It is customary for college graduates to receive mail from their alma mater soliciting fund donations or apprising them of the shiny happy changes going on at their former nest of matriculation. I received a questionnaire yesterday the purpose of which is to update personal information for some alumni database. According to this advanced system, I:
Am simultaneously single, married, divorced, separated and widowed
Am American Indian, Black American, Asian Pacific, Hispanic, White American, Other, and "Foreign"
Am Brazilian (which I guess explains the "foreign" ethnicity)
Was a member of the Tau Kappa Epsilon fraternity
Was a varsity letterman in cross-country
Was the recipient of an engineering scholarship, a loan, a fellowship, and work/study aid
Am married (see above marital status) to an unnamed spouse ten years my senior
Am the father of three girls and one boy, with three different last names - the eldest being 22 - two of whom now attend the very same university as I did
Am retired
While all of the above are erroneous, the form regrettably does not allow for corrections.
As promised, pictures from the Vegcation. Unfortunately, my trusty camera of 2+ years up and corrupted half the images (so this collection might be a bit on the weaker side), which aggravates me to no end. I'm hoping this was a one-time or very rare occurrence and re-formatting the CF card will stave off additional loss for a while. If anyone has advice, hit me up.
At any rate, I actually like how a couple of the quasi-corrupted images look. Yes. That's it. This cloud has a silver lining. Put on a happy face so the world won't see you cry.
I'll post the full set of Vegas pictures later, but for now please enjoy the prime benefit of staying at the affordable Excalibur hotel and casino. You can click through to the full, hi-res picture if you wish to download and print it out yourself, for placement on your mantle or antechamber wall.
:: My three least enjoyable work-related transit memories in increasing order of annoyance
The incidents themselves:
Commuting home, Spring 2002: I spy a man on a platform of the 14th Street / 8th Avenue ACE/L subway station on his knees, repeatedly trying, and failing, to stand up. The main impediment to his standing is a steady stream of what I can only describe as "chunky blood" pouring from one or more of his head's orifices, creating a chunky-bloody slick on the floor tiles. The slick is evidently very slippery, as he cannot seem to keep his footing - every time he attempts to stand, whichever limb he has chosen to support the bulk of his weight slides from under him and sends him crashing to the ground again. The fall is repeatedly broken by his head. A crowd gathers, kindly recommending he "just stay down". Having obviously read his Camus, Bloodface refuses and bloodily continues his Sisyphean journey into bloodtopia. (blood)
Commuting to the office, 10/21/2003: I am spat upon. In the face.
Walking to lunch, today: Seeing a group of men moving towards me on the sidewalk, I scoot to the side as to not collide with them on my route in the opposite direction. As we pass - with space to spare - the one closest to me, who was previously ranting profanely to his companions, steps in front of me and yells in my ear, "DON'T YOU KNOW WHAT F---ING SIDE OF THE F---ING STREET TO WALK ON MOTHERF---ER? CAN YOU F---ING WALK SOMEPLACE ELSE?" He then open-hand punches me in the chest. Hard.
Why my reaction was to do nothing in each case:
Really, I couldn't think of any better advice than "just stay down" anyway, and there were at least six or seven people already telling him to do that. Plus the station attendant was within sight so I knew running to fetch the authorities was a redundant action.
What was I going to do, jump him? Publicly admonish him? This is a man who spits straight ahead in a crowded street. He is exempt from mores.
I could not envision any plausible scenario where action on my part would result in something other than a pride-obliterating and health-insurance-straining beat-down of the worst kind.
What I really would have preferred to happen, if laws and the limits of space-time were not a consideration:
Having just been endowed with mystical healing powers by a shaman on whom I played a practical joke (involving two cans of black beans and a rare albino albatross) and then helped with his taxes (long story), I calmly walk over to the suffering Bloodface. "Be at peace," I say, placing my hand on the back of his head, "all is well in the cosmos." His torrent of blood trickles to a stop, and he manages to rise to his feet and clear his face of the layers of coagulated goop, whereupon the surrounding crowd and I recognize him as federal Department of Housing and Urban Development Secretary Alphonso Jackson. In an act of gratitude, Secretary Jackson exercises the never-before-utilized executive power of X-treme Badass Eminent Domain to grant me seven city blocks in every major metropolitan area of my choosing. I flip most of it for a tidy sum, and use the money to built a series of opulent mansions. Also, the churro lady across the platform gives me some free churros.
When the chap gets to the end of the block two dozen tuberculosis patients jump out of nowhere and pretend like they're about to cough on him. When he turns his head and raises his arms to shield himself, I steal his wallet and go on a spending spree, making sure to reward my consumption-ridden cohorts with only the most fashionable face masks and iron lungs.
No change. I kinda feel bad for him. As my coworker said: "That guy's not going to make it past the age of 35." Ok, fine, maybe I'd stage an intervention or something... and give him crabs.
:: An alternate interpretation of the lyrics to "My Boyfriend's Back" by The Angels
While the ostensible premise of "My Boyfriend's Back" is the chivalrous restoration of an unfairly slandered reputation, one possible alternate take is far more insidious: that of a transgressor so desperate for undeserved redemption that she resorts to self-delusional and extortionary tactics.
Taken literally, The Angels' 1963 hit is the simple ditty of a girl, wronged by the vicious rumors of a spurned suitor, gloating over the return of her legitimate beaux with a purpose twofold: to restore her sullied social status and deliver punishment to the aforementioned suitor, as a result of whose alleged mendacity her status has been diminished. This interpretation rests entirely on the supposition of the singer's being wholly truthful - when this assumption is questioned, the established meaning of the song quickly erodes.
Why question the intent behind the lyrics? Why should we assume anything other than the most honest and upstanding of intentions? In short, she doth protest too much. The tone of the lyrics is replete with exactly the kind of childish intimidation rendered unnecessary by the mature rationality of confidence. Instead of attacking the supposed liar's morality or expressing remorse at his apparent self-debasement, she demonstrates a single-minded and manic obsession with inspiring fear of physical harm by flinging minacious playground insults. The only respite the listener is given from the onslaught of bodily threats comes in the form of platitudes so bald in their hunger to be self-assuring ("Now he's back and things'll be fine", "he knows I wasn't cheatin'!") that one cannot help but wonder exactly whom she aims to convince - her accuser, the audience, or herself. We hear in her voice the same quivering plea echoed by countless Jerry Springer guests - it is an act; a ruse all at once very public and intensely private, derived from the dire need to exculpate oneself to all parties, and at all costs.
I assert that the singer of "My Boyfriend's Back" is not exempt from blame. What improprieties transpired I do not know - it may have been a single sexual indiscretion, or even a full-fledged romance - but her flimsy words belie a much more lurid subtext, one in which she is unable to reconcile her past actions with her current desire for comfort and respect. This "Saturday night / Sunday morning" personality schism is untenable and will ultimately result in her mental and social demise. Furthermore, it is proof that all women are harlots (too far?).
The concept of corporations' branding short films to promote a product isn't new. BMW's been doing it for years, enlisting the likes of John Woo, Clive Owen, Gary Oldman, and Don Cheadle, but it never really got my motor running. I couldn't tell if knowing it was only a step or two above a 30-second Superbowl commercial - both in production value and intent to sell a product - ever impacted my enjoyment (and it didn't help that one spot was turned into a totally crap motion picture).
Nike's gone a different route and hired Friends With You to product an entertaining little film about the ancient art of spinning speed into thread (and this is a whole different kind of speed production than you're used to in those underground crystal and crank labs). What's remarkable is that Friends With You is a vinyl toy manufacturer and not a famous director, actor, or production studio - but they know their stop-motion animation, old Hong Kong mythology movies, and surrealism. I like what I see, regardless of whether it's two companies trying to sell me a shoe. I'm not averse to "branded content" after all.
I'm a fashion pariah in every way, from knowing what to purchase to how to spot a good sale to determining a proper fit. It's a quality that I'm very comfortable with, for reasons beyond its helping my being perceived as heterosexual (not that I need the help - I carry around spare issues of Maxim and FHM at all times), but it leaves me in a lurch when my old apparel wears down beyond usefulness and I need a replacement. I generally abhor shopping for clothes.
However I am a consummate misanthrope and a cheapskate to boot, so any purchasing experience free from salespeople and fellow bargain-hunters automatically has a leg up. Thus I normally prefer online commerce, but that's not such a good idea for clothing, since seeing it in person, trying it on, and so forth are not tasks best left to flat computer monitors and far-off warehouses. That is unless the items are fairly small (so the tiny images on one's screen can more approximate the real thing), with a standardized fitting scale. It might work for hats, scarves, gloves, or... shoes.
For the second time, ordering from Zappos.com exceeded my expectations. I purchased new shoes at 10pm last night with 4-5 day free shipping. Before taking a shower at home this morning I checked my email to find a notice that they had upgraded shipping to overnight at no additional cost (which they did almost a year ago when I last ordered as well). When I walked into work my shipment was waiting for me. This pleasant surprise was in addition to what I already knew and loved: that it was cheap and quiet.
Zappos.com not only endorses your hermetic lifestyle, but does so with great alacrity.
You might have just gotten comfortable incorporating "blog" as part of your lexicon, but a new term is on the horizon: "wiki". Derived from a Hawaiian word meaning "quick," wikis are similar to blogs except that they can be modified, edited, augmented and otherwise built out by a larger universe of users -- a college class for example -- to go beyond simple data sharing.
You may have just gotten comfortable hiring "scribes" to copy down your edicts or religious texts for dissemination amongst the tiny percentage of the populace capable of literacy, but a new term is on the horizon, which is believed to be the entirely flat edge of the Earth: "printing press". Developed by Johannes Gensfleisch zur Laden zum Gutenberg, printing presses are similar to scribes except that they do not require food, payment, or plague insurance and enable mass-production for a larger universe of readers -- the landed gentry of France for example -- to go beyond simple transcription.
It is hoped its advent will not result in mass-media latching on to stale news, adding "pander quotes", and regurgitating it five years later.
Let's examine why I've been posting less, diagrammatically. Here's what my typical day previously might have looked like, with the green blocks representing time spent composing entries and blue indicating times when I'm otherwise occupied:
Here's what my time looks like now:
As you can see, I'm only slightly busier than before, but that marginal increase comes at the expense of the minimum amount of time I need to post (a similar pattern to memory fragmentation). It sucks and there's nothing I can do about it for the moment.
Everyone loves to be hateratin' on the NYT for factual inaccuracies, but my stance has generally been one of understanding, considering the volume of information that moves through each day.
:: Spice up your routine epiphanies with a little imagination!
My great realization of the day was that one paper towel is sometimes insufficient for drying my hands. Here's what a blog entry about that might look like:
Today I used the restroom and took only one sheet of the paper towels provided to dry my hands. More and more I am coming to believe that one sheet of paper towel is insufficient. Tomorrow I will use two.
The banality of it hits you like several ounces of bricks. Yet when written by guest blogger Colonel Max-million AlphaDance, lead singer of the J-Pop group "Happy Danger Federation", this revelation is made exciting by capitalizing on foreign cultural stereotypes and the universal allure of fame:
Today was dreary. I spoke before the lower house of the Diet on the importance of overhauling the governmental pension system in preparation for the rapid aging of our populace. I suspect Koizumi is using me as a pawn to market his plan to the youth, those most likely to be hurt by the financial belt-tightening caused by the (inevitable) demographic changes, but I will play along for now in the interest of calling in a favor or two from his cabinet in the future.
Afterwards, I made a brief appearance on one of the homogeneous variety shows on NTV. I used the restroom and took only one sheet of the paper towels provided to dry my hands. More and more I am coming to believe that one sheet of paper towel is insufficient. Tomorrow I will use two.
I ended the day by purchasing a yacht which I will use only for private liaisons with many of the beautiful women whom I arrange to be collected at my concerts (inspired by hair-rock bands of 1980s America, my group has devised a reward system through which we remunerate members of our technical and administrative support staff for seeking out and taking backstage during shows attractive members of the opposite [or in Takeshi's case, same] sex for company and "romantic" conquest - the system is tiered such that the first-place winner receives the greatest compensation but participants need not receive the highest score to be awarded cash or perks, thus providing incentive for new and less-skilled employees to take part despite fears of not being able to win outright). The yacht has an advanced GPS navigation system and mini bar. Of the two, the mini bar will prove far more useful, as - given its purpose - I do not intend to remove the boat from its mooring.
The Connected Ventures guys, (in)famous for CollegeHumor.com, were written up in the New Yorker recently and at the time I dismissed them as nothing more than savvy entrepreneurs who saw a lucrative one-trick pony and went about addressing it expeditiously. I was wrong. Besides running conceptually-interesting sites like Crazewire alongside more low-brow counterparts, two of the five gents, Jakob Lodwick and Zach Klein, have started up Vimeo as a side project. It's, more or less, Flickr for video - a very complimentary comparison - and it's in keeping with the nice, simplified style of Flickr and its tag-crazy ilk (Del.icio.us et al).
I too want to sit in a Tribeca live/workspace loft and create cool sites. Well, at least my lifelong dream to set a world record for the longest un-refueled single-pilot airplane flight is still... crap. I'll do it better. I'll be blindfolded. And incontinent.
The problem is that when Destroyer's songs aren't busy being pop music gems, they're full of words and meanings that I don't understand and that I can't ignore. This can make listening to Destroyer uncomfortable; unprotected by hooks, you feel either in or out of the literary loop.
Larry and Sergey, both in the midst of pursuing their Ph.D.’s in computer science, surmised that it would be better to base searches on relevance; they believed popularity mattered - that the more often a site was linked to, the more relevant it was likely to be. Using complex algorithms, they devised a system they called Page-Rank, after Larry, and they put it at the heart of their search engine, first dubbed BackRub and soon thereafter, Google.
"Creative process" is a vague and hackneyed phrase, just as apt to characterize the design of a thumbtack or writing of an amicus brief. It has a soft normative neutrality agnostic of scope, ambition, audience, effort, and result, and makes no distinction between the origination and realization of an idea - whether we are sitting idly in a bar thinking of uses for a lathe or using that lathe to produce some of the finest cedar bar stools this side of the Hudson, we are engaged in a creative process.
Being so commonplace and ubiquitous, it's not often I personally stop to ponder specific instances when a concept is born or actualized. Rarer are the times when I return to ponder over and over without losing a sense of appreciation, the times when I think to myself: "I could never, given all the time and resources in the world, replicate this - as it is, I barely understand it. This is qualitatively beyond my capability to produce, and perhaps even to comprehend." One is a one-man band and the other an information indexing service, but there are times when I listen to Destroyer or use Google and get that same exact sense of awe - that, present adoration accounted for, I'm still underestimating the genius behind them.
Certainly each has a blemish or two. Destroyer drips with pedantry and Google is forever accused of being a petulant child. Neither makes any bones about being too wrapped up in their own cult of genius to care whether the mainstream "gets it" or not (despite, as noted in the above quotes, one's writing "pop" songs and the other's basing search results on popularity), but the core of their work is so appealing these faults become endearing. Upon seeing the two sites above almost back-to-back and noticing an eerie similarity in my compulsion to devour them immediately I realized just how much I'm drawn to and baffled by the process and the people behind it all.
