A Seraphim Dream

2012-02-04T10:37:00.000-08:00

Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy Review

[Note: I am going to try to avoid too many spoilers in this review, despite what the next paragraph will say]

Here's what I would have to say about the new version of Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy: watch it twice, or go and read the plot summary before you watch it. As with certain other forms of art (opera, Shakespeare, sporting events), TTSS can't really be appreciated on the first go-round unless you know what is going on.

Based on a John le Carre novel, TTSS manages to cram an enormous and windy plot into a two-hour film, and is one of the few adaptations that I would say needed to take more time to explore everything (the 1970s BBC adaptation with Alec Guinness was a seven-hour miniseries). The writers were very spare with exposition, and while everything you need to know about the plot is in the film, it's often hidden in inside jokes, in oblique dialogue, and in the aftermath of the action. You need to pay very, very close attention to everything that is going on, and I really don't know if it's possible to "get" everything without knowing something about the film first.

Case in point: towards the end of the film, one character is flush with triumph and another is devastated, but the whole situation is not mentioned or shown, other than a single, five second scene where one of them walks out of an office and passes the other, walking in. There's a beautiful look between the two of them that communicates what's gone on, but if you haven't paid close attention to the context, it just looks like one of them ate a bad egg with his salad and the other one is late for work.

Why is that? Well, TTSS is filled with characters who are intensely private, personal, paranoid, and political- the emotions and thoughts they carry are almost always veiled, and we have to work to decipher them. So the acting is layered, and so is the script, which disdains things like exposition. Instead of telling or showing us what happened, the film shows us the setup and then the aftermath, forcing viewers to really work to figure out what is going on in each scene, much as spies are forced to analyze and deconstruct the world around them (example: the scene that ends with one character bursting into tears at what he's done).

*WHEW*. I think every undergraduate art student and philosophy major just had a little moment of ecstasy there. "Look at how brilliant and subtle the symbolism in this film is! The rubes won't get it, but because we do, we're special!!!!!"

I, personally, am a big fan of clarity- real life is murky and unclear enough, thank you. As the famous Mr. Orson Scott Card says, "Anyone can write a story that's hard to decipher". While I don't need my films to spoon-feed me, I do expect films to stand on their own. What frustrates me is that TTSS seems to take this desire to have all the action and exposition offscreen a little too far, to the point where powerful moments feel hollow because we don't know enough about the context and have spent too much time trying to remember which character said what when.

Furthermore, because the film is so short (relatively speaking) and condensed, it feels like we're watching half of a movie, or the deleted scenes of a much longer movie. Important scenes and important relationships are reduced to significant glances and obfuscated remarks. If you go in with no idea who the traitor is, you'll figure out because he gets the most screen time of all the suspects- there wasn't enough time in the movie to really flesh out all of the characters, so the one with the most backstory is the one whodunnit.

And yet, if you can get past the waves of giddy film critics, TTSS is really a well-made, well-acted, enjoyable film. There isn't a weak link in the cast; and while Gary Oldman (as the protagonist Smiley) and Colin Firth have gotten the most acclaim (Firth in particular has an Oscar-worthy showpiece monologue towards the end), the supporting cast knocks each and every character out of the park. In particular, Benedict Cumberbatch as Peter Guilliam and Mark Strong as Jim Prideaux are impressive for their ability to make you forget about their previous roles altogether and embrace the characters they've created. The administrators are all appropriately pathetic and slimy, as portrayed by Ciaran Hinds, David Dencik, the aforementioned Firth, and Toby Jones with a brogue (while three of them get the short shift, I particularly wish that Jones had had more screen time). John Hurt doesn't have much to do as Control, the former M (or C, or whatever) of British Intelligence, other than one wordless moment in his office when he hears some bad news.

There are a number of scenes that are beautiful in the way they convey the simmering emotions that lie beneath the well-mannered stiff-upper-lip surface, and they contrast well with the (relatively) open and charismatic performance of Tom Hardy as rogue-ish agent Ricki Tarr, who narrates the middle third of the movie and sheds light on the first third (which goes otherwise unappreciated). And then there's Gary Oldman as Smiley.

One commenter I read said that he seemed "wooden", and it's hard to tell whether that quality is his performance or in the script itself. Smiley, after all, is a milquetoast, passive-aggressive, still character, and so there's not a whole lot for Oldman to work with. To get a read on it, I went to YouTube and looked up Sir Alec Guinness playing the same part in the BBC adaptation. Once you've seen TTSS, take a look at these two clips:

Smiley and Karla's conversation in Delhi (shown as a flashback in the adaptation and an anecdote in the film): http://youtu.be/zpFjjCiVpSs

Smiley breaking Toby Esterhaze (the airplane scene from the film): http://youtu.be/qHKiVwUbYvE

Guinness is brilliant. His Smiley radiates an aura of knowing menace that underlies his every word. He is a charismatic spymaster, quite like Gandalf (or for that matter, Obi-Wan Kenobi in Star Wars: A New Hope). You get the feeling that though he's retired and out to pasture, he used to be a nightmarish figure to his counterparts on the Soviet side of the curtain, and probably still is.

Oldman, on the other hand, is given a different context to work with. His Smiley struggles more: with social interaction, with his retirement, with his unfailing devotion to his contemptuous wife and contemptuous country. But it's all hidden behind his all-business "wooden" facade. Oldman ratchets down the level of energy he normally brings to roles (think "Commissioner Gordon", not the best role he ever played), and so it's quite shocking when, several times through the movie, Smiley's affected mildness breaks down and we see what's really behind there. It would be interesting to see what Smiley would have been like had he been raised in a different system (not the Circus), where he didn't survive by patronage and passive-aggressive action. I think he would have turned out more like Angleton, but anyways.

It's a good film, but a frustrating one. Call it Four out of Five moles caught.

2012-01-10T19:28:00.000-08:00

The Best the Americans Have to Offer Us, Part TWO: the Movies!

The actors/actresses I left off the list last time because I'm a moron:

Laura Linney, who is enough of a background actress that I wrote "Laura Dern" (also an excellent actress), despite her great performances in Mystic River, Breach, and even Lorenzo's Oil.
Chris Cooper, who quite capably stands in for the type of "menacing heavyweight" performances we would lazily shorthand someone in for, like Gene Hackman or Brian Cox.
Amy Adams, ~~who is on this list despite winning an Academy Award~~, deserves to be here because of two thankless roles she played, as the naive teenage nurse in Catch Me If You Can, and Mary the Wet Blanket Girlfriend in the Muppets. Both parts were written by the screenwriters to be as torturously awful for a performer as possible, and she came out looking pretty sharp in both of them. Oh, and apparently she was in some Catholic melodrama or something.

So, if you're keeping track, our hypothetical cast pool looks something like this:

-Sam Rockwell
-Stanley Tucci
-Paul Giamatti
-Jeffrey Donovan
-Summer Glau
-Jason Bateman
-Bruce Campbell
-Amy Acker
-Enver Gjokaj
-Tina Fey
-Kevin Bacon (cameo)
-Jay Harrington
-Harry Lenix
-Willem Dafoe
-Dule Hill
-Laura Linney
-Chris Cooper
-Amy Adams

Man. That is a murderer's row.

So, what projects could we have that would possibly require this caliber of acting? Great Britain found its contemporary author, John le Carre, and built a great film out of his most beloved work. Again, to stay with the "unknown but not forgotten" theme of these blog posts, the great and well-known works of literature are all out, so no Great Gatsby, no As I Lay Dying (thought it would be fun to see this cast do it!), no Song of Solomon, no race-neutral Huck Finn, etc.

What are we good at, in a literary sense, in America? There are a few things that America is good at, but the problem is, many of them are things that other countries are also good at (e.g. video games). So what is America really really good at, and also totally dominant in the world scene on (too many prepositions here)?

-Basketball (pre-1990s)
-War (pre-1970s)
-Software
-Interactive Text Fiction
-Franchise restaurants (I swear I'm not ripping off a Neal Stephenson rant here)
-DIY industries
-Log rolling
~~-Women's Softball~~
-Marketing movies (note I didn't say "Making movies", but "Marketing movies"...I'll wager there are 2000 kids in Delhi who have seen "Mission Impossible 4" for every American who's actually watched an Indian blockbuster like Endhiran)
-Lawsuits
-Toilet Paper
-Pharmaceuticals (for reasons that have nothing to do with America and everything to do with American patent law and the insurance-industrial complex)
-Standardized tests
~~-Young adult fiction~~ (Roald Dahl, by himself, negates America's claim to this category)
-Science fiction....well wait a second here!

So yes, Americans are pretty ridiculously good at Science Fiction (and Fantasy, but I lump them together for convenience's sake, since my literary genres are determined entirely by Barnes and Nobles' shelving practices, e.g. I consider "Teen Paranormal Romance" to be a genre now). For a variety of reasons, America has a rich and deep tradition of having strong science fiction writers, and as Orson Scott Card will be glad to tell you (scroll about halfway down the page), science fiction represents some of the strongest and most innovative storytelling that America has to offer.

But wait! you cry. America doesn't have a monopoly on science fiction!

OK, I say. How many great non-American science fiction authors can you, hypothetical but extremely well-read and non-Anglosphere-centric reader, name, off the top of your head?

Non-American Science Fiction Writers:
-H.G. Wells (War of the Worlds and the Time Machine)
-Jules Verne (20,000 Leagues Under the Sea)
-ARTHUR C CLARKE, the MAN (too many to count)
-Charles Stross (The Atrocity Archives and Accelerando)
-Stanislav Lem, who's like the hipster Arthur C Clarke (and was a better writer, but don't say that too loud). (The Cyberiad)
-J.R.R. Tolkein, who might be the greatest creator of the 20th Century (Lord of the Rings)
-Alan Moore (Watchmen)
-Neil Gaiman (Sandman and numerous short stories)
-Susannah Clarke (Jonathan Strange and Mr. Norrell)
-Tim Powers (Declare)
-J.K. Rowling (Harry Potter)

and...um...

Yeah, that's right. Here's America's heavy guns:

-Robert Heinlein
-Isaac Asimov
-Ursula K. LeGuin (Ursula, Isaac, and Bob have written as much, and had as much impact on the genre as the entire above list)
-David Brin (Startide Rising and I hate him, but that's a different story)
-Larry Niven (Ringworld)
-Octavia Butler (Dawn)
-Poul Anderson (Don't remember, but he's EVERYWHERE)
-Frank Herbert (Dune)
-The Game of Thrones Guy (Game of Thrones)
-Robert Jordan (Wheel of Time)
-Michael Flynn (Eifelheim)
-Orson Scott Card (Ender's Game)

Are these too old-school for you? How about some of that "Cyber-punk" or "Alternate History" you young people like to read?

-William Gibson (Neuromancer, the Difference Engine)
-Harry Turtledove (every alternate universe novel you ever read)
-Harlan Ellison (stories that inspired/were ripped off by 50% of the science fiction movies produced by Hollywood)
-Philip K. Dick (the other 50%, or maybe 60%)
-Neal Stephenson (Cryptonomicon, Snow Crash, the Baroque Cycle)
-Bruce Sterling (Distraction, the Difference Engine)
-Cory Doctorow (a bunch of books, which, for respect for his strongly held beliefs about the sanctity of copyright, I won't name)
-Malcolm Gladwell (kidding, guys, seriously)

And that's not even going into the long line of editors and film producers who helped breathe life onto the spark that was science fiction culture in 20th Century America (Rod Sterling, Gene Roddenberry, John W. Cambell). I'm sleepy, and I assume if I had written this post in a more awake state there would be more that I wouldn't be too lazy to list.

The point is, if America is to produce a movie for the hypothetical Movie Olympics (or maybe the Movie World Cup- it's a much more adversarial event), it will have to be a science fiction movie.

What work could we use? There are numerous, but because of the ensemble nature of our cast, we do have certain limitations, and I am also cheating a little by thinking we can do either a two-part movie, a three-hour movie, or an HBO-type miniseries.

That being said, I'm proud to preview the first two of the (extremely biased) selections I made for a hypothetical project pitch! Here they are: (drum roll)

-A miniseries-length adaptation of Frank Herbert's Dune
-A miniseries-length adaptation of Neal Stephenson's Cryptonomicon

....to be continued!

2011-12-29T08:41:00.000-08:00

New Year's Resolutions (DRAFT)

So here's a list of things I'd like to do differently next year:

1) Stop starting business meetings by introducing myself as "Hi, I'm a new hire on the IS Core Team, and [jump on table and wrap cape around self dramatically] I'M BATMAN!!!"

2) Stop going to work in a cape and Batman mask.

3) Blog once a ~~day~~ ~~week~~ ~~month~~ ~~more often than I have in the past~~ I get done watching "How I Met Your Mother"

4) Finish "How I Met Your Mother"

5) Build a cave under my house.

6) Learn how to ~~program VBA~~ make pretty graphs in Excel.

7) Stop reading liberal-propaganda websites written by trolls, and Reddit.

8) Run for President, if only to steal enough of Ron Paul's votes so he doesn't win.

9) Save Gotham City. Again.

10) Eat more vegetables (by going to Chipotle more often)

2011-10-23T17:38:00.000-07:00

The Best the Americans Have to Offer Us, Part One

Coming out this winter is Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy, a film based on the seminal spy novel by John le Carre. While purists and old-timers will point to the seven-part BBC miniseries as the only "true" version of the le Carre story, I'm quite excited to see it, based on the trailer (which uses Danny Elfman's "Wolf Suite" from the Wolfman to excellent effect) and of course, the cast list:

-Gary Oldman
-Colin Firth
-Tom Hardy
-Mark Strong
-John Hurt
-Benedict Cumberbatch
-Toby Jones
-Ciaran Hinds

That's basically the 2007 New England Patriots of British actors, an All-Star team that I'm delighted to see put together on screen. It's like Harry Potter, if the unbelievable acting talent there wasn't playing second fiddle to a bunch of kids and CGI creatures (and also if that seven-part series was condensed down to one movie). The only actors who I wish they had shoehorned in are ~~Geoffrey Rush~~ Edit: Australian, Alan Rickman, and Jonathan Pryce.

Obviously, we're missing all the distinguished luminaries that people think of when they think of British actors (known to geeks everywhere as "the guys who took us seriously"): Patrick Stewart*, Ian McKellan, Christopher Lee, Ben Kingsley, Michael Gambon, Imelda Staunton, Judi Dench, Helen Mirren, Ralph Fiennes, ~~Morgan Freeman~~, Michael Caine, Ray Winstone, etc. etc. However, in addition to being younger, Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy's cast is composed mostly of people who have played supporting roles in other people's films: it is a film made of utility players, role players, blue-collar players, glue guys, scrappy guys who just love the game- in other words, the "small unathletic white guys"of the acting world, who suffer from a condescending discrimination similar to the racism of big-time sports (but that's a different column altogether).

So, given that I plan on running for office someday, I thought I would undergo a patriotic thought experiment (similar to the "What if Ghenghis Khan Was American" column I wrote in 1961), to try to find a similar hypothetical movie that would make me as excited about a crackerjack cast. It would be too easy to go directly for "classic" star power (as in Glengarry Glen Ross, which included Alec Baldwin, Al Pacino, Jack Lemmon, Ed Harris, Kevin Spacey, Alan Arkin, and Jonathan Pryce as the token Brit), so big names like Morgan Freeman, Samuel L Jackson, Tom Hanks, Bruce Willis, John Travolta, Harvey Keitel, Jeff Bridges, and everyone else who's been in a Tarantino film etc. are all out.

Here's the pool of talent I want to pick from:

-Sam Rockwell: My advice is to put on your astronaut suit (everyone has one of those at home, right?) and watch Galaxy Quest, The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy, and Moon back-to-back-to-back, then watch Matchstick Men and Iron Man 2 back-to-back, and just marvel at his ability to play a wide variety of total losers, and make them all loveable. Somehow.

-Stanley Tucci: The American answer to Alan Rickman. Repeat after me kids: "Stanley Tucci makes every movie better. Stanley Tucci makes every movie better. Stanely Tucci makes every movie better..." I think he may have won an Oscar for ~~"Heavenly Creatures"~~ "The Lovely Bones", but everything the man touches turns to gold. Watching him in "The Devil Wears Prada" was probably his finest moment, and "Lucky Number Slevin" was amusing as well, but my personal favorite is the scene in "Big Trouble" where he meets his employers in a garage. Watch what he does with his wig.

-Paul Giamatti: You would think that this guy did nothing but play poets and down-on-their-luck-but-scrappy-loveable-underdogs, but behind those soulful singer's eyes lie a sociopathic murderer. Never forget.

-~~Christian Bale, in a cameo role~~ Edit: Apparently he's Welsh, and was the lead in some art film called "The Dark Knight". Bummer.

-Jeffrey Donovan: better known as "the Voiceover guy from Burn Notice", Donovan has a great ability to let us watch emotions roil around inside while his face and body show nothing. He also convinced the producers of Burn Notice to let him fake every accent in the book (emphasis on "fake"), and this is an ability that needs to be exploited (see from about 4:05 onward in this clip).

-Summer Glau: Poor Summer has been pigeonholed into the same role she played in "Firefly", but I'm convinced she has a wider range than she's showed in Sarah Connor Chronicles, etc. Alternately, she could channel her real-world experience of getting hit on by every single straight male geek in the Western Hemisphere (and half of the gay ones) and play Amy Shaftoe in an HBO miniseries-type adaptation of Cryptonomicon. Also she was on Dollhouse ~~with Amy Acker, and so could help convince her to rescind the restraining order she has against me~~ which was a severely underrated Joss Whedon show that didn't deserve its cancellation.

-Jason Bateman: Of course, we know him from Arrested Development, but it wasn't until much, much later that I realized he's the "idiot sportscaster" from Dodgeball. He is the Millenial's version of Michael Keaton: good comedic timing, everyman sort of quality, but with an ability to switch to dark at the drop of a hat. So long as they don't shove him into a Batsuit I think we'll be OK.

-Gary Oldman: After starring in classics such as Fifth Element and Batman Begins edit: Apparently he's British.

-Bruce Campbell: If I were President, there would be a law that Bruce Campbell has to cameo in every single film.

-Amy Acker: ~~The most gorgeous actress to come through Hollywood~~ Amy Acker is another Joss Whedon alum who has ~~a restraining order against me~~ been given an unfair shake by the media establishment; I am convinced if she ~~had the kind of Hollywood body that idiots think is "beautiful"~~ was five years younger and a little curvier she not only would she have played the main role in Dollhouse, the show wouldn't have been canceled and her ~~goddess-like face would grace the cover of every magazine and billboard from here to the Attic~~ career would be taking off too fast to include on a list like this one. I would post the clip from "Vows" here to show off her talents but unfortunately YouTube is filled with ~~like-minded individuals~~ people who want to make corny music videos.

-The Guy Who Played Hans Gruber in Die Hard: OK, this is just annoying now.

-Enver Gjokaj: This is really the last Whedon alumni on the list, I swear. I haven't seen him in anything other than Dollhouse, but his dead-on impressions of Reed Diamond (Mr. Dominic) and Fran Kranz (Topher) are Hall-of-Fame-worthy, and he did a pretty decent job with Victor, too.

-Tina Fey: This is a cheat; Tina Fey is an incredibly successful TV actress but hasn't spent much time in the cinema world, so I'm counting her as a "supporting" player. Deal with it.

-Kevin Bacon (in a cameo): His turn in X-Men: First Class, where he played a swingin' 60s Sebastian Shaw and chewed the scenery like he had already won an Oscar for Scent of a Woman, goes into Hall-of-Fame status. Like Willem Dafoe in "Boondock Saints" (see later down this list), Bacon already knew he was a better actor than any of the schmoes he was with (this is called the "I Already Rock" factor, or the Willem Dafoe Role) and so didn't bother with the whole "I'll prove how great an actor I can be...look how SUBTLE I am!!!" thing; instead, we got him starting the Cuban Missile Crisis with his accents. Although his inclusion in numerous films and the game that's named after him would otherwise disqualify him from this list, I think it's acceptable to ask for a cameo.

~~-Tilda Swinton~~ I should have guessed that one.

-Jay Harrington: Jay is partially responsible for the incredible terribleness of the U.S. version of "Coupling" (don't even YouTube it; it will make you depressed), but he is also partially responsible for the awesomeness of Better Off Ted, which makes everything forgiven. Unfortunately, I think he'd be competing for the same role as Jason Bateman, and I'm not sure how that one will end up.

-Harry Lenix: OK, really, this is the last Whedon alum. Poor Harry got jerked around by terrible, terrible screen writing in The Matrix Revolutions AND Dollhouse; he deserves at least one good role.

-Willem Dafoe: Dafoe is the reigning king of the "I Already Rock" roles for his turn as a gay FBI agent in Boondock Saints (seriously, the entire movie is worth watching just for the two-minute sequence where he reconstructs a murder in a strip club). However, he also brings to the plate ~~nuanced, thoughtful~~ portrayals of such characters as the Green Goblin and the creepy gas station attendant from eXistenz.

-Dule Hill: While this may seem like an odd choice, recall that Psych would fall apart without Gus, ~~both from a logical and~~ from a humorous standpoint. It is incredibly difficult to pull off a straight-man role, and Hill fills the bill. (and now my girlfriend will come after me with an axe).

-~~Cate Blanchett~~ You gotta be kidding me. I need to find a good State Department agent and get her repatriated here...

Coming in Part 2: What kind of a movie project do we put together for the Dream Team?

2011-09-07T19:07:00.000-07:00

The Monkey Parable
(as told by a CoWorker)

There once were some scientists, who, in the time before the ASPCA, decided to test some monkeys.

They set up a large cage with a very long ramp on one end that winded all the way along the sides, to reach the top of a "peak", on which they put a basket of juicy, sweet fruit.

They then put a monkey in the cage. The monkey sniffed, smelled the fruit, and climbed all the way up to the top. When he got there, he reached out for the fruit, and the researchers hit him with a blast of ice-cold water that knocked him off the peak.

Confused, he climbed the ramp again, reached out again, and got knocked around by the ice-cold jet spray again. The monkey was smart; he only needed to be shown twice that going to the top of the peak would result in him being attacked.

They then introduced a second monkey. The first monkey sat placidly and watched while the second one climbed to the top. The second monkey reached for the fruit, and the researchers blasted him with water, but they also blasted the first monkey, who hadn't done anything. It was repeated a second time, and the second monkey learned not to go to the top of the ramp, and the first one learned that if ANYONE went to the top he would get attacked.

Third monkey introduced, third monkey goes to the top, and this time, all three are blasted with water. When third monkey decides to go up to the ramp again, the first and second monkeys beat him up. The third monkey realizes if he goes up the ramp, the other two will beat him up.

Monkey #1 is removed, and #2 and #3 see #4 enter and try to go up the ramp. They beat up #4 to keep him from going up the ramp.

Monkey #4 is confused, but then when #2 is taken away, he helps #3 beat up #5 to keep him from going up the ramp, even though the researchers put away the hose. And so on it goes, with each subsequent monkey helping keep other monkeys from going up the ramp, without ever knowing why.

Moral of the story: think about what we do sometimes. Are we monkeys?

(Some people think so)

2011-08-31T19:50:00.000-07:00

Summer Book Reviews (Where I Brag About My Erudition)

Edit: forgot a book, which, when I realized it, made me drop the grade a little.

New books I read this summer:

How to Live Safely in a Science Fictional Universe, Charles Yu (B-): I dropped the grade from a B+ because I had forgotten I read this book this summer, which calls into question how good it really is. Yu creates a mind-bending universe with lots of little metafictional tidbits; after a while I got really irritated and shut off the part of my brain that was trying to make sense of it (Douglas Adams did all this much, much better). However, while Yu is not a great SF writer, he is a great writer: his story is really about a boy trying to reconnect with his broken family, and it's hard not to empathize with the well-drawn characters he creates.

Declare, Tim Powers (A): A really, really good mashup of spy fiction (compared to Le Carre, but the comparison I would make is a pulpy Robert Ludlum), Cold War history, and fantasy (maybe a little on the Eldritch Horror side).
The world-building is well done and mixes together fact and fiction as well as does Eifelheim, which is the undisputed champ in the fantastic-history realm (see below). Oddly enough, Declare also deals with faith and redemption the way Eifelheim does. Declare's only issue is that it is really dense (you have to know a little Arabic and French, and be willing to read Wikipedia a lot), and often the density obscures the plot, which is suitably twisted but sometimes obscured by all the stuff Powers throws in.

Foucault's Pendulum, Umberto Ecco (a generous C): Ecco is, in some ways, a genius, and extraordinarily well-read; unfortunately his work (as translated into English by William Weaver) doesn't hold up very well as fiction. Foucault's Pendulum has some great historical oddities strung together to make an interesting theory or two, and a few nice character moments, but its plot isn't interesting until the very, very end, and all the cool symbolism, funny stories (Aglie is the man...or is he!?!), and themes get buried under minutiae and self-congratulatory cleverness. It's not meant to be a thriller, but it also struggles to make points about the human condition; long-form essay might have suited the ideas better than the world Ecco tries to put before us.

Sense and Sensibility, Jane Austen (C+): "Dear Jane," said her Editor, "We really liked Pride and Prejudice, but could you cut out all that lowbrow 'humor' and 'satire' stuff for your next one? It makes the book too accessible to the lower class, and we can't have uneducated people reading our books, of course. Also, we need a heroine who isn't as...interesting as that Bennet woman. I know it might seem like the editorial staff is going against your wishes, but basically, we outvote you. Laughing Out Loud! Women can't vote in this country! Unless you move to New Zealand or something. Rolling On the Floor and Laughing Out Loud! Anyways, make the cuts we want and a sandwich, and we'll have some quid for you, that's a good girl."

The Sociological Imagination, C. Wright Mills (C): Mills has some interesting points to make about the effect of the postwar world on science and philosophy, but his tone is so self-righteous and snarky that it's difficult to imagine him being correct about anything at all when he casually brushes aside entire domains of social science. The Girlfriend has informed me that all sociologists tend to be critical of each other, as a healthy way of encouraging critical thought in the field*; I prefer thinking that Mills failed his stats courses in college and couldn't pick up women in bars, so of course he was going to say that statisticians and interviewers were unskilled bozos. Furthermore, Mills' thoughts on big-picture society reads as being somewhat dated; in the 1950s and '60s, it might have been radical to suggest that capitalism as a whole might not have had an entirely beneficial effect on mankind (actually Death of a Salesman came out ten years earlier, so Mills wasn't even cutting edge in his own time), but it isn't anymore. See? That's me using Mills' tone. Do you like it? I didn't think so. (Full disclaimer: Paul Lazarsfield is the only sociologist I can remember reading in undergrad and thinking, "that's a cool set of ideas", and so Mills attacking him definitely lowered Imagination's grade)

The Presentation of Self in Everyday Life, Erving Goffman (A-): The Girlfriend is a huge fan of Goffman, so of course he has to get an A, because I want to present myself as being intellectual and supportive to her. (See? That's me using Goffman...oh nvmd). In all seriousness, Goffman has points to make that are actually interesting, and touch on epistemology, which is one of the themes that I throw around in casual conversation to make myself seem smart to the people whose attention and approval I so desperately crave. Although his examples are a little dated (e.g. "girls who want to date handsome boys often act so stupid they could be extras on Paris Hilton's reality-TV series", p87**)

Wolves of the Calla, Stephen King (B): The book is split into two different sections, one of which is a wonderful Western/science fiction mix about the power of united communities to overcome great odds, with a dollop of Weirdness to keep you on your toes, and the other is a schlocky semimystical romp through alternate versions of New York that drag the entire thing to a screeching, crashing halt. I think the atmosphere of the Western overcomes the melodramatic-ness of the other story, in the same way that Lost was able to overcome its cliched pulp mysteries with good stories about interesting characters.

Song of Susannah, Stephen King (C- or D+): "Dear Stephen", said the Editor, "We really liked Wolves of the Calla, but could you cut out that Western nonsense? It makes the story too interesting and- WHO AM I KIDDING I'M STEPHEN KING I DON'T HAVE AN EDITOR HA HA I AM MY OWN EDITOR HA HA HA I'M EDITING MY OWN WORK ISN'T THAT META, HEY META SOUNDS LIKE "METAL", MAYBE I SHOULD WRITE ABOUT METAL MUSIC THAT IS ACTUALLY ALL THE METAL IN THE WORLD, SO ITS META METAL, YEAH-------

The Domino Effect, Timothy Zahn (B- or C+): Whew! This one reads quick (finished it in a day) and sets up its universe and its problem very very quickly so you can get right to the twisty, turny plot (I didn't realize it was the fourth book in a series until a third of the way through). Lots of neat ideas, but nothing I could really put my finger on as being particular original or standoutish. A good book to bring to the beach.

Anathem, Neal Stephenson (A-): This is the book I was hoping for from Foucault's Pendulum. If you are interested in math, classical philosophy and Socratic dialog, quantum mechanics, and astrophysics, check it out, but try to read as little as possible about it before you do. I mean it. No reviews, no book jackets, no Wikipedia references. Don't read the intro and don't read the glossary in the back. Just start the book. I'm normally pretty spoiler-happy, but there's an ultimate point to the twists in Anathem that you will totally miss if you decide to spoil it for yourself

*SPOILERS SPOILERS SPOILERS*

Stephenson, in a neat little stylistic turn, puts you, the reader, into a similar state as the main characters, by setting you up in a cozy little world filled with conscious and unconscious assumptions about what you know, and then constantly shocking you by showing you that what you thought all along was completely wrong, in the same way that the characters in the book have strong assumptions ripped apart by reality (in more ways than one). ACK! Can't say anymore! Go Read It!

*I totally made that up

**I totally made that up too; the quote is on page 22

2011-07-20T09:42:00.000-07:00

The Magic (of the) Library

I have always loved the library, for many reasons. It's full of books, and I've always loved books (even when I couldn't read). It carries a very strong connection to the idea of "home" for me; when I lived overseas we would come back to the US for breaks and such, and my parents would always take me to the library. Also, when we came home in the summer, the library would always have its air-conditioning set to "Earth-Killing Mode", and you know that any place where they lower the internal temperature to that of a meat freezer is a place where you want to hang out (to help me appreciate this point, my family would always have us play on the playground across the street in the Human-Killing Humidity before we would go into the library itself).

My public library when I was growing up didn't have wireless Internet (nobody did) or a coffee shop or a play pen or avant-garde architecture; but it was clean, and big (to a child), and cold (did I mention it was always cold inside?) and it was full of books. The librarians (they were all ladies, and older ones too; I didn't meet a male or under-40 librarian until I was in high school) were friendly and never judgmental about my reading choices; they sponsored different events at the library, including a children's puppet show that came in and showed how evil developers turn primeval untouched thousand-year-old forests into strip malls if Kids Like You don't beg their Powerful Parents to stop being capitalists (I think I have that right).

At the public library I would check out 10 books at a time (mother's limit), and most of them were about a specific subject as I grew older:

1st grade: Cowboys
2nd grade: Cowboys
3rd grade: Submarines (Hunt for Red October is a life-altering movie, dude- "I would have liked to have seen Montana"- and it taught me that The Star-Spangled Banner is NOT, in fact, the coolest anthem in the world)
4th grade: Submarines, but with actual technical details instead of pretty drawings
5th grade: STAR WARS (my uncle gave me a copy of Specter of the Past, which blew my mind...there was a Star Wars after the movies? With years and about 10,000 pages of perspective (not kidding; I read through every one of the New Jedi Order novels except for Dark Journey, which was just too emo, and a lot of the "Classic" EU stuff too, X-Wing, Kevin Anderson's, etc.) I realized Specter of the Past and its sequel were about as good as it was going to get- maybe it's not good to start a kid there.
6th grade: Star Wars AND Star Trek (what, you think I thought all of science fiction was confined to the brainchild of George Lucas? Give me credit for refined tastes here). The two books I remember are Dreadnaught! (which, although I didn't know it at the time, is a perfect example of the Mary Sue archetype story) and The Great Starship Race, which was...amusing. Let's leave it at that.

And on and on. We stopped going to the library often (although we supplemented it with trips to Barnes and Nobles), but the damage was done. I still love libraries, making the trek to the one around the corner from my house every month or so.

As with Used Book havens, I view libraries as a way to find things that are obscure, bizarre, or otherwise marvelously serendipidous. On today's trip, I went to find a couple of books on Sociology, and also Wolves of the Calla, and instead spent most of the time browsing Writer's Market, dreaming of glory (but that's another story). You never know what you'll find there (although there's a surprising number of people looking at...stuff on the computers).

Support your libraries! All I'm sayin'

2011-07-11T17:54:00.000-07:00

Courses I Wish I Had Taken in College

Statistics: I don't actually give two s***s (+/-1 s***) about standard deviation, but understanding statistics helps you to understand assumptions about correlation and causation, two things that are murkier than they seem. Also, it would help me to win arguments, as some people seem to think statistics make everything right.

A Broad Intro Sociology Course: Not just because my girlfriend is a sociology major, but because sociology is one of those murky and ill-defined subjects (like "Cultural Anthropology" and "Semiotics"), and a course I took on it (the applications of classic social capital and such to online social networks) didn't really help.

Fencing: I tried fencing for a grand total of 45 minutes, and I was terrible at it. Like, terrible. But I think that the value that I add to the world would be immeasurably greater if I could stab people.

Any ROTC Course: Just to see what was up.

The Motion Video Course: Making montages with fancy editing and rotoscoping all day, for credit? YES. Except not at 8:45am, which is when this course was offered. My laziness regarding waking up in the mornings also prevented me from taking an intro to Statistics course, and from going insane my senior year.

2011-06-29T14:58:00.000-07:00

Booklist for Summer 2011

Here are the books I have either read or am planning on reading this summer (if I've read it a grade goes next to it, and I will try to edit in a review here):

Declare, Tim Powers (A): A really, really good mashup of spy fiction (compared to Le Carre, but the comparison I would make is a pulpy Robert Ludlum), Cold War history, and fantasy (maybe a little on the Eldritch Horror side). The world-building is well done and mixes together fact and fiction as well as does Eifelheim, which is the undisputed champ in the fantastic-history realm (see below). Oddly enough, Declare also deals with faith and redemption the way Eifelheim does. Declare's only issue is that it is really dense (you have to know a little Arabic and French, and be willing to read Wikipedia a lot), and often the density obscures the plot, which is suitably twisted but sometimes obscured by all the stuff Powers throws in.

The Parafaith War, L.E. Modesitt (re-read, B): Fun space opera. Some extremely preachy and particularly offensive sections dealing with the enemy "Revenants" (basically, the worst of Muslims combined with the worst of Mormons, with a little racism thrown in too) keep it from being a real masterwork. Uses the gender-neutral word "ser" as a sign of respect; oddly enough, so does Startide Rising and The Uplift War.

The Jennifer Morgue, Charles Stross (re-read, A-): Second book in the Laundry Files series. Probably the wittiest of the three (to date) Laundry Files books; this one deals with the stereotypical James Bond-type plot in amusing fashion.

The Fuller Memorandum, Charles Stross (re-read, B): Third book in the Laundry Files series. Stross goes into a little more detail and turns up the H.P. Lovecraft "existential horror" factor, laying groundwork for a presumable Apocalyptic confrontation later in the series, but this novel isn't as witty or engaging as the previous two; the comparative lack of droll satire (sorry, but the "zombie janitors, zombie librarians" don't match what he put together in The Atrocity Archives and The Jennifer Morgue) combined with the heavier stakes make this one feel unnecessarily weighty, and makes us less forgiving of the unexplained plot turns and such.

Foucault's Pendulum, Umberto Ecco

Dune, Frank Herbert (re-read, A-): Comparisons to The Lord of the Rings cycle is apt; it can be dry (heh heh, cause deserts don't have much water, geddit?), and the characters are all acting out the parts of Heroic Fantasy Archetypes, but the world-building and level of detail Herbert sprinkles (heh heh, cause spice gets sprinkled on stuff, geddit?) combine to make for an engrossing read. The way he bases the story on mythology of Europe aristocratic gamesmanship and the Middle East uprisings makes it familiar but not predictable/boring, and the presence of words and concepts that are no longer quite obscure in American culture (like jihad) gives the reader an uneasy view of the story, much like Stephen King's The Gunslinger.

Sense and Sensibility, Jane Austen

Sense and Sensibility and Sea Monsters, Ben H. Winters and Jane Austen

Wolves of the Calla, Stephen King

Cryptonomicon, Neal Stephenson (re-read, A+): Favorite book evah? Favorite book evah. You really have to read it three or four times to "get it", but its surface-level material is so entertaining it doesn't feel like a chore. A certain amount of Renaissance-man-type geekiness is required to appreciate the extensively-researched jokes, and I can certainly understand why people believe he needs an editor with a firmer hand. But that doesn't detract from how incredibly multi-threaded yet well-integrated the novel is. I've never read any of Pynchon's work from start to finish (sorry Mason and Dixon) but this is how I imagine it to be, if Pynchon wanted you to actually enjoy his writing. There is an army of distinctive characters drawn in Dickensian style, but including a handful of well-developed and developing ones that show up in the three/four plot threads. It is written like an epic, but feels like a character piece until you really start to get into it. I hope someday to write something as good as Cryptonomicon, but I doubt that I can.

For Whom the Bell Tolls, Ernst Hemingway

Snow Crash, Neal Stephenson (re-read, A-): Also one of my favorite novels, but not quite as earth-shatteringly good as it was when I first read it. Partly because the tech is outdated (but, unlike Cryptonomicon, does not ground the story in a peculiar time period), partly because Distraction did mostly the same thing, and partly because the satirical elements become a little too unwieldy after you've been surprised by them once. Still a lot of fun, and the description of Hiro's worries (or lack thereof) about Raven will go down as one of the all-time great tracts.

Distraction, Bruce Gibson (re-read, A-): Almost a carbon copy of Snow Crash, but just wry enough and inventive enough to make it stand on its own. Gibson approaches the idea of a collapsing Pax Americana much differently than Stephenson does; rather than exploring the libertarian hyper-consumerism of an '80s capitalist nightmare, he draws on trends from the early 00's (open-source, non-hierarchical organizations) and takes a little more liberal view of transhumanism. Fun times.

Jonathan Strange & Mr. Norrell, Susannah Clarkson (re-read, A): Neil Gaiman described this book as "the finest work of English literature of the past 70 years", and while I wouldn't go that far (has he read Cryptonomicon? /chandlerbing), it's definitely one of the top 5 or 10. Clarkson is a wonderful world-builder with a great handle on how to parody 19th-Century literary style in a way that is readable and yet hilarious at the same time. The magic she describes in her story is effective, ghostly and avoids being trapped in the same Tolkienesque/D&D valley that many authors, including myself, resort to (no lightning bolts and Magic Missiles flying around) (oddly enough, Tolkien's was a relatively low-magic world compared to most of his descendents). And the story, while being set in a fantastical universe full of little mysteries for the reader to unravel (conveniently set aside in little footnotes so well-thought-out they have a poetic quality), never loses sight of its flawed, but sympathetic characters.

Eifelheim, Michael Flynn (re-read, A): More delicious world-building, but the world is our own. One reviewer described the book as making you feel like you could speak German and live in a small 14th century village by the end of it, and I definitely agree. I can't talk about comparisons to Eco's The Name of the Rose (maybe on next year's booklist), but Flynn does a wonderful job of infusing a modern sensibility into the main character while keeping everyone firmly grounded in the correct time period, and then using a science-fiction element to explore the limits and wonders of their belief system. It has a quiet, understated beauty in its themes, but never preaches or prattles, and my Friend Who Will Be A Priest admired its apt handling of classical philosophy and Catholic dogma.

Startide Rising, David Brin (re-read, A-): When I first read this, I couldn't believe that it won both a Hugo and a Nebula, but once you get into it, it's so much fun you stop worrying about whether it stands up with the greats and instead have fun with the sheer amount of crazy ideas and action that Brin throws at you, in a very Heinleinesque fashion. It has talking dolphins! And alien empires! And mysteries! and intrigue! and Action! And while Brin can get a little preachy, it's so much fun even he can't ruin it.

The Uplift War, David Brin (re-read, B): The sequel/sidequel to Startide Rising is very slow-going at first, and doesn't feel like a complete story, more like a setup for the Big Thing Coming Down the Line, but it is also chock-full of fun ideas (still not as many as Startide Rising). The allegorizing of the invading army and their fanaticism gets very thin, though, as does the whole chimp Vichy thing.

Star Wars: Heir to the Empire, Dark Force Rising, The Last Command, Timothy Zahn (re-read, A-, B, B): Timothy Zahn is the Christopher Nolan/Stephen Moffat of space opera: he creates clever, multi-threaded stories that leave emotional development mostly for you to appreciate rather than empathize or feel. Zahn, more than any other writer in the SW Expanded Universe (and I've read most of them) gets the feel of Star Wars right: epic without being portentous, semi-mythological without getting mystical, adventurous while still bearing thematic weight (clones? anyone?). His dialogue sounds like something Harrison/Carrie/Mark would say on-set, and he doesn't try to mix Star Wars' adventure space-opera with other genres.

Other books I may try to tackle if I have time:
Song of Susannah, The Dark Tower, Stephen King
Quicksilver, Neal Stephenson
A Game of Thrones, George R.R. Martin

2011-06-28T11:12:00.000-07:00

On Seeing the Gays

As some of you may know, the governor of New York signed a bill into a law that allows gay people to get married, since New York is the most progressive, forward-thinking, trend-setting state in the Union. It was definitely the first state to allow this (no it wasn't) (it wasn't even second) (that is to say, there were five other states that were more trend-setting than New York was, a fact that seems to conveniently have slipped the minds of LGBTQ advocates all weekend) (in fact, it was beaten to the punch by IOWA, which is a Midwestern state so backwards that they still haven't gotten Duke Nukem Forever) (New York getting beaten at anything by Iowa is like the tortoise beating the hare, if the hare kept talking about how much better his pizza was than everyone else's).

As a consequence, there was a massive Pride Parade in New York City last weekend, where thousands of people took to the streets in fanciful corporate logo'd floats to demonstrate how much they loved being gay/lesbian/bisexual/transgender/queer, and in the case of one group, how much they hate Israel. (There was also a group of "bi-brarians" proudly holding up signs that show where sex and gender studies are located in the Dewey Decimal system.)

I happened to be in NYC for the weekend to visit my friend I-Banker, along with several other old schoolmates. One of them suggested we go to the Pride Parade, "so we can be part of history!" (I mentioned what I said above, that even Iowa already has gay marriage. My friend's response was both sucker-punch-y and optimistic: she said once New York does something, the entire country follows. /facepalm.gif)

So we went to go see the parade. When I went to visit Sam Clam's Disco last summer (a notorious hotspot for LGBTQ culture, although they don't have gay marriage) (seriously guys, if Iowa has it already...), there was a large Pride Parade, which I didn't go to (I apparently missed an impromptu performance by the Backstreet Boys, or maybe N'SYNC).

There were all the requisite stereotypes on display, but there was also a large number of normal/normally-dressed people, just happy to be there. I'm not quite sure I can emulate the feeling of being Proud and Out, but I compare it to going to a convention and knowing that, not only does Han Shoot First, but there are thousands- maybe millions- of others who feel the same way. To be a minority that is so roundly hated, stereotyped, and dismissed has to be crushingly depressing, and lonely. To know that there are others who are like you, that you're part of something you can be Proud of in public...well, I can see why that might be so appealing.

2011-06-18T12:24:00.001-07:00

I'm Going to be a FAMOUS AUTHOR someday, and YOU'LL BE SORRY

I have always had a fascination with books. Even as a child, when I couldn't actually read, I would demand to be read to: my illustrated children's Bible (I carried that tattered thing around until one day in Sunday school the children's pastor told everyone to turn to Matthew something or other, and I realized everyone else had graduated to actual, non-story-based Bibles), the picture books in my Montessouri preschool (so much nature! so many trees! so much sharing!), my mother's handpicked collection of illustrated Korean fairy tales (they were printed in English on one side and Hangul on the other side). Anything and everything.

Reading (and, eventually) writing was shrouded in an almost occult-like mystery for me. I was the last person in my Kindergarten class to learn how to read, a fact that wracked my little 4-year-old self (5-year old self? 6-year old self?) with anxiety. So much anxiety- I would cry and wail (partly to get attention; I love attention, more on this later) because everyone else could read gooder than I could.

And then it happened (which should be written as follows: "IT happened!!!"), which is how I describe it. One day I woke up and could ready pretty much everything- jumping straight from illiteracy to being able to read books, newspapers, magazines, medicine bottle labels, etc. Phonics, diction, and grammar were all internalized. Although I couldn't understand much of the cultural context that went with "adult" fiction (I was always sneaking pages of Tom Clancy here and there), I didn't have any trouble actually reading it, and picked up vocabulary rapidly. I'm sure there was a bit of a learning curve, but all I remember is one day not being able to read and the next day reading everything in the school library.

I describe reading and writing as being innate talents for me. Paradoxically, I had a really hard time in freshman English composition in high school, because I already knew how to read and write with perfect grammar; I just didn't know what the names for any of the parts of speech, or how to diagram a sentence- tools that English teachers used to teach students for whom English construction didn't come naturally. It came with reading lots and lots and lots of books all throughout elementary school (my ability to absorb information very quickly came in handy here). I was like an incredibly sophisticated Support Vector Machine learning tool- feed me context, I'll spit out rules.

But it felt natural to me. It felt easy, unlike math, which required me to practice and practice and practice, while my friends seemed to understand and absorb new concepts instantly; or sports, where I could envision the body movements needed to do things perfectly, but never twist my body to match my mind's eye; or, heaven forbid, foreign languages, which I basically gave up on. When I was taught to diagram sentences or to write complex-deductive paragraphs or use the five-paragraph essay format, it felt clunky, like being given a bunch of mountain-climbing ropes and spikes when you've been free-climbing for years with no problems.

Meanwhile, despite the attempts of years of Asian family peer pressure and Montessouri education trying to squash my competitive, selfish, attention-hungry nature, one little element of my life managed to survive the "everyone's a winner"/"we're all special in different ways"/"the nail that stands out gets hammered down" brainwash-and-purge societal conditioning of my life. That was, of course, writing. I wanted to write when I was young, making weird retellings of the media that consumed my attention- Moby Dick, 20,000 Leagues Under the Sea, the Hardy Boys novels (and about six of the Nancy Drew ones, purchased by my loving grandmother), Star Wars, the ten minutes of Hunt for Red October my parents allowed me to watch, and others.

I kept writing, off and on, mostly attempts to quash new ideas and characters into this mega-long story about gun-totin' mercenaries and secret agents and aliens and undersea battles and space races and explosions and cyborgs and submarines and stuff that I kept adding on to. In 8th grade I came up with about five different story ideas (that have stuck with me; I'm working on turning one of them into a novel right now).

But in addition to wanting to write things, to have created things, I also wanted to be a writer. I wanted- and still want- to be the star, a little celebrity, to see interviews and QA with my responses popping up on the Internet, to see people quote chunks of my work and claim I stole this idea or inspired that one. I want to see my work on the New and Bestseller shelves at Barnes and Noble. I want to call myself an Author. I love the attention. I want it. In writing, I want to be the star.

I've seen and heard different authors talk, and been privileged to meet a number of them (briefly). The ones I can remember off the top of my head:

-My middle school brought in a lady (can't remember her name) who had written a biography of Aun Sung Suu Kyi, a lady none of us had ever heard of (the next time I heard of her, it was ten years later and she had been released from house arrest and my girlfriend's friend wanted to drink victory shots in celebration). She also had written a biography of the Dalai Lama. I remember her mostly because our principal asked us to do something called "waving wheat", which is a tradition at her home school of the University of Kansas. Also, she told us a story about how the Dalai Lama had been kind of a jerk when he was kid- he would make his bodyguards pretend to be soldiers and then "sneak up and attack them" in the nighttime, pretending to be a ninja or whatnot. This moved him slightly ahead of Pope John Paul in the heads-of-church rankings in my head.

-They also brought in Jack Gantos, who was a great speaker; he walked us through the process of creating a story based on your own life (he used an anecdote about his mother firing a gun and thinking she had killed someone which was very funny and unfortunately I cannot reconstruct). He was witty, engaging, and made the writing process very relatable. Mr. Gantos wrote a book called Joey Pizga Swallowed the Key, which unfortunately I never ended up looking up despite promising to do so.

-I also saw Clive Gifford, from whom I bought a book called Learn How to Juggle, which promised to teach even klutzes to juggle. Unfortunately, I never did.

-I had an opportunity to see Orson Scott Card, author of Ender's Game (which had recently become one of my favorite novels) speak. He didn't read anything from his novels, but he did speak for a while about a number of salient topics: censorship, book sales, how to get started as a writer, and a lot of hilarious stories about life in general. I became a fan of his off-the-wall reviews which he still writes at his website.

-In college, I missed the opportunity to see Salman Rushdie speak at an event, and William Gibson speak at another. *retroactive facepalm*

I think to be a good writer you have to have a little egotism. Let me show you a list of famously self-centered jerks, with the names removed to protect the innocent:

-Writer A had a ticket on a convoy ship to Europe during WWII. Writer A's wife had a plane ticket (significantly safer; U-boats have difficulty shooting down planes at this point in time). Writer A forces his wife to take the convoy ship while he takes the plane.

-Writer B wrote back to an 11-year-old's fanmail with a note that said, "yeah yeah, i'm the greatest, quit wasting my time with stupid questions"

-Writer C is the only person in the history of the developed world to wear an eyepatch and yet not be a cool person.

-Writer D was famous for saying, "If you don't have something nice to say about someone, come sit by me"

Guess who they are? Yep! You're right: Ernst Hemingway, Isaac Asimov, James Joyce, and Truman Capote, and they were total douchebags to everyone (this is a totally logical argument, bear with me). (No it's not).

As a writer, part of my bulging ego is that when I read stuff, I criticize. I think I can do it better. I **know** I can do it better, or so I think. Ender's Game? Too much convenient mysticism. King Lear? The characters jerk around so much that I half-expect to see "Script by George Lucas" at the end of it. All the King's Men? They misspelled the governor's name; it should be "H-U-E-Y L-O-N-G". As I Lay Dying? The ending isn't milked for full comedic potential. Dune? Egads, man, lay off the acid for a minute.

(There are a few exceptions to this: there is no way I'll ever write something as beautifully interconnected and multi-layered, and also as entertaining, as Cryptonomicon, and I have a hard time believing I could write something as grounded in emotional suffering as Toni Morrison or Wuthering Heights)

Arrogance can help drive you to create great work, but I think the thing that is currently missing from the Author's toolbelt is the grit to back it up. In fact, because I do have some natural gift, I've been able to coast and haven't worked hard enough to be able to develop certain useful skills. And more dangerously, because of my ego, I think it should be easy.

Writing is not, in any way, "easy". It is work. Hemingway didn't just spend all day being a huge jerk to everyone (he once said of Faulkner: "Does he think he can make people feel big emotions by using big words?"), he would first get naked and tie his leg to a chair until he had written a certain number words, and then he would be a huge jerk to everyone. Kristine Kathryn Rusch writes quite eloquently about it here. (not about naked Hemingway; about discipline). Even the most talentless pop star puts in thousands of hours at the gym and several hours learning about music before being able to swim in cash and reality TV show offers; why should writing be any different?

Someday, I hope I can develop the work ethic to be a "real" writer. In the meantime, I'm going to be like that pickup legend who could have made it to the big leagues if he played organized. And also on the Internet.

2011-03-31T23:11:00.000-07:00

Lost and Found

While trying to dig up some old demographic information, I stumbled across an archived email in my Gmail account that was a forward from another Gmail account...which had the handle of a fictional megacorporation I imagined in a story I wrote when I was in 10th grade. Yet I had only ever owned a single Gmail account, and this wasn't it. I had literally no recollection of this email account.

To find out what was in this account that I had forgotten about was driving me forward, the way that a music historian might be driven forward to find out more about a lost Mozart symphony if he found a scrap of sheet music (in Mozart's handwriting) that started with a suspiciously familiar sequence of notes...

I had an eerie sense of deja vu as I attempted to recover the password for this account and see what it contained- the security question was one that also pertained to that story, and I could not for the life of me outguess the (presumably) 10th grade version of the Author.

Finally, I had it send a recovery link to another one of my old accounts, which I thankfully *could* remember the password to, and I opened up this mystery Gmail account to reveal...

That it was a private account set entirely aside to house my correspondence with my best friend from 8th grade. I actually laughed out loud. It was brilliant. And it got better when I started actually reading those emails.

If I have time and a cruel inclination, I might post some of the emails I sent from that account, which are so hilariously emo and bizarre that they don't seem painful anymore. Time will do that to you, I guess.

2011-01-30T22:39:00.001-08:00

Ahh, Catty Disses

h/t to Everydayshouldbesaturday.com. You can't really pick a favorite one, but this one is pretty baller:
"
[My grandfather] and his brother were at a dance, and his brother went up and asked a girl to dance. She said, “No thanks, I’m very particular about who I dance with.” He immediately replied, “I’m not, that’s why I asked you.”
"

2010-12-07T09:43:00.000-08:00

"Good Friends" and "Great Friends"

-A good friend will give you a ride to the airport. A great friend will give you a ride back, too.

-A good friend will always be your wingman. A great friend will tell you you don't need one.

-A good friend will take you aside and quietly tell you that you're embarrassing yourself on the dance floor. A great friend will be embarrassing his/herself out there with you.

-A good friend will put on the Robin costume for Halloween when you're Batman. A great friend will put on the Azrael costume for Halloween when you're Batman.

-A good friend will give you notes from lecture. A great friend skipped class with you.

-A good friend will post on your Facebook wall. A great friend will post on your actual wall.

-A good friend will tell you you're sexy because of your intellect. A great friend will tell you you're sexy because of your body.

-A good friend asks your advice about who to date. A great friend dates everyone you've dated, just to be sure.

-A good friend introduces you to music by great bands. A great friend introduces you to great bands.

-A good friend stabs you in the front. A great friend doesn't.

-A good friend will meet you for coffee. A great friend will get you all the coffee. In the world.

-A good friend will let you borrow their DVDs. A great friend will explain to you what BitTorrent is.

-A good friend will let you join the GDI. A great friend will let you join Nod.

-A good friend will tell you when it's raining. A great friend will make it rain for you.

-A good friend will give you their last Four Loko. A great friend will drink their last Four Loko, because it's terrible.

-A good friend will serenade you from under your balcony. A great friend will have someone who's actually good at singing serenade you from under your balcony.

-A good friend will give the speech at your wedding. A great friend will just fill everyone's glasses again.

-A good friend will take you to Disney Land. A great friend will take you to Disney World.

-A good friend has many other good friends. A great friend has no other friends but you.

-A good friend will walk one extra mile with you. A great friend will walk 1.6...kilometers.

-A good friend will shoot himself in the head so you don't have to watch him being eaten by the zombies. A great friend will shoot you in the head so you don't have to be eaten by the zombies.

2010-11-23T11:27:00.000-08:00

For Women Everywhere

After some unfortunate incidents regarding the treatment and objectification of women on campus at some of America's great universities, I decided to try to put together something that might help women to strike back. A rallying call, if you will, using the power of film to create a movement that will help them strike back.

EXT. Courtyard- DAY

Camera pan over a blue and white SIGN that says "Campus Women's Center". It's a cold, gray winter morning, and standing there under the sign is the FLY GIRL, a haughty-looking dark-haired girl who steps forward-

FLY GIRL

Ten hut! Eyes FORWARD!

There's an explosive PAH of condensation from the breath of LIEUTENANT ALICE RAIN. She is a hillbilly from the mountains of West Virginia, and has one defining physical characteristic: a long SCAR running down her neck, as if she made a mistake shotgunning a beer once. This scar will never once be mentioned.

LT. ALICE
My name is Lt. Alice Rain, and I'm putting together a special team. And I need eight soldiers. Eight...Shrew-ish....Amer-ican sold-iers.

Pan across the legs of eight SORORITY WOMEN, all stepping forward in synchronized motion, their identical UGG BOOTS scuffing the pavement. They are all dressed identically in LEGGINGS, MINISKIRTS, DESIGNER SCARVES, and NORTH FACE JACKETS/PULLOVERS.

LT. ALICE
Now, y'all might'a heard rumors about an Armadillo Grill run happenin' soon. Well, we'll be leavin' a little earlier. We're going to be droppin' onto campus, dressed as sorority sisters. And once we're in enemy territory, as a bush-thwacking, guerilla army, we're goin' to be doin' one thing and one thing only: p0wn'n frat bros.

Pan across the Gucci, Tory Burch, and Louis Vuitton HANDBAGS the sorority women are carrying.

LT. ALICE
Members of the Inter-Fraternity Council have conquered this campus through intimidation, rohypnol, and flagrantly sexist social norms. And that's exactly what we're gonna do to them. Now I don't know about y'all, but I didn't come down from the underdiversified commodity economy of the Appalachian mountains, buy Halloween costumes designed to snugly fit a 12-year-old girl, and fight my way through the postmodern social networking of PanHel rush to teach frat bros lessons in humanity. Frat bro's ain't got no humanity. They're the foot soldiers of white male heterosexual privilege. That's why each and every son-of-a-Michigan-fan we find wearin' a popped collar, they're gonna die.

Fly Girl smirks in slow motion.

LT. ALICE
We will be cruel to the frat stars, and through our cruelty, they will know who we are. They will find the evidence of our cruelty, in the disembowed, dismembered, and disfigured bodies of their brothers we leave behind us. And the frats will not be able to help themselves from imagining the cruelty their brothers endured at our hands, and our stiletto heels, and the edge of Juicy Campus and CollegeABC. And they will be sickened by us. And they will talk about us. And And when the Broseph's close their eyes at night, and their sub conscious tortures them for the evil they've done, it will be with thoughts of us, that it tortures them with. (beat) Sound good?

All of the Sorority Women step forward.

SORORITY WOMEN
Yes Ma'am!

LT. ALICE
I got a word of warning for all you would-be feminists. When you join my command, you take on debit. A debit you owe me, personally. Every woman under my command, owes me, one hundred Natty light tabs. (beat) And I want my tabs.

TITLE CARD: Quentin Tarantino presents: INGLOURIOUS BEETCHES

2010-11-22T14:01:00.000-08:00

Because We Can't Get Enough Ricky Stanzi

First, if you haven't seen Ricky Stanzi, quarterback of the Iowa Hawkeyes, declare his love for America, please follow this link and watch the video of him proclaiming "USA Number 1" after winning the Orange Bowl in 2010.

Second, Ricky has a problem with the communists who live in Iowa City:

There is a possibility that Ricky Stanzi may have sat in on a class with a communist. Yes, the American quarterback, the "Love it or leave it, USA No. 1" quarterback, might have shared class space with a Marxist, socialist or communist. We are talking Iowa City and the University of Iowa.
"I don't know how other colleges are, but when you walk around here, you've got people ... you’ve got guys walking around in dresses and just these hippies," Stanzi said. "They're doing nothing. There's the Ped Mall area down there, right in the middle. Those people are going nowhere. Those people are the people who don't like America.
"They always find something wrong with [America]. They're the problem. They're the people who need to change and figure it out. They need to get it together and work hard."
(h/t: Dr. Saturday via OurHonorDefend)

2010-09-30T16:32:00.001-07:00

Ahh, Jocks

From a message board I frequent:

"
1961, Freshman year and I'm taking my meals in the cafeteria for Park and Baker Halls. A large folding door closes off one room and it turns out to be the sitting area set aside for the football team and those guys are not on the same meal plan. They go through a separate line and emerge with porterhouse steaks or slabs of rib roast that cover the plate, foil wrapped baked potatoes the size of your Chipotle, salad bowls that look like your mom's mixing bowl and then they disappear into the closed off room.

Once they're seated the noise (which consists of shouts, belches and boisterous laughter) from this room drowns out the chatter in our section of the dining hall.

This goes on through most of the season and then one night before the Wisconsin game I'm sitting there eating my roast beef in gravy along with five or six fellow pencil necked freshman geeks (not Greeks) when suddenly, inexplicably, the noise from the secret room stops, an eerie silence falls about the place and holds. One of my friends then shouts, "More wine for Polyphemous!" and the rest of us burst out laughing like it's the world's funniest joke (see Python, Monty, Worlds Funniest Joke Sketch).

From out of the still quiet, secret room emerges a scowling figure. He looks as if boulders had been stuffed inside his clothes, his neck is so thick that the bottoms of his ears are about an inch further out than the tops, his jaw looks like the bow of a battleship -- it's Iron Mike Ingram, nose tackle and baddest sonuvabitch on a team full of bad sonuvabitches. He steams right over to our table, "All right which one of you smart ass wise guys said that?"

We give up our comrade in the blink of an eye and Iron Mike fixes him with a steel cutting laser look, "I read that book too. That ain't funny." And then turns and stomps his way back into the athlete's cave.

The rest of us didn't breath for a minute or so and then very quietly took our trays back to the wash room and slipped away before Iron Mike and his buddies emerged.
"

2010-09-06T20:07:00.000-07:00

Pro Tip Regarding Postmodern Texts

They're much easier to read as new media (i.e. in electronic form). The absurdism which characterizes much of postmodern writing can be better dealt with that way. Just zoom in so the text is cartoonishly large, and suddenly you realize how unimportant it is.

2010-08-31T18:12:00.001-07:00

How The Author Explains Some "Complex" Concepts

Postmodernism: I've heard of it, but I can't tell you what it is

Postmodernism (true version): I've heard of it, but it's meaningless

Absurdism: It doesn't make sense

Surrealism: Fish

Apathy: Who cares?

Recursion: See "Recursion"

Tautology: It's a tautology.

2010-08-27T18:22:00.000-07:00

Why I Put Up With Slate.com's Commenters:

" A while back I remember listening to the Pussycat Dolls singing "Don't you wish your girlfriend was hot like me" and thinking that mine's pretty hot... AND she knows enough English to use the subjunctive mood when discussing what the singer vainly believes to be a counterfactual proposition. "

2010-08-14T18:09:00.000-07:00

I Left My Harp in Sam Clam's Disco #6: In Which the Author Discovers that Instead of Writing Clever Content, You Can Just Make References to Someone Else's

Night on the harbor bay is clear, crisp, and cold, and if I was home in the Midwest, it'd be about October right around now, and I'd be writing about how the leaves are changing colors, as if the trees are blushing, and if you strain your ears, you can just barely hear the whistle of footballs arcing through the air and corn-fed farm boys getting dissatisfied with the patriarchal consumerist suburban lifestyle and going to "find themselves" out in the wilderness. But instead, it's July, I'm writing about how the reflected lights of the skyline glow against the absolute black void of the water and if you strain your ears, you can just barely hear the screams of gamblers tossing down plastic chips onto faux-velvet covers and a DJ who actually isn't terrible at his job.

Beneath my feet, I can feel the engines stir as they strain to move a ferry roughly the size of Manhattan across the bay, turning towards the city. The twinkling lights that outline the glassy skyline seem false, too clear, too small, like flickering windows of a miniature house sitting next to a model train diorama. I grim the deck handrail and look out over the seas, and if I didn't know better, I would say the skyline and the water are rotating around a motionless ferry, as though they're on a giant disc sitting on top of the back of a slowly turning turtle. The boat is the only thing staying still as the whole universe shifts and changes around it. Carefully, I remove a top from my pocket and set it spinning on the deck to test my hypothesis that the boat is standing still/that this is all a dream. It spins and wobbles, spins and wobbles. If I close my eyes, the whole world drops away-

"Hey, Captains Courageous, you coming?"

I turn to see one of my fellow interns standing there, with an eyepatch over his left eye and a dark mid-level beer in his hand.

I shrug. "Sure, why not."

The ferry boat is loaded with close to a thousand [Company Name Redacted] interns of all shapes and sizes, many wearing pirate-themed gear: eyepatches, fake wooden legs, hooks for hands, cutlasses, RPGs, Pittsburgh hats, Barbary Coast patches, squidlike Cthulhu masks, and even a BitTorrent shirt or two. There are three levels to the boat: Shame, where interns may attempt to sing along with popular music piped in over an intercom, Despair, where interns may attempt to dance with popular music piped in by a DJ, and Karma, where interns may attempt to gamble away fake money at an array of three different games, including game[0] (aka blackjack), game[1] (aka roulette) and game[2] (aka craps)*.

I try to get in line for karaoke at Shame, but then one of my fellow interns sings an impossibly good rendition of Bill Withers' "Aint No Sunshine When She's Gone", and I realized that there's no way I'm ever going to be able to replicate her smooth tone and on-key quality. So I head upstairs to Despair, where there's an open bar that only serves beer and wine free (but high-quality of both) and I debate the merits of a $10 shot. I notice that a number of the interns (by which I mean, all of them) are standing around in an enormous circle, whose probability of spontaneous existence is rather low. After all, because of the bizarre confluence of interns, alcohol, managers, and pirate gear, everyone is slightly tenser than they might be at a club, so there's considerably less grinding than you might expect, and everyone is making non-trivial effort to pretend they've stayed within a two-drink limit. Dance circles form quickly and dissolve just as quickly, fractal and ephemeral, so for one to exist for a long period of time at that size is incomparably improbable.

I crane my neck over several variably dressed interns, to see a very senior executive of [Company Name Redacted] breaking it down in full pirate regalia.

Somewhere on the deck outside, the top keeps spinning. I think.

*To quote a fellow intern: "Craps is a really fun game to play once you realize you'll never understand it and you basically can't win."

2010-08-05T21:56:00.000-07:00

Inception

I will have much more to write about Inception, which is kind of like the Phillip Glass of movies: highly structured, fractally simplistic but incredibly dense, and not as weird as you think it is when you first hear it (foghorns, that is). Anyways, here is the review of the film I like the best, and here is quite possibly the best trailer for it (cut by a fan, of course)

Ta da:

2010-07-26T20:39:00.000-07:00

I Left My Harp in Sam Clam's Disco #5: In Which the Author Discusses the Problems with Keratin Formation in Hygroscopic Environments

My hair is difficult to cut. Finding someone who can cut my hair is an even more onerous task, so imagine my delight and surprise when I discover that around the corner from my current place of residence is a hair salon (I prefer to think of it as a more masculine "barber shop"). There are several good signs about this place:

1) It isn't titled something hipster-ish like "Hair Design by Takeda", or cutesy, like "Lock, Stock, and 2 Smoking Clippers"; instead, it has a very blunt, Times-New-Roman-type sign that says "Hair Cut and Style" and screams "no ad budget"

2) There are plastic sticky letters above the displays that say something like "MEN'S HAIRCUT $10"

3) Most importantly, you can hear a very musical type of foreign language coming from the inside, which means that the people working there are either from Southeast Asia, or Scottish, all of which are good signs.

I go inside and find, to my delight, that the lady who will be cutting my hair today is in fact, Vietnamese ***WARNING RACISM ALERT*** because, there are only a few people who can cut my hair in a way that doesn't make it look like, say, a diorama of the French Revolution as created by a hedgehog with a surrealist bent, or Spock. These people are, in order of proficiency: 1) the Vietnamese 2) the "fish eaters" that That Girl used to make fun of ("unlike them, *our food* has flavor") and 3) a Korean lady who moved to Chicago. ***WARNING END RACISM ALERT***.

It turns out alright; in fact, once I get over the fact that my sideburns are now shaped like the State of Texas (my skin is oily enough to stand in for the Gulf) , I'm quite pleased with my haircut. Moral of the story: be racist; it's good for your hair.

2010-07-25T13:12:00.001-07:00

Interlude: The Joy of Legacy Gaming

I am the owner of a Macbook, and this makes gaming rather difficult. My deathly fear of partitioning hard drives has kept me from using Boot Camp to fully utilize the blazingly-fast (by 2007 standards) components inside my computer, so I use a handy-dandy piece of software called VMware to run various virtual machines: Windows 98SE, Windows XP SP2, and Linux-Ubuntu*.

In selecting games that can run in a virtualized environment, I take myself back to the mindset I had in the mid-to-late '90s. When we bought our first family PC, it was a state-of-the-art Gateway rig (costing ~$5,000 MSRP) that had 16 MB of RAM, 200 MB of hard-drive space, and a blazingly-fast 166 Mhz Pentium chip. Unfortunately, it did not have a 3D graphics accelerator, and so I was unable to play MechWarrior 2: Mercenaries, a game that I had played and fallen in love with at my cousin's house (he was clearly ahead of the curve). I still have fond memories of that computer, though, starting with the first three computer games my father bought at a store: Men In Black: the Game, F-22 Lightning II, and a little weird-looking thing called Fallout.

It is absolutely astonishing to me how many classic games came through our greedy little fingers when my brother and I were children: in addition to the original Fallout, my brother and I played Command & Conquer (and practically cried with joy when my dad brought home Red Alert), Jane's AH-64D Longbow, Total Annihilation, Diablo (until my parents decided it was too bloody), Warcraft II, Dark Reign (does anyone remember Dark Reign?), the original Age of Empires, Quake II, Civilization II, Rainbow 6, Jedi Knight...the list goes on and on.

After a few years, my Papa had been convinced through carefully thought-out lobbying attempts by myself and my little brother (mostly us crying and saying "We can't play this game!"), and upgraded to a Pentium II 300 Mhz CPU, which was to the original Pentium as Terminator 2 was to the original Terminator, along with 64 MB of RAM, a 3dfx Voodoo 2 graphics accelerator and (this was the kicker) an enormous, 400-MB (that's FOUR HUNDRED MEGABYTES) hard drive.

I still remember staring at it the day after and watching this newfangled game called Half-Life run smoothly and beautifully; it was the most exciting 15-minute-long train ride of my life. There are very few things in my life that will ever match that beautiful feeling. Ahem.

In any case, here are some of the games I've been playing:

-Heroes of Might and Magic III (circa 1999)
-Jagged Alliance 2 (1999)
-Starcraft (circa 1998, and this will require its own blog post)
-Homeworld (circa 1998, picked up from that beautiful used-book store down the road for $7.95, and just as revolutionary as it was when it was released)
-Diablo II (1999)

*all the hipsters still sneer at me when I tell them I like Ubuntu

2010-07-24T22:01:00.000-07:00

I Left My Harp in Sam Clam's Disco #4: In Which the Author Tastes the Fruit of the Farmer's Market of Good and Evil

My papa always told me that when he retired from [Other Company Name Redacted] he would want to go and get two more jobs: as a people greeter at Wal-Mart during the week, and a chef at one of those teppanyaki-type places on the weekends. I've never understood why my father, who has actual talents and hobbies, would ever want to do menial jobs like that, until I was enlightened by something that [Company Name Redacted] calls the Culinary Internship.

This is an opportunity to do several things, first and foremost of which is the opportunity to skip work for a half-day, giving me an easy out of a meeting via [secret and proprietary long-distance communication system that rhymes with "Mideo Bonferencing" redacted]. But more importantly, it's an opportunity to spend a half-day working in the kitchen of one of our cafeterias (which serves free food), learning about the food prep process. This is how I end up on donut-frying duty at 8 am, dressed in a comically stereotypical white chef's jacket and CSI-yellow latex gloves.

Frying donuts is a surprisingly difficult endeavour, and it's nothing like what you've experienced before. It involves donut dough, which is like cookie dough, but for donuts, and an enormous fat fryer that's large enough to be used to dunk naughty children in. Using a donut scoop, which is like an ice-cream scoop, but for donuts, I take globs of dough the size of my fist and plop them into the oil bath, which hisses appreciatively in a disturbingly anthropomorphic way, like an evil version of one of the magically alive kitchen instruments from Beauty & the Beast*.

Then begins the real issue. When heated, the globs of donut dough expand and start to float in the oil like corpses, but they're actually donuts, and that means that one part- the long segment that sticks out when floating- is not coated with oil, which means it might not get cooked properly. The only possible recourse, therefore, is to use a pair of tongs to savagely beat them down whenever they poke their heads out, bopping them down whenever they pop up like Whack-a-Mole, except with donuts.

It's fun, it helps people get the goodies they want, and it involves donuts; this is enough to keep me amused for what seems like hours, until breakfast is over and the crew cleans up, and serves themselves some leftover bacon, eggs, etc., though for some reason nobody wants to eat my donuts. Afterwards, we gather 'round and get assigned to different stations as we prepare for lunch.

Each team member prepares some dish for the buffet and presents it to the head chef and his assistant, who go down the line, sampling and occasionally interrogating the cooks as to the exact ingredients that go into, say, soy vegan hot dogs wrapped in noodles with coconut sauce. Each chef is required to be able to rattle off the recipe from memory to the head chef, and also to swallow a cyanide capsule if captured by the enemy and tortured for the secret recipe for grilled cheese ([ingredient redacted] between [ingredient redacted], if you're wondering).

The head chef and his assistant seem to like most of the selections today, other than offering a few subtle tweaks here and there that go off-recipe (they both follow the Half-Blood Prince's philosophy when it comes to cooking stuff). We then scurry around and get ready for the day's meal, which in my case involves chopping up a crate full of broccoli for the stir-fry station ("If you run out of broccoli, nobody wants to eat stir fry for some reason").

Next to another team member named Mauricio (it takes me an embarassingly long time to realize this is a Spanglification of "Maurice"), I chop vegetables in a mechanical way and try to re-energize my Spanish with him and other passerby. I manage to learn a few things: most of his family is in NorCal, he has two kids who like watching soccer, and if he ran the cafeteria he would serve grilled shrimp and fish, with various tomato and pepper-based sauces over brown rice.

It's pleasant, to have a conversation that has nothing to do with what you're working on, and I reflect that I could do this job, and be moderately happy. What does that say about me?

I also resolve to talk to my team back at [office name redacted] more about personal, non-work-related content.

*there's a deep-fryer among the characters there, right? You know, the one with the deep Southern accent who sprays Gustan with his gurgling peanut oil during the defense of the castle and then turns into a fat, mayonnaise-loving caricature of Bill Clinton at the end, in a pointed and subtle critique by the Disney animators of how he embarrassed his own party and Americans everywhere? Right? Am I the only one who remembers this?

2010-06-16T22:08:00.000-07:00

I Left My Harp in Sam Clam's Disco #3: Wherein the Author Pays Tribute to the King of Pop

The poster says "Cardio" and has a picture of Michael Jackson on it. I'm in.

Yes, aerobics classes are girly, but like, Long Island Iced Teas and My Best Friend's Wedding, they can certainly be fun in the right context. Regardless of your views of his personal life, there is no denying that Michael Jackson created some of the catchiest tunes in the Western Canon, and even step aerobics can be fun with the right tunes.

At [Company Name Redacted], the company genuinely cares about the health of its employees (for one thing, it reduces insurance premiums) and so not only does it provide multiple sets of Greek-style gymnasiums, it also provides various fitness classes designed to get people out of the cubicle and away from 4chan*. These encompass everything from classes in the ancient art of Bhangra, to yoga, to mud wrestling, to how to use your analytical ability to dance in clubs. They are all branded as [Name Redacted], a clever portmanteau of [Company Name Redacted] and [Noun Redacted].

I change after my work on the [Name Redacted] Project and emerge from the locker room in the [Name Redacted] Building in my go-to sweatwear: long black athletic shorts and a white undershirt. After walking [Distance Redacted] miles to work every day, I feel confident in my ability to keep up with even the most strident, Spartan-style workout master/mistress.

With my faithful friends and fellow interns [Name Redacted], [Name Redacted], and [Name Redacted], we confidently march into the gym, brandishing our authentic '80s style workout gear, and find dozens of awkwardly matched couples practicing their last tangos, dressed to the nines. Apparently, there are TWO different fitness classes on Wednesday afternoons, and the one we're looking for is in the other gym, which is all the way across campus.

With a level of tenacity that can only be described as "dangerous", we stride away, avoiding the giggles of the pretty young things at our bizarre '80s appearance; it's human nature, after all, to laugh at ridiculously dressed people. While there's a part of me that wants to tell them to beat it, unless they wanna be startin' somethin', even I'm not enough of a smooth criminal to get away with bold-faced intimidation, especially after stealing Billie Jean's bike yesterday. That incident was a thriller, lemme tell ya, but I just can't help being a thief; my whole motto is "don't stop till you get enough".

Finally, we reach the other gym and confidently stride through the doors, only to find about 40 people thrusting their hips in a suggestive manner. Apparently, there are two different DANCE classes on Wednesday afternoons, and the one we're looking for is right here.

There's a moment in every crisis where things come to a halt, and two possibilities loom in your face: the one that involves the red pill, and the one that involves the blue pill. I could back out here, pretend I actually meant to go hit the weights, oops sorry to bother you. Or I could follow the other interns, who aren't shaken at all by the fact that the "aerobics class" turned out to be a group of crotch-grabbing dance maestros. A group that, from all accounts, seems to be ready to reshoot every music video in the MJ canon, shot-for-shot, move-for-move, grab-for-grab. On one hand lies safety in the no, in the denial. On the other lies risk, in the yes, in the acceptance. I take a deep breath. In improv, we teach ourselves to always say "yes". So I do.

Of course, in improv, everything you do is right.

Let me try to spell this out a little more explicitly. In the metafictional, postmodern sentiment, I designate myself, in the semiotic fashion, to be a writer. While not particularly accomplished (or for that matter, published), I am justly and forthrightly proud of the prodigious lexicon I bear in my concentric cranial cavity, and moreover, I consider myself to have nothing but the largest, most eloquent and most granular vocabulary of anyone I have ever met, with a judgmental and nearly draconian watch over those drooling denziens of the Illiterati who would stoop to using simplistic (and low-entropy) words. I state this not in the hope of receiving some unadulterated praise from you, dear reader, but merely to underscore the gargantuan and unimaginable magnitude of what I am about to tell you: there are no words to describe how bad I am.

To compare me to a drunk trying to dance would be insulting a drunk. Our dance instructor, who has the kind of unyielding perkiness that a Montessori teacher or a Communist propaganda broadcaster would need to get a gold star, shows just a slight twitch when she looks in the mirror at the back line where I am "dancing", the kind of twitch that seeps through the tiniest crack in a steel-hard facade, the kind of twitch that crosses the face of a Civil War infantryman about to have his leg sawn off, or maybe Wedge Antilles when he had to abandon Luke at the Death Star. Watching me trying to dance a Michael Jackson routine is kind of like watching an overweight rabbit with cerebal palsy try to hop through a flaming hoop, with one foot replaced by a poorly-made wooden prosthetic whittled by ex-Soviet nuclear scientists working on immigrant visas at a pet limb replacement store.

And that STILL doesn't explain how terrible I was at this. The only way that someone could understand is if they saw, which, thanks to the fact that the entire thing was videotaped and YouTubed, and I'm the only one wearing a white shirt, they now can.

Star Wars Kid, I feel your pain.

*Do NOT google 4chan. Trust me.

2010-06-16T21:53:00.000-07:00

I Left My Harp in Sam Clam's Disco #2: Wherein the Author Ruminates on the Fragility of Life and Small Consumer Electronics

So, it's been about a week since I started working for [Company Name Redacted] on the [Name Redacted] Project, and things are going just peachily. Of course, 80% of that week was orientation, where the general focus was less on work and more on receiving free [Company Name Redacted]-branded swag and learning about the various ways [Company Name Redacted] is trying to retain its highly trained employees.

Other, lesser [Industry Name Redacted]-focused companies would focus on giving its employees things like money, good health plans, money, 401(k) plans, money, more vacation time, money, maternity leave, money, company picnics, money, and money to keep them satisfied. But [Company Name Redacted] doesn't believe in that sort of thing. Money, after all, is a crude and base way to motivate employees. Awesomeness, on the other hand, speaks to the little kid in every employee, and there's nobody who [Company Name Redacted] would prefer to negotiate with than a bunch of little kids.

You've probably read about the perks that [Company Name Redacted] employees get at [Company Name Redacted] headquarters. I am here to tell you that there are a lot of myths and rumors flying around. To see whether or not you have successfully pulled the correct ones out, here's a little quiz:

Which of the following [Company Name Redacted] perks and attractions are real?

A) Free computers
B) Trees and bushes made of actual candy
C) In-house psychic consultation
D) In-office rocket ship
E) Paid lunch breaks for hourly employees
F) Cirque du Soleil performances at the weekly company meetings
G) Shuttles running to downtown, suburbs, and the Seattle-Vancouver-Juno Metropolitan Area
H) Complimentary EarPods for all staff
I) Life-size replica of the Enterprise bridge (classic, not Next Generation /Enterprise/2009 movie version)
J) bikes that can be taken and returned freely anywhere on campus

The answer, of course, is E: [Company Name Redacted] does not pay its hourly employees during the lunch hour.

The bikes maintain a particularly interesting effect on campus culture. They are scattered everywhere, usually in front of buildings, always unlocked. Anyone who needs to get from point A to point B is free to take a bike from point A and ride it to point B and leave it parked there. He or she might be able to take the same bike back, but odds are someone who needs to take the bike from point B to point A will take it before then.

This sort of ad hoc circumstance has lead many outside observers to deduce that a truly pacifistic and generous culture can develop because of a socialist-inspired system where each takes according to their needs (getting from point A to point B) and gives according to their ability (parking the bike and leaving it for the next person). However, like the misguided Monopoly player who came up with the "Free Parking" rule, or Barack Obama, they are mistaken: the only kind of culture that can arise from such an open and free system is one of ruthlessness and Hobbesian distrust, where crowds topple statues and trade Levi's denim on the black market as if the jeans were made of gold.

I was at first, foolish enough to believe that such a system of shared bikes might work, in the same way that I once believed that we would have true world communism by 1985, and that you could play Grand Theft Auto as a law-abiding citizen. I was, in fact, appalled when I saw interns jostling and pushing each other around, racing to grab the last bike from the racks, and taking 80 bikes away from the common area and dumping them in the building we had to go to (about a quarter-mile away).

My indignation lasted until the next day, when I found myself riding a company bike that was clearly inadequate, in that the seat was about four inches too high, making my riding it an exercise in cirque du soleil-type contortion. With a deepening sense of dread, I realized that I would have to take at least thirty seconds to get off the bike, find the clasp underneath, adjust the seat height to my liking, get back on, check to see if it was the right height, and if it wasn't, I would have to get off and do it AGAIN.

Then my eyes fell upon a cloud of other bikes.

With a guilty ease, I hopped off my bike and went to the nearest one, gettting on and finding the seat too low. Having crossed the threshold, I suddenly found myself hopping from one to another like a sorority pledge at her first progressive, unable to find the satisfaction I craved. Finally, with my teeth bared in rage at my predicament, I saw an unsuspecting engineer* riding away with a bike that I knew in my heart to have a seat at the right height.

Years of playing the GTA series taught me the correct way to 'jack a vehicle:

1) Step out into the street, directly into the oncoming path of the vehicle

2) When the vehicle stops, go up to the driver's seat

3) Wrap your left arm around the head in a headlock, use the right arm to grab the victim's waist, and pull directly upwards (bending at the knees)

4) The victim may be armed. Rest assured, unless you are 'jacking a cop car or are playing the GTA: Mos Eisley expansion pack, the victim will not be able to shoot you for more than three or four hearts before you gun him down mercilessly.

5) Get on/in vehicle. Run over victim's body as humiliating coup de grace (note: this is the ultimate manly way to show dominance; teabagging is for 12-year-olds who play Halo)

I executed all five of these steps flawlessly, and rode away with a bike whose seat was at the proper elevation. Five hundred feet later, I carefully parked the bike at the door of the [Name Redacted] Building and left it there for the next employee to use.

In addition to these institutional perks, [Company Name Redacted] also has a bizarre and freewheeling culture that encourages such things as the riding of Segways and teams going out to movies during the workday. I thought that was weird, and then I found out that another team had rented several kegs and a steamroller, and was busy using said steamroller to crush various objects into Dali-esque smudges on the parking lot asphalt: Tupperware, old bottles, watches, computers, jailbroken iPhones, heartbroken Roombas, housebroken interns, etc.

After seeing that display, I thought nothing could surprise me. I had entered my own personal Mike Tyson Zone, where no story, no perk, no program could possibly surprise me. In fact, as I was going to the cafeteria, I turned to my fellow intern, [Name Redacted], a sprightly young gentleman from [Name Redacted] College, and said, "At this point, there is nothing that could possibly sur-why is there a live mariachi band in the cafeteria?"

Three gallant gentlemen in black costumes, enormous hats, and comically oversized moustaches were busy moving from table to table, serenading bemused diners.

I turn back to my friend. "I'm going to go eat a tree."

*How to tell if your target is an engineer: he wears a bike helmet, has long hair, usually in a thick ponytail, facial hair, glasses, a t-shirt with either some obscure math/science joke or the logo of an '80s metal band with flames or dragons, cargo shorts with pockets filled with irregular (and possibly deadly) shapes, and practical high-top sneakers with knee-length socks. Or, if you're at [Company Name Redacted], he's every second person.

2010-06-08T22:20:00.000-07:00

I Left My Harp in Sam Clam's Disco #1: In Which the Author Considers the Racial and Socioeconomic Circumstances that Led to the Creation of El Pollo Loco

Having been in NorCal for several days now, I have to say that my friends are right about the whole superiority of the Left Coast. In fact, were it not for the high taxes, earthquakes, wildfires, drug murders, bizzare weather, droughts, occasional race riots, lack of cellphone reception, and gang problems, it would basically be a temperate paradise.

NorCal is an eclectic blend of many different cultures, meaning you go down roads with names like "San Carlos" and see cheap Chinese restaurants on one side and cheap Mexican ones on the other, both of which will serve French Fries on their menu. Coming from the east, I am surprised to see the level to which that bizarro racial conglomeration we white folk mistakenly call "Latino" has penetrated society, although to be fair, the place really belongs to them in the first place. (In the Mirror Universe, the Author is writing a blog where he is surprised to see the level to which that bizarro racial conglomeration we caballeros call "White" has penetrated society, although to be fair, the place was really invaded by them in the first place).

NorCal is also the beachhead for an invasion by an even more repressed ethnic minority group: geeks. Their beachhead is a large corporation for which I am working this summer, the name of which cannot be said for fear of violating the severe 135-page NDA agreement I signed, which basically states (to paraphrase) that should we, for example, burp in a way that sounds like one of ten proposed codenames for the pre-beta testing phase of a yet-to-be-released product, we can be chopped into small pieces using a set of rusty Ginzu knives wielded by ill-tempered and partially narcoleptic midgets, and fed alive to sharks with laser beams on their heads. I will say nothing about what the company does or sells, only this: it has soft serve ice cream machines. SOFT SERVE ICE CREAM MACHINES.

It is also within walking distance from where I am staying, but the problem, of course, is that "walking distance" is a lot easier to deal with when someone gives you a ride on your first day of work, and a lot harder when you have to walk it back, on foot, with a backpack full of free swag and your feet burning from being stood on all day while you introduced yourself and repeatedly made small talk with other new interns. When I make small talk, I say exactly these things, in this order, with appropriate pauses in between:

"Hi/what's your name/where are you from/what are you doing this summer/what's your name again/what do you think of the soft serve ice cream/what's your name again/sorry I seriously can't remember your name/no I've eaten enough soft serve that I'm immune to brain freezes/oops, have to go answer my phone/mom this is not the time to be calling me/not that I don't like you, I'm just at a party/and I'm sick and tired of my phone r-ringing..."/sorry, sometimes I feel like I live in grand central station"

This is not how most of the interns go about introducing themselves and learning other interns' names, but to be frank, I believe that making introductory small talk is like build order in Starcraft: seemingly easy, quite complex, and best learned from watching other people's replays, which is why I have 600 hours of surreptitious footage of my friend Sr. Pfendl.

If you want to learn the art of introductions, remember, conversation is all about exchanging some harsh words, and bullets. More importantly, units of information (words, in this case) need to be produced: the key is to pump out more units than the other guy in a shorter amount of time and rush them all out so he's constantly reacting and can't get defensive. Also, proxy rush is useful.

2010-06-06T13:56:00.000-07:00

WARNING: A Pun-Based Post

So once upon a time, there were three little clams in the ocean. The name of the first clam was Sam Clam, and the name of the second clam was Bam Clam, and the name of the third clam was Orpheus. The clams had grown up together in Clam Kindergarten, and gone on to excel both academically (scoring perfectly on their CLAM Exams) and athletically (dancing the clam-dam dance through the Hoover Dam). When it was time to go to college, Sam Clam and Bam Clam and Orpheus decided to go to Clam State University, where they were members of the Kappa Clamma Pearl fraternity, played together in the Grand Clam Orchestra, and graduated with Clonors.

After college, each of the little clams went on to do different things: Sam Clam went on to found a successful line of discount makeup stores, Clam and Glam; Bam Clam got a doctorate and researched neon lighting; and Orpheus founded a rock group called "Irritant in the 'Nads" (he was frontman, singer, and, when playing their novelty party song hit "My Love is Like a Pearl", harpsichord player). And all was OK, at least for about five years. Then the midlife crises started: there was too much clam wine being drunk late at night, and too many of their clam friends bought clam sports cars.

The three clams were no exception: Sam Clam sold Clam and Glam and became a trance/house DJ named Battlestar Clammatica, Bam Clam left academia to make money consulting, and Irritant in the 'Nads broke up because Orpheus, the front man, wanted to use his rich tenor voice and harpsichord skills to good use. Sam Clam was soon performing to sold-out crowds, Bam Clam got a job with the respected firm McClamsey, and Orpheus founded a nonprofit dedicated to saving clams from alcoholism called Casting Pearls among Vine.

Eventually, the clams retired. Sam Clam invited Bam Clam and Orpheus to come visit him at his retirement home. The clams sat around and went to the Cockles and Muscles, a local restaurant with an excellent early bird special (krill and fried plankton with a side of kelp, $6.99), talking about their old glories and the fun that they had had when they were younger. Sam Clam asked his friends if they wanted to go to the Spanish Galleon, a local nightclub that he had once DJ'd at. With nothing better to to do, the three friends set off.

At the Spanish Galleon, they were shocked to find that the proud fixture of downtown Clamdom had fallen into disrepair- sea worms and barnacles were everywhere, the wood was so rotten you could practically swim through it, and there was not a single clam in the place. The three friends decided this was intolerable, and decided to buy it and open it up for business again.

[Note: the joke is much better if you read it out loud from here on out]

Opening night was a huge success. Sam Clam DJ'd, Bam Clam did the lights and handled the money, and Orpheus got a few members of the old band back together for a live performance at midnight. He even dragged the old harpsichord back out to play "My Love is Like a Pearl". It was a glorious, glorious night for clams out for a little fun.

After the place closed for the night, one of Orpheus' bandmates told him that a producer from the music industry had been there and wanted to sign them up for a reunion tour and maybe even a Greatest Hits album. With the blessings of his friends Sam Clam and Bam Clam, Orpheus and his bandmates drove across town to the producer's headquarters.

The producer was one of those gum-chewing, fast-talking clams, and he explained he only had time to hear one song before his submarine came to take him to the Pacific for a meeting. He asked if he could hear their top hit, "...you know, that one with the pearl."

The bandmates, with visions of million-dollar recording contracts in their eyes, eagerly agreed. Only Orpheus was not smiling. He said slowly, "We can't play that song for you."

"And why not?" The producer was angry. Here he was, a man who bands around the ocean would kill to play anything for, a man whose very time was billed at $500 an hour, a man who could snap his fingers and make someone a star. "What could possibly keep you from playing one measly song for me?"

With a crestfallen expression on his face, Orpheus said, "I left my harp in Sam Clam's disco".

2010-06-01T20:20:00.000-07:00

Some Other Random Notes:

-Contra is a lot of fun to do, but more fun to watch (in person)

-Doctor Who's new companion, Amy Pond, and the actress who plays her, the lovely Ms. Karen Gillen, is taking a serious amount of crap on the Internet discussion boards for the following reasons: 1) she's a poorly written character and 2) Ms. Gillen is a (gorgeous) redhead. I feel this is unfair, partially because Ms. Gillen has made the Top 5 (Most gorgeous) TV Actresses list, at least in my mind. My theory? (SPOILER ALERT) Fans are frustrated because the whole crack-wiping-out-memories thing is just going to prove that every gorgeous redhead you meet secretly has attachment issues and will forget you ever existed at the drop of a hat. Which is true. Steven Moffat is nothing if not a truthsayer.

-Really the reason I wrote that last point was so I could embed this video, wherein Ms. Gillen tries to explain what a kissogram is (and also the word "snogging" was actually used, in proper context, which astounded me, since I thought it was a Haagen-Daaz-type word). And also this one, which might be my favorite parody of Doctor Who of all time.

-Randall Munroe perfectly expresses something I've been trying to explain to people for years: the difference between Geeks and Nerds (make sure to read the title-text).

2010-05-19T09:41:00.000-07:00

On Fan Fiction

Why does fan fiction (known as "fanfic" in serious circles) capture the imaginations of so many fledgling writers and amateurs? Judging from the size of popular sites like FanFiction.net (which boasts over 2 million writers), there is, to use a Buffy metaphor, an entire legion of Potential (literary) Slayers out there, who, instead of creating new and brilliant work, are instead toiling away at someone else's fantasy.

Why? When you go out to do the gardening, you don't go and plant flowers in your neighbors' yard to complement their design; you plant them in your own and create your own tropical paradise. Yet with media and the arts, it seems that the urge to fanfic is irresistable. The Author himself has, in idle daydreaming, conceptualized an entire sequel trilogy to the original Star Wars Saga, both a "sidequel" and a "sequel" to Harry Potter, and series 6/32 of Doctor Who.

According to Wikipedia, media scholar Henry Jenkins (and when you read the words "media scholar" as a title, you know it's going to be rough) says:

The encyclopedic ambitions of transmedia texts often results in what might be seen as gaps or excesses in the unfolding of the story: that is, they introduce potential plots which can not be fully told or extra details which hint at more than can be revealed. Readers, thus, have a strong incentive to continue to elaborate on these story elements...Fan fiction can be seen as an unauthorized expansion of these media franchises into new directions which reflect the reader's desire to "fill in the gaps"

Basically, Mr. Jenkins' view seems to hold water. Even such esteemed personages as Russell T. Davies and J.K. Rowling have expressed their support of the fanfic medium for that reason; Ms. Rowling said she was flattered that others wanted to write their own stories using her characters as a base, and dear RTD deliberately left bits and pieces of the Doctor Who canvas blank to allow fans to fill in the gaps in their imaginations.

Yet I can't help but wonder if there is a deeper reason why fanfic is so seductive. In writing this stuff, all the hard work- introducing characters and relationships, creating a believable setting, building a history and personality for each character- has been done with you; you get to do the fun stuff, like blow things up that have already been made by the author, consummating relationships that have already been played out by the author, killing off characters that have already been beloved by the author. Let's face it: it's the writing equivalent of empty calories.

What about games then? Mass Effect 2 is a sequel (obviously, to Mass Effect), which allows you to import the character that you played in the original game, meaning that all your actions and deeds in the original game will have consequences in the second game. This has forced many players to go back and play the original game, making choices and decisions (e.g. one sequence allows you to save either character A or character B from certain death, but not both) knowing that they will carry over into the next game. Or, if you're sneaky, you can go to a save file depository, where players who have already beating the original game upload their characters (and by extension, the choices they have made and the personalized stories they have created) for others to download. Who is the "author" and who is the "fanfic" creator in this case? Obviously, the choices that are presented in the first game are products of the game developer, but the choices that are made are product of the individual players. In theory, with enough choices, and a broad enough universe, each individual player could have a unique experience they upload.

So if each one is different based on the player, shouldn't the player/audience have some credit for the story creation as well? After all, the experience of a piece of art depends heavily on the background and knowledge of the audience member. For example, the Crucible is a well-written play, but it become far more disturbing to an audience member who has studied McCarthyism. In that sense, the Crucible is really one work written by an author, that becomes two works when watched by a historically-aware and -unaware viewer, respectively. The aware viewer "fills in the blanks" and draws meaning from the play based on his/her own experience, adding to the work in their own mind, in the same way a fanfic writer does.

In a videogame sense, Mass Effect is also partially a product of its audience, and its experiential content is even more starkly drawn from player knowledge, ability and creativity: certain areas of the game (like later levels) aren't even accessible unless the player brings a level of accomplishment and skill with the game. Thus if you don't have a deft enough touch with the conversation wheel, you can't have a romantic relationship with one of the characters, meaning that that part of the character depth is lost. If you can, however, it is because of your own choices and contributions. That is, in a way, authorship of the fanfic kind.

2010-05-17T12:51:00.000-07:00

Because EDSBS is the greatest journalistic site in the world...

They report on how the Auburn University administration refused to allow Justin Bieber's "Baby" to be used as the football team's theme song, and comment on Bieber's reaction:

"Bieber will be waiting for the right moment, stalking you patiently like a praying mantis on Adderall with a sniper rifle. And when the time is right, he'll kill you, because Bieber's favorite dish is revenge, and he likes it served three tenths of a degree above absolute zero, bitch. "

2010-05-16T20:24:00.000-07:00

Thoughts on Being The Author

From the inestimable Bill Simmons (http://sports.espn.go.com/espn/page2/story?page=simmons/100514&sportCat=nba):

"Final point: Between Games 5 and 6 of the Cavs-Celtics series, an Austin, Texas, reader named Chris Rider sent me the following e-mail:

"I figured LeBron out, dude. I think you define a player by defining what is most important to them in one word.

"MJ -- Winning. Hands down, all he wanted to do was win. And that's over-used for a lot of athletes, but not him.

"Kobe -- Greatness. Yes he's going to win some, but only because he wants to be considered great and that will be a by-product at times. But you'd also see him shoot his team out of a game; jack 3s when he should press the issue and get to the paint. He didn't mind losing a few games if people came away saying 'Kobe is great; look what happens when he doesn't shoot.'"

"LeBron -- Amaze. I think he just really wants to amaze people. Which is why he spends 10 minutes before the game throwing underhand, left-hand half-court shots. Why he celebrates amazing dunks and blocks, but isn't working just as hard to win. I know the Cavs aren't great without him, but he's got PLENTY on that team to win rings with."

Is that totally fair? Probably not. But just for fun, let's extend Chris' game …

Russell, Magic, Bird, Duncan, Walton, West and Havlicek: Winning.

Wilt: Numbers.

Oscar and Barry: Perfection.

Shaq: Fame.

Kareem and Elgin: Pride.

Moses: Rebounds.

Malone and Garnett: Work.

Barkley: Fun.

Cousy, Stockton, Isiah, Pippen and Nash: Team."

What's the word that describes what's most important to me? I want to say God, should really say Acceptance, will probably say People, and might say Spinach, if I'm in a weird mood.

2010-05-15T08:22:00.001-07:00

Some Notes about Pot

-Apparently, "Brother Number One" from yesterday's post is a reference to Pol Pot, which was pointed out by Lovely and Talented Author's Girlfriend. This is the kind of hard-hitting analysis I have come to expect out of her; her ability to find symbolism and esoteric references in my writing is amazing, especially given how many of them I had no idea about until she pointed out.

-On the subject of Pol Pot, my mother yesterday asked me to find her a YouTube video of "Pol Pot singing Nessing Dorm", which took me a very long time to do, as the dictator was better known for destroying his own people than singing what sounds like a children's song. Only after much consternation was I able to understand she meant finding a YouTube video of "Paul Potts singing Nessun Dorma", which is a powerful little performance you should check out if you have a chance.

-Speaking of powerful performances, check out ARETHA FRANKLIN, one of the greatest soul artists of all time (and really, one of the greatest artists of all time) singing Nessun Dorma, at the Grammys, in its original key, on 22 minutes notice.

-Immigration reform suggestion I thought of in the shower: Legalize them. All of them. Of any kind (although the vast majority of them are Mexican, for geographic reasons). Set a date, six months from now, when the amnesty policy ends. All illegal immigrants would have to do is go get fingerprinted, register at the local INS/FBI/police station, start paying taxes (flat tax rate of maybe 20%- exemptions are for citizens), enroll any kids they have in local school, and be registered for a Selective-Service type draft. *Dum Dum Dum* No, not for the Army- conscripts make poor soldiers. But think of what we could do with an enlarged Peace Corps/VISTA program in this country- fix roads, maintain schools, expand ESL options, enhance border protection etc. etc. Moreover, the knowledge that you might get drafted and taken away from your family will either deter people from immigrating, or, alternately, force people to remain undocumented, which will be more difficult now that all their friends and neighbors are documented. The final aspect, to enhance enforcement, is to step up border patrols using some of that tax money, and raise penalties for companies that use illegal labor. Whaddaya think?

2010-05-14T08:40:00.000-07:00

Liver and Bunions: How to Take 10 Years Off Your Life

OR

Moaning Myrtle

OR

Cuba Libre, Irish Car Bombs, and Red-Headed Sluts: A Novel

The crashing of waves against the shoreline is white noise: it is consistent, it carries no content, and it can cull the wakefulness out of you and lull you to sleep, just like a lecture on postmodernism. (A lecture that contains nothing on a philosophy about nothing that actually contains no clever ideas, wrapped up in a story about nothing written on a blog that...how meta). I stare out towards the ocean blankly, the pounding headache causing blood to rush through my ears in a kind of syncopation with the waves breaking.

I lean on the balcony railing. Below me, some kids who will soon be Mired in Court are being taken away, their attempts to have a "wizard duel" with roman candles having failed on account of alcohol-influenced firing at the strip of hotels alongside the beach. Next to me stands (Pledge) Brother Number One, leaning against all that remains of a great statue of something that had only four toes. We've been sitting there, occasionally eying the cork in the bottle of wine sitting at our feet.

"I will eventually find a loophole, you know," he says casually.

"Uh huh." If I could just find some water. There's a ship on the horizon, looking for all the world like it's driving directly at us. Like it's going to ground on the beach. Maybe its hold is filled with Pellegrino.

"It's a big cycle, this place. The same thing will happen next year, with a different group of alumni. Every single year." Brother Number One takes a deep breath and tugs at the v-neck he's wearing. "I guess it's time to go."

"Have fun killing Castro." I smile as Brother Number One vaults the railing one-handed and drops the five stories to the pavement, landing in a crouch like a cat, a product of superb gymnastic training. He sprints down the beach, across the shell-strewn sand, and dives headfirst into the water, where he begins swimming parallel to the beach. Eventually, if he follows the shoreline, he will run out of beach, and will be in open ocean with a pretty good idea of which direction Cuba and the revolution lie in.

I don't have the heart to tell him he's swimming north.

I yawn. I can't believe I've already been in Myrtle Beach for three days. My fraternity has rented out the top floor of the Crimson Cyprus Inn (*name changed to protect the guilty*), which looks like a cross between the Bates Motel and the shoot of a Girls With Low Esteem video. Here, for the low, low price of $40 a night and your dignity, every spring-break cliche possible can and will be played out, like a college-aged version of Westworld.

The scene: Sunday (of course). The place: a progressive, which is kind of like Bruce Lee's Game of Death, with different drinks in each room instead of different athletes trying to act. Partygoers arrive and go in sequence to each room, chugging the appropriate drink in each room. Tonight's progressive is themed "Alice in Wonderland", and along with my Big, I've been given the extraordinary responsibility of hosting room number 2, The Flood.

I was quite excited, practicing my Gravemind voice and driving around trying to find a store that sold plush monsters, but I was informed by Roommate that I had misunderstood, since apparently Flood can have more than one meaning. (Also, playing my audiobook recording of "The Fall of the House of Usher" was not what they meant when they asked me to play popular rap artists in the background). Going with the whole "Alice" thing, I am supposed to be themed after the second chapter of the novel, and when serving cups of punch out of a giant orange Gatorade cooler, am supposed to recite this monologue:

"When Alice ventured to explore the path that lead down the Rabbit Hole, one of the first things she did was to glance upon an exquisitely sliced piece of marzipan-cake, of which was written in large letters "EAT ME". Being a young lass of inquisitive and not overly cautious nature, she proceeded to follow the instructions, which made her grow to a proportion of gargantuan sizes. Aghast at the possibility of spending the rest of her natural life as a Giantess, she began to weep great tears that pooled together into a flood, and created a lake at her feet. And the lake tasted something like this *hand them a cup of punch*"

After a couple of servings to impatient carousers, this quickly gets shortened to "So Alice cries, and her tears taste like this." Occasionally, such as in the case of the Anime Character, this evolves into explaining that if you like the drink you're a terrible person. This is going against the entire theme of the progressive; I'm not supposed to be making pseudoBaptist value judgments of the people enjoying it. Of course, I'm also not supposed to be just telling people what's in the punch (Gatorade and frozen pineapple juice concentrate, in case you were wondering). I'm also not supposed to be ordering a large pepperoni pizza for myself, Brother Number One, and the Girl Who Fits in a Dryer, but given that everyone keeps telling me to drink a little of theirs first to prove it's not poisoned, getting a food base quickly will be vital.

As I go about serving, (Pledge) Brother Number Three makes his way through the crowd. The most studious Asian in a fraternity full of studious Asians and studious Jews (and some Bulgarian guy) is currently "bro-ing out", and not in a self-consciously ironic way, either: he is wearing a baby-blue polo with the collar popped out, plaid shorts, and easily the largest New York Yankees baseball cap I have ever seen, backwards. Brother Number Three, having already demonstrated that he sinks beer pong cups as easily as he sinks the Putnam, will eventually go through the eight rooms of the progressive a total of four times, yet will be the only member of my pledge class to not utterly humiliate himself tonight (though some might argue the Yankees cap would be humiliation itself).

"How are you doing, Brother Number Three?" I yell over the din of the crowd.

"I'm flying!" he yells back. He then follows the rest of the crowd outside to the balcony, where everyone is staring at the flaming and charred remains of a car, with a shell-shocked Hungry Howie's pizza delivery boy staring at his job going up in smoke. I make sure to tip him well; he's going to be walking home tonight. As I walk back up to the room I'm supposed to be hosting, I run into the Fencer, who is smooth and melancholic, and who is drunk enough that his Irish accent is coming out.

I tap him on the shoulder. "I forgot you used to work in the IRA's Wittenburg office. Was that you?"

"Bloody English. That'll teach Lord Howard to mess with us!"

Back inside, Big has returned from his sweep through the eight rooms of Wonderland, and takes over the Gatorade shower so I can make my way through. I take a deep breath and make my way to Room 101.

The first room is hosted by Brother Number One, who calls on his extensive network of friends to relieve him so the two of us can continue to progress together. We start with red and blue-flavored Jello shots (Jello comes in exactly three flavors: red, blue, and yellow. Anyone who says differently is a liar and a communist), to go with the whole Matrix "follow the white rabbit" Alice in Wonderland theme (more postmodernism). Jello shots, for those who aren't aware, are like jello, except the sheer deliciousness is permeated with something that burns and turns everything a bitter flavor.

Next, we go into the second room and see Big and Steve's Tall Friend chatting on about the relative merits of cars or some unimportant thing like that. Brother Number One and I clink our cheap clear plastic airline-type cups and drink down some punch, which tastes terrible and doesn't taste anything like either Gatorade or pineapple, or even alcohol. It reminds me of bug juice from summer camp, if that bug juice had been left out by a careless fPendl who was too busy playing Nintendo 64 in his air-conditioned cabin to remember to bring his campers' sustenance and lifeblood back into the refrigerator. It's so bad, I have to drink another one just to wash out the taste.

The next room is supposed to be hosted by Brother Lights Out, but he's currently...er...lights out, and being taken care of by Girl Who Fits Into a Dryer. At the behest of Brother Owns Mass Effect 2 And Beat It Before I Got Home to Play It, Brother Number One and I take over. The room's theme is Cheshire Cat, and the drink being served is Sunny Delight and something that doesn't really matter, because Sunny D is not only delicious, it's healthy. Clearly being concerned with my own health, I survey the "Cheshire Cat Grin": a smiley face which has been made out of little paper shots full of orange mix, and feel my own mouth turn upwards.

While Brother Number One cautions me to take shots out of the right eye and not the rest of the smiley face (otherwise the Cat wouldn't be disappearing symmetrically), I see the one person who can confirm that this is about to become a Drunk Story: Max himself, along with his Girlfriend from California, who was under the mistaken impression that the theme for this party was "Back to School", and dressed accordingly. We cross arms and take a shot, or maybe two, or maybe...I had not thought to bring a permanent marker to keep track of the number of shots I'd drank on my skin, and if I got arrested for tonight's behavior, I was definitely unprepared.

After that, things become a bit of blur, to be honest, but I remember that I realized being drunk is so much fun- why aren't people like this all the time? I make my way back to our room, where a box of delicious delicious Capri Sun that I had bought at the beginning of the trip is waiting for me. In a magnanimous gesture, I decide to give it to the President, who, cursing his misfortune, is required to be sober the entire night in case the Po-Po show-show (as happened last year, due to a noise complaint). The next morning, people will tell me that all night I followed him around extolling the virtues of Capri Sun, but that's absolutely ridiculous.

Towards the tail end of the night, people are leaving for the Black Rock, which is a converted Spanish galleon that is now a nightclub with not one, but FOUR different cages on its floor. Kindly brothers are helping each other out, having remembered their childhood admonitions against drinking and driving, calling cabs, and one of them, the Mexican, is kind enough to bring me to a bathroom, which is occupied. He then steers me out to another bathroom, where I decide to rail against the injustices of a 21-and-up drinking age policy that leaves law-abiding kids unprepared for the joys of rum by vomitting everything in my entirely full stomach into the sink.

Sleep it off, I think to myself, as the hands of various brothers and alumni and concerned lookers-on carry me back to my room, pallbearer-style. Sleep it off, and wake up tomorrow at three in the afternoon, completely cured.

Of course, I wake up at eight the next morning, heart pounding, and am completely unable to go back to sleep for the next four or five hours as the Earth rotates around me. Somewhere else, Brother Number One has also had his issues, but that's a different story altogether. He and I are going to go meet on the balcony, and maybe talk about life. And also, the liberation of Cuba.

2010-03-02T23:23:00.001-08:00

Shamelessly Ripped Off From Someone Who I Know Doesn't Read This Blog:

What I've learned from movies:

Full Metal Jacket
Women are only after your money, and some of them will try to kill you with guns. Killing can be right and good, as long as it's for your country--however, killing will affect you in a very post-modern, thousand-yard-stare sort of way.

Casino Royale
Women are only after your money, and some of them will try to kill you with poison. It's possible that a woman will love you, but ultimately she will be more devoted to money and/or another man. Killing can be right and good, as long as it's for your country or revenge--however, killing will affect you by draining every ounce of humanity from your meaningless existence.

American Psycho
Women are only after your money. Women are completely and utterly disposable in every sense of the word. Kill. Kill for any reason, at any time, using any means. Just kill. Killing will have no consequences; killing IS the consequence. The cause is...something. Seriously, though. Just kill people. Kill a lot of people.

Iron Man
Women are only after your money, except for your babysitter secretary, who will make a trophy that will save your life in the situation of massive heart failure. Killing is fine if they're terrorists or obese corrupt business partners. Breaking international rules for humane warfare is fine if your flamethrower is built into your suit and you look heroic while doing it.

Pulp Fiction

Women are after money, drugs, and sex. Mostly drugs. Killing is fine MOST of the time, but if you recite a Bible verse before you do it, God will cut you some slack the next time someone empties a revolver at you and your buddy. Drugs are AWESOME. Nothing in life has consequences---you'll get away with pretty much everything, until someone kills you with a suppressed sub-machine gun in his own bathroom.

2010-02-27T11:51:00.000-08:00

[Editor's note: if you haven't seen the movie Reservoir Dogs, watch the trailer for Reservoir Dogs before reading this]

How My Roommate Lost His Groove

OR

Clowns to the Left of Me, Heath Ledger's to the Right

OR

All Names Changed to Protect the Guilty

Tonight, the most miserable person on the dance floor of the restaurant-turned-nightclub is not the DJ spinning Top 40 hits to pay for his grandmother's medical marijuana, or the ex-Navy SEAL forced to bounce for a sorority semiformal after losing a bet, or even the rat in the kitchen who secretly dreams of being a famous French chef. The most miserable person on the dance floor tonight is a girl wearing a loose-knit gray sweater and carrying a comically oversized newsreel-style camera. She wanders around, driven not by the Brownian motion of the gyrating couples around her, but by her Sisyphean quest to photograph someone, *anyone*, who might be sober enough to remember that they had their picture taken, and be willing to pay for it afterwards.

This is surprisingly difficult to do. For a girl who once dreamed of taking an Iwo Jima-type photo, or perhaps finding her very own Afghan Girl, it is torture at a level she could never have believed. Even for the $9.50/hr plus prints, it isn't worth it. There are 300 DUI's waiting to happen on the floor, and not a single one wants to pose for a picture.

Finally, though, her eyes light upon myself and That Girl, dancing close together but not dancing "together". She genuflects towards us and mouths the phrase, "Could I get a picture of you two?" over the Autotuned sound of Key$ha.

The camera flashes and we become part of a front-lit tableau of bacchanalia, like something Titian might have painted. Implicitly, agreeing to have our picture taken is tantamount to signing a nine-hundred-page legal document allowing the sorority hosting this semiformal to use us as cover models for their alumni newsletter, or alternately, to be Photoshopped out of existence if not deemed attractive enough. It might also be auctioned off to stalkers, or maybe the Department of Homeland Security.

The Department of Homeland Security might be a likely buyer, but I highly doubt we'll make it to the newsletter cover: That Girl is not a member of the sorority, but rather the younger sister of one of the members. Much younger, in fact; she's currently a senior in high school. And I am here as a service to that member, who for convenience's sake we'll call Ms. Pink. I am here to escort Ms. Pink's sister (That Girl) and make sure she comes away with a good impression of our school so she'll want to come here. I'm providing an escort service, if you will.

Ms. Pink sees the flash and sees us lit up; she runs over and I am expecting her to deliver a hilariously out-of-context line that will make for a great Dance Story. Instead, she says, "You need to get over here and help take care of your Roommate," and I know immediately that this has shifted from a Dance Story to a Drunk Story.

My Roommate is slouching off to the side on a stool, no jacket or tie, his shirt ripped open so he looks like he's posing for the cover of a cheap romance novel. His date, Ms. Blue, is letting him lean on her for moral support, and also so he doesn't topple over. I've seen him a little schweisty before, but this might be a slightly different situation. He voices his support for that argument quite eloquently, by projectile-vomitting onto the floor.

Ms. Blue, Ms. Pink, and another young lady, Ms. Blonde are all experienced professionals with this sort of behavior, and get him outside, into the cold night air, with a cup of water and Ms. Brown, the Designated Driver, coming around the corner in her car to take us back. We stick Roommate into the trunk, and slam it shut. My last glimpse of him is with an inscrutable grin tugging at his face.

Then we go get some tacos and drive back to campus.

Once we get there, we pull him out and half-carry, half-drag twenty-one years' worth of Eastern European liver function to the entrance to the dorm, at which point Ms. Blue asks him, in Spanish, if we should take the stairs or the elevator. His lips form the word, but there's no air behind them. We take the elevator upstairs and find him a bathroom that looks like something out of the Saw films, including dead body on the floor by the shower.

Ms. Pink finds him a chair, but he shambles and stumbles his way over to the toilet, where Ms. Blue holds him as he dry heaves. From down the hall, we can hear dormies playing Rock Band and singing (poorly) to hits from the 60s, 70s, and 80s. Ms. Blue presses herself against Roommate and looks worried. It would be a cute, romantic Precious Moments-type image, other than the fact that my Roommate's blood is basically Everclear with hematocytes mixed in for color.

When he's done heaving, we push him down into the chair and he keels forward, steadied by the quick hands of Ms. Pink and Ms. Blonde. Ms. Blue's face somehow manages to simultaneously convey affection, worry, pity, and murderous rage all at the same time. Given that the boys down the hall are singing "Stuck in the Middle With You", I half-expect her to slice off Roommate's ear with a razor blade (the pain would help keep him from passing out). Of course, that would mean the corpse next to us would probably shoot her through the chest and ruin the pretty white flower on her dress, which Roommate keeps insisting is blue/azul.

All throughout the babbling, she keeps talking to him. When soft, motherly queries fail to penetrate the fog of intoxication, she switches to provocative and abusive comments, trying to get him to open his eyes, trying to get enough shock value to get him to focus. When he doesn't respond to insults or queries in English, she switches to Spanish with a subtle aspiration of the s that points to an education from a South American, or perhaps Cuban, teacher.

Ms. Blue is much better at insulting his manhood than I am, and her command of Spanish as a third language is far better than mine (though marred by the accent). So I draw on my own provocation: humor. I ask him "¿cuál acento te gustá más, el mío o el suyo?" This gets a grin and a thumb thrust weakly at Ms. Blue. Somewhere, buried under a fifth of gin consumed back at our dorm before the dance, Roommate still hates my beautiful Castilian "lisp".

He also flips me the bird, so I know his fingers work.

After a Guantanomo Bay-style force-feeding of water, Ms. Blue climbs on top of him and forcibly starts to pull his shirt off, an act which two hours earlier I might have tased her for. In this context, though, we all cheer as she gets the stained and starched garment off his body and washes some of the sick off in an oddly maternal fashion. Compared to the actual treatment of Roommate's mother (who once made him breathe through a towel of vinegar), this is quite nice of her. Ms. Blonde brings one of Roommate's two t-shirts, white with a Bulgarian flag in the center.

The surrogate family we've become picks him up and brings him over to the bed. Once he's been deposited there and vigils have been worked out and people start getting ready to go and I start apologizing to everyone and their mothers for having to put up with this, once we check his pulse and Ms. Blue reminds me not to do it with my thumb and feel his chest to see if he's breathing clearly, once we all speculate on the exact amount and quantity of alcohol he's imbibed tonight like it's some sick and twisted college education curriculum, I start thinking about this night.

Obviously, one large segment of the Western canon is dedicated to Drunk Stories. Where does this story rank?

What makes a good drunk story? I posit five rules for good drunk stories:

1) Amount of alcohol: Nobody wants to hear about how you got mildly tipsy on a wine cooler that one time.

2) Number of genders involved: While bro-mance and brantics under the influence is amusing, stories where numGender > 1 are the best.

3) Potential for "Offensive Pass Interference": Many people classify drunkenness and human mating rituals as being completely different categories. There is no conceivable way they can be separated. If there's not a designated blocker in the story, it's not a good story.

4) Iconic Behavior: Was something so ridiculous in the story that it becomes widely copied, metaphor'd, reused in other stories? Then it's a good story

5) Cast of Characters: Am I in the story? No? Then it's not a good story.

With these criteria in mind, let's rank the top 5 best drunk stories of all time:

5) "Cheetos": The original, and for a long time (one semester) the greatest. Protagonist Hiram Stevens Maxim, usually known as just "Max", has two of the top five stories of all time. His propensity for crazy non-drunken behavior, however, makes both of his stories not quite as much fun as some of the others. And there wasn't any Offensive Pass Interference, other than the background of the story.

4) "This is the Story We Don't Tell My Boyfriend, OK?" All of the best elements of all of the best drunk stories. Ridiculousness incarnate. And of course, the line, "But the floor tile is so nice and cold!"

3) "No, Just Let Me Sleep Here": Maxim's second appearance on the list, which involved, among other things, people smoking marijuana in a gazebo next door to us, sketchy people met at an urban Papa John's, and the iconic "curled up on the floor in a prostrate" position, known now as "The Max".

2) "The Semi": The story just told.

1) "Please Don't Let Me Call That Girl": One that almost directly involves me, trying my best to destroy my friend's chances of a meaningless hookup with a meaningless girl. The New Years-y celebration setting and my friend the Squirrel coining the term "the Maria" for a dummy drink land it at the #1 spot.

Having ranked this story, I found the fortitude to go to sleep, setting my alarm to go off every hour to check on Roommate.

The next morning, around 11am, I was standing over him with my index and middle fingers over his carotid artery. Thumpthump-thumpthump-thumpthump. And then, he opened his eyes.

He's confused. "Did I fall asleep?"

I nod, slowly. "For a little while. Do you remember what happened?"

"Yeah, I remember. I remember everything."

"Really? Do you remember the car ride in Ms. Brown's car?"

He looks more confused, like a three-year-old who just discovered that soap floats. "No, I don't."

"Really? Do you remember Ms. Blue undressing you?"

"No, I don't."

I try to fight to keep the grin off my face. "Do you remember punching Tom on the dance floor?"

"No...I must have really been blacked out."

"Yeah," I say. "I gotta get a drink of water."

I turn away, tightening myself to keep from giggling. I have to go find Tom before he does.

2010-02-18T22:25:00.000-08:00

Burn Notice: A Few Short Words

So now that Dollhouse is officially dead (time of death: the reveal of the real head of Rossum in the antepenultimate episode) (yes, I just used the word antepenultimate) (it's better than penultimate). My roommate and I have been enjoying the USA network original television series, "Burn Notice", which is ostensibly about a spy who has been disavowed, or "burned", without reason. This spy, a gentleman named Michael Weston (played with a brilliant, darkly sardonic humor by Jeffrey Donovan), spends his days as a private-detective-slash-mercenary, going around doing (generally) good deeds in deliciously evil ways while raising funds and supplies for his investigation into his own burning.

It's kind of like 24, if 24 took less than an ENTIRE FREAKING SEASON to reveal the contents of one day, and if 24 was set in Miami, and if 24's Jack Bauer didn't instantly conjure up mental images of a stereotypical greaser bullying some poor 1950s kids. Also, Burn Notice's average episode consists of nothing but the following five things:

1) Michael Weston trying to claim his relationship with his girlfriend isn't a relationship

2) Michael Weston telling his client of the week "I'm working on it"

3) Michael Weston inevitably failing his original plan ~25 minutes in and then having to tell his client not to call the police, because that won't work

4) Michael Weston putting on sunglasses in dramatic slow motion

5) Michael Weston taking off sunglasses in dramatic slow motion

It's a pretty cool show, despite how bad I make it sound. I'm done now, I promise. Oh wait, no, it's also racist, because all the bad guys are Czech immigrants who are secretly assassins. Or Jamaican immigrants who are secretly money launderers. Or Cuban immigrants who are secretly slum lord gangsters. Or Columbian immigrants who are secretly kidnappers. Or Iranian immigrants who are secretly spies. Or Mexican immigrants who are secretly sex traffickers...the list goes on.

And yet, it's still marvelously entertaining, with the kind of perfect touch between serious meditation on aging and responsibility and the generation gap, and ridiculous dry farce that Psych tried to master and House tried to avoid. And it has Bruce Campbell, another underrated actor that looks like he's just cut loose and is having fun. I haven't seen Gabrielle Anwar (Fiona) or Sharon Gless (Madelyn Weston) anywhere before, but they're both perfectly cast. Ms. Anwar is a character who used to be the kind of "bad@$$ chick with guns" role that producers could have easily been tempted to throw to a younger a Jessica Alba/Angelina Jolie/Eliza Dushku-type actress, yet now needs to let go of the whirlwind of free spirits and violence that once chracterized her life- in other words, in a similar situation as Jackie Brown from my favorite Tarantino movie, having to learn how to age gracefully. It's a difficult, almost invisible role, but played well against Donovan's emasculated hero, who is doing everything he can to get back to those salad days- his ultramasculine, ultraviolent James Bondian world. Meanwhile, Gless is the perfect shrewish-manipulative-vulnerable mother, playing a stock role and injecting it with more verve and fun than almost anyone I've seen not named Jessica Walter.

Of course, there are all kinds of conceits and irritating difficulties that go along with it:

1) The music-video-style fast-forward-rewind-fast-forward loop that the editors stick on every establishing/B-roll shot of Miami is annoying, and the shots themselves look like they were borrowed from stock footage of tourist promotion videos, which they probably were

2) How does Michael Weston, who's basically living paycheck to paycheck once he's burned, manage to not have a safe-deposit box, a dead drop, an anonymous storage unit, or a shoebox full of cash buried somewhere in his home town? In case he might lose his incredibly difficult, incredibly failure-prone secret spy job? I mean, for goodness sake's, the closest thing I'll ever get to his situation is getting a Love Burn Notice that says I have herpes, and even I have a safe box for that eventuality (don't ask what's in it). (Am I writing out loud again?)

3) For that matter, how does Michael Weston, who's basically living paycheck to paycheck once he's burned, manage to have an inexhaustible supply of sunglasses and tailored Armani suits? The things are *expensive*.

4) Remember how improbably Mrs. Lovitt's meat pie business was able to run? Weston's detective business is even worse. Even at a job a week, if he's making between $1000-2000 per job, the suits alone will bankrupt him (see #3). And half the time he gives the money back, or does something silly with it.

5) Why are there so many improbably-shaped women in Miami? Am I the only one who's noticed this? It's like the whole city is one bikini ad.

2010-02-16T13:43:00.000-08:00

Dates Everyone Should Know, from AP European History

476: Romulus Augustus deposed, end of the Roman Empire

1492: Columbus finds the new world, Moores kicked out of Spain as the Reconquista comes to a close, Jews also kicked out

1521: Diet of Worms, Protestant Reformation begins

1555: Peace of Augsberg, Princes can worship however they want in the German states

1648: Peace of Westphalia, the Netherlands officially recognized

1713: Treaty of Utrecht finishes War of Spanish Succession, universal monarch of Louis XIV (the "Sun King") avoided

1763: Treaty of Paris ends French and Indian (N America)/Seven Years' (Europe) war between France and everyone else

1815: Congress of Vienna ends Napoleonic wars

1848: Revolutions sweep everyone

1871: Foundation of "modern" Germany under Emperor Wilhelm I, shepherded by Otto von Bismarck

1918: Treaty of Versailles ends WWI

1945: End of WWII

So, for those of you keeping score, that's 12 dates: 476, 1521, 1555, 1648, 1713, 1763, 1815, 1848, 1871, 1918, 1945.

Here's a few more that aren't vital, but good for party talk:

1066: Battle of Hastings: Normans conquer England, ensure that French will become a vital root of modern English, start the Middle Ages, end the Dark Ages

1588: A "divinely inspired" storm destroys the Spanish Armada, along with machinations by Francis Walsingham et. al. Also, two words: fire ships.

1776: Duh.

1792: French Revolution breaks out.

1812: The year in which the War of 1812 was fought.

1861: American Civil War. Pesky Europeans all try to influence it, while maintaining neutrality.

1914: Archduke Franz Ferdinand assassinated by Gavrilu Princep, causes chain reaction leading to WWI. First major continental warfare since Germanic Reunification wars of 1871

1917: Russian Revolution. 'Nuff Said.

1929: NYSE market crash starts the Great Depression worldwide

1931: Spanish Civil War breaks out. Fascist and Communist forces duke it out via proxy in Spain. Hitler and Stalin try out their new toys: gas, tanks, bombers, etc.

1939: On September 1st, Hitler's Nazi Germany invades Poland, starting WWII.

1941: Pearl Harbor ensures American entry into the war.

1960: DeGaulle withdraws France from NATO, because, well, he's a dick.

1989: Fall of the Berlin Wall

1991: December 25th, USSR falls.

So, to recap: 476, 1066, 1521, 1555, 1588, 1648, 1713, 1763, 1776, 1792, 1812, 1815, 1848, 1861, 1871, 1914, 1918, 1929, 1931, 1939, 1945, 1960, 1989, 1991.

Not so hard.

2010-01-19T18:10:00.000-08:00

Assorted News and Notes

Basketball:
So the other day I got the opportunity to see UConn play a women's basketball game, and I must say, it was surprisingly entertaining. There's a reason that that team has a umpteen-game winning street; they're very well coached and certainly better at fundamental skills like press-breaking, entry passes, and backdoor cuts than the middle school team I helped coach in 8th grade. It was not as much fun to watch, however, as the coach, Geno Auriemma, an absolutely delightful chap who looked like a shaven Nick Nolte and had exactly two facial expressions going the entire time:

1) The pained/irate/grouchy "Why is it so loud in here, didn't they tell the students I went pub crawling last night" look and

2) The slightly bemused, slightly skeptical, slightly disgusted "I can't believe I'm actually here" look, which he gave at least three times to his assistant coach, one of those Evil Icy Blondes they called up from central casting. In fact, at one point during the evening I swear they had this exchange:

Icy Blonde: "I can't believe the ref called that a foul!"
Geno: "I can't believe I'm coaching women's basketball!"
Icy Blonde: "What did you say???"
Geno: "Oi, hangover."

In addition, some incredibly baller jump-roping kids performed at half-time, and I heartily wish that competitive jump-roping had been a sport when I was a kid.

Speaking of things that may or may not be sports:
The fine gentleman from EDSBS, one of the best blogs on the net, studies the art of Curling, or, as he calls it, "Scottis Tetris". http://www.sbnation.com/2010/1/19/1258965/the-amateur-goes-curling.

Speaking of things that may or may not be (sports, music, movies...)
This dissection of the long-forgotten Star Wars Episode I has perhaps the most pointed critique of both the logical and narrative problems in the film. Although there's more bad language than your mom can shake a stick at, the irritating narrator is dead-on, and his explanation of how most good film plots follow a simple structure/character arc should be Required Viewing for Screenwriting 101. This little spin on grindhouse films should be extra credit. And so should Pulp Fiction.

Social Engineering: the Forgotten Major
I will have more on this later, but a dear friend got me a copy of famous hacker Kevin Mitnick's book The Art of Deception. It's wonderful and evil and paranoia-inducing and terrible.

2010-01-12T13:10:00.000-08:00

Pirate Laws

These were forwarrrrded to me by a good friend.

1. A pirate does not ask forr dirrections. He relies only on his gut feeling, a compass, orr a trreasurre map.
2. Parrrrots arre the prreferrrred pirate companion. Monkeys arre an acceptable substitute, unless they fling theirr feces at people. Then they arre an awesome substitute.
3. When fishing, a pirate uses eitherr a sworrd, a knife, orr his barre hands. Use of a hook is only acceptable in the event the pirate is missing a hand.
4. Pirates shall always wearr boots, except in the case of a peg leg. Then one boot is acceptable. Flip-flops arre right out.
5. Pirates do not crry, except in the case of the loss of a shipload of rum.
6. When descrribing the size of a trreasurre, a pirate is requirred to exaggerrate by at least 130%. Flowarrs arre not trreasurre undarr any cirrcumstances, unless said flowarrs arre made out of gold.
7. A pirate shall nevarr wearr lipstick, nail polish, orr caprri pants. Actually, that kinda goes without saying.
8. No pirate shall discuss his feelings, unless his feelings include gutting a man frrom stem to sterrn and spilling his entrrails.
9. A pirate should always remove his hat in the prresence of a barrtenderr.
10. Durring a sworrdfight, sworrdfighting insults arre requirred. In the event both parrticipants arre still alive at the end of the fight, the parrticipant with the superriarr insults shall be declarred the victarr.
11. No pirate shall evarr wearr a "fanny pack".
12. All foods prreparred by a pirate must include rum, grrog (rred orr orrange punch), orr beerr. Boone's and otherr "Wench Punch" is prrohibited.
13. A pirate may nevarr compliment anotherr pirate on the softness of his hands.
14. No pirate shall wearr a brracelet orr a necklace, unless it is the tooth orr tusk of an animal he killed. If in the prresence of cannibals, a necklace is acceptable camouflage, but only if said necklace is made of human toes.
15. Dousing oneself in beerr is a perrfectly acceptable replacement forr a showarr.
16. No pirate shall drrink Grrog out of a glass. Grrog is only to be consumed eitherr strraight frrom the barrrrel, orr frrom a mug heavy enough to to kill a man.
17. Thrree-corrnarred hats, headbands and bandanas arre the only acceptable headwearr forr pirates. Fedorras, bowlarr derrbies, baseball caps, mickey earrs, top hats, sombrrerros, orr anything with lace and flowarrs will be removed frrom the vessel-- head included. A
grrace perriod of one minute is allowed forr hats looted frrom a tailorry.
18. A pirate shall nevarr wrrap prresents. The only thing a pirate gives is a bludgerrin'.
19. A pirate does not use the worrd "Fabulous". Evarr.
20. No pirate shall attend a movie with less than an Arrrrrrrr rating.
21. Only a pirate is capable of killing anotherr pirate. If you arre not a pirate (let's say a ninja) and wish to challenge a pirate, they have a worrd forr that. Corrrrrpse.
22. "Arrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr..." is a perrfectly acceptable answewarrr to any question.
23. A pirate does not "go shopping", unless by "shopping", you mean "killing".
24. Peglegs must be made of timbarr orr some otherr suitable wood. Plastic, cerramic, porrcelain, orr metal peglegs arre uttarrly unacceptable, simply because it complicates the use of the phrrase "shivarr me timbarrs".
25. Real pirates have chest hairr. If you cannot grrow chest hairr, you may be a cabin boy.
26. Undarr no cirrcumstances is a comb-ovarr an acceptable pirate hairrdo.
27. No pirate may evarr change his shirrt because it is "wrrinkled". A pirate may only change his shirrt if it is completely soaked in blood.
28. When drrinking, pirates may sing. "Fifteen Men on a Dead Man's Chest" is prreferrrred. Kelly Clarrkson songs arre not allowed, excepting any that involve hooks.
29. No pirate shall evarr drrive a minivan, unless he drrives the minivan into a tavarrn, forr the purrposes of looting barrrrels of rum frrom said tavarrn. Upon completion of this task, the minivan is to be BURRNED. No exceptions.
30. No mattarr how harrd it is raining, two pirates may nevarr sharre an umbrrella. pirates do not fearr rain.
31. If cirrcumstances demand a carreerr change, a move into real estate brrokarrage orr tax collection shall be considerred a latarral move and said individual may keep theirr pirate status.
32. A pirate does not snuggle with an animal, unless he is trrying to snap its neck. But I guess that wouldn't really be "snuggling".
33. A pirate may nevarr wearr anotherr man's clothing, unless he firrst kills that man.
34. Two pirates must nevarr sharre a bed orr a hammock. It is perrfectly acceptable forr one pirate to sleep on the floorr, orr on a pile of trreasurre.
35. Pirates do not wearr eyeglasses orr bifocals unless they arre
looking at a trreasurre map, and even then they arre allowed only a monacle. Any comments about "Mrr. Peanut" while wearring the monacle arre prrohibited.
36. When setting out on a voyage, a pirate does not pack a suitcase. He is only to brring what he can carrrry undarr his arrms, orr what his wench can carrrry on herr back.
37. A pirate does not mow the lawn. Lawns arre forr landlubbarrs.
38. Lifting orr removing one's eyepatch is extrremely impolite but is not considerred an insult. It's just kinda grross. Likewise, one should nevarr remove anotherr pirate's eyepatch, except with a sworrd to the face.
39. Pirates nevarr use the worrds "frresh" orr "feelings," and cerrtainly not togetherr (as in "I have that not-so-frresh feeling").
40. A pirate must nevarr visit a tanning salon. If he is not alrready tan enough frrom searrching forr trreasurre, he hasn't been searrching harrd enough.
41. While crreativity is encourraged durring any barrfight orr battle at sea, pirates may only use the following types of sworrd; falchions, scimitarrs, rapierrs, and parrticularrly long knives. Katanas orr any otherr Ninja sworrd arre strrictly forrbidden, unless the pirate rips off a Ninja's arrm and hurrls the arrm, and attached Katana, as a prrojectile.
42. No pirate shall evarr sit on a toilet seat, forr any reason.
43. Kidnapping is an acceptable substitute forr killing, but only if it is forr the purrpose of plank walking at a latarrr time.
44. When swimming, pirates do not dive. They cannonball.
45. Cannoneerrs aboarrd a pirate vessel arre not allowed to use hearring prrotection of any sorrt. No mattarr what the OSHA regulations say, if ye can't stand bleedin' frrom the earrs, you have no business being a pirate.
46. A pirate will nevarr wearr a patch that is any otherr colorr than black; unless it's halloween. Then they can wearr a patch with an eyeball painted on the outside. Polka dots arre not perrmitted undarr any cirrcumstances.
47. Female pirates arre allowed some exception to rules concerrning hygiene and garrmentrry, but must make up forr it by using twice as much prrofanity.
48. Hooks arre the only acceptable hand substitute. Howevarr, they may not have secondarry attachments such as scrrewdrrivarrs, bottle openarrs, corrkscrrews, orr nail files. These arre pirates we'rre talking about, not Inspectorr Gadget.
49. A pirate's diet consists mainly of meat. If at sea, and meat is not available, shoe leatherr is an acceptable replacement.
50. You can't spell pirrrate, without "irrrate". Therre's a reason forr that, so don't even trry.
51. No pirate will evarr, evarr raise his pinky when drrinking any sorrt of bevarrage.
52. When choosing clothing, even if it looks dirrty, orr smells dirrty, it is clean.
53. A pirate may ride in a rowboat, if trraveling to orr frrom his ship. Use of a Kayak is only perrmitted if used forr cannon tarrget prractice.
54. When drrinking rum, the only thing a pirate adds to the rum is morre rum.
55. The official pirate religion is Pastafarrianism.
56. No pirate shall evarr play wiffle ball.
57. Undarr no cirrcumstances does a pirate speak with a Ninja, unless he firrst decapitates that Ninja and uses his head like a sock puppet.
58. When at the office, answewarrring the telephone with "Arrrrrrrrrrrrrr" is perrfectly acceptable forr pirates. Otherr acceptable choices arre "Avast!", and "Ahoy Matey!"
59. A pirate does not read poetrry, unless said poetrry is scrrawled on the wall of a bathrroom.
60. All women arre to be referrrred to as wenches, with the exception of female pirates, who can be referrrred to as "lasses".
61. Pirates do not clean up, except when gold falls out of a trreasurre chest.
62. Spilling rum is not acceptable, except in the act of "pourring some out forr dead mateys".
63. A pirate may tell any tale of swashbuckling without being called on the details, as long as at least 51% of the storry is trrue.
64. A pirate may nevarr shave below the neck. Shaving above the neck is allowed, but only if the pirate shaves his entirre head. In the prresence of cannibals, a mohawk is acceptable.
65. No pirate may do the arrm movements forr "YMCA", orr engage in countrry-westarrn line-dancing.
66. Pirates do not say "please" orr "thank you". The phrrase "Arrrrrr, I'll prrobably kill ye tomorrrrow" is an acceptable altarrnative forr "Thank you".
67. Should the ship's bow have a carrving of a naked wench, merrmaid, orr something of the like, crrew membarrs should not touch it. Feeling up a wooden statue is unbecoming of a pirate.
68. Pirates do not "IM". The only instant message allowed is a sworrd thrrough the chest.
69. Dental Hygiene forr pirates is not a prriorrity. Should therre be occasion, howevarr, strrong rum orr salt wavarr can be used as mouthwash. Anything "minty frresh" is strrictly farrbidden.
70. Pirates nevarr, evarr obey laws. Perriod. Irronic, I realize.

2010-01-11T11:22:00.001-08:00

MPAA, Why Do You Hate America?

From Wikipedia:
"In March 2009, British Prime Minister Gordon Brown received a "wrong region" message on a screen when attempting to watch a DVD set of classic American movies received as a diplomatic gift from President Barack Obama"

http://www.telegraph.co.uk/news/newstopics/mandrake/5011941/Gordon-Brown-is-frustrated-by-Psycho-in-No-10.html

2009-12-31T09:38:00.000-08:00

Some possible sequels to Pride and Prejudice and Zombies:

1) Wuthering Heights and Werewolves

2) Wide Sargasso Sea Vikings

3) Nicholas Nickleby, Ninja

4) Last of the Mutant Mohicans

5) Vlad Dracula's Notes from the Underground

6) Jurassic Mansfield Park

2009-11-26T19:08:00.000-08:00

On a day such as this,
When surrounded by family and food,
A quaint moment might make one miss,
Dollhouse, and also some Ood*.

For them and for many things I am thankful,
For the Internet, as invented by Al Gore,
For socks that reach only one's ankle,
For warm weather in North Carolina, and more.

But most of all, when all is done and said,
When tryptophan works its biomolecular magic,
And the six cousins under 10 are finally in bed:

My thoughts do turn to those my friends, who make
my life worth more than coins in hand
and find that I am worth something to them.

But the quality of friendship is not
Strained like tears from Carolina fans when
Jason Williams drops almost forty points.
Instead it is like dollar bills when Pac-
Man Jones goes to the local Deja Vu's.

For that I love them and for more things than I can count
And also I should say I value them for reading this this far.**

But though the devil
May try and pry them from me
Like stone I resist.

Will I trade my friends away?

Will I trade them for a goat?
Will I trade them for a boat?
Will I trade them in Japan?
Will I trade them with The Man?
Will I trade them for some fame?
Will I trade them if they're lame?
Will I trade them at good rates?
Will I trade them inside crates?
Will I trade them during Red Rover?
Will I trade them if I'm sober?
Will I trade them in outer space?
Will I trade them for Valerie's Mace?
Will I trade them for a job?***
Will I trade them for Carab[bas, a faux-Italian restaurant chain]

No!!!!!1!!!1 I say.

I will not trade them for a goat,
Or if you make me a fool in Bash.org quotes,
I will not trade them in Japan,
And you know I hate the Man,
I will not trade them for some fame,
I'm writing poetry on Thanksgiving- that's pretty lame,
I will not trade them if I'm drunk,
Or if you offer me the entire Alive 2007 album by Daft Punk,
I will not trade them for champaign,
I will not trade them for Colerain [comma A victory against]

Like diamonds, I will not trade them in the sub-Sahara,
I will not trade them for sauce of marinara,
I will not trade them for straight A's,
I will not trade them for some Lay's,
As my triglycerides are too high,
And in fact my doctor thought that I might die [someday],
They are worth far too much to me,
Like that fish from the Old Man and the Sea,
Your hypothetical bargain is just like Faust,
And my response is as long as Proust,
If Proust broke his hand and couldn't write past the first page.

For this Thanksgiving I am grateful,
That I have friends as precious as gems,
And not as sparkly or easily stolen.

Have a wonderful, Turkey-filled rest of your evening. I am proud, grateful and glad to call you my friends. Thank you for everything.

*Go watch the David Tennant Dr. Who series, you Philistine.
**Yeah, iambic pentameter is not my preferred form, even if "Jason Williams" is a perfect pair of feet.
***Let's face it, the economy is pretty bad.

2009-10-24T00:41:00.000-07:00

The Death List Five

If I were The Bride and wanted to murder five people for no particular reason, here's who I would pick:

1) Whoever put the "E" in "ESPN" and absolutely destroyed our ability to receive anything like unbiased sports coverage.
2) Marshall McLuhan: Because I had to read his stuff for two different classes.
3) Richard Dawkins: Self-explanatory.
4) The corporate executive at Halliburton who decided to buy CollegeBoard/ETS and turn it from a small, family-values based operation to a national bastion of evil.
5) John Calipari: Again, self-explanatory.

2009-10-18T06:44:00.000-07:00

WARNING: A Pun-Based Post

So, a hundred and eighty-five velociraptors walk into a bar, and the bartender says, "What'll it be?"

The velociraptors order 185 Budweisers.

While the bartender is busy trying to put together that many Buds, he starts grumbling about Belgian beers. The velociraptors ask, "What did you say?"

"Oh," says the bartender, "I'm just p'oed that the globalization movement has caused a beer that should rightly be made and drank and owned by Americans to be owned by the BELGIANS."

The velociraptors take a smooth sip, in unison. Then, one of them steps forward and says gently, "It's alright. Your fear of foreign-owned companies owning and operating traditionally American-themed products stems from an outdated mindset dating back to the 16th and 17th century idea of mercantilism, and the even more outdated mindset of the zero-sum game, which has been around since the dawn of mankind. But don't worry. Mercantilism said that there was only so much gold (value) in the world, and countries should trade only to gain more gold; after a while they wouldn't trade anymore. But capitalism, in its purest form, doesn't rely on gold, but the value created by the *trading* of gold. That's how a piss-poor island with funny accents and an inability to brush properly became the greatest empire the world has yet to forget about, and managed to crush the dreams of Napoleon and Hitler: trade, and motion. Motion is important. The motion of people from place to place and information from place to place is now the dominant modality of the global economy. It doesn't matter who owns the beer, only how it gets from place to place and who collects the money for it along the way. Everything is always in motion, my friend, the economy, and the future."

The bartender says, "Wow. That's really deep. You guys have a great perspective on things."

The velociraptors shrug and say, "What can we say? Our vision is based on movement."

2009-10-15T13:56:00.000-07:00

Guest Column (by Emily)

Things around here have gotten quite dusty as of late, due to the ineptness of the Author, so I thought I could offer my thoughts on one of the most talked-about shows on the air right now, Fox's incomparable Glee.

Glee is a parody of High School Musical and all of its varied spinoffs, set at Canton McKinley High School in Ohio (although it claims to be in Lima, which is far away from Canton). Other major mishaps with the show: there is no mention whatsoever of the Massillon-McKinley rivalry, competitive cheerleading would never outshine football or basketball as the top sport (and would certainly not inspire a late-night local news segment featuring the Cheerios' coach- we have *actual* important things to report on late night news, like the latest race riots or "Taste of Cleveland"), the plot is so dependent on stick-thin stereotypes that they have each character wear the same clothes ALL THE TIME (gay kid wears fabulous, emo Asian kid wears black, cheerleader wears uniform, misunderstood but sensitive teacher wears misunderstood but sensitive cotton, etc.), and all of the male characters are either stupid, gay, evil, weak-willed, or stupid. However, the show balances tasteful and well-produced song-and-dance numbers with storylines featuring lying, teen pregnancy, drug abuse (oh the drugs!), infidelity, homosexuality, blackmail, and GLINDA THE GOOD WITCH!!!!! In other words, it's just like High School Musical, except it's good.

Oddly enough, and despite popular perception, this is a show that has music in it, rather than a musical show. Despite the increasing popularity of non-diegetic music and special effects in film as a device of deconstruction of the medium (see my earlier review of "Inglourious Basterds" and the whole ridiculous Hugo Stiglitz episode), Glee uses its central conceit (a group of overtalented high school singers) to allow completely diegetic music to spontaneously occur without breaking the ever-so-soft fourth wall. This is probably the only difference between the two films, as a close comparison reveals many similarities:

-In Glee, a fictitious dictator with Hitler-like powers and attitude is stymied by a small group of hardy students who recruit new members into their ranks from detention for marijuana use
-In Inglourious Basterds, a (arguably) fictitious dictator with Hitler-like powers and attitude is stymied by a small group of hardy soldiers who recruit new members into their ranks from detention for killing German officers.

-In Glee, a young Jewish overachiever with her own MySpace channel is the main character and messes with the head of the football field hero, who is in love with her.
-In Inglourious Basterds, a young Jewish overachiever with her own movie theater is the main character and messes with the head of the battlefield hero, who is in love with her.

-In Glee, the narration is provided by kids who wish they were as cool as Samuel L. Jackson.
-In Inglourious Basterds, the narration is provided by Jules Winfield, who is almost as cool as Samuel L. Jackson.

-In Glee, the show is stolen by GLINDA THE GOOD WITCH, whose amazing vocal range gets shown off to maximum extent.
-In Inglourious Basterds, the show is stolen by HANS THE JEW HUNTER, whose amazing linguistic range gets shown off to maximum extent.

-In Glee, the charismatic leader of the kids pushes a female character into a painful place: the school musical
-In Inglourious Basterds, the charismatic leader of the kids pushes a female character in a painful place: her leg wound

-Glee's best actor is known for dressing up as one of the Imperious Forces.
-Inglourious Basterds' best actor is known for dressing up as Santa.

2009-09-10T14:47:00.000-07:00

That Girl in the Green Dress

Sultry was the word I'd have used to describe that night, before I saw That Girl. She was trodding down the red-bricked sidewalk, slowly slumping lower and lower. Vanishing away were the elegant poise and graceful balance in heels that her mother drilled into her, almost as if her posture was melting in the drizzle overhead.

She was wearing a green dress, cute enough, the kind an aunt might have picked up at Macy's as a sweet sixteen gift, the kind she might have worn to her first prom with that freckly boy from her biology class who had asked her with a note, the kind she might have looked upon with fond nostalgia as it hung, unmourned, in the back of her closet. The kind she might have depended on as a good luck charm, a scrappy little player just clutch enough when the chips were down, not as fashionable or felicitous or just flat-out fine as those other dresses, but always reliable, always there when she needed it, and never resenting her desire for other dresses. The kind that had earned its place in her closet, never given anything, never asking for anything.

Sure, she could have blown the kitty on a three-hundred-dollar D&G number and the finest jewelry to boot, but she wasn't a flashy girl, never needing to be as glamorous as the others, just a good-hearted blue-collar girl from the countryside who would wear her favorite little dress to the last night of rush. She had written her name on the tag in plain but elegant black Sharpie, and it was that same name, same loopy handwriting that she had used on her PanHel-approved 3x5 card and plastic holder, now affixed to her strap by means of a simple pin. She didn't need to pretend to be anyone that night. They could take her as she was, or not at all.

When I saw her, two strangers passing in the night, the drizzle made the edges of the card curl a little in the holder, and the ink was starting to run. Those other girls, the ones soon to be inside the house sipping champagne and hugging girls they've just met as though they've been best friends since the sandlot, their cards were dressed up with glitter and cheap scent and curly d'Nealean trails laid down by expensive ink pens imported from France and Japan, and will be pinned to a cork board hung to a pink-shrouded wall in the future, with little multi-colored Post-It notes commemorating their success in a competition brutal to the extent Darwin could only dream off. And in their closets will be a dozen, or dozens, of beautiful slender dresses, purchased after endless deliberation and the confidences of entire entourages of worshipful friends, and not one of them will be from last season or before.

Her glance brushed against me, then away, not in snobbery or rejection, but rather, despair. How could I, a mere man, know the depths of despair she was plunging through? How could I, with my emotional depth like that of a puddle in a desert, possibly understand the turbulent storm of insecurity and fear and anger and stinging and numbness, endless, endless numbness raging across her? How could I know what it was like to come so close, and yet be left so far away?

I couldn't. So I passed her by. But I will always remember her, not as the victim she wanted to be, but the sleeping giant that will awaken someday, when the perms have come out and the wrinkles appear in the overtanned skins, when the sleek bodies give way to ennui and stress and stretch marks, when the season of life kicks off anew.

2009-08-30T12:36:00.001-07:00

Small Miracles

Last night, a friend of mine got into an accident. He was driving along in a Vespa-type scooter and coasting down the road, and ran smack into a chain that was stretched across the entrance to the parking lot.

We were getting off a bus when we heard a screeching sound and turned around to see him absolutely laid out across the parking lot. For those who've never seen an accident, it's very sudden. No fireball, no slow-motion, no flying through the air. Just a long trail of debris, with a bike at one end and our friend at the other.

There's a pause, kind of, when your body is moving and you're saying things, but your mind is somewhere else completely. Three of us were reaching into our phones and trying to dial emergency response, some of us went to go to him, others ran to find a security guard or someone who could hail someone on the radio. This isn't the first time I've seen an accident, but just the same it might have well have been.

I believe in God. I believe in blessings. I believe in miracles. But even if you don't, something was different about that night. Here are the facts, as objective as I can remember them:

-Our friend was slowing down and coasting down the road, only hitting the chain at about 10-15 mph

-He was wearing a helmet. The helmet (at least the back part of it) crumpled and bits of it were strewn around.

-We were right there when it happened, along with other bystanders who called for help.

-A jogger was coming by with his dog. The jogger was trained in first aid. He had a pair of latex gloves with him, which he put on, got our friend to lie down straight, checked his pulse, made sure he could feel his extremities, kept him still, and recognized that there was blood coming from both a head and a neck injury.

-The police and student EMS squad arrived within a few moments of each other, and did everything right by the book.

-The ambulance took him away straightaway and there wasn't any triage process at the hospital, so he could go directly to the ER.

-The jogger took three of us to the hospital so we could see him right away. The rest of us got to the hospital later, and even found parking.

-No brain or spine damage.

-We were able to leave that night/morning and bring our friend back safely.

They only let three (and later two) of us in at a time to see him, so while a couple of us went in, I waited outside. God, as always, took care of the small details: I caught the last four minutes of the Baltimore-Carolina game (Troy, unfortunately, was not in) and also found a book called Imagined Worlds, a fascinating little tract by Freeman Dyson about the issues that science and research face that go beyond technical/scientific problems- ideology, money, politics, disinformation, etc.

When we got to go inside, our friend was basically fine, other than a giant gash on his head a few minor lacerations along his neck and back. We chatted with the physician and med student attending the case (he had a book in his pocket called "Harrison's Medical Textbook", which amused me) and discussed the various implications of the presence of Organic Chemistry in pre-med undergraduate curricula (the physician was grumbling about how UT-Austin is removing it from pre-med requirements, arguing that it has too little to do with actual medicine). (Side note: I always knew UT fans were the best) (Double side note: proof God exists: my friend was treated by a 'Horns fan, and not a M*ch*g*n or Gators fan)

When I went back outside, I saw on the news that another teenager had been killed in a motorcycle accident on the freeway. I don't know what that meant. I do think, though, that we were blessed.

2009-08-13T14:42:00.000-07:00

Some Things You'll Never See

-Protestant Vampire Hunters

-Fanboys begging for a shorter film

-Atheist youth groups helping out at a soup kitchen

-Engineers designing a Mac

-Cory Doctorow

-White people getting arrested for cocaine possession

-Korean movies about normal people

-SEC fans complaining about bowl game locations

-Obama being ripped for doing the exact same thing Bush tried to do five years ago

-XKCD not getting at least a chuckle

2009-07-28T10:48:00.000-07:00

Some More Summer Movie Reviews

The Hangover
"I was disappointed that it wasn't like Memento"- Fpendl.

The Hangover is a pretty typical man-comedy of the Judd Apatow school: seemingly simple plot, bizarre and often surreal occurrences, bromantic undertones, casual drug use, witty pop culture references, sharp one-liners, cardboard female characters, cameos from the extended Frat Pack/Jew Tang Clan. The storyline follows the previews almost exactly: bunch of guys wake up after a wild bachelor party, only to find that the bachelor is missing and there's a ton of weird stuff going on. Like a tiger in their shattered hotel room. And a baby.

As Judd Apatow comedies go, it's pretty good. There are a lot of zingers, mostly delivered by Zach Galifianakis as the creepy and inept brother-in-law-to-be. There are enough good sight gags (the baby, the ring, the tuxedo "delivery") to make up for the sea of terrible ones. There are the obligatory cameos (Jeffrey Tambor steals every scene he's in as the father-in-law). There are the offensive racial stereotypes.

I saw it in a packed theater with college students and it received a roaring laugh track, although not as much and not as consistent as Pineapple Express, and of course not touching Superbad, the greatest Judd Apatow film of all time. Yet perhaps because I've seen so many of them and the formula seems so worn- you know Ed Helms will dump his too-evil-to-be-anything-but-a-movie-girlfriend lady, you know the bride and groom will make up, etc. etc.- I felt a little jaded afterward. My sides hurt from laughing but more from visceral impact than anything else.

The Hangover is by far the best comedy I've seen this summer, but not in the same class as The 40 Year Old Virgin or Superbad. It's a "rent" movie.

4/5 overall

The Taking of Pelham 123

More remakes. I've never seen the original film; all I know about it is that it was the inspiration for the codenames in Reservoir Dogs. Tony Scott, the director, is obsessed with visual spectacle and iconic images, much like Zack Snyder and so what could be an otherwise decent technothriller-type film is ruined by lots of spinning cameras and slow-motion.

Denzel Washington, as always, gives a good performance as a slightly chubby Everyman having a really bad day; John Travolta looks like he's having fun for the first time in years. There are serviceable character actors in the rest of the roles, but they're servicing a script that is passable at best, and includes such howlers as the hijackers getting a wireless signal in a subway tunnel by putting a router outside the car, Denzel taking a bribe for a paltry amount of money, nobody knowing about the secret exit, and, of course, the final third of the movie, which turned a passable thriller into a laughable action film.

Not worth the time or the effort or the talent of everyone involved.

Overall 2/5

2009-07-26T09:39:00.000-07:00

Clay Shirky and the Spittle of God
(And other stories)

So I've been a little lax in blogging lately, but that's because I've been very busy. Here are just a few of the things I've done:

-Seen Niagra Falls
Although my original conception of Niagara Falls involved it being an idyllic lakeside summer campground with maybe a creepy motel or two in the background, it actually resembled nothing more than the Canadian Las Vegas, or maybe the Year Two intro to Grim Fandango. Giant hotels? Check. Giant (government-run) casinos? Check. Long lines of people waiting for healthcare? Sadly, no.

That reminds me: on the way back there was a huge backup of cars on the interstate as one of the lanes was closed for repair. My father grumbled about how Obama's stimulus plan was creating traffic and I retorted by saying "At least people will get some jobs". His reply? "Do you see anyone working?" We drove by about three miles of empty, closed-off road before we saw one lone highway worker sitting in a steamroller smoking a cigarette.

Anyways, when we were in Niagara we decided to take the Maiden Mist tour, and suddenly I'm on a boat going to sail, or paddle, or whatever nautically-themed verb is considered appropriate, to the very foot of the Falls. The SS Maiden Mist was actually a *Canadian*-chartered vessel, which means that in lieu of life vests or any kind of safety instructions we were instead given plastic ponchos that resembled transparent Jedi robes and directions to crowd as close to the front of the boat as possible. Or that's what it felt like, with 400 tourists pressing in around us, including a Korean group whose guide sneered at my family when we posed for pictures and said, (in loud, clear Korean that everyone in my family could understand) "Look at those dumb@$$ Japs who just want photo opportunities".

I will admit, being on a boat without any flotation devices despite the possible capsizing due to the thousands of tons of water crashing about seemed to be a little edgier, a little riskier. My father went on about how in Canada the lack of a litigious society produces such pure, unencumbered experiences as this; I was just amazed by the fact that THERE WERE NO FREAKING LIFE VESTS. Oh wait, there were; they were inside a large metal footlocker welded to the top deck that was marked "Life Vests: Use Only in Case of an Emergency". That was sealed. With a giant padlock. To make sure we would *only* use them in case of an emergency. Because we use them during other times too.

As the boat approaches the base of the Falls, the gentle touch of thousands of droplets of mist floating through the air and caressing your face becomes a feeling of brutish bashing from streams exploding outwards, like smashing your face into a wall made of water over and over again, except the water is solid as a rock and there's so much of it you're wondering if you can get George Clooney to play you in the Hollywood drama version.

It was pretty much a white-out of epic proportions that obscured vision and seemed to crush the very breath out of one's lungs. Also, it was wet.

-Picked Blueberries
I've always known that immigrant laborers in this country have it hard, but never this hard. I spent a few hours picking blueberries with a white paint bucket, because picking your own blueberries gives you a greater appreciation of where your food comes from. Also, you only pay $1.40 a pound as opposed to $1.90 a pound, a huge savings, which is why I was so surprised to see the pitying looks from the truck full of farm workers that passed me by halfway through my berry experience.

And it does get to you. Despite the fact that you can eat all the berries you want (mmmmm, berries), the pickin' gives you a lickin' after a while, mainly because the best clusters of berries are down on the lowest branches. So, ignoring years and years of my father's admonitions not to settle for the low-hanging fruit, I stoop down and grab handfuls of berries, testing a few to see if they're sour (an unseasonably cold and light-less summer in Michigan has led to many fruit being un-ripe). I feel I can confidently say that that particular farm is run by people with sweet yet slightly bitter dispositions, as by their fruits you shall know them. ZING!

-Seen Clay Shirky at a Conference
Clay Shirky is perhaps the second-most-famous "celebrity" I've seen this summer (and by "celebrity" I of course mean "public figure only I and Minh have heard of"). He is a new-media-social-networks guy who is very articulate and good with the whole sound-bytes thing, which is presumably why he does well in the media despite being antithetical to their biases, and, more importantly, he looks like a bald version of Tom Hanks. This second fact fascinated me to no end during his talk, which included mention of the Facebook group titled "The Consortium of Loose, Forward, Pub-Going Women" and their campaign of peaceful protest via the mailing of underpants (or "Chaddi") to an orthodox religious gorup. It was funny.

-Tried to Start Reading Mason & Dixon
On the recommendation of those who know I liked the encyclopediac novels of Neal Stephenson I went down to the library and got myself a brick-thick copy of Thomas Pynchon's epic eighteenth-century novel Mason & Dixon, which distinguishes itself from fiction normal people read by two defining characteristics:

1) The Novel Itself is written by the Author in Marvelous and Authentick Style, using the Germanic Overcapitalization of Nouns, the Spelling Concurrent to Grammatical Trends of the Period, the Use of Unrelated Authorial Assides and Digressions at Every Possible Opportunity (Which I believe to be Delightful yet Odorous to Readers with Little Time or Attention Spane, which is Why the Practice Should be limited only to Authors who can shew their Prodigious Skill at Witticisms and Rhetoric), and the Practice and Habitt of finding Excuses Galor to insert Clauses that further confuse the Gentle Reader who will have Lost Track of What the Beginning of the Sentence Said (because of the Flexible Nature of the English Language, which allows for Dreadful Splicing of Gerundical Phrases if the Author so Chuses) of the Time Period in Which It Is Set, which makes It both Delightful and a Major Paine in the Arse to be Read.

2) It doesn't have a Plot.

Surprisingly, Point #1 doesn't bother me as much as Point #2. Part of this is because I have ample experience reading other science fiction novels set in different time periods, and read or seen different sci-fi works with different languages in use. Point #2, though, is difficult for me to deal with. There is no plot. There are no character arcs (yet). There are very few characters who actually seem to matter (yet). It's picaresque but has no structure. It reads very much like stream-of-consciousness does, but seems to meander, with entire chapters and scenes having no purpose other than to show off the depth of the author's research, or his clever use of puns, or his (admittedly) well-versed command of the English language.

In other words, it's like James Joyce's work, except that it's (grudgingly) funny. I haven't decided whether it will be worth it or not.

2009-07-12T07:34:00.000-07:00

Some Summer Movie Reviews: Public Enemies, Star Trek,

(note: hopefully I will have more reviews for The Hangover and The Taking of Pelham 123 later)

Public Enemies
"Public Enemies" has fared in a most mediocre way with both critics and Emily, so of course I had low expectations going in, but was pleasantly surprised by it. To help clear up expectations, let me reiterate what it is not: it is not "Heat" in the 1930s. It is not "The Untouchables" writ small. And it is not "The Dark Knight". It is the (supposedly) true-to-life story of John Dilinger (Johnny Depp), a bank robber who gets caught, breaks out of jail, goes back and robs banks, and then gets caught and shot at the end. It is also, though, an interesting mediation on the media's influence on crime and police work, and a glimpse at the birth of the modern FBI.

Although he follows his standard cops-and-robbers plot structure, Michael Mann steps away a little from his typical existentialism vs. determinism vs. nihilism themes, although he can't help throwing in a few lines from John Dillinger about how "We're having such a good time today we can't think about tomorrow" and the free-as-a-bird myth that these gentlemen like Pretty Boy Floyd and Baby Face Nelson subscribe to. We see J. Edgar Hoover, played by an almost unrecognizable (and short!) Dr. Manhattan himself, trying to put together a saintly, Jesuit-educated interstate police force, which was a novelty at the time when bank robbers could cross a state line and become immune to everything. We see his right-hand man, Melvin Purvis (Christian Bale), becoming frustrated by the incompetence of the accountants and lawyers Hoover supplies him with, most of whom either get shot or commit acts of torture and other clear violations of suspect rights (although, to be fair, Miranda rights didn't exist until the 1960s, well after this movie was set).

And then we see Purvis requesting more experienced men, Texas Rangers, and getting his hands dirty. These two men are shown as being similar but not quite alike, and the performances of Bale and Depp reflect that. Depp, who is best known for playing slightly more flamboyant, off-kilter characters, creates a different persona here. Dillinger is portrayed as a brooding, intense, calculating individual. You can see it in his eyes during the prison break, or during the bank robbery as he checks and makes sure everything is going to plan. You can see it in his body language, his facial expressions as he plans his "takedown" of Billie Frechette, a girl he sees dancing at a club.

It is the introduction of Frechette (Marion Cotillard, in a nicely understated role) into his personal life, and Purvis into his professional life, that starts to break him down. Depp allows the briefest of smiles, of sighs, and smug half-grins to penetrate his facade of cold intensity once he is with Frechette, their duration and frequency increasing througouht the film, culminating with the moment towards the end of the film where he breaks down in the car and we watch a man struggle with long-repressed emotions in a silent, brilliantly-played moment. And the narrative reflects Dillinger's breakdown as well: his bank robberies become sloppier and more desperate; his gang is eliminated by Purvis' incompetent but relentless department; his friends, allies, and safe houses all shun him or betray him.

It's a shame we don't get any background on Dillinger other than his breathless twenty-second recounting of his life to Frechette, which only serves to highlight what an efficient criminal and human being he's become. With characters like Jack Sparrow, Depp layers various surface aspects- rougish charm, cockiness, craziness, quirkiness, selfishness- around a core of vulnerability and insecurity that makes the audience empathize; with Dillinger, we have only the suggestion of an inner persona, a well-portrayed suggestion but just a suggestion nonetheless.

Purvis, as Dillinger's foil, is similarly enigmatic. Bale doesn't show us doubt or fear, just professionalism; the professionalism to repeatedly and determinedly ask for better agents from Hoover, the professionalism to turn his back while someone is getting tortured in the background, the professionalism to stay silent and unmoved while Dillinger attempts to rattle his cage when they meet in prison. The movie's epilogue notes that Purvis left the FBI and killed himself in real life after capturing Dillinger; it's a shame the film doesn't give us any clue (other than a hint or two) as to why.

The film does, however, portray the way the media affects the chase, though all too briefly. In a wonderful scene in a movie theater, Dillinger and his associates see themselves onscreen as the MovieTone announcer tells everyone "They may be in this very room" (at which point one of them tries to leave). The way Hoover is constantly followed around by a publicist, rather than an agent or an administrator, and his constant playing to the cameras, is clearly pushed forward at the same time Dillinger is turning an arraignment and later a trial into a press conference and a lampoon, respectively. People more learned than me have suggested the influence that Clark Gable's gangster movie has on the film; I suggest you go talk to them about it. My only reflection on that aspect is that, like Reservoir Dogs, it appears that most of the thieves in the film (with the exception of Dillinger, the consummate professional) have learned their trade by watching movies of elaborate shootouts (see Baby-Face Nelson's exit) and tough-guy shop talk.

The cinematography, direction, effects, and costuming are all effective enough that you don't notice them and focus on what's going on, but are nothing particularly spectacular. This is partly because of Mann's tight-fisted direction; as opposed to opening with crane shots of the Depression-era set built for the film, we focus mostly on the people, standing out starkly even against a massively built Michigan City prison entrance set.

Public Enemies is an excellent "gangster movie" and a well-crafted piece of art, but it falls shy of the potential of the rich, made-for-the-screen people it tries to depict.

Overall, 4/5.

Star Trek

Never bet against J.J. Abrams, I have learned. As much as I love Lost and MI:3, I thought that the prospect of Abrams- a self-described "Star Wars guy" trying to reboot the Star Trek franchise was a bit...er...well, dumb. 40 years of cinema and television history isn't to be rebooted easily, and I kept hearing all these awful rumors: it would be a buddy flick set at the Academy. It would be a war movie. It would be a Romulan movie. It would be about James T. Kirk's dad. It would be an Enterprise movie.

It's none of that. It is, in fact, a great film, and a successful reboot.

Let's get the casting out of the way: yes, everyone looks about five to ten years younger than they should, with the except of Karl Urban's McCoy. Hardcore fans have already derided the show as "the Muppet Babies version of Star Trek", so I won't go there. And yes, Sylar (a.k.a. Zachary Quinto) as Spock is not up to par. It's truly unfortunate, because Quinto takes a very difficult part and does it very well, but the problem is about halfway through the movie (*spoiler alert*!!!) we meet Leonard Nimoy's Spock, and the moment he speaks Nimoy's gravitas completely annihilates Quinto's hormonal-teenage-Spock performance, and to make things worse, Abrams & co. then have Quinto-Spock and Nimoy-Spock meet face to face, which is about the dumbest thing they could have possibly done because it makes Quinto look whiny and hollow and unable to follow up on one of sci-fi TV's greatest actors (/*end spoiler*). And yes, to quote one reviewer, Zoe Saldana as Uhura is a "stone cold fox", but, in one of the Great Decisions of Cinema History, they gave her both a character *and* an important skill to apply to the plot, which poor Nichelle Nichols never got in the original series.

In a predictable yet delectable way, the writers structure the film to bring together all the main characters of the original series. The main Schtick is about Quinto's Spock and Chris Pine's Kirk going through their Campbellian hero's journeys and eventually becoming friends, but each of the supporting cast characters from the Original Series (McCoy, Uhura, John Cho's blunt Sulu, Simon Pegg's amusing Scotty, and Anton Yelchin's nerdy Chekhov) gets their own moment to shine. The always-solid critic Alexandra Dupont, of the website Aintitcool.com, notes how the producers try to slip a little nod to the idea of destiny in their parallel-lives of their rebooted universe, but if you don't know much about the Original Series you'll just have to dismiss a bunch of highly improbable coincidences/gaps in logic, smoothed over by enjoyable action and a fair amount of wit in the dialogue.

The atmosphere is what really sells it, though (as much as atmosphere can exist in the airless void of space). As much as I hate to be the nth person to rag on a show's poor production values, Abrams' film has great F/X, costuming, set design and so on, which really helps the suspension-of-disbelief factor, while the musical score and constant use of audio cues from the Original Series (elevators, radar pulses, transporters etc.) brings back nostalgic memories without the memories of how cheesy and cardboard the old show used to be. I mean, it's almost painful to watch the series (or any of the series') after seeing the movie.

And, as is typical for Abrams productions, there are a couple of set pieces that resonate emotionally without compromising the big-budget action values, most notably the opening ten minutes, which includes setting up the plot, two different heroic sacrifices, and the birth of Kirk, all mixed together with flashes of action and chilling shots, like how the sound suddenly cuts out as someone is sucked into the silent vacuum. Of course, my more logically-oriented friend asked after a few minutes, "Why the HELL is there a married couple on a warship...in fact, why is there a PREGNANT WOMAN on a warship!?!?" but that was after the damage was done.

The whole movie follows this pattern: enormous, gaping flaws in logic that are presented in such a way that you're too busy caring about the characters and the conflicts to notice until long after the impact has already hit you. You spend too much time admiring how dead-on Karl Urban looks, acts, and sounds like DeForest Kelley, while at the same time channeling his own peculiar Southern-country-doctor-mojo, or chuckling at all the classic lines they work in (usually) organically (the first time McCoy says "Damnit Jim" is especially good), or feeling the hair on the back of your head stand up while watching Kirk and Sulu and a redshirt (!) silently skydiving with just the sound of a sensor ping in the background, or feeling the delicate simmer Quinto places around Spock's emotions being expertly prodded by Pine's overtly smug Kirk, or , or , or , and you get the idea.

Hardcore fans who pick apart the flaws of the film (and it does have many flaws; the science, the continuity, the whole Academy-cheating-Kobayashi Maru section, and again, WHAT IS A PREGNANT WOMAN DOING ON A WARSHIP!?!?) are really missing the point. The Original Star Trek Series was never about having things like original plots or internally consistent ideas; instead, it was a vision of an optimistic future that was vastly different from the grim determinism of H.P. Lovecraft or Rod Sterling or the later cynicism of cyberpunk and deconstruction. Is the future of Star Trek shiny and unrealistically iPod-like? Yes. Do we want it that way? Yes.

Overall, 5/5

2009-07-09T12:12:00.001-07:00

The Great Game of Golf
The other day my grandfather offered to take me to play golf "at 6:30", by which, of course, he meant AM, not PM. This is slightly earlier than my typical wake-up time, but for the sake of having some quality time with Grandpa, it was worth it.

I have to clarify some things about the situation. My grandfather is a great golf player, and still competes in local semi-pro tournaments (and not the senior citizen tournaments either). My knowledge of golf is limited to an infamous episode of "My Name is Earl" and films starring Adam Sandler. I have been to a driving range a couple of times, but never gone golfing-golfing, and was curious about how it might go.

Let's put it this way: it didn't go well. My Grandpa went and spent an obscene amount of money on brand-new golf shoes for me, and that day was the first time I was wearing them. Note to self: *always* break in new shoes before you go golfing. So between the early hour, the shoes cutting into my heel through the paper-thin socks I was wearing, the icy coldness of the predawn morning and then the oppressive 70-degree heat of the sun, and the fact that I ate a delicious Croissant-wich for breakfast, the situation was already bad enough.

Then we actually started playing golf, and my level of skillz can be quite easily implied through two different anecdotes:

-Grandpa told me I needed a "pitching wedge". I was able to identify the proper club, because it had a "P" on it. I think. I had originally assumed this was the "Pirate" club, but I didn't tell anyone.

-The scorecard read something like this:
Hole 1: Par 4
Grandpa: 5
The Author: 12

Hole 2: Par 4
Grandpa: 4
The Author: 15

Hole 3: Par 4
[left blank, like every other hole afterward, to save me from embarrassment]

After we had struggled through the most painful 9 holes since Curtis James Jackson got shot, my grandpa took me aside next to the James Bond Villain Henchman's electric golf cart we had rented and looked me in the eye. With broken but carefully measured English, he said, "I know you feel pressure, this is first time. But don't worry, don't worry. I am play golf for very long time, and I feel pressure too. Everyone feel pressure."

I smiled and suddenly everything was right again, even if it had taken me 10 strokes before I was able to get back on on the fairway.

Then we went to the 10th hole and another gentleman was waiting there with his golf cart, chomping on a large cigar and looking for all the world like Mike Ditka. My grandpa got out and started talking to him all friendly-like, then he waved over at me and asked if I was beating "my old man". I laughed and said no, and he laughed and told me I should be.

Grandpa said something along the lines of I was 18 years old and a student at $t.X, which is not entirely true. But the man's eyebrows went up slightly. Then my grandpa went, tee'd off, and hit a beautiful drive that arced through the air and landed like an artillery shell about a foot away from the big yellow flag stuck in the hole, on a little peninsula jutting into a water trap.

I dutifully took out my driver, which I assume is called a driver because it uses electromagnets to accelerate the mainly titanium ball. Unfortunately, futuristic technology or not, I still was terrible at hitting the thing into anything other than the ground directly in front of it. Arcs were a pipe dream- at this point, I would settle for the ball flying off the tee in a straight line, for ten or fifteen yards.

Behind me, the gentleman chomped his cigar some more and said something about being a Panthers fan, and I realized how high the stakes were on this hole. The chummy man had gone to my high school's biggest and ugliest rival. Oh dear Lord, please don't make me embarrass myself in front of an 3LD3R fan!!!

I have one chance to not screw this up.

I have to keep my head down.

I have to shift my weight.

I have to swing and follow through.

The club comes down like a pendulum and makes contact with a solid THWACK sound that rings in my ears as the ball flies upward, higher, higher, higher than I've ever hit it, a beautiful arc so perfect you could use it for a polynomial graph in an Algebra I textbook, an arc that ends inside the hole.

I just hit a hole in one. O M F G. My grandpa goes crazy in the background. The guy's cigar falls out of his mouth.

No, just kidding. The ball arcs beautifully, but it soars over the splotch of green and plunks into the water. I sigh, and my grandpa laughs, clapping me around the shoulders.

"Good shot, good shot."

2009-07-05T10:17:00.001-07:00

Little Trouble in BigTown #10: As If I Didn't Feel Bad Enough About My Programming Skills

An exchange that occurred about three months ago:

Me: So how's [legendarily difficult programming class] treating you?
Kosta: It's really hard because it's not very well-defined; you have to use a lot of creative skills and big-picture thinking.
Me: Uh huh. Sounds pretty tough.
Kosta: Actually, you'd be really good at it.
Me: Really?
Kosta: Yeah, it doesn't require any programming skill.
FML

Then this happened:
On the way back home, I decided to reserve a cab for the one-hour trip to the airport rather than try to take a cheaper, and probably far more disastrous/entertaining, combination of trains, boats, and...uhhh...something that rhymes with "boats". My driver is a dark-skinned man, who shares "the most common first name on the planet, read a book why don't you" with a certain Islamic Prophet, but who I call Mr. Amin.

As our rollicking ride of return begins, I ask him a few questions about where he's from and he replies, in clear but highly accented English, that he is originally from Bengladesh but has lived in BigTown for 14 years. This is the entertaining part of taxi rides; I love hearing about different people's stories, from the Egyptian guy who let me know that Lebanese women are the most beautiful of all (and that the women of Jordan, Syria, Egypt, and all the other countries that tried to invade Israel in the '60's are only as beautiful as the amount of Lebanese blood in them) to the bearded grad student who thought I was from Chicago "because of yer accent" to the retired Intel engineer who was driving because he wanted to do something different.

Mr. Amin told me about how he had first come to America, leaving behind a wife and young son for four years (!) with no contact (!!!) before they could put together the proper papers for immigration. I mean, that's pretty hardcore. His son and daughter are now pretty much assimilated, with basically no memory of Bengladesh, but he still keeps up the old traditions, including singing and some form of chant/meditation called "rrackg" (sp?). From listening to him talk about the mixture of Sikhs, Muslims, and Hindus in his country, you'd think everyone was some long-haired groovy hipster who sat around being mellow and chanting all day. (Mr. Amin was particularly adamant that "Muslims in Bengladesh not like Muslims in Pakistan. We are not extreme, not extreme, very calm, very happy")

He talked about his deep depression during his years alone in the US, and how he got through it with a combination of religious faith (unspecified), this rrackg chanting, and computer programming.

Say what!??!

"Yes, yes, I find computer programmer from India, he teach me See Plus Plus, I teach him how to drive."

After a combination of tutoring with his Indian neighbor, self-teaching from books and tapes, and sitting in on a few classes at a community college, Mr. Amin now is fluent in C++, C#, Java and JavaScript, php, and Perl. His goal is to learn Python this year, since he has heard it is miraculous. (According to xkcd, it is, but be careful)

We then proceeded to have a long and fascinating conversation about how people learn things and the best way to teach the precepts of programming. ("To understand recursion, you must first understand recursion").

It's funny the kinds of things you learn when you meet people.

2009-06-30T20:08:00.000-07:00

Little Trouble in BigTown #9: A Day in the Life

My typical day in BigTown begins at 6:30 in them morning, when I jolt awake and feel a spike of adrenaline coursing through my body, from my scalp to my toes, like a bolt of lightning. Then I realize that I can sleep for another hour, and roll over to catch some more z's.

At 7:15 my first alarm goes off on my phone, whose screen displays one of two options: SNOOZE and DISABLE. Thankfully, the first (default) option is SNOOZE, as otherwise I would just hit DISABLE. This puts my phone into a coma for five minutes, after which it goes off again, prompting me to hit SNOOZE again. In this way, my world becomes a series of five-minute naps dotted with brief flashes of consciousness, like a strobe light occasionally sputtering in a Discotheque in the Soviet Union during a brownout. In my dreams, I engage in vigorous debate with a vodka-chugging Chekhov from Star Trek about the efficiency of state-controlled utilities.

At 7:42 my second alarm goes off on my phone, which also prompts a SNOOZE. This, however, is different because Alarm #2 also goes off every five minutes, albeit starting at a different interval. This shortens the period in which I can sleep, as now Alarm #1 will go off at 7:45, Alarm #2 will go off at 7:47, and so on and so forth. My world goes from the aforementioned Discotheque to an episode of Pokemon.

Usually around eight I can drag myself out of bed and into the shower, where I engage in ruminations that often last me as long as fifteen minutes, especially if I forget to bring my watch and end up thinking about Weighty Matters instead of lathering. Afterwards, dressing takes me a while because I don't have any sort of bathmat and am completely paranoid about letting my wet feet touch the icky carpet. So I lay out my clothes on the bed, sit down on it, and lean back, holding my legs out and feeling my shower slippers slide off, then dangle my feet a few inches above the floor while moving only my upper torso to put on an undershirt and collared golf shirt. Then I lean over to the dresser (still sitting on the bed with my feet out) and grab some short-neck cotton socks. I can use my sock drawer as a sort of carbon-dating system to figure out how long it's been since I've done my laundry, although it regresses linearly rather than logarithmically. The warning point is when I run out of cotton socks and am forced to use my stash Emergency Backup Socks (EBS), the heavy wool monstrosities that are meant for Day After Tomorrow-style crisis and clubbing at Soviet Discotheques.

Finally, by this point my feet are no longer wet but merely damp, and I am able to slide them through a pair of khaki slacks and into the socks. With a brown belt and some sneakers, I am dressed for work, or for a typical day at $t. X, depending on if the dress code has changed or not. My backpack gobbles up the computer and all the snaking peripherals that accompany it, and I'm out the door.

The walk to the Metro station is pleasant, usually just warm and humid enough to remind me it's summer, but not enough that my pants start to develop their own tropical ecosystem inside. The entrance to the underground metro station is basically a big hole in the ground with what seems like an endless escalator plumbing the depths. There's also a series of gritty, unshaven men in orange construction-worker vests selling newspapers and copies of Street Vibes (The Official Daily Newspaper of the Homeless), and of course a token homeless person or two wagging a styrofoam cup from 7-11 (or occasionally Five Guys and Fries).

Once you get into the Metro station proper, you find yourself in a tunnel with a curved roof of tiles that look like Pez blocks. On one side you'll see a bank of 80s-era vending machines to spit out tickets and train passes (seriously, all that's missing is a couple of reels of tape and Matthew Broderick trying to play Global Thermonuclear War with them), and on the other various billboard-type advertisements, many of which have a distinctly political/lobbying flavor to them, such as the one with a picture of a pig that said "Who's HOGGING Our Antibiotics?"

There's also a dot-matrix LED display that alternates between helpfully telling you the train you want isn't coming for another 20 minutes and helpfully telling you that you should have added an additional 30 minutes to your travel time. Thanks, buddy. Occasionally, if you're very lucky, you'll see a third announcement that says that "Routine Track Maintenance" is being performed.

Finally, the actual train platform is filled with scattered knots of people zoned out on iPods or Crackberries. Most are respectably-dressed businesspeople who look like they could be lawyers or polticians; a few are clusters of students wearing identical bright t-shirts and lanyards. The lanyards, of course, are the dead giveaway, even for older high school and college groups. These older groups all have names that include words like "National", "Presidential", and "Congressional", designed to make them sound huffy and official. But the students still get lanyards.

Once the train arrives, the doors slide open and we all rush forward like o-linemen trying to get a push on a goal-line stand. While it's nothing like the ridiculousness of Japanese trains and certainly less saturated with f-words than a NYC metro, BigTown still manages to pack 'em in pretty tight. The train doors beep and try to close, and then stop as they've been jammed by someone's arm, or purse, or child. There's some quiet grumbling and then the doors finally slide shut and we begin moving, only to stop about 15 feet later with the announcement "This train will be delayed for 90 seconds".

A little while (and during weekdays a long while) later we arrive at my stop and I get off the train. There are two different exits to the metro station, and between 5 and 10 turnstiles at any given exit. Like grocery lines, I always pick the one that is letting people through the slowest. For most normal people, they get in line, watch the person in front of them slip in their ticket or wave their pass over the card reader, and then they get to go. Inevitably, though, I will be caught behind someone whose RFID smart-card has jammed, or been passed through a giant magnet, or is actually a library card.

After that annoyance, it's up the escalator...and up the escalator...and up the escalator...and finally I emerge and realize I picked the wrong exit as well, and now have an additional two or three blocks to get to my workplace. But no matter. The sky is clear and blue, and the people are teeming and energetic, and the humidity has been ratcheted up a notch, and my legs are sprouting emergent, canopy, and understory layers.

Some interminable hours (it may have been minutes) later, I arrive at the proper building, which is bordered on one side by a Johnny Rocket's family-style restaurant and on the other by a sex shop. Inside is the elevator to the office, which is slow (some might say "ponderous") and leaves lots of time for peaceful contemplation. I usually use the metal door to check and see if there's anything stuck in my teeth, and admire the glowing circles above the door that indicate the floor we're on (the numbers have been Sharpie'd on). The actual office is generic and nondescript, although quite EPIC, I must say myself.

I greet Gerald, the administrative assistant/website master/temp worker/social organizer for the office. Gerald's current profession fits the description the Navy has ("It's not a job, it's an Adventure"). My typical first glance of Gerald involves me going to the kitchen to get some water and seeing everyone stand around as Gerald tries to do an EPIC job like "catch a mouse that's been sneaking in through the ceiling tile" or worse, get the server to work properly.

On any given day, there's a 50-50 chance that I'll see Melissa, the other intern at my organization, who is from Cleveland (O-H!). Unfortunately, she did go to Miami of Florida (of her own volition), and that requires shunning. She does crazy law-school-type stuff which is so far above my head it resembles the plot of Pirates of the Caribbean 3.

Then I reach my own office, which, according to the sticker on the phone, apparently once belonged to someone whose name started with "Guilerme". It is currently being used to store unwanted books and interns. I sit down, pull out my computer, and lock it to the desk, then go straight to work.

Work, in this case, refers to the unpleasant daily task I have of making breakfast (Poptarts done at 25 seconds per pastry), checking my email, and carefully analyzing the latest postings from my favorite sports blogs. At some indeterminate point later in the day, I begin my (unpaid) volunteer service of doing research.

About five minutes after that, it's time for lunch. The first week or so I ate lunch out, but being a part of Obama's stimulus package for local restaurants really got to me politically, so now I eat in my office, preparing gourmet Nutella sandwiches with the following recipe I created:

Nutella Sandwich
Makes 4 sandwiches. Prep time: 3 minutes.

1 Jar Nutella
8 Slices of Whole Wheat Bread*

1) Take two slices of whole wheat bread and place on napkin.

2) Open jar of Nutella and observe the topographical contours of the Nutella within. A brand-new jar will have no contours, just a smooth surface. A used jar should have Nutella scooped out along the walls of the jar, leaving behind streaks from the teeth of the knife that was used to scoop it out, with a central peak formed of Nutella. The central peak should also have the straight-line streaks.

3) Scoop out Nutella. Be careful not to make the peak in the center of the jar too thin, or it will collapse. To prevent this, lop off the top of the peak at regular intervals and reshape the peak.

4) Spread Nutella on one (not both) of the slices of bread. Even-coating and thickness of the spread are more important (for now) than distributing the Nutella over the entire slice. There's plenty more where that came from.

5) Repeat steps 2-4 until one of the slices is *completely* covered with Nutella.

6) Wipe knife off on the other slice of bread.

7) Take the other slice of bread and gently place it on top of the Nutella-bearing piece, being careful to align the "handles" of the bread.

8) Repeat for the other three sandwiches.

9) Realize you forgot to buy milk and run across the street to Rite-Aid to get it.

*White bread is not an acceptable substitute.

Then it's time for more work while I eat, then after lunch I go back to volunteering. Throughout this time, I am sure to check my email every hour or so to make sure I'm not missing anything from my boss, who has a tendency to A) not come into the office and B) send uncapitalized (though fully-punctuated) emails that start with phrases like "So I'm in brussels this week".

Finally, the magical hour of 5 pm rolls around, and I pack up and head out. Depending on the day, I have different engagements: dinner, meetings, performances, improv classes, wandering aimlessly around like a tourist, and watching Arrested Development.

When I finally arrive back at my dorm for the evening, I spend about five minutes trying to convince myself to blog, then decide instead to read Facebook or those same sports blogs, before getting ready for bed, reading a chapter of the Bible and a chapter of whatever novel I'm reading at the time (Eifelheim now, Cyrptonomicon earlier).

And that's where my fingers' been!

2009-06-29T18:59:00.000-07:00

Little Trouble in BigTown #8: A Convention of Freaks, A Convention of Geeks

So this week I went to two different conventions, one hosted by Microsoft, and one hosted by Microsoft's Mirror Universe evil-goatee-wearing-counterpart, otherwise known as the privacy-free speech-open source people, otherwise known as "The Good Guys". Unless you're Microsoft. Or Apple, for that matter, but that's a whole different blog post entirely.

The Microsoft convention was, as you might expect, evil. It was also pleasant, air-conditioned, and crammed to the gills with so much cool stuff I wanted to cry for not being an electrical engineer or a computer programmer. In yet another parallel universe, I'm working for Microsoft on one of these neato projects:

-A search engine plug-in called Viveri, which automatically takes your Bing! query and compares it against a giant table of statistical data that tells it what search engine is most often used for that query. It will then shoot that same query off to the appropriate outside search engine. So for example, if you search for "Tom Clancy", it will give you a list of results and a sidebar that contains results from an Amazon.com search; if you search for "Tom Clancy movies" it will give you results and a sidebar that contains results from imdb.com. Of course, Dogpile did this sort of meta-search back in the 90s, but it's not as cool as Viveri. (Then again, it did hit the market *13 years* before Viveri will...ehh...maybe not so neato)

-A simple, lightweight (system-resource-wise), easy-to-use system of tags for documents, images, videos, executables, webpages, what have you that is integrated with Vista's desktop environment. Click on a tag, all the associated files open up; click it again, they all close. Email it to a friend, they click on the tag and (if they have the requisite files) the files open up/get synched up. This is the kind of thing Apple should be developing.

-Various types of statistical analysis to combat spammer accounts, build a system of recommendations for doctors, restaurants etc., preserve privacy of sensitive records when queried by researchers doing database searches, and distributing large programming tasks over a server farm or whatnot. Basically, boring but useful and geekily cool stuff. The point? I found out that Spammers beat CAPTCHA image-recognition traps by using the promise of, shall we say, risque images (SFW).

- A game called Kodu, which allows you to create your own game. It is also, secretly, an educational program that *teaches you the principles of coding* with cutesy animals and scripted commands represented as colored building blocks. It's so cool I have to link the CES demo for it. According to the demo guy who was showing it off, Kodu was originally tested with a group of 9-12 year old girls, who, as you know, aren't exactly the prime demographic for learning programming. It received rave reviews from them, and is being mainstreamed into some first world countries, like New Zealand, Finland, Australia, and Canada, and some not-so-first-world countries, like Russia, Brazil, and Michigan. (No, seriously). In these test cases almost 43% of the students who sign up for it are, you guessed it, 9-12 year old girls, which is a bit of a breakthrough. It's going to be downloadable next week for $5 on Xbox Live, and it looks fantabulously cool. Of course, I would be remiss in not pointing out that Carnegie Mellon did it first, but it's not as cool as Kodu.

-And finally, as the piece de la resistance, a dome (made of cardboard, natch) that contained two things: a hemispherical 360 projector to post the night sky against the inside of the dome (like what you would see at a planetarium) and a small infrared camera that recognized hand gestures so you could spin, zoom, and warp the night sky. This may not seem remarkable in and of itself, but when I specifically asked whether it was a prototype for Project Natal, they said no, and winked. Of course, I would be remiss in not pointing out that PreCrime did it first, but it's- does anyone else see a worrying pattern here?

Then it was time to meet up with what Microsoft might call it's Rogue's Gallery: a collection of Privacy brigands from every organization that rejected my application for an internship this summer. I had a series of really funny observations to make about them, but I can't read my handwriting in my notebook of the hilarious jokes they were making. Or maybe those were serious points about the FTC's inability to effectively regulate digital privacy. I can't be sure.

Tomorrow: a Day in the Life of the Author

2009-06-22T20:35:00.000-07:00

Assorted Odds and Ends

Serious Stuff
-Here's an interesting article on the problems with the ways that UIs are depicted in movies like Minority Report and Independence Day (in essence: 90's Macs can talk to aliens. They can't talk to PCs).

-An interesting debate on the best way to articulate Shakespeare, who was notorious for not leaving good notes on the interpretation of his plays...

-This is sort of serious stuff...

Funny Stuff
-...but it also counts as Funny Stuff, (same link) if you know about passwords.

-That lesbian-themed sex shop? There was a tour group posing in front of it today. I thought that was a little weird, then they turned towards me and I saw they all had braces, acne, and freckles. I wanted to vomit a little bit.

-Wikipedia has an actual article dedicated to Reductio ad Hitlerium, which, in essence, means calling your opponent/his argument a Nazi. Last semester, in my European history class, I was going to write about how much Obama's kickoff rally looked like a Nazi rally, (from a purely propagandistic/crowd fervor standpoint, please don't get me wrong) but...well...anyways...just go read this XKCD comic...

-And speaking of Fascists, I mentioned to Alex about the whole "This train will be delayed 90 seconds due to schedule changes", and he said we should get Benito Mussolini here...*shudder*

-Does this group of college partygoers and their hedonism look familiar to anyone?

-The House hearings, which I watched in Little Trouble in BigTown #7, are only available for online streaming in proprietary .wmv and .wav format. Why isn't Richard Stallman upset yet?

-Sigh...even Billy Mays hates Ohio State now...(although the line about "TIRED OF WATCHING JIM TRESSEL SMILE AND TALK ABOUT HOW YOU "PLAYED HARD" line *killed* me). On a more serious football note, he missed the part about "Have a ridiculous D-Line and make our O-Line look like clowns" (jk Alex, please don't kill me. Or get tased.)

-This story of people trying to learn hoops to play with Obama is absolutely true. Although, as was pointed out in an Epic Meal yesterday (at The Le Bistro Bistro (!)), Obama is never going to get hip-checked, hard-fouled, or have a foul called on him. How are you supposed to call a foul on POTUS anyways?

-This is the attitude of pretty much every girl, to pretty much ever guy, except maybe Sr. Efpendl.

-Tim Brewster's Motivational Tourette's is not going anywhere anytime soon.

2009-06-22T20:30:00.001-07:00

Little Trouble in BigTown #7: Wherein The Author Discovers that American Political Discourse is So Stultifyingly Boring and Poorly Worded He Wishes He Was Watching Parliament on CSPAN-2 Instead

(Note: written while I was waiting in line to get into the Hearing Room)
The Hearing Room is similar to a courtroom or a movie-set backlot of the UN: plebes sit on one side in rickety wooden chairs, important people sit on the other side behind long, high judge's benches. The whole place is packed (there's a sign outside that says "Hearing Room Full"), with the seating arrangements reflecting might be termed a Betty Krockerian distribution: moist and fluffy lobbyists on the inside, dotted with a few hard activists here and there, all coated with a layer of sweet, pinkish interns standing around them, ready at any minute to get licked off by coffee- or printout-starved Congresspersons.

At the behest of an aide, I slip in and find the only available seat: a front row one with a hastily-photocopied sheet of paper that says "RESERVED". The assembled representatives are busy making their opening statements, capped at three minutes apiece by a digital shot clock mounted above the door. I half expected there to be a pair of LED score readouts on either side with the labels "HOME" and "REPUBLICAN", with corresponding markers for team fouls, T.O.'s, and Filibusters remaining etc.

There's also a pair of industrial-grade videocameras trained on whoever happens to be speaking at the moment, probably streaming via C-SPAN8 ("The Ocho"), and also being outputted to a pair of high-def TV's mounted on the walls. I am surprised to see Greg Siegel's theories on sporting events and hypermediacy being applied here: people are watching the viewscreens instead of the speakers who are 20 feet away. I too succumb to the temptation, as the second camera is angled so if I sit up strait you can see the back of my head and shoulders, rather like a third-person shooter (or Super Mario 64, if that's more your game). I amuse myself for a few minutes making dramatic turns of the head, until I realize I am one of the two people in the room who is not wearing a suit, and definitely the only one wearing dark jeans. (I am also the only one with a notebook instead of a Blackberry).

Although I feel inferior to the $300 tailored suits and I-Went-To-Wellesley-DOntcha-Know-That's-Where-Hillary-Went pantsuits and skirts, I remind myself that, in the words of an immortal South African, "Clothes should not be giving you status...you should be giving status to your clothes!" Which is just a fancy way for me to feel better about wearing a khaki sport coat my mom bought an an outlet mall (on sale, too). I try my hardest to do what I had learned to do as a small child to improve my self-esteem: I focuse on other people's flaws. Thankfully, there's an immediate target: a legislator from [State Redacted] who is sitting *directly behind* the lady giving her opening statement and casually deciding in the middle of the statement to flip open a magazine and read.

Oh, politics.

2009-06-15T20:27:00.000-07:00

Little Trouble in BigTown #6 (The Ultra-Offensive MINORITIES Issue)

I was recently quite surprised when I realized, on the metro, that there were a large number of Afro-American people on the train. They were just...there, blending in. If I were in Atlanta, I wouldn't notice them because there would be so many of them that it would be instead the white people would stick out. If I were in Asia, I wouldn't notice them because there were so few of them they would disappear into the crowd. But here, they were everywhere, and nowhere, because they didn't clump together as racial minorities are wont to do. That's how we know the civil rights movement has come about full circle: we don't think about other races in terms of them being other races, but rather as being that businessman, that doctor, that mother, that student, that whatever in a crowd full of other businessmen and doctors and mothers and students.

But, alas, although Bill Simmons is busy saying "Ladies and Gentlemen, the OBAMA era!", there is still rampant racism out there. A few days ago I was sitting waiting for a train when an extremely drunk woman came wobbling down the escalator and plopped next to me, her somewhat tipsy husband following quick behind.

She had pale blonde hair and skin to match, which made me think Scandanavian at first, but her slurred accent made her sound like Chekhov from Star Trek.* She made some rude farting noises by pursing her lips and going bppppppppppppt (with those exact letters, like in Calvin and Hobbes). Then she proceeded to deliver the following monologue, which I am recounting as best as I can remember:

"Hey...hey you! Are you Korean? You are Korean. I am sorry, I very drunk right now, I make bad sounds like this *bpppppppppppt* because Koreans fart so much. Is true, I have friend, she is Korean, she is so beautiful and so smart because they build like that [in the background her husband is cradling his head in his hands and mumbling "I'm so sorry, I'm so sorry, I'm so sorry" over and over again] But she is also very bossy because she came in and told us to take care of her kitty-kat for a week. For a WEEK!"

[She takes a breath as a train rumbles by. Her husband mumbled something about how their Korean friend had earlier taken care of their dog for a week and was just asking for a favor]

"Whatever, don't listen to him. I am very drunk right now. He, not so much. But yes, Koreans. They are beautiful and smart and bossy. [Me: So where are you from?] Poland, we are Polish Polish Polish, but not him *indicates her husband* he live here since he was fifteen. We eat cabbage a lot. Cabbage is bad for stomach, but good for soul. What did you do tonight? I got drunk"

[Another breath. Her husband can still be heard going "I'm so sorry, I'm so sorry, I'm so sorry..."]

"What did you do tonight? [Me: I went out with my girlfriend] Oh you have girlfriend? Is she pretty? [Me: I'd like to think so] What did you do? [Saw a movie] What movie? Wait, don't tell me. You watched Star Trek, didn't you. All Koreans love Star Trek, they love it so much."

["I'm so sorry, I'm so sorry, I'm so sorry"]

"I like Star Trek too. I went in only because he wanted to, because he is geek. Huge geek. But I didn't expect to like it, but it was good. I couldn't decide who I would want first, blonde one or brown-haired one."

At this point (or thereabouts) my train arrived and I politely said goodnight, and even managed to make it into a subway car and behind the protection of a window before bursting out laughing.

More on Poles later...

*Star Trek IV has to be one of the most underrated and unintentionally hilarious films of all time.

2009-06-15T18:55:00.000-07:00

Little Trouble in BigTown #5 (The ultra-offensive GAY Issue) (Or the RAMBLING issue, if you prefer)

First of all, some serious issues for you to deal with about Gay Pride: http://www.theroot.com/views/where-s-pride-pride-parades

So the other day was Pride Day here in BigTown, and of course, there was a parade. I didn't go, as I don't have Pride, and was too busy watching Arrested Development with Emily, especially this scene. Arrested Development is perhaps the wittiest and most-dense show I've ever seen, as though Alan Moore decided to write a sitcom, and also decided to stop being a crabby old man for once. But I digress...

Emily's friend Hong decided to go to the parade, because she was under the mysterious impression that Pride Day meant having *pride*, as in, patriotic. Boy was she in for a surprise...

And on the subject of gay stuff, I happen to work right next door to a gay-and-lesbian themed sex shop, which has bars over the doors and a window display of a...shall we say...not-particularly-tastefully-dressed young lady on all fours, modeling some of the products. It's a show of how long I've been here that I wasn't even surprised this morning to see a very small girl staring at the display goggle-eyed, her chubby little face pressed against the plate glass while her grandma absently held her hand, her glance alternating between the traffic light and the window.

It just fits in with the BigTown lifestyle. Nowadays, I've come to think of BigTown as a colorful place filled with marble buildings, slightly-overpriced-yet-kitschy-yet-cool little shops, gigantic oversized museums, unkillable Secret Service agents, metro stations every 100 yards, kickball teams, a vibrant (or flamboyant, depending on your perception) homosexual community, and a surprising number of politicians.

Of course, this may prove to be wrong, just like my perception of NYC. My perception of the Big Apple used to be that it consisted solely of Times Square, 30 Rock, the Statue of Liberty, the Brooklyn Bridge That Always Gets Destroyed in Disaster Movies, and a whole bunch of sketchy warehouses and docks where the Mafia do business. But according to my roommate, it actually used to be a lot closer to the movie Taxi Driver, with a vibrant music community, trust-fund bohemians, and crackheads who would beat you up and take your money in the middle of the day. Also, NYC pizza is skinny and not at all like what pizza should be.

Finally, flash back to the improv performance I had a few months ago, which was attended by my good friend Max. Afterwards, we had a dialogue that went something like this:

Max:...oh, and That Girl in your troupe is pretty funny.
Me: Yeah. She's a huge University of Nobody Cares fan, and she's really mean to me because I'm not a fan of that team.
Max: Well, you know what that means? *Leans in and adopts a kindergartner's voice* It means she likes you!
Me: *also leaning in and adopting the same voice* Yeah, but she has short hair, and that means she's a lesbian!
*We both giggle at our idiocy*

That Girl is certainly not a lesbian, as she does have luscious red hair cropped short around her face, and, in the words of Neal Stephenson, "is too much like what a horny film director's idea of a lesbian would be like to be a lesbian". However, after that particular incident I thought to myself, I've never met a Long-Haired Lesbian. Why would that be? I had some interesting discussions about it, but still can't find any, other than some of my bisexual friends who have long hair (but they will be the first to tell you that bisexuality and bisexual culture is certainly nothing like lesbianism).

I have instituted a standing order to create a Long-Haired Lesbian Watch (or LHLW), and yesterday while waiting on the train platform, saw two girls with moderate-length (a little shorter than shoulder-length) hair holding hands. Given that they were of different ethnicities and were sneaking in kisses every time they thought nobody was watching, I would assume that they are some of the Mythical Long Haired Lesbians.

Next up: the ultra-offensive MINORITY Issue (the Minority Report, if you will)

2009-06-08T20:08:00.000-07:00

Assorted Odds and Ends

I'm running behind because of the improv class I've been taking, so it will take a moment for me to catch up with a full blog post. In the meantime, here are some good links and short anecdotes I wrote up while on break at work:

Serious Stuff
-On the dearth of women in education, with some excellent comments on sexism and some...not so excellent comments

-I *definitely* saw this giant shark in the "extinct sea creatures" part of the Smithsonian...

-More good comments on Disney's latest princess movie, which strikes me as...ummm...well...maybe a little racist...but not this bad. Maybe this bad.

-The New Yorker has an interesting, if a bit bizarre article about creative writing classes and their relative effectiveness

Amusing Stuff
-From the Wikipedia entry on Hamlet:
"Some scholars have observed that revenge tragedies come from traditionally Catholic countries, such as Spain and Italy; and they present a contradiction, since according to Catholic doctrine the strongest duty is to God and family." Note that (according to the late, great Mr. P, God rest his soul), when the Medici's plotted assassinations in Florence, they would usually attack the target in a church, and would time the stabbing to commence with the raising of the chalice during Communion. To quote, "Only the Catholics could conceive of such a plot". (that single line is the one that convinced me to go to my high school)

-There is a girl named Lindsay in my improv class, who definitely fell asleep outside with a book on her face and no suntan lotion on her belly. Her lovely belly is now the rough color and texture of a boiled, prickly, aloe-vera'd lobster, which she spent about five minutes having to reveal to a bunch of medically curious young men in our class.

-I have to include an Emily story in this post to make sure she has more tags on my blog than Kaity does. On her time in London:
"I didn't really appreciate it...When I was a kid my parents had to bribe me to go to the British Museum by promising we'd eat at Friday's afterwards..."

2009-06-03T20:31:00.000-07:00

Little Trouble in BigTown #4
(Written from the convention center)

Today I went to a conference on Privacy and Security in the real world and on teh Intehwehb. It marked my very first Celebrity Sighting of the summer, as I saw a guy with a salt-and-pepper beard and a long ponytail who looked a lot like Bruce Schneier. In fact, it *WAS* Bruce Schneier, and I was so geeked out that I practically wanted to jump up and down. I didn't, unfortunately, although that would have been really cool.

In fact, Mr. Schneier sat down and talked to myself and several other young geeks who were watching a demonstration of TrueCrypt, which is a surprisingly robust (or "Ordo-like", if you've read Cryptonomicon") program for encrypting your sensitive data, if you think cryptography is cool, or if you're like Mr. Schneier and routinely start sentences with phrases like "So let's say you're being interrogated by the secret police..."

I then set up station at Geek Share, a little open table where geeks like me sat down with signs proclaiming what skills we had or programs we could teach people to use. It sits right outside the Grand Ballroom where the convention's panel and forum are being held, and probably more than a few Proms (for high school) or Semis (for college) as well.

From the various self-proclaimed privacy and security geeks (many of whom have the stylish long hair and ponytails), I learned about all kinds of things that made the Paranoiac in me cry, like the BlueTooth Sniper Rifle, which allows you to read all the passwords, contacts, and files off of a BlueTooth-enabled phone, or a bomb that will only detonate when someone with a specific RFID signature from a passport, Enhanced Driver's License etc.

-Edit: I also forgot there was a big screen in the ballroom that had a live Twitter feed of participants and audience members in the audience, displayed on a massive screen behind the panel participants. At first most of the Tweets were about what was going on ("#conference: moderator just said....") but then someone said "#conference: what do you geeks and lawyers think about Gay Marriage" and suddenly the on-topic tweets were obliterated under a blizzard of bored audience members tweeting their support of gay marriage. It would have been funny except the panelists couldn't see the Twitter feed and had no idea they were being upstaged by a couple of free-lovers.

2009-05-27T16:09:00.000-07:00

A Musical Interlude

...we interrupt your regularly scheduled Seraphim Dreams to bring you a piercing look at the regional culinary traditions of areas in the southeastern United States:

2009-05-25T10:53:00.000-07:00

Little Trouble in BigTown #3

Yesterday we went to the Mall, and looked at some Art, as the crowds for Air and Space, Natural History, and American History were clogging up the place and interfering with the calm pace (some would say "elderly", but whatever) that we prefer when it comes to museums.

I was surprised by the amount of "name-brand" artists on display, with artists that even a philistine such as myself were able to recognize ("Pele-level" artists, in that you can refer to them by one name and everyone knows who you're talking about) such as Cezanne, Rembrandt, Titian (bit of confusion about how that one's supposed to be pronounced), and Raphael. (Raphael's work, by the way, is so cleaned up and brightly painted that it looks like it was done in Day-Glo compared to some of the darker, moodier-looking pieces on display). There were even a few that I was able to recognize on sight, as they had stolen by Carmen Sandiego.

A Note on Food:
The Streak ended yesterday, after roughly a week, when I went to meet Connie and some of her disc-whipping friends, who proceeded to sit down for a festive meal at Cici's Pizza, which is not only a restaurant I've heard of, but also one where I've spent many a time at with Fpendl and co. back home, learning the ins-and-outs of organized Ultimate. It was a valiant effort, undone by the fact that I kept eating at national chains without realizing it.

Looking at the stack of receipts, some of the culinary highlights I've been able to sample include:

-Cosi, a Panera-style sandwich shop with pretty decent bread (national chain d'OH!!!)
-Five Guys Burgers and Fries, an upscale greasy burger joint ('nother national chain d'OH!!)
-Chipotle (on the safe list)
-Grill Kabob, which proves my theory that the more generic-sounding a restaurant's name sounds, the more likely it is to have that genuine authentic-immigrant taste. Tandoori Lamb Shank with some sort of spice, rice, and salad made for an excellent lunch.
-Z Burger, yet another greasy burger-joint type place which looks suspiciously like a national chain, but does not have its own entry on Wikipedia, so clearly it can't be.
-Timberlake's, a dark and foreboding bar-and-grill sit-down restaurant that looks like there should be some Irish guys duking it out there (no, not those Irish guys), and whose only concession to modernity is a space-age jukebox with touchscreen and credit-card slot. Whether or not they are illegally trading on the name of a pop star has yet to be determined.
-Teaism, a clever play on the idea of "Taoism", except one of them has honey and one has tea.

2009-05-20T19:59:00.000-07:00

Microblogging

So when I don't have time to do a full blog post, I will instead just update the "Random Notes" post below, and occasionally post a new Random Notes if the one below gets full up. Just a heads-up.

2009-05-19T20:45:00.000-07:00

Some Random Notes from BigTown

-I passed a Chinese restaurant today that had the following sign in the window:

SPECIAL: Subm sandwhich 1/2 beef 1/2 cheseburger 1/2 turkey + Fries + Drink $6.99

Besides being a heckuva deal (3/2s of a sandwich for 6.99!?!?), it was also at a Chinese restaurant...

-I was taking a look at a company called Acxiom today, which might or might not be engaged in some shady activity, and discovered that they are headquartered in Little Rock, Arkansas. I think this proves that AK has conclusively dethroned Seattle as home of Evil Corporations; while Washington has Microsoft and Starbucks (and arguably, Seattle's Best Coffee, which I've seen as far away as Japan), Arkansas has Acxiom, but it also is the original home of the only real-life entity to appear as an evil conglomerate in both a James Bond movie *and* an Ayn Rand novel: Wal-Mart. But most importantly, Arkansas is home to the University of Arkansas Razorbacks, who have, bar none, the most evil fan base on the planet.

Note that while they are not as deluded as UK fans, or as snippy as Michigan fans, or as whiny as UNC fans, or as arrogant as Florida fans, or as....ummm....logically challenged as Auburn fans, they are most definitely the evil-est of them all, running out a successful football coach after repeatedly humiliating him, undercutting him, setting ridiculous expectations, and even using the Freedom of Information act against him.

May 20th:
-There is a First Church of Scientology/L Ron Hubbard Center for Dianetics across the street from where I work. YEESH!

-There was a gentleman in a nicely-tailored suit sitting on the metro today who was sitting there staring intensely at a packet of case law. I was impressed by his dedication to the legal arts, until I saw the title page which said "Tip Top Pants: Plaintiff...." Oh, Mock Trial....

May 21st:
-A shout-out to my good friend Minh, who is so baller he can create comments-within-comments. Minh runs a really funny blog called "Minh's Notes", and I tell people he invented the Vietnamese Wikipedia.

-Another shout-out to either Ryan or Lauren (probably Ryan, because Lauren often forgets URLs), who is in either The Land of the Coolest Accents Ever or W Virginia (maybe England if she reads this late).

-The server that hosts the Epic content of the nonprofit working in the same office is currently running a program called SpamAssassin, which is not quite as cool as it sounds.

-There is definitely an Epic fundraiser dinner coming up which I have been invited to, and have the option of purchasing a number of different levels of tickets/donations, with the levels as follows:

$200: "Interest Advocates"
$1,000: "Friend"
$2,500: "Supporter"
$5,000: "Enthusiast" (must be an expensive hobby)
$7,500: "Champion"
$25,000: "ROCK STAR"

For $25,000, you get 10 tickets, "special recognition" (maybe they'll misspell your name on a trophy or something), and a VIP guest, "if available"....

2009-05-18T18:26:00.000-07:00

Little Trouble in BigTown #2

Today is my first day at work. With my typical Type A mindset, I realize that the best way to make an impression on my new boss is to arrive at precisely 9 am, crisp, beaming, and ready to go.

With typical Authorian precision, I arrive at the plaza at 8:05, groan, and decide, after locating the office, to wander around the area a little. Dupont (is there another area called Dow? What about Maersk?) reminds me a little of downtown Barcelona- divergent architecture styles, traffic circles with lonely pedestrian islands dotting the ring, a mixture of buildings that look old but aren't supposed to, and buildings that don't look old but are supposed to, and buildings that are actually old. There are embassies, quirky bookshops, various grades of ethnic restaurant (including one named, and I am not making ths up, "Thaiphoon"), cafes, and a surprising number of stores that cater to BGLT interests, including one that is built into the basement of an old brownstone and has cast-iron grating over all the windows and the steps that lead down to it from the sidewalk.

I find myself entering the EuroCafe, which, as the sign proclaims, has coffee, net access, and magazines and newspapers from around the world. After an entirely-too-delightful cherry danish and cold milk, I wander around the racks of magazines and marvel at the sheer number and depth and obscurity of them- who knew there were this many magazines about long-distance running? Or tattoo artwork? Or Photoshop? There is a whole shelf dedicated to Vogue, with covers from Spain, Italy, Germany, France, Greece...

Then it's time to go to work. The nonprofit I work for shares an office with an organization that can only be described as epic, because, frankly speaking, that's the name of the organization. This leads to a number of truly terrible puns that make Emily wince when I tell her about it later: "I met some Epic people today..." "The place I work at is Epic..." "I feel like a cog in an Epic machine, sort of Geared up for War, if you get my drift" and so on and so forth. It was Unreal. (sorry!)

My particular space in the office was quiet, plush, and even had its own comfy, thronelike office chair. It took me about twenty minutes (38, actually) to finish setting up my computer, hooking it up to its various umbilicals, booting up, starting my complete set of applications, mentally claiming the office as my own Banana Republic, checking Facebook, etc., and when I was finished, they promptly kicked me out of the office, which I believe is a record for quickest disavowal of Office Sovereignty in the history (and I've been kicked out of more offices than you might imagine). I was reassigned to a tiny little table in the "boondocks" of a back room. As upset as I was about being deposed, my pain was quickly assuaged by the Cadbury's milk chocolates casually dropped off by the CIA in the break room.

After work, I head back on the Metro, but this time it's rush hour and the trains are crowded with people pushing on and off. Surprisingly, the people waiting to get on the trains split off into two lines to the side of each door to let other passengers get off, and look like bridesmaids/groomsmen while doing it: tired, well-dressed, and angry at someone else for getting the attention/right of way. Once on the train, I am pressed up close enough to other people to notice that one person is reading a book called "The Arsonist's Guide to Writers' Homes in New England", one is playing Breakout on his cellphone but hasn't quite grasped the point that you're supposed to bounce the ball off the *bricks*, and one is playing Solitaire on his iPhone and listening to music on an iPod he also carries, sort of how most police officers carry a pistol plus a little derringer-type backup stuck in their socks. It's been a good day.

A note about eating:
I've decided while I'm here I'm going to support worthwhile businesses by trying to only eat at local or locally-based restaurants, and Chipotle, for as long as possible. Given my budget, this involves eating at a lot of greasy pizza joints. So far, my streak is limited to four meals, but I'm growing:
Yesterday: that Thai place, Angelino's Pizza
Today: cherry danish and milk from EuroCafe, leftover calzone from yesterday's dinner for lunch, and Italian chicken panini from some place called Pizza Autentica
Current streak: four meals in a row.

On tap for tomorrow: the AOPi story

2009-05-17T18:59:00.000-07:00

Little Trouble in BigTown #1

I stepped off the plane to BigTown U.S.A. and took a breath of the surprisingly chilly air. One year after my previous adventures in Smalltown, I was going domestic once again.

BigTown has an enormous and extremely well developed underground metro system, and though the Japanese, Germans, and British are all shaking with laughter, and though none of the trains run on time ("This train will be delayed 90 seconds due to schedule changes"), and though they all look like John Travolta and Denzel Washington should be having a face-off about them, and though if there is a nuclear attack we'd all be dead, they are nice little oddities in Autobahn America.

I come from a town that has talked about bringing in a "light rail" system basically forever. It won't happen, and many natives are naturally quite po'ed about it. I don't think much of it, since we like our highways just fine in the Author's hometown. But riding the Metro is slowly making me rethink that brush-off. It's clean, relatively efficient, makes you feel free and existentialist when you stand on the platform deciding which train to get on, and makes for some killer Fallout 3 levels.

On the other hand...

The warm air from one of these Metro stations puffs up into your face in a wave when you descend into the depths via escalator; it's an intentional reference to Hades by the station designers. In fact, the entire Metro is designed to reference Hell in many ways: the hot air/heat in general, the crowds, the underground location, signage over the door ("Abandon Hope, All Ye Who Enter Here" and "Support Local Radio"), paying Charon/the SmartTicket fare, and being stuck there forever ("This train will be delayed 90 seconds due to schedule changes").

Fortunately, I was able to get to where I was going: The Capitol.

You've either been there, or seen it in textbooks, or watched the travel channel special on it. It's worth it. I will write more on this later.

2009-04-29T14:50:00.000-07:00

A Heartwarming Story (That Also Involves Pokemon)

http://www.penny-arcade.com/2007/7/23/

I particularly liked this:

"I watched a bit more of the tournament and I was really impressed with the sportsmanship of the kids. I've been watching the cartoon with Gabe and it really stresses the importance of winning and losing graciously. Each of these kids when they lost shook the others hand and thanked them for the match. The winners complimented the losers Pokemon and strategies while impressing on them that it really was a very close game."

Ahh, videogames...

2009-04-28T12:48:00.000-07:00

Some More Great Moments that took too long to fit on fmylife.com...

[Scene: We are playing Apples to Apples. The adjective on the table is "Shallow". Zach has played "Ocean", AJ has played "Advertising", and Alex plays...]
Alex: Here's my card.
*throws down "My Love Life"*
Me: How is My Love Life shallow?
Alex: KAITY.
FML

[Scene: We are playing a basketball marathon for charity. I have invited That Girl to watch/she has to be there to take pictures for the yearbook. Our coach trades our best player, Ken, to the other team. We lose by 30 points.]
Me: Well, I hope you at least enjoyed some of that.
That Girl: I did! I got lots of great pictures!
Me: Really?
That Girl: Yeah! I have this really good picture of all five of you standing there with your hands up while Ken dunks over your heads!
FML

[Scene: Alex and I are sitting in the basement]
Alex: You know, you're a really nice guy, and girls would really like you if they got to know you better. But you're not hot, so no girl ever will.
FML

[Scene: We are walking along in the mall, talking about TV shows]
Me: And Dollhouse is a *great* show if you can get past the first five episodes or so.
Ashley: That's exactly what my mom said!
Me: Huh.
Ashely: She also was the one who recommended I watch Firefly. You have the exact same taste in TV shows as my mom!
FML

2009-04-24T21:27:00.000-07:00

The Rules of Kings, a.k.a. Circle of Death

(Inspired by a ridiculous debacle where we were sitting around for at least 10 minutes yelling about how to play the game before someone looked it up online. Yes, someone looked it up online)

Kings is a great drinking game, because it is fun, requires many different skills, gives many opportunities to drink, and you don't have to play it with alcohol, so even people like me can enjoy it. But people often get confused about this. So, once and for all, let's get this out of the way: here is how you play Kings.

A standard 52-card deck is used, minus the jokers. All of the cards are laid facedown in a circular array (in some variants, around a can of beverage). Each player in the circle flips over a card and people follow the rules the card provides. In some variants, whoever flips over more than one card by accident has to drink the contents of the can; in others, each card flipped is stuck under the tab of the can until the tab pops, and the player who drew the card that broke the tab has to chug.

To remember the rules, use the rhymes:

"2 is You": When you draw the 2, point at someone and they have to drink.

"3 is Me": You drink.

"4 is Floor": Everyone has to touch the floor (or alternatively, everyone has to point to the ground). The last person to do so has to drink.

"5 is Guys": Male players drink.

"6 is Chicks": Female players drink.

"7 is Heaven": Everyone has to point to the ceiling. The last person to do so has to drink.

"8 is Dates": You point to someone to be your "date" for the rest of the game; for the remainder of play, every time you drink, they have to drink as well.

"9 is Rhyme": Going around the circle, each players says one line of verse, with the last word of the first person's line being the one that everyone has to rhyme with. The first person to say a line that does not rhyme (or who says a line ending with a rhyming word already used) has to drink.

"10 is When": People play a two-, three-, or sometimes four-fingered (if there is a very small group) game of "Never have I ever"; each person in the circle says something they have never done, and the people who have done that action have to lower a finger. The first one with no fingers left drinks.

"Jack of All Trades": The player who flipped the card names a category of objects, people, places etc. such as "Books of the Bible" or "Presidents", and each player must name something in that category. If they can't, or if they name something someone else has, they drink.

"Queen is Questions": The player who flipped directly addresses another person and asks them a question; that person must answer with another question, or ignore it and direct a question to another player. The first person to make a statement drinks.

"King is Lawmaker": The player who flipped the card makes a rule which all players have to adhere to, which can come in a variety of forms; for example, "Anyone who asks a question [including if a Queen is flipped] has to drink", "Everyone has to make bat noises when they talk", "Every player who flips a card has to compliment someone" etc.

"Ace is WATERFALL": The players get into a circle facing in one direction. The player who flips starts drinking. The player directly behind him/her starts to drink, and cannot stop drinking until the first player stops. The player behind the second player starts to drink as soon as the second player starts, and cannot stop until the second player does, and so on and so forth.

There. Is it so hard?

2009-04-22T20:34:00.001-07:00

Foods I Have Eaten Today (in chronological order)

-One Chipotle burrito: carnitas, rice (with cilantro?), tomatillo mild salsa, sour cream (2 dollops), lettuce (3/4 handful), cheese (1/2 handful)

-A handful of Chipotle chips, three with medium salsa, the rest with mild

-3/4 of a cup of lemonade

-One Snickers bar

-One bag of store-brand microwave popcorn (~1 month from its expiration date)

-2 Pop-Tarts (or maybe just one, I haven't made up my mind yet)

And yet my friends staged an intervention for my friend Jess' eating habits, not mine....*sigh* It really goes to show who's the priority these days.

2009-04-18T20:25:00.000-07:00

A Brief Line Analysis of the 18 Short Stories Workshopped in My Creative Writing Class This Semester:

Number of references to EasyMac: 3

Amount of EasyMac consumed during paper-writing period: 100+ packets (estimated)

++++++

Number of evil male characters: 10+

Common characteristic of evil male characters: Infidelity

Number of evil female characters: 3

Common characteristic of evil female characters: unreliability

Number of male writers in the class: 3

Number of female writers in the class: 15

++++++

Number of redheaded (or "Scarlet", "auburn", "Titian", "Copperhead", "ginger" etc.) characters: 8

Number of evil redheaded characters: 7

Number of freckled redheaded characters: 8

Number of sexually active/oversexed redheaded characters: 6

Number of female redheaded characters: 8

Number of attractive redheaded characters: 8

Number of actual redheads in the class: 2 (arguably 1)

++++++

Number of acts of murders, suicides, violent attacks, self-mutilation: 20

Number of depressed or socially inept main characters: 18

Number of acts of love, tenderness, self-expression: 2

Number of happy endings: 1

++++++

Most common positive workshopping comment: "I really liked your little details and descriptions"

Most common negative workshopping comment: "I really didn't like your little details and descriptions"

++++++

Number of inappropriate jokes: 50+

Number of inappropriate jokes made by The Author: 49+

Number of inappropriate jokes made by other members of the class: ~1

++++++

Number of stories set in the 1960s: 1

Number of stories set in the modern day: 17

++++++

Number of stories based wholly on real life: 1

Number of writers who lie: 17

2009-04-14T17:46:00.000-07:00

Useful Ideas for a Dollhouse

So I've been watching "Dollhouse" on Hulu.com since it began, and it never astounds me to see the leap in quality between the first five or so episodes and the episode run starting with "Man on the Street"- in the space of one episode and a geeky internet entrepreneur (whose "wife" Echo provides one of the best lines in the entire show's run), the show went from being an absolutely atrocious show salvaged only by the memory of "Firefly" and the sheer hotness of Eliza Dushku (and the sneaky hotness of Olivia Williams, Amy Acker, and even the unlikely-named Miracle Laurie) to an excellent character drama that rivals some of the better episodes of Firefly (nothing touches "Our Mrs. Reynolds", though).

But it got me thinking: what would you hire Dolls for, besides the inevitable prostitution and murder services? Here are some great ideas I've had:

1) Wingmen: A Doll could be a perfect wingman, imprinted with knowledge of icebreakers and drinking games, as well has having the psychological background of being able to "push" his client into going for her, without a hint of self-interest.

2) Relationship Coach: the female version of the above role.

3) Halo trainer: This could actually be done without a Doll, but nonetheless Doll imprinting would make them useful. Imagine an opponent who is just skilled enough that beating them is a challenge but not enough of a challenge that you can't win. I'm surprised Xbox Live hasn't come up with this yet.

4) Air Marshal: A "sleeper" agent who would be imprinted as a person inexplicably compelled to take random airplane flights all day, all the time. Programmed with kung-fu skills and piloting ability just in case something might go wrong...

5) Spare band member: Drummer got "laid up" with a curious disease? Not to worry, a Doll with perfect rhythm is on the way! This would also solve the constant problem of having only three people to play Rock Band.

6) Sorority girl: Wait, nevermind.

2009-04-02T10:07:00.000-07:00

Some things to make you feel happy about humanity

It's pretty easy to think about the negative aspects of mankind, but it's important to remember that there are examples every day of kindness, hope, and serendipity every day. Here are just a few examples (all of these are either incidents I know personally, or things I can verify with sources):

A man waiting for a train with his daughters sees a stranger having a seizure and falling onto the tracks. He jumps onto the tracks in the path of an oncoming train and covers the stranger's body with his own as the train passes overhead.

A village in the Netherlands unanimously decides that each of its 117 households will provide shelter to at least one Jew during the Holocaust, so no one person can betray the others.

One news anchor, tired of reporting on the recession and the failure of Wall Street, goes online and asks for people to send in stories of kindness and people helping others. He gets 25,000 responses in two days.

A quarter of a million men and women march in solidarity to Washington DC in the face of violence from their enemies and disapproval from their elders, to represent themselves and their rights.

After Hurricane Katrina, a big chain store tells its managers to open their doors and let people just come and take what they need, without regard to the cost.

A little boy tells me he wants to become a Big Brother when he grows up to help kids like his Big Brother helped him.

One teacher tells her students to write lists of good things about their classmates to help their self-esteem. At the funeral of one of her students 30 years later, the students she meets still have those lists.

A coach decides to let his autistic student manager put on a uniform and play for a few minutes at the end of a basketball game on Senior Night, in gratitude for the four years he has spent helping the team. He scores 20 points and is carried out of the gym by an ecstatic crowd. Now he helps raise money for autism research.

A woman is told that her as-yet-unborn daughter will grow up physically deformed, retarded, or both because of exposure to chemicals in the womb, and that the pregnancy will be difficult, dangerous, and possibly deadly for the mother. She chooses to have the child, who is now a beautiful girl studying at one of the top universities in America.

Through his clumsiness, a Scottish biochemist leaves a Petri dish open and discovers an antibiotic that saves millions of people from death and opens the door for dozens more to be discovered.

A marketing executive is sick of supporting ads and television glorifying gratuitous violence and nudity, and walks away from a $250,000/year job to start his own media company that reflects his own values.

After hours of drinking and dancing and more drinking, a girl tells a boy she will do anything with him. He tells her it wouldn't be right because she still has a boyfriend in Iraq, and takes her home to rest.

A breakfast restaurant serves two million free meals to customers one day.

A little baby is found lost along the side of the road by a group of chain-gang inmates. They watch over and play with the child for hours until its parents can be found.

A self-described "gang-banger" is forced to join the Marines to avoid going to prison. One drill instructor takes it upon himself to mentor the young man, whom everyone else has given up on. A year later, that young man is named Marine of the Year. Three years later, he is graduating from college, and starting his own record label company.

A family inundated with medical bills for their young children decides to sell "everything they own" on eBay. The top bidder promises them $20,000 for it, and tells them to take the money and keep their belongings.

2009-04-01T20:50:00.001-07:00

Some Great Quotes I'm Excessively Proud Of

Alex: I live in *Symmes*
Me: No you don't.
Alex: Yes I do.
Me: Hey, what school district did you go to before you came to $t. X?
Alex: Indian H- shut up.

Lauren: I may do sketchy things, but I'm not trashy like those other girls.
Me: Really now?
Lauren: Yeah, I don't ever get *black-out drunk*, 'cause I don't drink.
Me: So what you're saying is, you do sketchy things even when you're in full control of yourself?
Lauren: Well, ye- shut up.

Kendra: OK, first of all, my favorite color is *not* pink. I don't have a favorite color, I just happen to have a lot of pink stuff.
Me: Uh-huh.
Kendra: I like plenty of other colors too.
Me: What color is your top?
Kendra: Well, I mean, it's pink, but-
Me: What color was your top yesterday?
Kendra: It was pi-shut up.

Me: So there was a girl in my [grad student] class who was like, "Oh, I just turned 22 today, I'm so old" and all the older students in my class just groaned.
Lauren: But 22 *is* old!
Me: No it's not.
Lauren: Yes it is. Your best years are behind you at 22.
Me: Would you get married at 22?
Lauren: Oh, God no.
Me: Why not?
Lauren: Because I'd be too yo- shut up.

2009-03-12T10:54:00.000-07:00

My First NBA Game

So my father scored ridiculously cheap tickets to see the Jazz play the Pacers ($15 apiece in the second tier) and we went to go see them play, since:

1) The Jazz feature former Dukie Carlos Boozer, rocking a shaven scalp and goatee/moustache combo that makes me think he should be ordering around the Brotherhood of Nod

and

2) I had never been to an NBA game.

I do have to say, it wasn't quite as bad as you might expect. As I discovered earlier this year, it's a lot more fun to watch relatively competent teams (the Jazz are #5 or 6 in the league) than teams that are hovering around .400 and tanking for lottery picks. Contrary to popular belief, there are teams in the NBA that run an offense not called the "Everybody Stand Around and Watch One Guy Post-up/Take-His-Guy-Off-The-Dribble-One-on-One and Then Miss a 10-Foot-Bank Shot" Offense. And while I still disagree with Jay that the NBA is so much more fun to watch because the players are so much more skilled, I do have to agree that watching teams that can routinely hit shots in traffic or from the outside is kinda cool.

Having said that, the white farm boy inside me cringes every time I see a lazy screen, a bad switch, and missed rebounding opportunities. *shakes head* Anyways, here's some tidbits about the experience:

-The arena had waitresses running up and down the aisles taking food orders and delivering them, a nice touch that I wouldn't have laughed at so much if our waitress didn't look exactly like a chubby version of Jennifer Aniston (she even had the Season 1 Jennifer Aniston haircut).

-The Pacers honored several members of the Indianapolis Police Department who went to Iraq/Afghanistan, then came back and went right back to working in the Indianapolis PD. A classy touch, and the standing ovation they got made me feel good about America.

-The little kids sitting behind me hitting each other with trucks as their dad yelled at them to stop hitting each other so he could watch the game also made me feel good about America.

-During the numerous TV timeouts (side note: if there's a two-minute break every three minutes of play, why doesn't everyone just press all the time?!??!) they had a number of shall we say...interesting shows going on the court while the teams huddled to complain about their contracts, such as:

-Rastafarians: cool. Little girls dancing: cute. Little girls dressed as Rastafarians (not making this up): not cool, and not cute either.

-The Purdue Dance Team also gave a performance to remind everyone that the Big Ten tournament is coming up. I imagine they would make almost as good of a basketball team- OK, that was mean, and I won't finish the thought. But on a side note, they also featured a blond and bubbly member who looked exactly like a happy version of a classmate of mine with the unfortunate name of Cox-Schraider (say it out loud).

-Mascots dunking via trampoline: cool.

-Had Bush invaded the t-shirt cannon building factory in Indiana instead of Iraq, he might have found his WMDs after all. Those things are lethal.

Oh, and the Jazz won.

2009-03-10T09:43:00.000-07:00

Some Irreverently Happy Days in My Life (i.e., headlines for stories I may write someday)

-The Day I Won Two Different Quiz Team Matches on Last-Second Responses, and Jay Told Me I Was As Clutch As Troy Brown

-The Day Malcolm Jenkins Did the Jump Around:

-The Day I Finished The Last 7 Hours of Mass Effect

-The Day I Discovered the Student Store Gives Out Free Donuts After 10 PM

-The Day I Heard "Snow Crash" On Audiotape at the Apple Store

-The Day I Improvised the Smoothest Pick-up Line Ever (and Almost Cracked My Head Open)

-The Day I Found My Way to the Steak and Shake on the West Side Even Though My Directions Were Wrong

-The Day Sloan Was Calling It "The War of Northern Aggression" and I Said "Scoreboard"

-The Day I Saw the Gym Class Video for the First Time: http://www.oldeenglish.org/podcast/gym-class

-The Day I Saw the Lazy Sunday Video for the First Time:

-The Day We Beat "da Rain" on a Last Second Daaah-rius TD that I Almost Missed

-The Day We Locked Julie Out of AP Psych and Tried to Watch "Space Jam"

2009-02-17T13:26:00.000-08:00

Nothing like a backhanded compliment to get you going in the mornings...

So I recently helped produce a documentary about life at my school, and sent a copy to an old friend of mine, who wrote that it was "hilarious", which made me smile. Of course, she then continued to say "I gotta say though, yall must have been pretty fried from studying when u made that vid b/c the commentary was borderline retarded at best."

I love America.

2009-02-15T21:23:00.001-08:00

Barack Obama finally does something I approve of:

http://music.msn.com/music/article.aspx?news=352678&gt1=28102

It only took him 27 days, which far exceeds my expectations. And a concert for Stevie Wonder? Only one of my favorite artists of all time? Perhaps the new president will do something worthwhile after all.

Or maybe Mr. Obama is trying to lull me to a false sense of security. I'll be keeping a very close eye on you, son.

2009-02-12T18:57:00.000-08:00

Selections from "Breakup's Greatest Hits, Album One" (first disc)

The Author and ****
(Taken from the exact transcription of an AIM conversation, circa 2005)

Authorboy2008 has signed on.

WorldFamousSomebody: hey [Author], hows life with you and ****?
Authorboy2008: she dumped me.
WorldFamousSomebody: WTF? but you had so much chem
Authorboy2008: o well.
WorldFamousSomebody: so, seen any good movies lately?
Authorboy2008: batmn bgins was good.
WorldFamousSomebody: yeah, i saw that w/you, remember?

The Author and *****
(taken from a hypnotic-suggestion-revealed repressed memory)

So there I was, sitting at the lunch table, trying to piece together what remained of my ego, picking away at the first plate of Thai Chicken I had eaten as a bachelor in three months. The very sweetness of it seemed to repulse me, the over-breading, the syrupy saacharine "flavor" seeping into the tiny nugget of chicken at the center and rendering a mushy mess, like my life.
Jay and AJ sat down next to me, shadows playing over their faces like the midnight ravens heralding death. Jay had heard the news, and patted me on the shoulder sympathetically. Or maybe mockingly- with Jay it was impossible to tell.
AJ said blithely, "So Maria invited me to Clarke's prom next weekend, and I think we should start planning."
Jay said, "Well, not all of us have been invited."
Alex came over with a bag of greasy tater tots, deftly dancing around the outstretched arms of Ben as he sat down, and said, "Invited to what?"
"Clarke's prom."
"Oh yeah. I haven't been invited."
AJ rolled his eyes. "I mean, come on, you know what's going to happen. I mean, take [the Author] here."
I sighed. "I really don't think I'm going to be invited to Clarke's prom, dude."
AJ snorted. "What, it's not like you're not dating ***** anymore, right?"
I winced slightly.
Alex patted my back. "I keep telling you, man, that Thai chicken will get to you."

Later, as I was walking away, AJ caught up to me. "Did ***** really dump you?"
I sighed and nodded.
AJ shook his head. "I'm sorry, man. Damnit, why does nobody ever tell me these things? I mean, Maria and ***** are best friends-"
Alex came up behind him. "Wait, you and ***** broke up?"
I glared at him. "Dude, I told you about it this morning!"

Kosta and *******
(taken from an essay entitled "Show and Tell")

I don’t understand my roommate sometimes.
I was sitting alone in our room when he walked in. His shoulders were slumped and his eyes were downcast.
I looked up from my work and said, “Hey.”
“Hey,” he replied.
He went over to his desk and sat down. He spent a moment hooking up his laptop to all its umbilical cords, plugging in his mouse, strapping on a headset, and hunkering down slightly as he started voice-chatting with his teammates.
I went back to staring blankly at my hand-scrawled notes about SN1 and SN2 reactions, turning the page at arbitrary intervals. My roommate occasionally yelled at his teammates or at the computer, but I wasn’t startled at all.
About a half hour later he said, “Hey, do you have a minute?”
I turned around. He had removed his headset and was leaning over the back of his chair, looking at the ground.
“What’s up?”
“She and I aren’t dating anymore. Just thought you should know.”
“Oh. Was it a mutual thing, or—”
“She just didn’t want to do it anymore,” he said.
“I’m sorry, man.”
“Thanks. I’m doing alright, I just don’t want anyone to worry.” He kept staring at the ground. I did too. “Also, I ate the rest of the brownies your mom sent last week.”
“Oh.” I wasn’t sure if I should laugh or frown.
He shrugged, turned back to his computer, put his headset back on, and said, “Sorry guys, I was AFK roommate.”

Zach and *******
(taken from a stream-of-consciousness conversation at ~1 in the morning)

Yeah, I mean, we're not dating anymore. I went over to *******'s house the other day and she and I went up to her room and, and I was like, happy birthday, and she was like, let's not date anymore, and then her parents came in, and they were like, for *******'s birthday we're going to Macaroni Grill, do you want to come along? and I was like, sure, why not, and so we went and I got a nice lasagna and then came back and then we watched a movie and then I went home.

You went to Macaroni Grill with her family...after she just broke up with you?

Yeah, I mean, it's free food, right?

Alex and Siella
(taken from a phone message check)

Record your message after the tone. *beep*
Hey buddy, I don't know if you saw the Facebook update, but, uh, Siella and I are no longer together. Just thought you should know. Uhh, gimme a call when you can.

Record your message after the tone. *beep*
Uhh, dude? I'm kinda dying here. Why aren't you calling me back?

Record your message after the tone. *beep*
OK [Author], you just drunk dialed AJ, how could you not see you missed a call from me? Seriously, I'm DYING here.

Record your message after the tone. *beep*
You stupid ****tard, Alex Cr___ just called me and said you called him asking for me. WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU!?!?

Record your message after the tone. *beep*
Hey, did you know that they can arrest you for smoking cigars on top of a parking garage? Call me. And bring bail money.

The Author and *****
(taken from the transcript of a conversation between Kosta and Max)

Max: OK, I tap Wrath of God. That's seven damage. *cough* Man, I'm glad you let me build my own deck.
Kosta: Man, I'm down to...ummm...thirteen. Hey, did you hear about [The Author]?
Max: No, what happened?
Kosta: It was weird, I was sitting there doing my 104 homework and he came in and booted up Starcraft. He played a Tower Defense map for a while and then turned and asked if we could talk. Then he told me that him and ***** aren't dating anymore. And then he told me he ate all the bahnitza my mom made last week.
Max: That's unbelievable.
Kosta: Yeah, I really was hoping to save that bahnitza.
Max: No, man, that he was playing Starcraft right after he broke up with *****.
Kosta: It's those Blizzard games, man.
Max: God, I love Blizzard games. It's too bad they're banned in my room now.

2009-02-06T12:41:00.001-08:00

About mental illness

http://www.pbs.org/wgbh/pages/frontline/kidsonline/
Please go here, click on "watch the full program online", and skip to Chapter 5 to watch the video of a girl talking about anorexia. If that 2-minute snippet doesn't chill you to the bone...(the rest of the video has nothing to do with it).
Anorexia is not a lifestyle choice or a social belief, it is a disease and one without an easy cure. People like me are at fault for 1) thinking it's some sort of weakness or aberration of choice and 2) egging them on with out deification of women with unnatural body figures.

If you know someone with anorexia please be there for them. They need your help.

2009-02-02T21:46:00.000-08:00

Some more fun facts for Valerie

So my friend Valerie was peeved that I didn't tag her in the posts about "16 things about myself" and "25 things about myself", so I wrote this little ditty to cheer her up:

1) My friend Alex and I have developed an elaborate code-naming system for girls that we want to talk about without them knowing, which includes a rotating cipher and Spanish. One of our code names is "Valerie", which works out really well, except when we're actually talking about a girl named Valerie.

2) One of my favorite blogs, www.ourhonordefend.com, is written by an Ohio State fan deep in "enemy territory", specifically Alabama. It contains somewhere on there a really, really, REALLY funny story about one of the authors (Vico) getting into a fight with an alcoholic single mom. Go here: http://www.ourhonordefend.com/2008/04/better-know-a-buckeye-shawntel-rowell.php and scroll down to comment #5.

3) I feel really bad because the more friends I make from Alabama, the more jokes come to mind about it. Also, of my friends from Alabama, one showed me the glory of GirlTalk, one is one of the best writers I've met in a looooong time, and one is one of my closest friends at school, so I can't really make any more stereotypes about it. I can, however, say bad things about Auburn. Tommy Tuberville, this is karma for you. Go learn what it's like to be fifth best in your conference- oh, wait.

4) I've always had good luck with roommates.

5) Of my closest friends, I would say probably at least 60% are female. And that's with me going to an all-boys school.

6) I got all my athletic talent from my mom (who is a great musician), and all my musical talent from my dad (who is a great athlete). It's like getting the worst of both worlds. And my brother got the best. It makes me upset.

7) I simultaneously hate and love formals and formal events. The feeling of getting dressed up, the awkward dates, the dancing, the sweat...I still can't tell if I love it or hate it...

8) My roommates always study more than I do, and it makes me feel really guilty.

9) Some days I just go to my room, lock the door, and waste hours surfing the web to no great effect. It's the 21st century equivalent to channel-surfing for me. I can't deal with too much order in my life, unfortunately.

10) I know just enough CSS, HTML, Java, Unix commands, FTP protocol, and video editing to impress people who don't know anything about it.

11) I love ginger beer and other ginger-based drinks. So did my old roommate, Kosta, though I didn't find out until after he had drank his way through the 12-pack I was saving for exam time.

12) A lot of my writings about womenfolk tend to spring from experiences with ex-girlfriends, which is one of my many terrible writing habits.

13) I was the last kid in my kindergarten class to learn how to read, and I still shudder sometimes at how humiliated I felt when all the other kids would go into the library and pick out books they could read by themselves, and I felt like a stupid baby.

14) Not only was I once basically bilingual in English and Spanish, and let that die, but I was also once basically bilingual in English and Korean- I would speak to my mom in Korean and my dad in English as a small child, and would not realize I was speaking a different language.

15) I think I have a preference for blondes at first sight, but have only dated one.

16) I have picked up an embarassing amount of my musical knowledge from movie and TV soundtracks, Guitar Hero, and other such trivial pursuits.

17) I always end up being the "gay best friend" for many of my female friends, although I'm not gay. This used to be something that deeply bothered me (like this: http://xkcd.com/513/). Then I listened to some Bill Withers and I realized I could take advantage of the situation.

18) Bill Withers' song "Use Me" is one of my favorite songs of all time, even when I'm not feeling cynical (and that's a whole other blog post).

19) I am really, really lazy when it comes to simple things like mailing stuff on time, or buying more toilet paper/floss/garbage bags.

20) I'm a neat freak, but I hate cleaning things.

21) I have NO CLASS ON FRIDAYS. It made me happy. Then I met a guy who only has class on Tuesdays and Thursdays. That made me sad.

22) I really need to rein in the privacy settings on my Facebook and cull my friends list down a bit. Yet I'm really afraid of offending people by defriending them, even if they never talk to me.

23) I often fantasize about my life being a slow-motion montage set to music in which the camera follows me in a long tracking shot as I smoke a cigarette, bump fists with a macho friend, and raise a suggestive eyebrow at some ladies.

24) I've never been able to successfully complete the friend-to-boyfriend transition.

25) I profess to hate these 25-things-about-yourself things, but my narcissistic side always wins out. What can I say? I'm a vain *******.

2009-02-02T21:22:00.000-08:00

History is funny...

I read a very interesting Wikipedia article today in my History class. In response to the 1922 Washington Naval Treaty, which limited the number of battleships that the signatory nations could build (by way of "tonnage" or total weight of each ship), here's what the major powers all did:

Each nation used a different approach to circumvent the treaties. The US used high strength boilers for higher speeds in a smaller ship. Germany used high strength steels for better armor and lower weight (although this was in response to the Treaty of Versailles, not the Washington Naval Treaty). Britain designed ships that could have armor added after a war began, and in the case of HMS Rodney and HMS Nelson enhanced their armour by using boiler feed water tanks as part of the protective scheme. Japan withdrew from the treaty in 1936, and continued the building program that they had previously begun, to include placing 18.1 inch (460 mm) guns on battleship Yamato. Italy simply lied about the tonnage of their ships.

I love history. And the Italians.

2009-01-28T20:26:00.000-08:00

Rejected Movie Ideas

So here are some films that I'm quite glad Alex and I never made:

"Chupacabra Tres: Una Otra Vez"
Diego is resurrected in an occult ceremony by the Nazis in 1942 to hunt down the Mysterious Chupacabra at the von Baden Moonbase. He is shocked to discover the Chupacabra is really his father.

Sample line: "¿El chupacabra? ¡Qué horrible, Padre Himmler!"

"Homo With a Shotgun"
One frustrated homosexual man living in San Francisco is fed up after Prop 8 doesn't pass, and takes to the street to campaign for his rights. With a 12-gauge pump-action shotgun. The Homo With a Shotgun takes on rioters, robbers, Sun Microsystems, the pedophiles of the National Man-Boy Love Association (or NAMBLA), and, eventually, Lynn Cheney in an enormous powered-armor-mecha-suit.

Sample Line: "I want that homo on my wall tonight! And the one who brings me him, will have all my bros!"

"The Adventures of Ayn and Simone"
In a companion piece that runs parallel to the critically-acclaimed Locke and Hobbes miniseries, Ayn Rand is sent by G-man to break Simone de Beauvoir out of a Russian prison so that the two of them can recover the long-lost GirlTalk album "Sex, Blood, and Menstruation" from a hidden Mayan Temple in Nicaragua.

Sample line: "Taxes? Where we're going, we don't need taxes."

"The Kite Runner"
A down-on-his luck detective hunts down lost kites in 2019 Los Angeles. He then learns something deep and moving, but has his memory erased when he finds out what it is, and all he is left with is a bizarre memory of a unicorn running through a field.

Sample line: "You're reading a magazine and come across a full-page nude photo of a girl." "Is this supposed to tell if I'm a kite or a lesbian, Mr. Fpendl?"

"King Leer: A Sexual Harassment Odyssey"
For the crime of looking at one of his three female friends in the wrong way, King Leer is banished to the star system of Corneria, one of the three planets of the Lylat System (along with Goneril and Regan, the planet where the movie "The Exorcist" is set). He must hire James Fox and the StarFox team to guard against the encroach of Andross.

Sample line: "Do a barrel roll! Exeunt!"

"What Are Friends For"
Actually, we did make this one, but it's stuck in development hell.

2009-01-21T14:38:00.000-08:00

Promiscuity v. Monogamy
http://www.andtheylivedhappilyeverafter.com/48.htm

A very different take on the whole issue.

2009-01-20T19:46:00.000-08:00

Social Networking Nonsense

So I'm taking a class about the sociology of Social Networks like Facebook, and have recently come across two of the greatest ac-article quotes (both from articles by Danah Boyd):

"
For example, teens often break up with their significant other through MySpace comments (typically boys breaking up with girls). The reason for this is simple: a vocalised breakup is visible to all Friends, making it difficult to play the ‘he said/she said’ game or to control the breakup narrative by modifying the Instant Messaging (IM) conversation.
"

and of course,

"
For example, it is cool to have Friends on MySpace but if you have too many Friends, you are seen as a MySpace whore. These markers of cool are rooted in the social culture of MySpace. One of the ways that coolness is articulated is through bulletin posts meant to attack those who have status online and offline. One such post is a satirical Top 10 list of “How To Be Cool On MySpace,” which includes material like “Your MySpace name MUST contain symbols and incorrect spelling” and “All your blogs have to be about how bad your day was."

"

OK, at least I found it funny.

2009-01-17T13:39:00.000-08:00

EPIC

So Kosta and I were in line at a TexMex place and Kosta was contemplating ordering chips and salsa...

KOSTA: So, I just got my Wisdom Teeth out a few weeks ago...do you think it's OK to eat chips?
ME: Uhh, sure, why not?
KOSTA: Well, they break into little pieces and they're sharp, so...
ME: Ohh, so they could cut you in the holes in the back of your mouth?
KOSTA: Yeah.
ME: Well, you should be careful. If you start bleeding back there you should be careful and stop.
KOSTA: But how will I know? I guess if it starts tasting kinda salty and thick back there I should stop.
CASHIER: THAT'S WHAT SHE SAID!!!

2009-01-13T20:44:00.001-08:00

Something you might find amusing:

http://www.ourhonordefend.com/2009/01/the-brian-d-baschnagel-award-for-outstanding-achievement-in-the-field-of-facial-hair.php

Also, just as a note: I used to believe in the facial hair = goodness at football correlation, but then I watched the Patriots heavily bearded Mountain Men O-Linemen get owned in the Superbowl and I changed my mind.

2009-01-13T20:44:00.000-08:00