A "present" from Stacy

Stacy sent me this link.

I present it here for your amusement. I'm one tall elf, that's all I can say.

Infinity Goes Up on Trial

Over the past month or so I've been thinking more and more about art. I've been feeling more and more comfortable with the questions that art poses and helps me ask. In the last month, with Brian's help I've started roughing out a play. Will it ever be completed? Will it suck? Will it be of any external value? I don't know. But there is something about giving myself permission to explore, to find, and to fail. The process of writing, the process of trying to craft words for others, is hard, and rewarding and revealing.

Right on the heels of starting to write and think about this play, I talked with Ann and one thing led to another... and now we're working on a dance piece together. I'm writing the text, and helping with some of the choreography and ideas. She's helping with the text and coming up with all the movements. Here I am thinking creatively about large social issues and the minutia of life. Art is this amazing lens through which you're allowed to ask questions of any size. It helps me to think about these questions and these ideas, and allows me to crudely (I'll freely admit) offer answers.

Again, I have no real reason to believe that what I'll create will be important, or powerful, or even judged a success. But for me so much of the best part of life is the asking of questions, the debating of ideals, the exploration of divergent thought. Art, like my closest friends, is the source of further ideas to understand. It's a means by which to engage others in conversation, to plant a small flag in the stream of discourse and say this is what I think and thought and hope to express.

That's powerful.

I'm reminded of one of my favorite Dylan lyrics:

"Inside the museum, infinity goes up on trial."

I think that captures the power of art for me. Inside museums you can place everything, existence on trial. You can evaluate, examine and debate the greatest things. Things beyond measure and beyond scale are still within the scope of art. In fact art is one of the few ways to critique and comment on things we consider beyond our grasp, beyond words. I used to believe that I was entirely without artistic gift. And lord knows, the output I've generated thus far on these two projects will do little to dispell this idea. But the act of trying, the act of thinking is intoxicating. And if in the end the process creates something that forces another person to think, to ponder, to wonder about their own life, I'll be thrilled beyond measure. I'll be infinitely grateful.

God bless intelligent design

Lest I be misunderstood, I mean to sanctify the brilliant of intelligent design, not Intelligent Design. Paul and I were talking about art and the home. For a while now I've been really excited by Target's approach to housewares. Granted, the Michael Graves designs do little to nothing for me, and sometimes do a few things to my stomach. They're overly cute and sometimes feel irrelevant, but they carve out an important space for art in the home. Why should inexpensive products be seemingly free of design? Why should a toaster that you buy at Wal-Mart be as generic and industrial and boring as possible? I have long applauded Target for commisioning products that are both functional and aesthetically interesting. It aggrivates me to think that only the wealthy should be able to outfit their homes with pieces that feel well crafted and designed. That's part of why I love Target and Ikea. These are stores that sell inexpensive but artful housewares, and furniture. I have this notion that surrounding yourself with objects that you feel contain some energy, some idea beyond simple utility lifts your thoughts to something more grand than just getting by. A product that browns your bread, but does so while looking aesthetically pleasing may be just the role model one needs for thinking about their own life. Why shouldn't I allow myself to think loftier thoughts, why shouldn't I make a place in my own day for something more than just getting by. I realize this is a little grandiose, but I'm a firm believer in the idea that there's real value in art, real value in being able to live in and among objects that remind us that there is more to life than simply moving from A to B.

Bring me a photo of a pigeon and a shrubbery.

The Communications Director for Montana's Congressman Denny Rehberg was busted for trying to solicit hackers to break into TCU and change his undergraduate grades.

The best part of the entire story is reading the emails between the parties. The web site Attrition.org posted the entire back and forth. The site hosts pretended to be hackers and carried on the conversation with Todd Shriber for 22 emails. My favorite email is where they demand that he send them a photo of a pigeon:
"1. A picture of a squirrel or pigeon on your campus. One close-up, one with background that shows buildings, a sign, or something to indicate you are standing on the campus."

Eventually Shriber, after borrowing a friend's camera responds:
"I hope these work, there's no pigeons, but some of other birds and a couple with a squirrel."

I only wish they'd demanded a shrubbery from him.

It really is in my head

A new study concludes that variability in motions like swinging a golf club or pitching, etc are largely due to variability in the brain. The brain does not draw up the same plan for motion each time. While training can give the brain clues and tools to solve the problem in a similar fashion, it's still not perfect. Sounds like we're built to adapt to situations, which I'm sure has served us well...you know in not getting eaten by large carnivores. But dammit, I want my forehand to be the same everytime. Though I guess given that the defense is not the same eachtime, and my level of fatigue changes, and the receiver changes and the wind changes and the condition of the disc changes, it's probably reasonable to have a brain that computes those variables each time, instead of just generating a generic "forehand to cutter" algorithm.

Unknown to Mankind.

"I vow that I will attack this endeavor with an enthusiasm unknown to mankind."

Who said this?

A) Robert Gates, the incoming Secretary of Defense, charged with fixing the giant cluster fuck that is Iraq
B) Rudolph Giuliani, former Mayor of NYC and presumptive candidate for President.
C) Jim Harbaugh, former NFL quarterback and newly appointed coach at Stanford
D) Shakira, songstress whose new CD has required 3 complete remixes and will likely require an additional 25 hours of studio time to complete.

The answer is C. That's right, Jim Harbaugh promises to attack with an enthusiam unknown to mankind. He will give 110%. And not just metaphorically. He's serious. That's the level of enthusiasm he's bringing to the Standford job. Imagine if he had the job at a place that had won in recent memory.

Does Harbaugh remind anyone else of Smoove B, from the The Onion. I believe that Smoove B is also going to attack the act of lovemaking with an enthusiasm and gentle caress unknown to mankind. Or womankind. It will be electric.

Can Harbaugh make the following claim, as Smoove does: "I am capable of bringing you to a state of freakstasy that no other man could ever bring you to. You can try to find this level of sexual satisfaction with some other man, but know that if you break from Smoove, I cannot guarantee that I will still be single when you realize that only I can satisfy all your senses."

Some Questions about the Ansar

Beware morons bearing advice. Yesterday I found myself waiting for my doctor (yes, the same one who has been failing to aid me lo these many months) to write me a prescription for my medicine. His accent is often so thick and his face so uncommunicative that I struggle to understand what he's cajoling me about. He asked if "I knew the Ansar." This struck me as some sort of trick question. So I told him what dosage of what medicine I have been taking. He attempted, though failed, to clarify by saying, "No, the Ansar. The machine." Confused, more than usual, I waited for him to mount up and take a third go at the windmill of basic communication. After some gestures and his full focus on using multiple words to explain the concept in his mind, I began to understand. Well somewhat. He was talking about a great new machine he bought. The machine, I came to learn, cost him $30,000. It was called Ansar. Having satisfied himself that I understood that he owned a machine that was called Ansar he set about trying to explain why one would use this machine.

He promptly explained that there are two parts to the nervous system, the sympathetic and the wait, what is the other one. Oh, right, the parasympathetic one. He told me that the sympathetic is engaged in action, and worry. That it controls focus and depression. While the parasympathetic controls headaches. Now, I'm highly dubious of these claims. Sadly, if he told me I was on fire I might get a second opinion before stopping, dropping and rolling.

I asked what this machine does. It measures whether or not your parasympathetic or sympathetic is stronger and determines if they are in balance. Then it tells him what medicines to prescribe. Then he will know for sure what and what dosages to give me for any problems I might have. I asked whether the diagnosis for say, depression or other conditions would include any discussion of how I'm feeling, what I'm thinking. He calmly and somewhat dismissively said no, that this was better. That the Ansar system would be more accurate.

He then thrust a very phony looking pamphlet into my hand, and reiterated again and again that if I wanted to try the machine he could arrange that. Apparently he needs to pay off his $30,000 investment.

It was appaling to me to think that this machine is supposed to be able to in 30 minutes diagnose any and all problems. That depression is solely a physical condition. That biorhythms and the balance between your various nervous systems will accurately predict the condition, medication and dosage. I guess I'm unwilling to accept that level of analytical expertise from a computer, to say nothing of one hawked by a man unable to identify my various body parts.

I went to the ANSAR web site, looking for any information. Any major journal that has reviewed this favorably. I have to admit I'm largely baffled by the site. If other more trained observers what to help me decode it, I'd love the assistance. From what I can tell, it seems a bit of an overstatement. My favorite statement is

"A balance between the two branches of your ANS is essential for good health. In fact, most illnesses and injuries cause or result from an imbalance between these two branches. An imbalance in your ANS can tell your doctor many things about how healthy you are, as well as what can be done to keep you as healthy as possible.

Am I wrong, doesn't this sound like Homer's great quote about beer. "Beer the cause of and solution to all life's problems." So this imbalance can either be the cause or a symptom of a problem. Without investigating through conversation and medical history how does one know whether you're viewing symptom or cause? Can an over exercise of the parasympathetic lead to more than one problem?

Maybe I'm too skeptical, but when presented by my awful doctor, penicillin would seem risky and worthless.

Best of Where is My Mind 2006: The Third Quarter

These are the sections, sentences and sentiments that I found most interesting and most worthy of reprinting from July, August and September. Again, if you have others you think are more interesting, witty, or worthy, let me know in the comments.

July:

Bed Bath and Beyond Gets a Letter from Amnesty International

We spent what I believe I consider a Geneva convention violating 45 minutes in the towel section of BBB. Now, contrary to sexist stereotypes this was not because Jess was fretting and fussing. Though there was some of that. A good bit of that. The primary reason we spent 45 minutes there is because BBB seems to hate us. We picked out towels we liked, then tried to find another towel to match it. Nope. Sold out. Sold out of this kind of towel throughout the metro area. Picked another towel. Nope, no good. Another. Nope doesn't match the shower curtain. And so on.

Sorry, this was a lame blogging month. There is this notion that great suffering leads to great art. I neither pretend to have suffered greatly nor to have created great art. For me there seems to be little rhyme or reason to the strong or weak posts. Sometimes when I'm lonely and sad, I write well. Other times those emotions damn up any desire to express myself. Just a thought.

August:

Rock as Lullaby, Brilliant or Bogus.

Is it introducing kids to amazing songs that parents can tolerate and planting a seed for good musical taste. Or is it bastardizing music and potentially ruining their ability to appreciate Led Zeppelin's raucus bad-assity.

Stepping stone or barrier. Put another way is this Fisher Price my first cd collection or is it like Gerber pureed sushi--a bastardization of something great.

Yikes, another month with little redeeming writing. It's a wonder that any of you maintained interest in this blog over the summer. My apologies. Yeesh.

September:

Geographic place or state of existence

We [Amb. Grey] flowed through defenses like Sherman going through Georgia.
...
Then Sunday we have BRDM practice, followed by a scrimmage, followed by a BBQ out in Stirling, which I believe is still technically within the boundaries of the state of Virginia, though I'm not sure, it feels like it's more a metaphysical place, the place you reach when you drive west out of DC and cannot fathom driving any further to see friend or foe and are ready to turn around...that's when you get to Stirling. Sadly, it's never any closer than that.

We're in the way...

For Person (people) of the Year, Time Magazine absolved itself entirely of the burden of judgement, originality or insight by selecting "You." Not you individually, rather this is you plural, or y'all, if you'd rather. That's right, everyone is man or woman of the year. We're each so powerful and influential that we're a dominant influence on the world. Our impact on one another through our use of the Internet makes us incredibly important.

So Time tells us that we are each exceptional. Everyone gets a trophy. I fully intend to update my resume to include my selection as Time's Man of the Year for 2006. I don't know if it'll give me a competitive advantage, since everyone won. As they say in The Incredibles, "if everyone is special, no body is special."

This cover does fit with the times. Americans seem to exist in a balance between two arrogant notions: 1) That we ourselves are exceptional and that technological and cultural evolution has resulted in our own times and capacity being unique and the nearest approach to perfection. 2) Yet simultaneously we are convinced that greatness is really something from another age reflected upon us from afar. Oh, how we wish we'd lived through Kennedy. Oh, to be at Woodstock. Would that we stormed the beaches of Normandy. To be the Greatest Generation. If only our school were Old.

That we believe we understand the best that human kind can be or has been, seems more than a little arrogant. The Bush administration explaining that the Iraqi war is unlike any other, that the War on Terror is harder than any other war. This desire for exceptionalism, even in suffering is perverse. By what honest assesment does a person judge his own time the "most" anything.

We are a nation that loves the superlative. We revel in hyperbole. I designed a t-shirt a few months back that says: Worst. Hyperbole. Ever. It seems more fitting than before. We want to be alive during exceptional moments, and if this requires us to elevate the normal course of human events to those that are the most, the hardest, the best, the Platonic ideal of whatever, then we seem willing to do so.

I don't know that I can fully articulate my frustration. The intense desire we have to feel exceptional mixed with our equally strong instinct to judge ourselves as a failure against the lofty achievements of those who came before. You know, maybe I'm engaging in exactly the same kind of behavior as those from other generations. Maybe we all have roles to fill.

Thinking about this, I was reminded of a lyric from the Silver Jews.

"The stars don't shine upon us. We're in the way of their light."

A great many things in the universe are entirely unconcerned with us. The sun didn't seek you out to glorify you in your selection as person of the year. You, we, were in the way of its light. And had a lesser or greater person stood where you were, the sun would have struck them as well. It doesn't play favorites. The universe, is in that regard perfectly democratic.

Best of Where is My Mind 2006: The Second Quarter

Continuing on the idea from the last post, here are a collection of the best parts of this blog from April through June

April:

In search of muscles

In other news of progress, all this going to the gym seems to be having some sort of effect on the shape and capacity of my muscles. Namely they are more bulbous...it's like they're getting larger. And a corresponding discovery seems to be that they can exert more force. Strange things, both. No complaints. Just strange to look at myself in the mirror and wonder whose arms I'm seeing.

~ED NOTE: Slim pickings for April, sorry then. Sorry now.

May:

Captain Awesome Spikes in Clique League

The other telling instance from the game came on game point. One of their players fell and caught the disc, and thinking he was in the endzone sprinted around, spiked the disc and began screaming and gesturing like he'd won the World Championship of Greatness and the Nobel Prize for Awesomeness in the Field of Coolness. Several problems:

1) COORDINATION He fell down while catching the disc, no layout, no jump. Dude was barely able to manage the dual tasks of motion and catching without great failure.

2) COMPETITION He caught the winning score in a quarterfinal game in clique B league, in Washington DC. A quarter final game in a secondary level league, in a tertiary or worse level region. To further illustrate the arrogance, think of the clip of Jordan celebrating his game winning shot over Craig Ehlo. But instead of it being the NBA playoffs, imagine if you acted like that when you beat your friends playing miniature golf in 7th grade.

Aaron on Fox's claim that American Idol has the most sophisticated voting system in existence

It's a show, and not a very important one at that. They're determining who will get signed to a record contract. Time was that these things were settled by young aspiring singers sleeping with producers or sealed over a line of coke. It's not some great holy process. You'd think American Idol was the new version of the conclave. Instead of white smoke it's text messages from pimply teens and disturbing karaoke fans. The process doesn't have to be perfect--you're picking a singer, not a pope or a president.

June:

All I really want is grills!

Grills, all I really want is grills
And at dinner it's grills
Cause for the cooking it's grills

I like the way that they look
And it's great to use 'em to cook
And I can always make them hot
Piling brickettes in one spot

I bought one just the other day
Mockin' A-Leav to my dismay

Best of Where is My Mind 2006: The First Quarter

As a kid I really found New Years exciting. We would go to a friends house and there would be neighbors and kids and I'd stay up late. There would be games, and I could try to impress the grownups with just how smart I was, and how good I could be at games. Then I'd retire downstairs to be humbled by my peers at Nintendo and ping-pong. One of the other great parts about New Years as a child, and even now, is that it forces upon people a kind of short term nostalgia. It brings out the top 100 songs of the year, the 10 best highlights on SportsCenter, the 50 most important news stories, the 5 best books, etc. As a person who likes to categorize and count things, and one who likes to be reminded of things I already vaguely know, this time of year is great. So instead of offering a top ten movie list (I don't think I saw more than 5-6 movies anyway) or something like that. I'm going to selfishly and arrogantly recap my favorite lines from this blog. Not entire posts, but the sections and sentences of which I am most proud. If you have other sentences or sections that you think I'm ignoring, something you find particularly fun -- 1st I'm flattered and 2nd you should post it in the comments.

So here, in short (a rarity for me) is the best of this blog-- January - March.

January:

Aaron whines about the time spent waiting for food during restaurant week.

You'd think, with the time we had to wait they were inventing a new country from which to have a cuisine. So first they had to find land, cultivate a culture. get invaded. Retake the country. Develop a national identity. Find and sow local crops. Build a cuisine. Export said cuisine to DC...and then make and serve our food. I feel like an entire Jared Diamond book about the rise and fall of Spanish food could have been written in the time it took to actually get our food. But then again, I think maybe I'm being a little overdramatic. Like I said, it felt like a long time.

The injured ankle prevents further injury--to Aaron's pride

Later in the party some of the more rhythmically competent attendees began to shake: "groove things" and "what your momma gave yous" and generally proceed to "get down." Someone came over and asked if I'd add my awkwardness to the assembled appendages and asses. I slyly reached for my left pant leg. Sorry can't.

I think I may start bringing the air cast to parties when I'm healthy. God bless you AirCast. You protect my ankles and my pride.

February:

Of toddlers, dancers and skaters

he last time I went ice skating was as a senior in college. To describe my efforts that evening as ice skating is much like comparing a toddler who pulls himself up to stand using the coffee table to Martha Graham. In each case the participant is wholly overmatched by gravity, entirely without grace, barely stable, and eager to celebrate even the most basic level of proficiency--which in due course returns them to their humbled normative status. Oh and there's also a good chance that in each case their failure has made their pants wet.

March:

Taxes and guessing games

You fill out your taxes trying to get the right answer. But all along there is a predetermined answer, that you're supposed to arrive at. So it's a little annoying. It's like if the electric company asked you to estimate how much your bill should be and then had the power to punish you for getting it wrong.

As you can see some months engender better stuff, apparently March was mainly uninspiring.

New Rocky Movie

So I have really no sense at all what happens in the latest Rocky movie. But given the age of the character, to say nothing of the age of the actor, I have to imagine some changes.

A few thoughts:

In the latest Rocky, I believe he fights his toughest enemy, incontinence. This struggle makes it harder for the ring announcer to, in good faith, declare that he wants a good clean fight. But it does help to discourage hitting below the belt.

In this edition, he's fighting the Social Security Administration.

The new Rocky features our Philly hero fighting for the Early Bird Special at 15 minutes past 9, in clear violation of Denny's policy.

Rocky producers are able to subsidize the newest entry in the franchise through product placement. Rocky's trademark raw egg shake is replaced with Ensure.

Instead of training by sparring with a side of beef, Rocky spends the first 20 minutes of his comeback complaining to the Cracker Barrell waitress about the portions on his side order of corned beef hash.

Of men and pigeons.

In my neighborhood, about 4 blocks from my home there is a 7-11. In the space of these four blocks my area changes from wealthy and white to a much more mixed neighborhood. Mixed in terms of racial and socio-economic terms. The 7-11 is usually patrolled by a crew of 10-15 guys looking for day work, or looking for a wall against which to lean while they watch women and the hours pass them by. On the front of the 7-11 is a sign that informs these men,in Spanish and English, that they are not to loiter. But they do, and from what I can gather no one really cares. None of the ever evolving cast seems terribly inclined to do much more than hang out there and chat about the day and the days gone by.

This 7-11 is right next to what the neighbors seem willing to pretend is a park. A more fair description might be an area of grass surrounded by a fence. But park is more appealling, and requires few keystrokes and words, so a park it is. It's safe to say the men who hang around outside the 7-11 have severely limited means. But it's rare to see one of them without a loaf of bread. The bread is never for their consumption, rather it's torn and tossed to the birds. A mighy flock or phalanx of birds pass their day in the park. These men with little of their own buy bread and corn meal to feed the birds.

Something about this situation struck me as poetic on the bus ride this morning. Here are men with little control over their world. They congregate in a single place to reduce the isolation of too much time, too little structure and far too little control. By seeking a spot and one another they enforce their will on the world in a small but no doubt meaningful way. Similarly using some of their limited income to help another creature must reclaim what all men want--a sense of being able to serve the world. They may or may not receive aid from the government or charities, I have no idea. But I imagine that from time to time each man has needed the aid and comfort and support of strangers to get by. And to be able to afford to give that aid and comfort and help to another, even if it's a lowly pigeon must be freeing. Like the pigeons these men congregate and cluster only to be deemed a nuissance and scattered around, with little concern for their well being, for their needs. I imagine, there is an appeal to being able to provide for another, to care for something else. I may not have much, I can imagine the monologue going, but I can help these birds. I'm able to control this. I'm able to bring order and aid into the life of this creature. I think that power, that control, that agency must be an innate human desire. It's why I'm glad there's a little park by the 7-11. Everyone deserves the right to repay the aid they've been given. Everyone deserves the right to feel like they have something to offer another in this world.

Movies reenacted with stationery

Because, really, why shouldn't you try to re-enact movies using only stationery.

http://www.stationerymovies.com/

I ended up guessing 14 of the 20 movies. I would love to hear from others how they do. Maybe email me to help me fill in the missing 6.

UPDATE

I got another one, I'm up to 15.

Just a few stray thoughts

Just a few stray thoughts on the Wyden healthcare plan.

From what I understand previous attempts at universal healthcare were torpedoed because they raised (or were twisted so as to raise) the specter of people being forced into purely socialized medicine, deprived on any choice as to their doctor. While it may not accurately describe the actual practice of medicine these days, I think there is a great appeal for many in the notion of a family doctor, a neighborly person who cares for the entire family for generations. The power of this image is powerful. Just as I wrote earlier that efficiency is viewed with a nearly religious zeal in the U.S. so too is choice. Given the power and appeal of choice in nearly all aspects of politics it makes little sense to propose policies which would limit choice. This is the brilliance of the Wyden plan, instead of ensuring quality care by constricting choice, it expands choice while guaranteeing that all options meet a basic level of care. Everyone has choice and agency, but the options from which they may choose all provide a fair and fitting level of services, this prevents people from being duped or suffering for lack of information and acumen. I'm struggling for a fitting analogy. It's a little like the difference between the government bowling for you and the government setting up bumpers. Few people want the government to make decisions for them, but ensuring that the suite of options available all meet a certain appropriate standard seems right. Think of FDA certification of meats. I don't need the FDA as my shopping buddy telling me what to get, I'd rather know that I can select from options each of which will be safe and appropriate.

People seem to, in all things, like choice. It's a nearly elemental desire. So instead of fighting against that desire the Wyden plan embraces that desire. Instead of fighting against the relentless tide, Wyden uses that energy like a surfer. Takes the desire for choice and agency and makes that the appeal of the plan, makes that the momentum that carries people forward.

In the end it's hard to argue with a proposal that gives Americans that tools necessary to care for themselves, and their children. It's hard to be against legislation that takes as its highest goal making it affordable for Americans to live longer, healthier lives. Think of the additional progress and prosperity that can be generated by an America where men and women can work and strive without fear of crippling healthcare costs. There's no way to calculate that economic benefit, because somethings really do transcend monetary measure.

On the Internet nobody knows you're a rank amateur

There's a famous New Yorker cartoon with the tag line: "On the Internet nobody knows you're a dog."

Well turns out they don't know you're a rank amateur either. Yesterday I wrote about Wyden's new healthcare plan. Today I find out that my blog is linked to from Stand Tall for America, which I have to figure is his "campaign" site. Or something like that. The list of bloggers referenced includes David Sirota and Ezra Klein, ie, real writers. And then me. It's just more than a little funny to think of people stumbling by this place expecting trenchant analysis (which, I myself stumble into, I guess) and finding some combination of rants, raves and ridiculous nothings. It's fun, though. Even as I realize it's the product of Technorati or some other crawler, it's somewhat flattering to think my words warrant republication and broadcast by someone. It's like those rare moments when a friend tells me, "I always remember you saying 'INSERT HERE.'" The idea that something I've said or written is worthy of commiting to memory or passing along to another person is still strange to me, but almost intoxicatingly pleasant. It's appealing to think that every so often what I think or say is of value to others, and not just as a way of self-congratulations and self-expression.

We'd have the whole country, in a (healthcare) plan. We'd have the whole country in a (healthcare) plan.

I've been reading a few articles today talking about Sen Ron Wyden (D-OR) and his new healthcare plan. First off, it's been said before and by far more eloquent and passionate people, but it's still shocking to me that we don't have universal healthcare. Beyond the moral reasons (of which there are many) it just seems inefficient to have so many people getting sick and missing work. If the highest value in American political life is efficiency, it's just outlandish that healthcare is run as it is. To have car companies adding 1,500 to the cost of a car to pay for insuring their employees seems wrong. So this new plan, as I understand it would force employers to end their current plans. The money the invested in these plans in 2006 would be paid directly to workers who would have to use that extra money to buy into any of a number of health insurance plans each of which are at least as good as that which Congress gives itself. Sounds like doctors would not be socialized, just the health insurance. Folks who lose their jobs would get coverage, etc. So employers are psyched because they don't have to budget for the rising cost of healthcare, and get out of that business. I can't imagine that the CEO of GM is really eager to have a whole division whose jobs it is to administer a healthcare plan. Workers get portable healthinsurance with a minimum level of coverage that's really good (= to Congress). I'm excited. For the first time in a while it looks like there might be a real comprehensive society changing bill that could pass. If it did this would be the most dramatic and powerful social legislation passed in my lifetime. It's not Medicare or Social Security. But it's something. And for millions of Americans it could be a life changing effort, something that makes it so that living with pain, living with illness, allowing children to suffer from easily treated illness--that these are no longer acceptable.

The Sound of Silence

Neil has a great post on the latest bullshit from the music industry. Trying to ban sites that share tablature to songs. The argument being that some artists occassionally publish sheet music, and by figuring out how to play the songs before the artist tells you how to play it (in a format that a great many guitarists can't decipher) you are stealing from them.

Neil's take:

Apparently, my being able to freely download the chords and lyrics to "hey jude" and "enter sandman" is why Paul McCartney and Lars Ulrich live in abject squalor. Or maybe it's playing songs on the guitar, alone in my apartment, that's forced them into homelessness? And what if I transcribe the tab myself, listening to the music? that must also be a crime. Or if I listen to music, and say to myself 'Oh, it goes A E Dm'?

I have to wonder, is humming the song to yourself also illegal. Or even worse, what if you get a song stuck in your head? If so does writing a catchy song count as an artist aiding and abetting me in the commision of a crime? How about if a friend and I talk about a song and then start singing it, I believe in that case it's peer-to-peer sharing of illegally downloaded/remembered music. Campfire sing-a-longs are clearly destorying the music industry and its ability to make money. Whoever owns Kumbiyah is owed a shit load of royalties, all those fucking hippy theives trying to steal from poor record companies.

A final word from Neil and Jeff Tweedy

Playing a song yourself is just another way to experience it, to make it a part of you -- does that really need to be litigated to death?

And if the whole world's singing your song,
and all of your paintings have been hung
Just remember, what was yours, is everyone's from now on

-- Jeff Tweedy

Best Peripheral Ever

A USB "dog" that has its way with your laptop.

A few words of wisdom from Dan Rather

An intellectual snob is someone who can listen to the William Tell Overture and not think of the Lone Ranger.

Americans will put up with anything provided it doesn't block traffic.

Fury.

Sometimes you just need to listen to Metallica's "One." Right now, it's shaping up to be a day like that.

UPDATE

And sometimes, when your boss chastizes you for tapping your toes too loudly to One, you have to listen to Diamonds on the Soles of Her Shoes, and just try to mellow the fuck out. This is one of those moments. Fury abating. Urge to dance rising, urge to punch walls falling.

New blogger features

So now with Blogger Beta, I can include labels to my posts. I don't really know how to categorize my posts. Do we have any people who want to be Linneaus of this blog? And sort of taxonomy for my posts?

If I don't die or worse...

Man, of late I'm tired all the time. It's tiresome being this tired.
As Doug Martsch says, "If I don't die or worse, I'm going to need a nap."

To sleep perchance to not be so fricking tired.

Everyone's gotta hate on the transfatty acids.

Do you think a trans fat is just fat that has a different gender identity than its sex might indicate. And if so, why does everyone have to hate on it. I'm about embracing any and all fat identities.

Make it work

According to no less an authority than People magazine Tim Gunn may not be returning for the next season of Project Runway. Listen here, Bravo. I don't watch this show, and endure ridicule from others to see Nina Garcia and Michael Kors. Not hardly. I want my weekly dose of Tim Gunn. He's like the Buddist monk of reality television. Dispensing caring wisdom and random advice in strange measured ways.

So Bravo, repeat after me, and Tim Gunn. Make it work!

Light a Candle

Bristoll Meyers Squid...um Squibb, is pledging to donate a dollar to AIDS work if you go to their site and light a virtual candle. Certainly worth the 15 seconds it takes.

I believe this will be the only time I favorably link to a pharmaceutical company.

I'd be a neanderthal.

So well before I learned about the advantages that specialized work provided early humans, I myself was considering what I want to be doing. My talents have long veered toward the more general. I'd have been a neanderthal, not a proto-human. Jack of all trades, master of a few. Something like that. After prolonged and careful consideration, I'm still not sure what I should be when I grow up. Hell I'm not sure what I should be when I turn 30. To say nothing of my myopic sense of what comes after that.

I'll probably write more on this later, given that when I consider "Where is my mind?" that answer is routinely thinking about work. If you have any insight into what I should do for a living I'd be flattered and deeply grateful for any suggestions and insights. I feel a little like I'm trying to view a pointilist painting from 3 inches away. I can see all the dots, but have no real sense of the picture they create. So some outside perspective would be great.

I'll leave you (and me) with some thoughts on work from John Cusak:

I don't want to sell anything, buy anything, or process anything as a career. I don't want to sell anything bought or processed, or buy anything sold or processed, or process anything sold, bought, or processed, or repair anything sold, bought, or processed. You know, as a career, I don't want to do that.

"Women's Work" Helped Humans Beat out Neanderthals

A new study talks about the advantage that having tasks that were divided by gender offered early humans. As opposed to their chief rivals, neanderthals, humans had parts of the economy that were generally performed by women. These tasks were absolutely essential to our progress, things like making more weather proof clothes, milling etc. According to the study neanderthal women worked at the same chores as men, meaning that failure in hunting was a much riskier thing. There was little room for error because all the members of the society were doing the same thing, and were not really specializing.

Of course neither the study nor I argue that there have to be women's roles or men's roles today. But it's interesting to read that by dividing up the chores and allowing for a more diverse economy our ancestors were able to thrive. I fear that it'll be used to argue for a "woman's place" or things like that. But the simple notion that by diversifying we were able to survive, that's just fascinating to me.

BCS (They are right about the first and last letters)

So everyone with a pulse, maybe even some of the computers used to sort out the BCS recognize it's messed up. It's hopelessly unable to answer anything about football, except the question: How can the NCAA ensure that college football's national championship is less legitimate than a Don King fight? If you answered the BCS give yourself some Ibuprofen, because I figure it's given you a headache thinking about the level of ineptitude necessary to maintain such a system.

There is now some controversy (shocking, I know) about the fact that Jim Tressel, the OSU coach didn't vote in the latest Top 25 poll. Michigan fans are irate that he didn't vote for them. Florida fans would have been irate that he voted for a team from his conference. Essentially it's a no win situation. Frankly I think as a protest vote he should have picked Duke or maybe NYU. Granted NYU doesn't have a football program, but why should a little pure silliness stop the BCS process.

A friend did send me this great USA Today link that let's you see how all the coaches voted and the poll history of each of the teams. This much is clear, if you are ranked highly at the start of the season you're going to have to screw up a lot to lose that luster. For instance check out USC or Notre Dame. Each have lost two games and are still up in the top 8. How is that possible? Because the BCS is designed to fail. It's designed to create discussion, and maximize conference profit. It sets as a tertiary or quarternary goal correctly ascertaining the relative strengths of NCAA Division 1-A football programs. Sadly there must be no other means of determining the relative abilities of athletic teams. Otherwise the wise men of the NCAA would have long ago found it. Right? Clearly.

God-Schmod, I want my monkey man.

Stalin sought to cross breed men with apes to form super soldiers.

Well, how about that.

Best Image of the Weekend

While waiting for my car to be repaired this weekend (another long-ish story) Jess and I walked around Georgetown. We passed a little be-freckled white kid of about 12 years wearing a white t-shirt with the following message in block print across the front: "Listen to Bob Marley."

We both burst out laughing. It's not a statement, it's not a shirt that says I listen to Bob Marley, it's a commad. You must LISTEN TO BOB MARLEY. And there is this implied sense that this kid has seen the light and he's become a little evangelical missionary for the Who Shot the Sheriff Church of White Guys Who Love Bob Marley. Bob Bless you little guy. Keeping Fighting You Buffalo,(NY) Soldier.

After some searching I found the shirt online (his was white with black letter, but you get the idea)

And here I thought that little hole in box was the only way to carve them up.

There is an artist who makes these great sculptures out of crayons. They're really really exquisite.


I particularly like the spiraling patterns.

The Long and Short of It

A new study just published finds that differences in languages may influence perception of rhythm. Americans presented with a series of tones perceived a different rhythmic pattern than Japanese participants. For English speakers the repeating long and short tones became a short-long rhythmic pattern, while just the opposite held for the Japanese--they heard the pattern as long-short.

Researchers think this is because in Japanese major long words precede smaller modifiers, whereas in English words like a, an, the usually come before the noun (or more important and more stressed word).

How cool is that, the languages we speak alter our perception of rhythm. There is something about science's capacity to amaze me that makes it infinitely appealing. That every day there is some new incredible truth to be learned, some new way of understanding why, why, and how we are. I'm in awe.

This is not winter.

Currently, on December 1st at 11:27am it is 67 degrees in Washington, DC. That's preposterous. It's honestly unacceptable. I need some chill in the air. I'm wearing a polo shirt and I'm warm. This is in December. Frickin' DC.

Out of idle curiosity I checked weather.com's average temperature for the days that I'd consider Winter, roughly November through March. DC has a total of 9 days that have ever recorded a temperature below zero, or at least there are 9 days ever that have a lowest temperature below zero.

I wondered just how different this was from Minneapolis. For the city of Minneapolis there is no single day between November 16 and March 31st that has a lowest recorded temperature above zero. Each and every day has a lowest temp in the negatives, including some days where it reached negative 40 degrees.

There are times when I really miss the sense of personal superiority I felt living in Minnesota. There is something great about knowing that you're living and thriving in a place where it's -10. It's great to feel tougher than most of the world. I read somewhere that 98% of all people in the world live in places warmer than Minneapolis. I'm in the top 2% of crazies/tough guys. It was nice. You don't get that same sensation when you live in a city where the average high in December is 48 degrees. Something about that doesn't suggest enduring the harsh frontier. It suggests weather that makes a sweater descriptive both of the clothing and the reaction that clothing brings upon your body.

===
UPDATE
Apparently a storm with an eye and sustained winds of between 39-73mph is a tropical storm. By which definition, DC is predicted to experience winds equivalent to those of a tropical storm later today, which is only fitting given that it is so warm and muggy here. I guess I'm living in the Tropic of Columbia.

Spray on Condom

German scientists are working to develop a spray on condom.

"It's a bit like a car wash."

As Neil says, "Something tells me people might have some aversion to spraypainting
their genitals with rubber. But maybe I'll proven wrong!"

Or as Marshall remarked, "I'm sorry, but I've never taken an irreplaceable car through a car wash, so I can't really relate."

I guess a car wash is better than the imagery I first thought of: a laminating machine. I had this image of some strange machinery that shrink wraps the relevant equipment.

In other news, I'm sure upon hearing about this product, Jay Leno opened a bottle of champagne. He'll beat this to death with 3 weeks of bad material about it.

How Old Are You. Depends.

The notion that life begins at conception has been around, as far as I can tell, at least as long as I have. So that means for 27 years now, there have been people whose understanding of the world is that the instant sperm and egg join, that child (or in my estimation, potential child) is alive. Their life has begun. And for as long as I've heard this idea it's seemed wrong to me from a political and well biological perspective.

But today, I realized it's also a little strange in a couple of other ways. For instance. Birthdays. In my mind, when I ask a child how old they are and they gleefully thrust 3 stubby little fingers in my face and declare, "I'm three years old." I figure, you know what, roughly 3 years ago that child went from being all womby and whatnot to being outside, in the world we all share. But that's wrong, if you believe that life begins at conception. Hell that kid is off by a lot. She's actually 3 years and 9 months. That's a lot of rounding error. Does that mean that Life Begins at Conception children have to learn two different sets of ages? Wouldn't birthday parties be a bit strange-- I recognize that these annual celebrations mark the date of birth and not beginning of life, but doesn't that mean you'd have 3 candles but your child would have to say they were almost four years old.

It's strange this also means that if your parents are Conservative you're a much slower learner. I mean come on it takes that child 10 months to hold up its head, geez, that's getting into developmental disability territory.

Here's another thought. Let's say that Jess and I donate the requisite sperm and egg and create an embryo. We store it in some medical freezer. We decide never to make that embryo into a person (by my understanding of when life begins). Then 45 years later that embryo is implanted in a womb, grows and makes the transition from womb to real world. Does that mean the child was born at 45 years old. I think it has to. If life begins at conception, the clock starts ticking whenever the swimmers reach the dock (as it were).

Etymology

Shouldn't prolific be the adjective form of pro-life.

That man over there is really weirded out by sex and seems to be overly concerned with wombs, he sure is prolific.

You ate all the taragon and drank all the soy sauce.

In one of the great Simpsons episodes, Homer tries to gourge himself so that he can be classified as obese and therefore work from home. In the process he eats nearly everything in sight, prompting a final attempt at gluttony just before another work day:

BART: Bad news, Dad. We're out of food. We're even out of the basic elements of food. You ate all the tarragon and you drank all the soy sauce!

He is then offered some Play Doh shaped into a donut by Maggie, and eats it as Bart offers the consolation that "It says non-toxic."

This scene came to mind when, earlier today, I decided to read up on Crisco at Wikipedia. My coworker and I were talking about the unnatural product that is Crisco. Turns out I was more right than I knew.

From the Wikipedia entry on Crisco:

When William Procter and James Gamble started the company Procter & Gamble, they hired chemist E. C. Kayser and developed the process to hydrogenate cottonseed oil, which ensures the shortening remains solid at normal storage temperatures. The initial purpose was to create a cheaper substance to make candles than the expensive animal fats in use at the time. Electricity began to diminish the candle market, and since the product looked like lard, they began selling it as a food. This product became known as Crisco, with the name deriving from the initial sounds of the expression "crystallized cottonseed oil"

I love that. Because it looked like food, they decided to sell it as food. If it looked like a tire, would we be driving to work on Bridgstone-Crisco radials? Sometimes, and especially, I think in the case of Crisco, looks can be deceiving.

Judgement

Joe Biden has decided that he's running for President. He apparently surveyed the field, and took a poll among his family members and decided that he had that certain something to be a middle of the pack loser in a Democratic primary. I wish he'd be honest about it. Declare on Meet the Press that he believes he has the certain skill set necessary to raise just enough money to put a skeleton staff on the ground in Iowa. That he'll be able to put together a team and funnel money into the pockets of a few consultant friends while being treated like shit by hairy armed, pear-shaped Iowans all while mowing their lawn and pleading for their support. Then he'll have just enough name recognition to throw his meager support to some other sure fire loser just before the caucuses in order to curry favor and save face. All before returning to Delaware where, when the Democratic nominee needs help rallying the literally 10s of volunteers for the crucial Delaware GOTV program, Joe will come out of seclusion and deliver a flat, head-ache inspiring speech about the importance of democracy and the value of volunteers, before returning to the Senate and supporting more crap bills sponsored by MBNA.

Here's the main reason that Joe Biden can't be president--judgment. Think about it, if Joe Biden has so little judgement that he thinks he's going to be President, he doesn't have the judgment necessary to be President.

Back to the Future

Question: If you could time travel would you rather travel to the future or the past? Why?

Time, Time, Time is on my side.

My mom, has of late, become more and more interested in the intersection between quantum mechanics, astrophysics and faith. She is fascinated, though like me, relatively ill-informed about the physics portion of the discussion. Nearly finished with her M.div, she's certainly more informed about the spirtual side of the discussion than I am, so essentially it's the blind leading the near sighted. I told her about the book I read earlier this year, Brian Greene's Fabric of the Cosmos. It's a really tremendous read, and one that even a dullard like me can follow. The example that has stuck with me, and which I can still mostly recall deals with the nature of time as it relates to motion. I explained it to my mom, but I wanted to check with my readers (especially those with more information on the matters) to make sure I wasn't misleading her.

I explained that objects are moving either through space (speed) or time (time) or through both. The total movement of all objects is the same, it is the allocation, or vector that they travel that is different. For instance an object that is completely stationary is travelling almost entirely through time. Its lack of motion through space means that all of its energy of motion is devoted to moving through time. Similarly when an object moves closer and closer to the speed of light it is moving less and less rapidly through time. Meaning that the faster an object moves (through space) the slower it moves through time. I think I tried to explain this notion on this blog before, but I'm not sure if I got it right, or was as clear as I should have been.

Does this mean that at the speed of light there is no time? It seems like that is the case. So light does not exist within time? What are the practical/theoretical implications of something that fails to exist within time?

Mars, bitches

So I realize I'm years behind in this, but I just last night saw the Chappelle Show sketch "Black Bush." Laugh out loud funny.

Books.

When we were in Seattle this summer, Jesseca and I went to Elliot Bay Books. On a little sheet of paper taped to one of the bookshelves I found a quotation that I've paraphrased many times since. I just found the actual quotation today:

"I would be most content if my children grew up to be the kind of people who think decorating consists mostly of building enough bookshelves." Anna Quindlen

Right after finding this quote today, I read an article about another person who wants to decorate with books. Our president. Apparently he and friends (the few that he has left) are trying to raise 500 million dollars for his Legacy Library. 500 million dollars...but what books will belong there? It sounds like the primary goals of the library are a)kick backs to wealthy friends in the form of patronage and contracts b) rewriting history to vindicate the president. But seriously, 500 million. Maybe they are buying a ruby studded copy of My Pet Goat. Will there be a section devoted to the great intelligence briefing classics? Will the Library of Congress categories be revised so that The Bible is listed under philosophy, and history?

I'm at a "we ight" loss for words.

Like everyone else I get spam messages. I rarely read even the titles of the messages. Though, when I do it's usually about sexual function, financial windfall, or the apparently well documented problems with my weight. Today I glanced at the subject of one of these spam messages which promised solutions to my problems with "we ight." I wasn't aware that I'd grown so large as to require a plural for descriptive purposes. I should think I really need help if I've swelled to the size of two, or if I've gained such ego that I'm using the royal "we."

The great subject of the email was enough for me to read further, and it only got better.

"Did you know obesity kiIIs more and more people every year? We know you hate the extra pounds, the ugly look and the social stigmata attached to fat people."

I can honestly say I had no idea that fat people were prone to random, holy bleeding in social situations. Shit, health risks are nothing compared to bleeding patterned after the wounds of Christ. Does that make McDonald's the Romans?

Wiiiiiillllllld Turkeys couldn't draaaggg me awaaay...

No apologies to the Stones. I don't like them that much so I'll borrow and mangle their song for my stupid blog post.

An article in the Boston Globe (from Mark and Stacy) makes a big to-do of a wild turkey roaming around Jamaica Plain. Turns out both Mark and Stacy have seen the big bird as it wanders the urban(ish) landscape in search of whatever turkeys eat. The article is really pretty hilarious but, as Stacy pointed out, the best line is this.

"This morning, it was not clear where the turkey was heading. Peering through his windshield, Connelly estimated that the bird weighed seven, maybe eight pounds."

Stacy went on to comment, "This morning? I like that. Like usually the bird says 'hey, I'm going to the Snack Shack. Anyone want anything?'"

I have to agree with Brian who found the line about the turkey trying to get into the school particularly funny. "That bird later tried to enter a nearby school..." I have this image of the turkey walking up to the school only to be turned away by an Orval Faubus-esque figure.

Anyway, everyone needs a little local color, squirrel-that-looks-like-Abe Lincoln story now and again.

The Power of Postively Crazy Thinking

Who said this:

"I am not 'running' for president. I am seeking to create a movement to win the future by offering a series of solutions so compelling that if the American people say I have to be president, it will happen."

Tony Robbins, self help guru, infomercial staple
Tom Cramer
Newt Gingrich, Former Speaker of the House

If you guessed Newt you're right. What a fucked up quotation. It's like a cross between some new-agey, self help guide ("if you say it it will happen") and Harry Potter-level-incantation. I wonder where on the Tom Cramer Delusions of Grandeur Scale (tm) this ranks. I'd have to say only about a 5. Keep in mind the Tom Cramer Delusions of Grandeur Scale (tm) is like the Richter scale, it increases exponentially as you get toward Tom level crazy. For instance this is not nearly as ridiculous as when Tom explained to me that he was planning on leading a great Democratic revolution which would be bigger than the 1994 Contract with America and that he would of course be swept into the Speakership because of his incredible influence and acumen.

Natural selection.

A few days ago while waiting for a prescription to be filled at the local CVS, Jess and I wandered around the aisles for entertainment. It's a little reminiscent of the entertainment Mark and I had for years through just walking in Meijers. It was our attempt at Whose Line is It Anyway mixed with what we figured were biting social critiques of consumption and aesthetic errors. Basically it two kids who weren't going to be out drinking or partying hanging out in the only establishment open past 10pm in Westerville. But I digress. The aisle with the greatest entertainment value in a CVS is, without question, the herbal remedy section. The names are amazing. Wang root, Musk Drops, Birch bark and licorice suppositories, you know things like that. And it requires a incredible patience and eyesight to determine from the packaging what on earth it is that they promise to do. Then after hiding what it is they might be able to help you with, they clearly explain that there is no evidence that they can muster to support the claim that they improve this problem. In the end it's a mystery. I should buy this product but you won't really tell me why, and then after scouring the packaging like I was looking for a Wonka Golden Ticket, you figure out it helps with memory only to be informed, that there's no reason to believe it does that. Sweet. Sign me up.

Whatever annoyances I may have with this aisle, Neil tops me and then some. I just got around recently to reading his really amazing blog post on organics, homeopathy and the like. It's witty, and smart and bitingly funny. I'm going to post some of it here, but really, read the whole thing.

Herbal medicine - I can't stand to hear people who are completely distrustful and skeptical of the pharmaceutical industry (as they rightly should be) talking about echinacea like it's god's gift. Just because the hippy-nutraceutical industry isn't quite as big, and doesn't have intellectual property lawyers up the wazoo, doesn't make them any less crooked. If someone tries to sell you anything to cure something, *be skeptical*, whether they're wearing a suit or hemp. At least the pharmaceutical industry has the FDA to hold them to some basic standards of safety and efficacy.

But no, we like to follow the latest trends, because it's 'natural' and 'chemical-free'. Maybe I can popularize hemlock as a cure for headaches? Or chewing poison ivy as a cure for palpitations? Hell, I don't have to prove jack, because it's a plant. You can't sue me the way you could sue pharma, and I can say whatever the fuck i want on the label as long as I put the 'FDA has not evaluated these statements' warning on it.

Read it all

Good News for People Who Love "Good News for People Who Love Bad News"

Mark emailed me today sharing the good news for people who love "Good News for People Who Love Bad News" That's right, it's a new Modest Mouse album. Since leaving college I have been really quite ill-informed about the latest machinations of any bands. I don't have the energy or ability really to follow the comings and goings of various singers and drummers, the emergence of new sounds, the best new bands or the hottest albums. I'm quickly and inexorably giving up whatever modicum of cool I once desperately clung to. It's all over now. But, that said, I still like a whole bunch of bands, and enjoy new music. So I was excited by Mark's email. New Modest Mouse and what's that you say, there will be songs where Isaac Brock is joined by the lead singer from The Shins--well sign me up.

After a little searching I found a site where you can listen to some of the new songs live. They sound pretty good.

Though, for me at least, it's always hard to figure out from live recordings and performances what songs I'll really love. I guess I'm not as much of a concert goer. I don't respond as viscerally to some songs live as I do to them recorded. Maybe I'm more of a movie guy than a theater guy. The element of live performance doesn't always make it better for me. There is something magical in live performace, I'll certainly agree with that. But for me the miracle of art is being able to share it with people, and I often feel cheated by live art for just this reason. I feel so saddened to think that I've seen something that I won't be able to share with others, that I won't be able to recreate, won't be able to experience again. I am still sad, a little, that I cannot see Ann's senior recital whenever I want. I loved that dance piece (and hell, even did the lights, and contributed the idea for a lift and jump to the piece) and that I cannot show it to Mark or Jess or anyone else who wasn't there, that's tough. I know it should make me feel special, I saw it. I had that experience. But it's quite the opposite, instead of feeling special I feel alone. Instead of feeling blessed I feel burdened, here is this amazing art this incredible experience that I have had and I cannot do it just in explanation and I cannot share it with others. I guess that's part of why live music doesn't do as much for me. Oh, that and the fact that it's a lot of standing in a crowded smoky room, it's noisy, and it involves staying up late. But for me, and for my own self image, I'm going to pretend it's this high minded frustration with the temporary nature, with the inability of the joy to be adequately shared or conveyed, the "survivor's guilt" of great art, if you will.

One Flu Over The...

Slowly over the past few days I've moved back into the realm of the living. I spent all of Friday feeling as though I were being beaten for transgressions that I can only assume were severe, given the ferocity of the punishment they evoked. This was also coupled with a general intestinal, digestive mutiny in which many several systems that heretofore worked harmoniously each decided it was their turn to illustrate the myriad ways in which they could misbehave. My body became like Russia in the early 90s trying to control all these formerly obedient (well, submissive) provinces which all of a sudden decide at once to rebel and generally fuck things up. To avoid specifics, we'll just say my intestines were Chechneya and that the rebels were far more effective in their attacks than I'd have liked.

I can't quite recall the last time I felt as poorly as I did on Friday. I spent much of the day on the couch watching endless recountings of the glory of Bo Schembechler. Several things I learned about Bo Schembechler, 1) He went to Ohio State. Interesting, right. Adds a vaguely Shakespearean element to the battles between he and Woody. Or maybe it's more of a Euripedean element. Anyway, some element was added (Magnesium?). 2) Mitch Albom helped write Bo's autobiography (which I believe makes it a biography, but still). Albom of Tuesday's with Morrie Fame, and the 5 People you Meet When you Get to Stop Listening to Fucking Mitch Albom Eulegize a Damn Football Coach fame, was everywhere. Mitch Albom annoys me in a way that often defies explanation. That said, I'm going to try. Albom always strikes me as an author who is trying to write an entire essay using only the sappy ending lines from frilly hallmark cards interspered with parts of a Succesories poster. It's like he's writing using magenetic poetry built from those two genres. The it's the writing equivalent of cotton candy dipped into more cotton candy. It's shallow and substanceless, and largely about the miracle that comes from suggesting mass and volume. 3) I learned that Bo was a much better coach and probably person than Woody Hayes. Turns out Bo never punched opposing players. Hmm, I guess you could choose to conduct yourself like that. If you were a wuss. Geez, no sucker punching opposing players, no punching camera men, just because you're angry. It's like he was trying to set an example for his players. Loser.

After watching as much Schembechler eulogizing as is healthy for human consumption I... well honestly I don't really remember what I did. Suffice to say I did very little of it, and it was slow and unpleasant. To add to the fun of Friday Jesseca's father was also sick. He had been visiting most of last week. So we had two very sick guys, who barely know one another trying to make conversation and share a single bathroom. I can assure the phrase a good time was had by all has rarely found a less applicable target.

Eventually around 6:00p Jess returned home. I believe at this time her father was sleeping and I was spread out on the floor. I could be wrong in this, I'm honestly not sure. It was a little later that Ann showed up. See we were going to play Settlers. Why you might ask were we going to play Settlers with the residents (and temporary resident) of the apartment in such bad shape? Because I'm a moron. So I lay on the floor and made low pitched, incoherent sounds, while Jess and Ann talked. Eventually after lots of drugs and many attempts to find a comfortable spot on the floor (our couch is entirely too short for me to lay comfortable) I started to make some sense. At least this is what I tell myself to give my recovery something of an arc. We then watched Coupling and I thankfully got to bed and fell asleep-- for real.

Saturday was better. I was feeling my oats, which meant I could eat food again. Not specifically oats, but the point remains. So we managed a game of Settlers. Her father winning under what I can only call very trying and sanity assailing circumstances. Then there was the OSU Michigan game. I pretend, at times, to care very little for my home state. And frankly, it's not really pretending, my home state interets me very little...except on OSU vs Michigan. Something about growing up in Central Ohio makes it impossible to ignore this game. It's everywhere at home. I know without question that 80% of the cars in the parking lots have either a) soaped windows or b) those annoying flags that you put in the window slots of SUVs. I'm sure the local groceries had special savings for The Game. And that's what you call it. There is no need to explain what it is. It is THE GAME. And this year, it really was The Game. There's a good chance that Saturday's game will be better and more descriptive of the best two teams in the country than whatever crap happens in January. Without a full recap: OSU wins, script Ohio continues to be cool, and the Leavy-Boyer household enjoyed the game.

The positive uptic in my health and mood was shortlived. Just after I started to bed the Chechen rebels and, let's say their allies mounted a second offensive. I made in the span of 4-5 hours 13 trips to the battlefield. Finally at 3:30am Jess heroically went to CVS and returned with more medication, ginger ale, pediasure, things like this. You know you are loved when you are sitting on the floor of your own bathroom, simply to reduce the commute and someone will leave their comfortable warm bed to drive into the night to bring back the provisions necessary to keep you from sinking even further into pitifulness. It was a touch and go moment with me regressing to the state of a 5 year old. It's good to be cared for, it's glorious to be loved.

I'm feeling better now, and while I'm still really tired and glad to be at home and not working today (I'd be no use, this writing has tired me out, to say nothing of having to deal with clients and focus groups, etc), I'm even happier to feel connected through illness and strife with Jess. It's a strange thing to find yourself loving someone more after spending many hours with them in a state where you are greasy, sick, incoherent and largely incapable of high brain function. But it's reassuring to know that if they can love you then, that you're pretty safe. Midway through Saturday evening, Jess started to feel a little sick and she's now become the sickly one. It's a chance to return the favor, and remind her of how loved she is.

Scat Cat: Mascot for American Democracy

If the US needed further evidence of the absurdity of our stance on gay rights, we have only to look to South Africa. That's right, South Africa, lately of Apartheid, is ahead of the US on gay rights. See in South Africa, seriously SOUTH FRICKIN' AFRICA, gay couples are allowed to marry. You know where that's not the case, hmm let me think....here.

When you are lagging behind South Africa in the provision of human rights, you really have to start wondering. You think if Bulgaria had a stronger Navy than ours we might want to think things over. You imagine that if Mongolia had a more robust computer industry than we did, that might suggest the need for change. But we're cool with lagging behind South Africa in the provision of basic rights to our citizens. Sigh.

With the recent election results--Democratic dominance and the continued support for anti-gay measures--I'm left thinking that the lyrics from Opposites Attract have seeped into the collective moral conscience of this country.

"I take-2 steps forward
I take-2 steps back"

And now for something largely different.

So I figured after a pretty heavy, or at least long post (2600 words!) I needed a sillier one to follow it. In examining my stat tracker, which is a great distraction for me, I discovered that at least one person in the world came to my website after trying to search for mannequin repair. Try it yourself, go to google and enter the search string: how to repair manequins

Bam, there I am (well second, but still).

UPDATE:
Wow, Google is amazingly quick in its self corrections. I'm already removed from the list of top sites related to manequin (sp, I know) repair. Alas. I'll have to hang my random search hat on some other peg. Who knows maybe "bocce ball dishwasher counting" or "ultimate shark dance excitement" Only google and random inquiries will determine where I rank

Flat Aaron

A few weeks ago while walking on the Mall, Neil, Ann, Brian and I encountered a Flat Stanley. He was laminated, rolled up into a tight tube and wedged in between the openings in a makeshift gate surrounding some DC grass restoration -- a most futile effort, to be sure. Ann noticed him first, and she and I, having each read the books knew immediately what he was. We debated whether or not to take the character and send him off to others, thereby making use of the great skill and most relevant trait of Flat Stanley--namely his capacity to travel and visit places and people.

In the books, Stanley is literally flat. He is bi-dimensional (or at least nearly so). His character is not flat, though. He is a kid, he has traits, he is imbued with enough energy to be capable of moving along a plot, no matter how simple.

Flash forward (or backward depending on whether you accept my previous Stanley anecdote as a point of temporal reference or whether you prefer to use this moment as your guidepost) to earlier today. While waiting to fly standby to Pittsburgh so as to fly to Baltimore and then eventually to get to work, I dropped 5 dollars on a New Yorker. I have to admit that as a liberal elitist, I'm something of a sham. I've never really read the New Yorker. I tend to find the cartoons unfunny, or at least only as funny as a well trod pun. That is, I recongize within it the effort at, and elements of humor but it does little to stir in my merriment. But, today I decided I should get the New Yorker. I should pretend to be erudite and well read, and maybe like with so many other things in my life, the act of pretending might make it so. I trudged through some letters to the editor, and movie reviews. I read bits and pieces of articles which promised to help me in my quest to be cool, in that tweed jacket and brandy snifter way. Or at least in the Volvo driving, best-Lithuanian-restaurant-knowing, kid going to Bryn Mawr way. All in all my first few hours with the magazine were well spent and I found myself thinking quite seriously about ordering a subscription. There was no shortage of postcards with which to indulge this impulse, and so I vowed to mail the post card when I arrived in Pittsburgh.

The love, affection and "if only you gave it a chance" appreciation that I feel for Cleveland has never extended to its Pennsylvania doppleganger. I have little love for Pittsburgh, though honestly I have no real experience with the city. They field a team against whom I routinely root (Steelers) and, really that's about the extent to which I consider the city. We landed there around 11:30 and I dutifully sought out the Post Office. It was staffed by a man whom I can only imagine was trying to win some sort of Milton from Office Space look-a-like contest. In the course of walking to the Post Office I passed two separate TGI Fridays and two Wok 'n Roll "restaurants." First off, Wok 'n Roll is just a horrible name. It's offensive to both concepts which it inelegantly mashes together. Neither food nor music deserve the slight they receive at the hands of this waste of space. But why the Pittsburgh airport needs two of these is beyond me. Out of curiosity, I investigate a nearby map, and find that not only do the fine residents and visitors to the city of Pittsburgh need Wok 'n Roll, but they four of them. Because God forbid one ever be more than 350 feet from a depressed high school drop out wearing velour making awful asian food.

I also have to say that the Pittsburgh airport is really estatic about its own existence. Signs everywhere inform you "There was a farm...That became an airport"
I keep wanting the banners to become imbued with musical abilities: "There was a farm became an airport, A-i-r-POR-T. With a whoosh whoosh here and a TSA there." This celebration of the conversion from farm to a shoddy midwestern airport is beyond me. And to use the passive voice, "became an airport" it's like the airport sprouted up because of some natural process. It's like they watered the field with airplane fuel and magically a runway blossomed.

But I digress. After getting some food (from Au Bon Pain) I settled in to read more of the New Yorker and wait out the layover. Another confession, and one that fits well with what I've already said about the New Yorker. I know nothing about Gertrude Stein. Honestly, nothing. I routinely get her confused with Gloria Steinem. That's how little I know. It's embarrasing and clearly stands in the way of my goal of erudition. But lo and behold, the New Yorker serves up a bountiful feast of Gertrude Stein, a really frickin' long essay. The premise of the essay, by Janet Malcolm is an investigation of her lover (news to me, sorta knew she was gay, no clue the woman was famous) Alice B. Toklas. Judging from the writing, and certainly confirmed by the photos Alice was not a looker. A friend (a friend!) describes her a looking witch-like. So you get the sense that she might have some insecurities living with this 20th Century icon, and having friends call her ugly. It'd get to me, I figure.

While reading this article I'm sitting in the a-ergonomically designed chairs that all airports get from the airport version of Costco. These long rows of chairs with faux-leather pouches that offer little support and less comfort. Directly behind me is some sort of college field trip cum conference. These kids (and they're finally now young enough relative to my age that the term seems apt) are, I later learn, from Towson State and are by even the most generous measures vapid. One guy, the "funny one" is regaling his friends with stories of how dumb he is. And saying, "Sometimes I think I'm the definition of stupid." But you know, people who say that really don't believe they are dumb. They want for someone to either laugh, thereby ensuring that everyone knows it is a joke, or for someone to counter this assertion and offer even faint praise. In this kid's case, he gets laughter. The less reassuring of the two remedies, but I wonder if it's not the one his friends' believe he most deserves.

I tune out their conversation and return to Stein. Turns out, in what has to be a pretty cool idea, that Stein wrote an autobiography of Toklas that is mostly made up and mostly about how great Stein is. How is that for self-absorbed. You make someone else's life a measure of how amazing you are. Their only purpose is to reflect back the rays of your sun like radiance. In transitioning into the discussion of Stein's approach to biography the author of the article offers this great little paragraph on the way that minor literary characters exist within their works.

The minor characters of biography, like their counterparts in fiction, are less tenderly treated than major characters. The writer uses them to advance his narrative and carelessly drops them when they have performed their function...Unlike the flat characters of fiction (as E. M. Forster called them), who have no existence outside the novel they were invented to ornament, the flat characters of biography are actual, three-dimensional people. But the biographer is writing a life, not lives, and, to keep himself on course, must cultivate a kind of narcissism on behalf of his subject that blinds him to the full humanity of anyone else. As he turns the bracing storylessness of human life into the flaccid narrativity of biography, he cannot worry about the people who never asked to be dragged into his shaky enterprise.

It's a tremendous paragraph and sets off in my all kinds of terrible and amazing thoughts. I start to think about the many random people whose names I neither know, or barely remember who populate the stories on this blog, or the memories I cherish. How many people are there who are flat characters in my life. With what arrogance do I assume that they are simply minor characters, people whose only reason for being as far as I can ascertain is to stimulate some comment, some thought, some emotion in me. In 27 years how many people have I only seen as part of my story, not independent agents in their own. And, even worse, can I help but see others this way? For how many people have I been, will I be, a flat character. For how many people will my entire existence be like a rock thrown into a pond--important only in its capacity to create a ripple, and then be absorbed into nothingness, with only that momentary disruption to record its existence. (A little weighty, I grant you, but rest assured I wasn't nearly as sad or despondent as these recollections might suggest)

It's about this time that the guy behind me starts to talk about losing money at the Casino. Apparently they went to Canada and did some gambling and he's bragging about how he lost money. This is a softer version of the game he played earlier. He is trying to mask what is, and must be, an unpleasant thing--losing money--beneath a veneer of boastful disinterest. "Ha, I lost money, but that's okay." Now I realize, odds are (awful pun, I know) he doesn't really care too much about the loss. But it fits with what comes next. As I next pick up the strand of their conversation he's talking about his "pride" (his word) in breaking the stick with which he was "spanked "(his word, mine would be beaten). He talks about how it's great that he was strong enough that the stick broke over his legs when he was being "punished" (his word again, beaten would be mine). He's laughing and joking with these friends and he tells them that when his Dad would spank him he'd instruct the son to make a diamond on the bed. Now I can't see what he's doing with his hands, but I'm certain he's forming a little diamond with them. And then his Dad says for him to "put your nose in the diamond." Giving an unobstructed shot at his kid's ass. The guy keeps joking and says, his Dad was funny because he'd fake a blow, so the child would tense in anticipation and then as soon as his kid stopped then he'd spank him. Everyone is enjoying the story, finding it funny. Finally the kid (who was a child when spanked, and is still today) says that he's really glad he was spanked as a kid. He's glad because "I have all these funny stories."

I don't know this guy. I only know the back of his head, his meaty shoulders, his pierced ear and his military style buzz cut. He could be a Nobel Prize winner in 3 years or a Subway manager. All I know about him are three anecdotes. All I know, comes from these stories and my guess that he spends a lot of his life doing just what I've heard, trying to avoid dealing with actually unpleasant thoughts and experiences (losing money, wondering about your intelligence, being hit) by pretending they are a badge of honor, by immunizing himself from them by celebrating them. And as I listen to him I realize he's only ever going to be a flat character in my life. He's a person who I will write about, whom I will imbue with some extrapolated characteristics, some conjecture and some literary license. I know then, as I know for certain now, that his story will interweave with mine only a little, only this once. That he's going to be a flat character in this blog, maybe a little more well rounded than some, but flat all the same. That I'll write about that intersection but in the end I'll do so in part to celebrate and congratulate myself on being able to write, to see connections. I'll perform the Passover Miracle, I'll take something round and complex and full of energy and flatten it for the sake of speed and expediency and convenience. And none of this is to say I should do otherwise. The fullness of our lives are defined in opposition to those we never or barely know, it is how we know what is our story and what is not.

So I come back to the idea of the Flat Stanley. The great gift of being able to be anywhere, everywhere that comes with being flat, can only occur when you are simply a tangent to the life of a full person. A flat character, a person who simply moves the plot of our life along must lose their agency, at least in our eyes. They are primarily relevant in that they affect in us a reaction.

I left Pittsburgh and made my way back to DC. Worked for a few hours and was readying myself to head home when started an instant message conversation with Jen. Fairly normal conversation until we started to talk about our different understandings of the status of our friendship. We came to realize we had different expectations. I wanted us to be friends in a way similar to how we had been before and she did not. She felt it was wrong to force that to be the case, that breaking up is a sign that we are not meant to be close. I realized in the conversation that she is right, and that much of the stress I feel about that relationship has been made worse by trying to recreate a friendship that feels forced, or at least presumptious.

I realize that no person is fully multi-dimensional in another's story, that we are all flat, just to differeing degrees. And so today, in many ways I went from being, at least in my own mind, a real full character in her story to a Flat Aaron. And that she is now a Flat Jen. Not to say I'm as flat to her as the guy in the airport is to me, but just that in her story I'm a rounded past and a flat present. I'm a point in time, or a line connecting two different moments, but not a full multi-dimensional character. It's not that we won't be friends, or won't chat, or that we dislike one another--not at all. It's just a realization of the transition, we're no longer the full deep characters who drive a biography we're the flat characters. I'm saddened to lose the depth and fullness, to feel in some ways (irrationally, really) rejected again, but like Stanley there is something very freeing in flatness. I think in many ways I've been searching off and on for the permission to flatten her, and be flat myself. I've wanted to be free of the burden of mattering in her story, and free of the burden of giving depth to her role within my own.

I'm blessed to be full-bodied in the stories of my many friends and family, people like my parents and Jess, Mark and Kadie, Brian and JKD,Liz and Libby, Paul and Stacy, Neil and Aaron, Dave and and and etc. And while this blog is often the story of my life, and certainly the story of my view of my life, I like to think my story has room for, and really requires, the fullness and richness of the lives of my many friends and family--people whom I love and who make my autobiography one well worth living, even if it's not always one worth writing.

Stephen: 10lbs of Pretense in a 5lb bag

So while wandering around Wikipedia I found out that Stephen from Season One of Top Chef has his own web site. I eagerly went there, hoping for something that could capture the incredible pretension and self-absorption of his television personna, or a site which would refute that personna.

If you've watched the show, you probably already know which of those two options is confirmed by the site. Yup, he's just as pretentious as you would imagine. It's wonderful.

The opening page features this quotation: "The quintessential epicurean experience is achieved through a balance of the senses and the harmonious marriage of food and wine." Is that true? Sure, I imagine it is. Is it something that only a pretentious, absurd man would feature as the opening page of his food site--you betcha. All this said, in the interest of full disclosure, Stephen was my pick for a good portion of season 1. I loved his presentation and thought he was just too funny not to root for. Someone that arrogant, that annoying, that cocksure. He was like the anal retentive version of Santino.

This season is shaping up to be even better. Marcel is playing a fine variation of Stephen. He's confident, prone to really strange choices for instance making avocado and bacon ice cream for children. It's hard to imagine the thought process that occurs in a chef's head whereby he decides that a) avocado and bacon belong as ice cream flavors or b) that even if they're acceptable flavors that children will want to eat them. This is reminiscent of Stephen lecturing kids at the Boys and Girls Club about the proper French pronuciation of his food, "gafrette." Marcel is also fantastic because he looks like the Top Chef version of Buddy (Syndrome) from the Incredibles.


Seriously, that's disconcerting. I do wonder whether Marcel will try to kill a fat chef whom he once idolized. I can only hope.

A game where principles are at stake

Again I'm reminded, we're not the first people to face faulty politics, nor are we the first to remedy that. A little reminder from TJ.

"A little patience, and we shall see the reign of witches pass over, their spells dissolve, and the people, recovering their true sight, restore their government to its true principles. It is true that in the meantime we are suffering deeply in spirit, and incurring the horrors of a war and long oppressions of enormous public debt......If the game runs sometimes against us at home we must have patience till luck turns, and then we shall have an opportunity of winning back the principles we have lost, for this is a game where principles are at stake. (italics mine)"

--Thomas Jefferson, 1798, after the passage of the Sedition Act

Bill O'Reilly, Dumber than Chance

Bill O'reilly so rarely makes sense that it's hard to believe he's not trying to fail.  It's like when you take a standardized test and try to score highly and get worse than 25%...you almost have to be trying to fuck it up. I mean, random chance suggests that you would score 25%. To do worse than chance puts you in the same part of the Bell Curve as ferns, ginger ale, and the bumper from a 1987 Chevy Blazer. We're talking stupid. So I have to believe that since he, unlike those other nouns, has the power of speech, and occasionally the power of correct syntatic phrasing that he must be trying to fail; he must be willfully moronic. Witness this latest quotation:



"I think the Iraqis have got to step up and at least try to fight for their democracy, instead of being this crazy country of Shiia against Sunni — I don't ever want to hear Shiia and Sunni again." 

Yes, that has to be the solution ...  Iraqi's just have to stop caring about their faith and history and cultures.  Geez...if those things aren't worth giving up they don't deserve democracy.

Sign of the Times

You know how in Batman the police can shine the Bat Sign into the night sky and call forth the help of the Caped Crusader. Yeah, well apparently someone in the Democratic party loaded the light with the Bat-Shit-Crazy Sign and sure enough out popped Tom Vilsack, announcing his run for President. That may not be fair, Tom Vilsack isn't really insane, he's much more inane..

Two days after a Democratic victory that seems to me to have vindicated the notion of standing for prinicple and speaking from the heart to the voters--Tom decides it's his chance to run. Let me be clear, I don't think Vilsack is a bad man, or anything like that. But he is, in my estimation, achingly boring, and uninspiring--painfully uninteresting. This is a man whom I have described as unable to win an election at his own family reunion. He just doesn't inspire much energy, even from people who are seemingly obligated to like him.

But I guess the Inane Sign is shining bright these days. I'm waiting for Evan Bayh to answer the call to duty. Hell if we leave the light up long enough maybe we can get Dick Gephardt to run again.

...and baby I love you Beep beep, beep beep yeah.

After her stint as the adopted staffer for Mary Jo Kilroy (whose daughter Mark informs me went to Oberlin) Jess drove my car to DC. Which means, that the sad white Saturn and I are again reunited. I'm not really one for anthropomorphizing cars. I did, when pressed, name my car. It's Norman. It's a white car, that's none too flashy and certainly servicable. Norman seemed a fitting name.

Now begins the process of registration, emissions checking, etc. Soon I'll have a car that's completely legal in the eyes of the DC government. It'll be nice. To celebrate, I'm going to drive to a frisbee tournament--just the Clique A tournament. But still, no ride requests for Aaron. I'm going to drive others (I hope). I'm excited about being able to get to Virginia and Maryland, to go hiking, to go to Ikea, to go to friends' homes. I think this first trip to a tournament is going to be great. I like to think of it as Norman's Conquest...over bothering friends for rides.

I'm in shock

I feel like I'm an example of many Democrats. I have spent part of today waiting for the other shoe to drop. Waiting for Osama to endorse Sherrod Brown, waiting for some magical horrible twist of the knife. But it's not there. Things just keep getting better. The Secretary of Defense who has so horribly managed this war, and whose myriad failures have cost thousands of American lives and hundreds of thousands of Iraqi lives, to say nothing of our status among the ethical nations of the world, he is retiring. Conrad Burns, he of the secret plan to win the war, is done. And from what I have read, after the canvass is completed the race will be certified--meaning we're likely to win in Virginia as well. So we'll have just won the House and the Senate and seen the resignation of Donald Rumsfeld. To say nothing of the many Governorships and State Houses we retook. It's a pretty amazing day. We have a chance to start changing things. A chance to really make concrete improvements in people's lives. I'm thrilled that the first piece of legislation is going to be the minimum wage. That's perfect. It's common sense, it helps those with lower incomes and will start the ball rolling. Great choice.

One final thought. I know that Rahm Emanuel is going to claim credit for all of this, or at least try to, but Howard Dean's 50 state strategy deserves a ton of credit. Dean decided, as with his presidential bid, that voters in all states were worth fighting for. This energy, this approach meant that we were poised to make gains in states where we're rarely dominant. I cannot help but think that gains in Indiana are related to a belief that it's worth it to fight everywhere. But no region better exemplifies this than the West. Idaho, Wyoming and Montana had close races at all levels. That the Republicans had to pour money into Wyoming and Idaho means that money couldn't be used to turn the tide against Tester or Allen, or against numerous House winners. Howard Dean's belief in fighting everywhere meant that when the wave hit we had people ready to ride it everywhere. His approach meant that Republicans could not take for granted previously safe seats, and while they have a lot of money, it's not infinite. Forcing the GOP to make choices with its resources meant we were able to protect our leads in key states and key races. He was right in '03. He was right in '04. He was right in '05. And boy is he ever right today.