Is This The Best Allocation of Valuable Resources?
Sometimes when I wake up there is a white hair jutting from one of my sideburns, directly perpendicular to my head, and obviously my body labored extremely hard to grow this gravity defying strand of hair in the span of a night, but meanwhile, my knee hurts and my back is sore from swimming and I still have some poison ivy . . . so my question is this: doesn't my body have better projects on which to work, rather than to grow these hairs?
Remind Me To Do This
In his new book The Social Animal, David Brooks cites a psychology experiment I'd like to replicate: in a college psychology class, the students decided to do an experiment on the professor (I'm surprised my students haven't done something like this to me, Lord knows I deserve it as I'm always doing stupid experiments on them) and it was simple yet effective; every time the professor moved to the left side of the room, the students appeared distracted and looked away from him, but every time he moved to the right side of the room, they became attentive and engaged . . . by the end of the period he was nearly out the door (on the right side of the room, of course) and if I read this during the school year, I'd have students doing it to teachers immediately, but since it's summer, I'm going to have to rely on my memory, and-- as this post proves-- this blog is more powerful than my memory.
Novels That The World May Be Better Off Without
Just about everyone has the plot of a novel brewing in their head, and a few weeks ago a friend told me his idea: it involved a Jurassic Park-like resurrection of Jesus Christ, using DNA from the Shroud of Turin, and then there was a Godzilla type monster (I can't remember if that was The Second Coming or the devil or what) and while I can't say that it's any worse than this idea, perhaps it's okay if some novels remain pipe dreams . . .
Remember Plato's Cave?
David Brooks' new best-selling overview of cognitive science, The Social Animal: The Hidden Source of Love, Character, and Achievement, is cleverly written through the perspective of a composite couple (Erica and Harold) and though the book is a review of many books that have already been mentioned on this blog (such as this book, this book, this book, and this book) and many books that I read about cognitive science before I began this blog (which annoys me to no end . . . I really wish I had a record of all the books I read before I started this project) the book was still an excellent read, mainly because of Brooks' effortless novelistic style, and I highly recommend it, although it should be called The Emotional Animal, because the main theme is that people, despite all our conscious powers of logical deduction, are stuck inside flawed but powerful minds, that are biased, opinionated, intuitive, fragmented, difficult to sway, in search of details that match already formed hypotheses, and generally illogical economically and syllogistically as far as our motivations and character.
A Very Cheeky Groundhog
It's been a long time since I've seen a groundhog do anything cheeky (and it still wasn't nearly as cheeky as this) but the drought must be severely depleting whatever groundhogs normally eat, because as we walked down the steps to the pool, my wife looked to her left and said, "There is a large animal on one of the picnic tables eating someone's food," and she was right-- and this was the kind of behavior you expected from a raccoon or cat-- but on closer inspection it was a groundhog, munching away at a ham and salami sub from Park Deli, and I had to swing our pool bag at the groundhog to get it to scamper back into the woods and the sub was ruined, gnawed open and dismantled, and so our friends had to order food from Loui Pizza City.
Are These Absolutely Necessary?
Does an eighteen wheeler carrying a load of giant rocks really need to be any more intimidating than it already is? . . . I guess the particular cab owner I saw on Route 18 thought so, and added some giant spike lug nuts to his tires to ensure than every car near his truck was scared shitless-- of either being hit by falling boulders or impaled by his tires.
New Music: Sometimes There's A Man
Sometimes There's A Man by The Density
The Almighty Yojo has whipped up another collage of sound for your listening enjoyment-- Sometimes There's A Man celebrates everything that is wrong with men . . . for lyrics and more head over here.
The Almighty Yojo has whipped up another collage of sound for your listening enjoyment-- Sometimes There's A Man celebrates everything that is wrong with men . . . for lyrics and more head over here.
No Ghost In This Machine
The Machinist is visual and visceral-- Christian Bale loses so much weight that he literally looks like one of the machines in the shop where he works-- and his body is functioning like a machine in the context of the movie's plot . . . his weight loss and delusions are the result of some very simple cause and effect, and though the movie has stimulating and horrific tableaux throughout and Christian Bale and his delusional doppelganger Ivan (John Sharian) do a fine job acting, the plot is extremely repetitive and it takes along time to get to the pay-off: seven lathes out of ten.
A Stupid and Annoying Paradox
As you get older, your brain has a harder time recalling things, but your body remembers every injury crystal clear.
JCVD: A Meta-Action Movie
I'm sure I would have appreciated JCVD more if I had seen more Jean-Claude Van Damme movies-- I think the only one I ever watched in its entirety was Bloodsport . . . or if I read the tabloids more and knew anything about his life-- but I still found the premise intriguing, though it dragged a little at the end; Van Damme plays a down and out version of himself, sincere and beaten, losing a custody case for his daughter, losing roles to Steven Seagal, unable to access funds, and painfully honest about his career, his art, and living the shallow life of a celebrity; ultimately the film asks a meta-question: does acting translate to reality? are actors skilled in what they portray or are they truly just pretending? could Paul Newman really shoot a game of pool? is Clint Eastwood actually tough? can Natalie Portman do ballet? and can Jean-Claude Van Damme actually use his martial arts training to rescue himself and others from a real hostage situation? . . . you'll have to watch the film to see the answer, and endure a six minute sincere monologue from Van Damme about the significance (and futility) of his life, and I didn't fully understand the very end . . . warning: spoiler! . . . why he is convicted, but if you like action and you like meta and you like the darkness of foreign film then you will like this story.
The True Purpose of This Blog!
So during my arduous summer project-- tearing down the ivy encrusted rotting fence in our backyard and replacing it with a similar but new non-rotting fence-- I stepped on a rusty nail and it penetrated the sole of my foot and so I went on-line and read a bit about tetanus and lockjaw (you CAN get tetanus from a rusty nail and it CAN kill you) and decided that I should get a tetanus shot, as they only last ten years and I couldn't remember the last time I had gotten one, and then I had the bright idea of searching "tetanus" on Sentence of Dave and I was directed to this post, which made me absurdly happy.
I Cause Marital Conflict
So I'm walking across the parking lot of our condo in Chatham and a lady riding by in a BMW stops her car and says to me (in her Boston accent) "Didja heah my cah squeak?" and I did hear her car squeak, so I say that I heard a squeak and so she turns to her husband in the passenger seat, points at him, and says, triumphantly: "See! He heard a squeak," and then a few minutes later I see her driving all alone, slowing down, and then speeding up, listening, and she says to me, "Nobody heahs my squeak."
Bonus Post at G:TB!
If you want to know how to survive a tritium leak, and/or you like bugs, then you should check out my post at G:TB.
Our Band Could Be Your Life
Our Band Could Be Your Life: Scenes from the American Indie Underground 1981-1991 by Michael Azerrad, is less about the music and more about the story of thirteen indie bands, including some of my favorites such as Dinosaur Jr, The Minutemen-- who provided the title-- Minor Threat, Mission of Burma, Husker Du, The Replacements, Sonic Youth, and Fugazi . . . and the story of these bands is surprisingly similar:
1) feel detached and isolated from the other young people around you
2) form a band
3) practice an insane amount while the rest of your peers are doing school, girls, sports, and other "normal" things
4) procure a beat up van
5) go on a DIY "tour" in aforementioned van, playing sixty shows in fifty days-- in odd venues-- to crowds ranging from a half-dozen to a hundred people, making very little money, barely enough to cover food
6) record an album on the cheap, very quickly, but proficiently, because you are so well practiced from your tour
7) do more tours in the dirty and cramped van, which will insure conflict between the band members and everyone else "touring" with you, but also get your name out there
8) finally receive critical acclaim, but after it is too late
9) attempt to sign with a major label, but either get screwed or lose artistic control or fall apart because of the constant touring
10) realize this would have been so much easier if the internet was around . . .
I give the book ten EP records out of a possible ten, and though I've outlined the archetypal structure of most of the chapters, God is in the details, and Azerrad treats the details just right-- he doesn't idolize or romanticize these bands and their music but he does get across the epic nature of what they were trying to accomplish, and he shows how they achieved success with minimal technology, support, popularity, and (sometimes) musical ability . . . as The Minutemen said, "We jam econo."
Appropriate Meta-Cameo
I rarely recount my dreams here because if I did, I'd be labelled a hypocrite (and because I almost never remember them) but bear with me on this one: I was having a typical spooky nightmare, driving on a dark snowy road in Maine and when I arrived at my house, someone (or something) had jabbed large icicles in a pattern on the door and around the windows and up onto the roof of the house . . . and then Stephen King and I got out of the car to investigate and we were eventually attacked with snow and ice by some delinquent, inbred kids . . . pretty scary stuff, except that I had Stephen King by my side, so I was never all that scared of the situation because no one is scarier than Stephen King and he was my ally (at one point, I even playfully tossed a snowball at him and nearly hit him in the nuts and he laughed about it).
Don't Squash My Delusions
I am really, really good at swatting flies-- definitely way above average (or so I believe, but this could be an example of the Lake Wobegon Effect . . . as I also believe I am a really, really good driver).
Bonus Post at G:TB!
If you love America, athletics, and women, then you'll probably want to check this out.
Is This Rude or Just Clueless?
So at the condo we stay at in Chatham, we often see the same families year to year-- and my parents have befriended some of them-- so an older mom that lives in New York City . . . a woman who I haven't seen since last Fourth of July, who I would say I know tangentially in the least, and who I've never had an actual conversation with . . . greeted me in this fashion when I first saw her at the pool: "I have a favor to ask you . . . do you think you could teach our son how to ride a two-wheeler, he's seven and a half and he still can't ride," and though her husband was playing with their son in the pool, right there, he didn't say a word-- so I'm not sure which is ruder, asking me that monumental favor, or standing there-- as a dad-- and letting your wife ask such a monumental favor and not saying something like, "She's just kidding . . . you're kidding, right, hon?" but he didn't say anything and so I was forced to answer her and I should have said something about the time, effort, pain, and suffering it usually takes to teach a kid to ride a bike, but instead I suggested that she "take him to a ball field" where he could ride on the dirt and not get as scraped up (and my parents reported that they did see them all at a ball field, their son decked out in elbow and knee pads trying to ride a bike that was too small for him).
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)