrepressible urge to buy a dog.
I feel I missed out on something by not having a pet when I was younger. My brother had a hamster, but it died quickly, leaving us knee-deep in plastic rodent enclosures and surplus gnawing sticks. It's too bad, because that really would have been the ideal time to have a high(er)-maintenance animal around the house: I could have gradually learned how to care for it while not having primary responsibility. If I had been primed with the experience early on, I might have a little more confidence in my ability to care for another living thing (current confidence index: 0).
Perhaps I'm just a bit lonely because my roommate and most of my friends are out of town. Regardless, if I ever get a dog, it will be named Thurston.
Hey, I've got a really cool idea: everybody should choose a trilobite order and suborder with which to align themselves, then all the groups should fight in a massive battle royal to determine which trilobite order reigns supreme!
The horrible flaw in this specious logic is, as Sabiha Khan notes in the article, is that people trying to avoid the ire of the US government probably wouldn’t show up to peacefully register. By doing this the INS has guaranteed that next time they ask people to come in voluntarily, not only will there be a far diminished turnout, but there won’t be a single person with any connection to a terrorist organization among them.
This reminds me of the press release the pentagon issued which stated they were going to start spreading disinformation via a newly formed department. Look: if I trust you, and you’re going to lie to me, don’t tell me you’re about to lie to me.
example:
Bob: Hey there Arturo, how long have we been friends? Arturo: Hmmm... Well, all of our lives. B: That’s right. Oh, hey - from now on, I’ll be sporadically inserting false information into everything I say, on the off chance that it might trip up someone malicious. A: Ok. Well, am I the only one you told about this? B: No, I told everyone I know, and put out a release on the newswire. A: But if people know that you’re going to be telling falsehoods, you’ll be discredited; they’ll just ignore everything you say. B: Oh. I therefore rescind my earlier statement. A: Wait... was that a lie? B: I don’t know. A: I have no choice but to assume that everything you now say is false.
I took a few linguistics classes in college, and I distinctly remember watching a video about an island off the coast of Virginia where the comparative isolation had partially frozen the local vernacular for several hundred years. The residents spoke English, but in a dialect similar to that used in England’s western counties centuries ago. For some reason, it popped into my head, and I went searching for it.
It turns out that the extreme isolation (it’s still a 45 minute boat ride away from the mainland) of Tangier Island has some other side effects, namely a rabid fervor for the lord and its very own genetic disorder. This is what happens when 75% of the present population still descends from one of the original four founding families.
Negative traits aside, it’s sad to find out that the island is suffering socially, economically, and geographically. More and more of the high school seniors are heading off to college, creating rifts in the erstwhile tight social fabric fostered by the remote environment. Virginia recently tightened its policies for issuing fishing licenses, which, for a community where 98% of the residents earn their living in one way or another from the sea, is devastating. Add to this that the island is eroding at a frightening pace (the average shoreline contraction now stands at 25 feet per year, and the island wasn’t that large to begin with), and it looks like one of the stranger linguistic petri dishes in recent memory will soon vanish.
On the other hand, there’s a 15mph speed limit, and you can’t buy liquor anywhere on the island. Screw ‘em.
Quaker Oatmeal added eerie little graphic logos to their single-serving packets. They scare me. First they changed the name from “Apple-cinnamon” to “Apples and cinnamon”, and now they feel compelled to include shrunken stylized icons of granny smith apples and a cinnamon stick. I’d be tempted to think that there would be a point beyond which the branding of oatmeal packets could not be improved, but the good folks at Quaker Oats have proven me wrong again.
They do have some cool and extremely self-serving facts about oatmeal though.
Please stop making out with each other next to me on the subway. You have no need to prove your love to me.
To the first couple I encountered on this morning’s commute I say this: I first suspected you might be have been intoxicated with each other when your gazes locked intently and deeply for close to 10 minutes, without so much as blinking. My suspicions were confirmed when you embraced and cuddled, swaying to and fro, in unison, with the rhythmic gyration of the L-train car. The lip-locking session that followed was completely superfluous.
To the second couple trying to tongue themselves into one entity: it was sweet of you to think that I might have been experiencing some separation anxiety after the first couple departed at Union Square. I’m sure the alacrity with which you picked up where they left off was a product of only the best of intentions, but I can assure you - for now and evermore - that I was more than ok with it. It didn’t help that you (successfully) tried to exceed their lip-smacking clamor.
All who consider following in their footsteps, take this simple Johnny Cochran-esque rhyme to heart: if it’s a public space, don’t suck face.
(especially next to me on the subway: I’ve got a mace)
Charles Taylor wrote a great Salon review of the new Jack Nicholson movie About Schmidt. It’s not an unmitigated lambasting, and parts are quite complimentary, but the bulk of the review serves as an indictment of modern American cinematic satire-dramadies, which attempt to straddle the emotional fence by simultaneously parodying their characters while endearing them to the viewer. Taylor notes that, recently, such efforts have become increasingly pejorative and condescending, focusing on the former goal while invalidating the of the latter. An excerpt:
But I'm afraid [director Alexander] Payne, along with the twee, tea-cozy sensibility of Wes Anderson and the team of Spike Jonze and Charlie Kaufman, with their meta-nothings, represents the new school of American film comedy that presents itself as an exclusive club for those hip enough to get the joke. What unites these filmmakers is that their vision of comedy is crabbed and diminished and also, at the same time, terribly, terribly pleased with itself.
Most of you who read this blog know me (who am I kidding, both of you know me), and you know my affinity for Spike Jonze (ever since his Weezer video direction days) and especially Wes Anderson (though I won’t claim to possess the mnemonic proficiency that some of my friends have), but I think Taylor has a very good point. Both tend to emphasize a web of referentiality and quirkiness spun around a skeletal plotline - intricate, nuanced, and outlandish enough to hold up to repeated watching and scrutinizing, and stopping short (mostly) of the inaccessibly absurd, but lacking in cohesion. Anderson’s The Royal Tennenbaums, for instance, is an entirely character-driven movie, but each major figure is such a caricature that their interactions, which sustain the cursory plot, exceed the realm of farce and leap into the purely nonsensical. Add to this that most exposition and development takes place in the form of a voice-over narrative and not before our eyes, and the characters themselves become ancillary accessories to well-crafted wordplay and audio-visual humor. Yes, we know that Richie is an erstwhile tennis star, but does his choice of sport serve any purpose other than as a sight gag (the beard, outfit, and poster are undoubtedly fantastic, but I get the sense that the existence of Luke Wilson’s character is predicated upon these details, not vice versa)?
This would be fine if it were the intent. Anderson’s maniacal attention to detail, amazing aptitude for weaving a very complete referential network, and eminently enjoyable art/sound direction produce nothing short of a wonderful, hilarious movie. Listening to his commentary on the dvd though, I was struck by how much he referred to the plot, the characters, and the interaction thereof. I had seen the movie more as an assemblage of funny quotes, coy references, and unique stylistic sensibilities; Anderson saw it as a story about a family. Admittedly, I tend to be a bit myopic when it comes to subtext and undertones, but I completely missed the point that it was supposed to be anything other than smug and arcane. By contrast, I interpreted Bottle Rocket as much more of a unified story, and upon further reflection, I think it does a much better job of straddling that fence between parody and endearment. What happened? Is this a microcosm of how film has progressed in the last decade? Wasn’t 9/11 supposed to spell the end of “meta-nothings”? Speak up.
Yes, give me the hard concrete evidence that will validate my actions. Bring it to me.
What? There’s no such thing? I have to learn to appreciate the subtle nuances fate throws my way? Bollocks! Off with his head.
Eliminate the inconsistencies!
How about I say “serf, delineate right from wrong in all present and future actions, and lead me on a course that will result in nothing short of Xanadu”, and you say “yes sire”, and go about doing so?
What? Impossible you say? I refuse to believe it. Throw him in the iron maiden.
Note: this entry is written under an assumed nom de plume, Rupert Sprinkleshire.
Chapter LXVI
It turns out that the waterfall was merely a red herring. The myriad of stunning shimmering water droplets making their graceful yet forceful descent from the towering heights of the sheer rock face to the abyss of the collecting pool below fell not at the behest of Dr. Rothsmythe, but due to a complex and chaotic series of interactions known to the modern world as an “extant causality chain”. I had underestimated nature’s coy penchant for the grandiose, and my paranoia had naturally led me to falsely accuse Rothsmyth. How times have changed. I clearly recall a day when Rothsmith and I waded with gleeful delight in such pools, skimming the filmy residue from the surface and using it as a potent cleaning solvent (this was before the days of capitulation to the autoclave, and many uses could be found for the pungent mixture, not the least of which was a quick and dirty “field sterilization”). But now the once-glimmering recollections of the past accrued an obfuscating scum reminiscent of what was once our chief source of profit and, by slight extension, sustenance.
On the day I first suspected malfeasance, Roethsmith had pilfered a small case of dried figs from the corner store, and we ate them meticulously under the eves of his abode. He pulled a poorly-machined shiv from his trousers and violently and repeatedly jabbed it into my abdomen, tearing the hand-hewn fabric of my overalls. Assorted fluids hemorrhaged from my gut and spilt onto the street below, coating passing strangers in a viscous mélange of platelets, plasma, bile, and digestive acids as I fashioned a makeshift tourniquet to forestall albescence and unconsciousness. At the time, I thought it a venial act of raillery, and dismissed any thoughts of ill intentions; Roensmith regaled me with tall tales of his escapades in the Legion all throughout my convalescence, and this only exacerbated the ease with which I forgave him. But I digress... I shall return to this longwinded tale of burgeoning antipathy later on.
Now, in this present day, I cannot imagine a street corner, meadow, or printing press untainted by Roensmith’s bellicosity and perfidy. He has usurped the place of Satan himself in my mental schema, surpassing both the devil’s ubiquity and wretched persistence. This awful constant harassment has led me down a spiraling path of explosive paranoia - a simple trip to Victoria Falls had metamorphazised into a microcosm of my larger burden: the Sisyphean scourge that was the unrelenting belligerence and cruelty of my tormentor had transformed erstwhile innocuous (and, in this case, sublime) natural occurrences into objects of abject fear. How could I have allowed Rensmith the leeway of a nobleman, when he proved time and again that he possessed the constitution of a lowly knave? I must accept some modicum of the blame, but it is a testament to Rensmill’s subtle infectious nature that I now spied his striking visage even in natural panoramas heretofore placid and serene.
Thankfully, this most recent incident at the falls has aided me in gleening a sense of the overarching direction and motivation behind the recent confluence of paranoia, spite and verisimilitudinous fantasy in my mind, albeit a cloudy one. It seems I’ve entered a mental chrysalis - I’m not blessed with the prescience or sagacity to divine the exact sequence of events to follow, but I need not be clairvoyant to recognize that this next stage of evolution will bode ill for Rensfill. This stasis does not prevent me from relishing the upcoming calescence of fury - a surge of reciprocity that will no doubt render him unable to continue the libidinousness with which he seeks my demise. It is a harbinger that I will shortly tread a very fine line between karmic equilibration and a lascivious fixation with disproportionate revenge. I hope, for Renfield’s sake, that I am able to exercise restraint in the bloodlust that will both preclude and give birth to my ultimate catharsis - after all, the drive derived from retaliatory urges is predicated upon an unnerving consistency of focus. With my animus extinguished, how shall I... [cont. on page 117]
When you conduct a search with Google or some other search engine and visit any site amongst the results, the referring URL (in this case, Google) will tell that site what search phrase was initially used to find it. By far, the coolest search phrase which returned my site as a result has to be:
"sometimes i can feel my neurons committing seppuku en masse having been dishonored by lack of use."
Last Thursday marked the one-year anniversary of my first day at this present job. I’m by no means a member of the old guard, but it’s nice not being a relative spring chicken (9 current employees started work after I joined, and about 5 have left - significant numbers at a company only 30 large). Naturally, I’ve taken this time to reflect (cause, gosh, that’s really out of character) on this past year, and the year ahead. In no particular order, here are some thoughts (a.k.a. obscenely self-involved musings):
- Good god almighty that went by quickly. It’s not hard to see a few years slipping away like this, which terrifies me. Then again, I don’t really know what else I would be doing at the moment. I don’t have the funding to gallivant around the world, and I’m very glad I didn’t immediately return to school for graduate study. Caveat: that doesn’t absolve me of the responsibility to explore these options for the near and long-term future.
- I don’t remember the weather being so ugly last year at this time.
- I’m struck by how poorly I’m able to estimate what proportion of the dissatisfaction I have with my job (which is negligible) stems from problems with the particular job itself or the general routine of a regular daytime job. I know the marginal angst it causes isn’t a result of the working environment here, or the people, because both are superb.
- There will probably come a time when I accept (or am completely numb to) the fact-mantra that I don’t have the slightest modicum of an idea what I want to do. That time looks to be quite a ways off.
- I would mind having only 3 weeks per year off if I had any money to travel anywhere.
- New York is so mind-bafflingly insular sometimes I want to send everybody here into exile. The corpulent media hype machine is always in overdrive promoting what, in the cursory style of the media, looks to be the perfect, no the only acceptable setting for any urbane urbanite worth his or her kosher salt. What you don’t often see is the bigotry, close-mindedness, narcissism (in a non-ironic, humorless way), eagerness to wilt in the face of authority, complacency, bloated provincial ignorance disguised as ostensible expertise, arrogance so unmitigated and pure you could bottle it and sell it even to the French, and a passion for, and fixation with, ugly gossip that would shame most tabloids out of business. It’s a city built on disingenuous bombastic pomposity, and anyone who finds that endearing needs to rethink their appeal matrix. That being said, there are plenty of reasons to like it here, and to live here for all your life. I just find it deplorable when a city won’t face, or even acknowledge, its faults and shortcomings in context with the rest of the world. Equally saddening is the voracious lambasting (or worse, convenient dismissal) one typically takes for questioning its traditional strengths in the slightest. You can criticize the smell, traffic, and cost of living to your heart’s content, but if you so much as tentatively hint that there might be someplace, somewhere on this expansive planet, with better pizza, you’ll find yourself talking to the rhetorical equivalent of a brick wall. Wait, scratch that part about the exile - I think the only way you could make all these people talk more about “the city” is to make them ex-pats.
- I didn’t know I was so bitter about my city of residence.
- I wish I had a massive, ornate disco ball in my apartment.
Christ, does everybody on this planet, at all times and on all issues, have a political opinion? Why do I so often feel like a non-entity simply because I lack the polarized fervor of a zealot?
There's been much talk recently (read: in the last 450 days, give or take) of the death of a bevy of postmodern ideals (relativism, irony, et al) in favor of a more pragmatic and effective methodology in almost all aspects of behavior and thought. It's a systemic change brought about by necessity; ambiguity is all well and good when you have the time to bask in the balmy sun eating peeled grapes and listening to Figurine in the park, but when Gabriel (and I don't mean Peter) blows his horn, you must have properly formulated barbs and counterpoints in your rhetorical arsenal. I especially detest the (time-honored, but in these times nascent) connotation that lack of an ardent stance on an issue is tantamount to either intellectual infantilism or the cognitive equivalent of sticking-one's-head-in-the-sand (oftentimes a hybrid of both). I seem to recall a time when I was polemically aligned on just about every issue, and, despite hours of rigorous argument, not only is the question of Blue Thunder's ability to defeat Airwolf in a neutral-territory aerial dogfight still open, but adopting an unabashedly pro-Airwolf debate policy resulted in zero long term benefits.
Targeted, measured, and timely ambivalence can frequently be just as pragmatic as any hard-line position: it allows for observation and investigation of the finer nuances typically overlooked or swept under the rug. The resultant formulation of a standpoint is a far more robust process, less biased (though not entirely unencumbered) by the iterant prevailing zeitgeist (or knee-jerk counter-zeitgeist) which so quickly fades from prominence. Pundits should stop equating "undecided" with "apathetic lost cause", and start recognizing potential allies who need only be persuaded by a sufficiently lucid (not to mention calm), cogent, and effective argument. I hate to contradict our infallible leader, but I'm not always with you or against you... yet.
I dunno, always been more comfortable with shrugging shoulders than pointing fingers I guess. I obviously don't really have an opinion on the subject.
One day, I'm going to come to work dressed as a sea captain, but my captain's uniform will be comically oversized, like David Byrne's suit in Stop Making Sense. Then I'll start pulling out my hair, one follicle at a time, pretending that I know exactly what I was doing, weeks or months before, at the precise moment at which each hair originally burst forth from my scalp. I'll hold each gossamer thread between my thumb and pinky finger, spinning absurdist yarns about my mistress, the sea. The funniest part will be when I tell the story about the potent shrinking effect of the ink of Architeuthis, the infamous giant squid, and then juxtapose that with a counter-tale of certain lewd Lilliputian escapades, leaving my coworkers perplexed as to whether I shrank from the ink, am descended from a freak coupling between Gulliver and a wayward native lass, or am just wearing a really big costume.
:: The only thing from which we should abstain is pop-corn journalism
Michael Moore brought up a good point in "Bowling for Columbine" when he accurately assessed the fear-mongering sell tactics of our nation's mass media. Newsweek magazine, however, has always shunned this kind of grave consistency with an alarming insouciance, counterbalancing DC-area sniper stories and bland presidential profiles with articles on the existence of angels and the state of children's television programming.
It was therefore with no lack of trepidation that I sought out their featured topic of the week, knowing that in these times, when so many are prognosticating doom, Newsweek could be counted upon to dodge any and all important issues in favor of the kind of suburban fluff piece that would gallantly bridge the crevasse between the otherwise diametrically opposed fans of Oprah Winfrey and Martha Stewart.
Their cover story? A heart-warming and inspiring piece about the rise of abstinence amongst America's teenagers. An excerpt:
Rejecting the get-down-make-love ethos of their parents’ generation, this wave of young adults represents a new counterculture, one clearly at odds with the mainstream media and their routine use of sex to boost ratings and peddle product.
This is a stunning indictment indeed of both the hedonistic excesses of times past, and the disconnected state of the modern media. I am positively reeling. Why didn't anyone tell me that the media would try to leverage sex to sell their products? They haven't always been trying to do this, have they (even in the get-down-make-love days of yore)? And modern youth, which I'm told is usually content to go along with the status quo and rarely exhibits rebellious tendencies, actually resents this? Next you'll be telling me that the media is in cahoots with the reviled "advertising industry"!
It's nice to know that in the clutch, Newsweek delivers hard-hitting journalism at its finest. What a scary state of affairs it is when the typical anxiety-attack-disguised-as-a-legitimate-news-outlet looks preferable by comparison.
Holy crap - that was actually really hard. Sorry if there was any confusion along the way. I am now running Movable Type, which allows for more customization, syndication via RSS, and much faster rebuilding times. Any questions? Yes - you in the back in the yellow sweater.
Q: Yeah, why did that take so long? I know tons of people who’ve moved from Greymatter to Movable Type, and they seemed to have no problem. If possible, I’d like a really nerdy explanation with lots of acronyms.
A: Well, the default format that MT signals to the browser is XHTML, which didn’t agree with certain CSS styles I was using (at least in IE). I spent oodles of time pulling out my hair until I realized this and corrected it. Next question... you, with the sombrero.
Q: I noticed the site looks almost identical to the previous version. What gives?
A: I was happy with the front-end of the original site, and didn’t really see the need to redesign it. The primary reason for the migration was to improve behind-the-scenes functionality and performance, as well as ensuring that the tools being used woudn’t become obsolete. Next - the satyr behind the shrub, enshrouded by a cloak of crepuscular mist, holding a golden fleece.
Q: I’m confused. Those witches in the forest told MacBeth he would not be slain by any man born of woman, yet ultimately MacDuff killed his meglomaniacal ass. What’s up with that?
A: MacDuff was torn from his mother’s womb during the birthing process, in a procedure somewhat akin, though much more primitive, to the modern Cesarean-section, or “c-section”. While this is rife with semantic ambiguity, an argument can be made that MacDuff was therefore never actually “born” of a woman, since he stopped short of making the full journey down the birth canal. He is therefore not subject to the homicidal limitation prophesized by the three witches, and free to slay MacBeth.
Our next question comes to us from Mr. John Spernoga, communicating via satellite from Sendai, Japan.
I'm going to try to migrate the site over from Greymatter to Movable Type. There are a lot of really nerdy reasons to do this, but the main impetus is that Greymatter's author stopped updating it a long time ago (admittedly, because it's a finished product), and Movable Type is being improved upon all the time.
The point of this = there might be some downtime. If everything goes well, there won't be, but who knows...
I had a dream last night where I actually realized I was in the dream state (known as “lucid dreaming” - I rarely experience this coveted environment) and instead of trying to fly, or creating a universe where ball bearings and salmon roe traded places (how cool would that be?) I decided it would be really fun to say unhumourous things to the people who were present (the usual amalgamation of people-you-sort-of-recognize-as-friend-archetypes) and watch them laugh about it. I said something along the lines of “look at that table over there”, and they burst out into uncontrollable laughter. So essentially all I did, despite having the omnipotence of R.E.M. sleep bestowed upon me, was to make my friends really stoned.
Way to underutilize. Next time I’m definitely going with the salmon roe / ball bearing swap.
:: Brings back memories of freshman year at college
You know those nights when you wind up inadvisably drunk, talking to a friend who's in town for the night in your stairwell at 4:00 in the morning when some random girl comes up the stairs, informs you that she's headed up for a tryst with her boyfriend and then starts to cry, at which point you feel compelled (because in that state you possess a remarkable pathos) to engage her in an hour long, very serious conversation regarding the seemingly imminent termination of her relationship, after which everybody hugs, subsequent to which you wake up in the morning to the unpleasant fact that, due to alcohol-obfuscated memories, neither you or your friend can recall the details of your conversation with said girl and you hope that you didn't end the romantic involvement of a couple prematurely just because you felt the need to dispense some slurred advice? I hate those nights.
When I was in 8th grade, my school constructed a new music building complete with an electronic music lab which doubled as the control room for the adjacent recording studio. The school was situated on the side of a hill between Beverly Hills and Bel Air and was disgustingly awash in money (Gary Marshall, producer of 'Happy Days' et al, once forked over several million dollars to help fund the new sports/performing-arts complex that would bear his name) so the construction of new facilities was always backed by very deep pockets. Of course, the overabundance of wealth seriously warped the mindset of the students and fostered an aggressively competitive learning environment (my cousin, a very likable and friendly lass who stayed there until high-school graduation, anecdotally related to me that once she reached college, she was pleasantly surprised to find that her new classmates actually wanted to have friends), which was one of the reasons I spent so much time sequestering myself in places like the electronic music lab, but that's a story for another time.
The lab (I love calling it a lab - it's so Dr. Dre) included six or seven workstations, each comprised of a computer and keyboard ranging from the Korg M1 to the crown jewel, the Kurzweil K2000. The massive mixing board next to which the K2000 sat dominated one side of the room, perched conveniently below the sound-proof glass window. A bevy of samplers, digital effects processors, microphones, and amplifiers rounded out the clamorous cavalcade and provided a myriad of opportunities for adolescent discovery. It was the musical and technological equivalent of the proverbial kid-in-a-candy-store scenario and I did my best to gorge.
We were assigned tasks sometimes for the class which I attended in that room, but often we were allowed to simply sit, explore and experiment. Gradually, as we grew to know our tools better and better, we were allowed to play during free periods or after school. I can't claim my time there was prolific or productive in terms of musical output - I walked away with a few short compositions recorded on a tape and some assorted flies on a 3.5 inch floppy disk - but the impact far surpassed that meager material.
A psychologist once began a session of hypnosis by asking me to imagine myself merrily perched high atop the stratosphere, followed by an escalator ride which slowly took me down through light, fluffy clouds only to arrive at a door (to his credit, he did a good job of evoking all the necessary images and feelings - otherwise he would have activated the sensitive cynic-alarm with which all teenagers proudly equip themselves). Beyond the door, he instructed, I was to imagine a happy place: somewhere I felt relaxed, comfortable, and content. Entering this place would be a catharsis: all tension would fade away; all nervous energy would be dispelled. He told me to be patient, and to enter whenever I was ready.
Without hesitation, I opened the door, walked through, sat down at the Kurzweil and began to fiddle.
On a cold, wintry day here in Manhattan, when the sun starts to fade at 4:30, I could really use a little lab session. Guess I'll have to settle for a blog entry.
