Periscope Depth

as far back as I can remember, I always wanted to be a gangster

Professor Coldheart — Wed, 30 Nov -0001 00:00:00 +0000

childhood fascination with trade * "people starving in China" * ticket scalpers * Chip & Dale split a peanut destined to be an economist

every night the dream's the same: same old city with a different name

Professor Coldheart — Wed, 30 Nov -0001 00:00:00 +0000

"I've given serious thought to freezing myself when I die," I said. "Why?" she asked. "Because I don't want to die," I said. To her credit, she addressed the idea on face value, rather than dismissing me as a crank (immediately). "But would you really want to wake up in a completely foreign future, when everyone you know had died, with no marketable skills or assets?" When she put it that way, I probably didn't. But I still wonder if it would be worth it. I love everything I do at the moment. I'll star in a summer stock production of a Durang play in a few weeks. I go out and drink, dance and sing with my friends regularly. I study jiu-jitsu and fumble my way through teaching it. I have friends I can drink with and friends I can game with; many of them fit in both categories. I have a pretty awesome job in a growing industry that continues to challenge me. I have a new apartment in a hip neighborhood that rewards every attempt I make at exploring it. I have a really good life right now. But I don't have enough time. I already cut back on jiu-jitsu and writing in order to rehearse for this play. I cut back on the gym sometimes due to workload. I have a shelf full of DVDs I've never watched.

if I don't get some shelter, ooh yeah, I'm gonna fade away

Professor Coldheart — Wed, 30 Nov -0001 00:00:00 +0000

Never turn your back on the ocean.
Hawaiian proverb

My friend Auston grew up in Hingham, a tony little town on the south shore of Massachusetts. He described once some new neighbors who, immediately after moving in, started work on a magnificent dock. The father, an engineer, designed the dock personally, reinforcing the supports to fight the stresses of the heaviest tides. Every now and then he would share a beer with Auston's father and indicate the progress in construction. Auston's father would look at his own weathered slip at the edge of his property - weathered, six feet wide and maybe ten feet long - and say nothing. About a year later a massive storm came in and played hell with the tides. When it left, it took his neighbor's custom-built dock with it. Every last beam. I rag a lot on the State, the Church, giant Corporations and institutions in general - any massive bureaucracy that takes on a bizarre intelligence of its own, beyond the aggregate of its members. But I would not draw breath today were it not for institutions like that, nor would another five thousand, five hundred million of you. Take my eyesight alone: with my -8.5 prescription, I could contribute nothing in the ancestral environment except perhaps my water to the tribe. If no one left me on a hill side at birth I would have died before passing on my genes. Hell, take it back a step further: my nearsighted parents would never have even been born, much less lived long enough to make me happen. Add to that my seasonal asthma, my allergies, my greedy metabolism, and my ability to get sunburned and I already need an extensive and generous support network just to stay alive four months out of the year. I need the products of the innovation and trade of hundreds of thousands of people. To make those products, they need institutions that keep them safe. If you spend every waking hour thinking about getting food or shelter, you have very little time to invent a more comfortable contact lens. Trade makes everyone richer. Institutions make trade easier. If we believe Nozick and Locke, people agree to a State - to surrender the right of violence to a sovereign and his agents - because they think it will make them safer. They outsource their safety production in order to specialize on other tasks. Regardless of what you think of any given religion, people make time for Church because of a sense of community. They want to surround themselves with like-minded thinkers. They can ask favors of these people as friends, and do favors in turn because they enjoy seeing like-minded people prosper. And merchants first formed Corporations in order to limit their liability in investments. By pooling resources and creating an entity apart from themselves, investors could enjoy greater profits and minimize risks. In each case, an institution arises out of the desire for safety. But then, something happens. Louisiana evacuates just ahead of Hurricane Gustav:

Power lines were downed across Louisiana, with authorities saying some outages may last for weeks. Half of New Orleans was without power. Rooftops were ripped off. Trees and other debris blocked roads in Lafayette, Baton Rouge and other towns, with people reporting extensive damage to roofs and homes further down the coast. The governor, Bobby Jindal, warned that the state remained at risk of rising floodwaters. "I don't want anyone having a false sense of hope, it is still too early," he told a press conference in Baton Rouge. "The worst tidal surges may be on the back end of the storm."

Is the planet starting to kick back at the human species? Is nature tossing up worse storms than usual? Or are the institutions that protect us from nature starting to fail? Human beings live in a remarkable number of precarious places: Tokyo, Los Angeles, Las Vegas, Holland. Yet you never hear of floods killing thousands of people in Holland (as they have this year in India), or of an earthquake killing 10,000 in Tokyo (as one did this year in China). You never see thousands of people fleeing Los Angeles or Las Vegas due to drought, as they are in Yemen. What makes the difference between Holland and India, or Tokyo and China, is the presence of capital. The last time I talked about economics, [why is capital failing? institutions leaching it away; i.e., Iraq Civil War, housing bubble]

c is for cookie; that's good enough for me

Professor Coldheart — Wed, 30 Nov -0001 00:00:00 +0000

I've never been easy with the notion of artificial scarcity - the idea that withholding supply from the market will somehow inflate demand. The economist in me doesn't like that story. There's more to demand than pure scarcity, after all. And yet in the case of Girl Scout Cookies it clearly works. Web 2.0 has made it easier than ever to find Girl Scout Cookies, but it's not effortless. You need to find your local council first - not a difficult step, but non-trivial - then you need to get a schedule of where vendors will appear. Then you need to show up with cash in hand. You can't order through the website and have them delivered to your door. As a strong devotee of convenience this would bug me. But I understand that the Girl Scouts don't sell cookies simply to raise cash. The annual sales drive is also supposed to teach girls lessons about public speaking, entrepreneurship, basic accounting, etc. Valuable life lessons. In contrast, none of the shit I learned in Boy Scouts has ever come in handy, except "cut away from yourself, not toward."

rock and roller, cola wars

Professor Coldheart — Wed, 30 Nov -0001 00:00:00 +0000

* "We didn't start the fire" isn't a bad song * it rhymes, it scans * even if it picks out odd bits from the years it covers, they're not obscure items * challenge: write an equally catchy song that covers the twenty years since

let fury have the hour; anger can be power

Professor Coldheart — Wed, 30 Nov -0001 00:00:00 +0000

"Happy birthday," I said, hugging the hostess good-bye and heading out. "Get home safe," Bobby said. The walk home took me through Porter Square, which arches over the train tracks and links Cambridge to Somerville. I passed by Toad; the evening's band stood outside smoking. "I mean, I'm all right," one guy said, "but when the drummer starts going ba-na-na-na, na-na-na-na, I mean: what am I gonna do?" A block later, a shrill voice caught my attention. A woman in a shapeless hoodie was ducking her elbow out of a man's grip. "I just wanna go home," she whined. "You wanna go home?" the man yelled, loud enough to be heard at both ends of the block. "No cab's gonna take you home." It's not your problem, I told myself. This shit happens in the city all the time. Walk away. A cab pulled up at the woman's hail. She tried to get in the back door; the guy elbowed past her, asking something of the driver. The driver pulled away. I kept going, forcing myself not to look back. Then I heard the KA-WHUMP of a body hitting metal. Across the street, the man had the woman pinned by her wrists in the iron-grilled doorway of a closed store. He snarled something at her through clenched teeth. Fuck it. "Hey!" I barked, jogging across the street. I checked for traffic in both directions as I crossed Mass Ave. The man finished his conversation with the woman, either not evaluating me as a threat or not realizing I was there. Then he spotted me, half a block away. "What's your fucking problem?" he asked. "Huh? You mind your fucking business, buddy." He stalked at me with purpose, arms angled at his sides, fists clenched. "Is the lady okay?" "Is the lady okay? She's my fucking wife; of course she's okay." He got three inches from my face. At this point I have already failed the essential elements of nine years of training. My hands are up, but he's well inside them. If he intended to do anything, I'd have little - if any - defense against it. Add to that the fact that I'm not defending myself: I have inserted myself into a hostile situation. If this guy wants a free swing at me, I've stuck my chin out over the fence and painted a target on it. But he turns and walks back to his wife. She's wandering toward Porter Square, weaving from despair and intoxication, looking for ... a cab? a cop? I don't know. I watch to see how far she gets. Her husband catches up to her, circling around her to get in her face. She tries to avoid him, but he won't lay a hand on her; he just interposes himself. Then he sees me, still standing there. "What did I fucking tell you?" Back he comes. My hands are well up this time. "I will knock your fucking block off." I'm standing on the driver's side door of a parked car. The light has just changed outside Porter; cars are rushing toward us. We're standing in the bike lane, with inches of clearance on either side. "You want to take this to the sidewalk?" I ask. "Yeah, I'll take it to the fucking sidewalk." As I shift back, the man still circling with me, I see his eyes dart over my right shoulder. I don't look that way. Regardless, once we're safely on the sidewalk, the man gives me a four-fingered push to the chest with both hands. "Stay out of my fucking business." As he walks away I look where he looked. An older man and woman have stepped out of the Newtowne Grille - where these two were undoubtedly drinking - and looked in the direction of the melee. I see them; they see me. As I look back, the wife has ducked around the corner toward the Porter Square shopping center. The man follows, sidling around a cab as it screeches to a halt at a one-way street. She's farther away, I think. She can call a cab or a cop from the 24-hour Shaws, or the CVS. I've done everything I can - more than I ought to, really. Hunching my shoulders up, I walk northward on Mass Ave toward my home. As I pass the door to the Newtowne Grille, the woman gives me a slight nod. I've inserted myself into a hostile situation that was strange to me. The woman clearly didn't want intervention: me getting her husband's attention gave her plenty of chances to run. It's assault if I strike the guy first, I tell myself. But as I'm walking homeward, knees still shaking with adrenaline, I wonder if that's what's holding me back. At no point in the exchange did I feel ready - like if the guy threw down I could take the punch or return one of greater force. I could see it in his eyes, I said. If he were going to take a legit swing I would have seen it in his eyes. I did everything I could - more than I ought to, really. I made it maybe a block before turning around. Another couple stumbled out of Newtowne Grille as I passed it again. The band continued to smoke outside Toad, laughing and carrying on. I hoped the high pitched sounds I heard were students laughing, or drivers screeching their brakes, not this woman I'd nearly walked away from. Please, just let them be gone. Let them be out of sight and mind. As I passed the Dunkin Donuts at the corner of Porter Square, one of the guys from Toad dashed across the street. He whistled a cab over. The woman was leaning against a brick wall, shielding herself as her husband stood inches from her. He yelled in that quiet way guys have when they're trying to prove how controlled they're being. The woman went for the cab, breaking the guy's attention. Then he spotted me. "What did I fucking tell you? Didn't I fucking tell you to mind your own fucking business an hour ago?" An hour? How drunk was he? "I want to make sure the lady's okay." "Of course she's fucking o--" "I'll hear it from her." I can almost see my knees shaking from adrenaline. But, oddly enough, the guy turns. "Will you tell this asshole you're okay?" he yells at his wife. And she nods. "You sure?" I ask her. She's fifteen yards away. "Hey, buddy, what's your fucking problem?" Another two-handed shove to the chest. I roll with it, shifting back a foot. That's twice now he's touched me. Why haven't I reacted? He doesn't have it in him, I thought. While this failed confrontation went down, the guy from Toad tried to usher the woman into a cab. The cab driver wasn't hearing any of it, though, especially when the man came back around to argue with his wife some more. And I stood there, on the corner of Mass Ave and the Shaw's parking lot, like a bump on a log. The husband spots me again. "What are you still doing here?" he asks. And, devil take me, this confrontation repeats about six times. Variations on the theme include:

"I gave you options. I gave you fucking options." Another attempted shove.
The guy from Toad interposing between us - me, standing there with my hands up and the blankest look of idiocy on my face; the guy leaning in with his chest out, advancing through pectoral motion.
"I'm giving you to the count of five," he yells. "One! Two! Three!" He flings his sweatshirt to an iron bench. "Four! Five!" He fakes for a swing, shuffling backwards as he does.
"Get your fucking ass out of here, you skinny ass faggot. Go home and fucking jerk off." He does have twenty pounds on me, all on display in the form-fitting white T-shirt that guys who spend lots of time doing curls wear. I have four, maybe five inches of height on him; that's it.
At one point he gets back in my face; I have my hands helpfully outside his body once again (learn a proper fucking defensive stance, Sensei, eh?). "Get that hand out of -" He shoves at my right hand with his right. Without even thinking I push his arm aside with my left. He staggers for a second, then gets back in my face before the guy from Toad can return.
I notice, above the guy's unfocusing eyes, the Kangol logo on his baseball cap. We have the same hat manufacturer, I think. How could we be fighting? These are the things that occur to you when ways to respond to a threat should.
"I don't want any trouble," I told him for the seventh time. "Yeah?" he asked. "Come on. Hit me. Hit me!" And I realized we were in the same boat: he was looking for the same excuse to start something I am. Only he clearly wanted the fight, and I pretty clearly didn't. What's it going to be like when he takes that first swing?, I wondered. A blinding crunch, a loss of balance, then? Will my reflexes kick in? Ever?

After this last confrontation, I saw over his shoulder that the woman had made it to the CVS, a good eighty yards away. The guy turned back, wandering out of my line of sight. After her? Toward the cab? The man from Toad had tried three times to summon the rest of the band over; they remained across the street, smoking. She's out of his reach. I turn and I walk north. "If he was going to throw a punch he would have," one of the band observed. "Fucking pussy!", another yelled. They meant the husband, who's gotten inches from my face half a dozen times now and done nothing. They meant him. Probably. I made it all the way home this time, hair damp from rain. Every limb shook as I came down off the confrontation high. This happened Friday night. This happened an hour ago. This happened in Porter Square, less than a mile from my home, in the rain and with half a dozen witnesses. Did I handle myself as a nine-year student, a black belt and a Sensei should? I walked away intact. I didn't start a fight. But I let the guy get way too close to me way too many times. Maybe I didn't force a confrontation because, with my training, I could see that he wasn't going to take a swing. Maybe I knew the law would favor him over me if I threw the first punch. Or maybe I was just scared. But more important than that: did I do right by her? Did I give her the chance to get away? If she found a cab, did she tell it to take her back to the home she shares with that man? Did I arouse an anger that he'd later take out on her? Perhaps I could have ducked around a corner, out of his line of sight, and called the cops on them. Or I could have checked in with the guy from Toad, clearly a veteran of these sorts of scuffles: "am I helping out here? should I walk away?" But when you're high on the most powerful drug the body can produce, you don't think straight. I don't know if I lived up to either expectation. All I know is that he's going to bed certain he was right, and I'm going to bed uncertain. And I don't like the way that feels.

there were three of us this morning; I'm the only one this evening

Professor Coldheart — Wed, 30 Nov -0001 00:00:00 +0000

Taking a one week break in my halting series on dismantling the mind-body dichotomy^* to do something I try not to do that often: talk about politics. Last week, Kerry Howley wrote, in a debate in Reason Magazine about the proper focus of the libertarian movement, that there are other obstacles to liberty than the State. Many libertarians, she noted, didn't give a lot of weight to the influence that culture has on constraining choices.

I am disturbed by an inverse form of state worship I encounter among my fellow skeptics of government power. This is the belief that the only liberty worth caring about is liberty reclaimed from the state; that social pathologies such as patriarchy and nationalism are not the proper concerns of the individualist; that the fight for freedom stops where the reach of government ends. It was tradition, not merely government, that threatened to limit Min’s range of possible lives. To describe the expanded scope of her agency as merely “freedom from state interference” is to deny the extent of what capitalism has achieved in communist China. As former Fundamentalist Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints leader Warren Jeffs can tell you, it’s possible to be an anti-government zealot with no interest whatsoever in individual liberty. [emphasis mine]

This is something I've already believed for a while. Despite the nature of a State's coercive power, removing a State overnight doesn't transform people into Utopians. True freedom requires a change of mindset, not just an absence of regulation. But it was that last line that sold me. When people like Glenn Beck and Michelle Malkin start quoting Ayn Rand with approval, it doesn't turn me onto them - it turns me off of Rand. This is a frustrating place for me, as I've been against the bailout since before it passed. I'd like to count one of the most influential talk show hosts and one of the most popular webloggers in America as ideological fellows, if it weren't for their dishonesty, villainy and general dumbness. ________________ ^* Are people finding this interesting, by the way? Not interesting as in, "Ooh, wow, Professor - you're such a fascinating theorist. Nobody, certainly not Daniel Dennett or Robert Wright or Stephen Pinker or Eliezer Yudkowsky or Rene Descartes, has ever thought about consciousness before." But interesting to watch me stumble my way through auto-epistemology. I'm not framing my thoughts on the mind-body dichotomy this way as some sort of stilted lecture. I'm writing it a week at a time because it takes me about a week to figure out what last week's post implied. You're watching me discover this. Is that interesting? I'd understand a "No."

throw your hands up

Professor Coldheart — Wed, 30 Nov -0001 00:00:00 +0000

Rehearsals for Discount Shakespeare started last night. This brings a lot of challenges, logistically and creatively, but it also brings a lot of excitement. My weeks will fill up quickly over the next three months, but in a good way. The one downside: missing out on trivia. I've rediscovered the joys of pub quizzes. Once a month or so, my coworkers and I walk to Fire & Ice after work for cheap appetizers ($3) and cheap beer (Rolling Rock). Then, at 6:30, the trivia DJ takes the mic and blitzes us through a round of Stump! Trivia, Boston's most ubiquitous pub quiz franchise. And when I say "blitzes," I mean Hitler invading France. This guy is fast. Our current theory is that he has another trivia gig at 8:30. When he wraps up the final question - where you wager between 2 and 10 points, with half being deducted from your score if you're wrong - he starts packing up immediately. He's already got his jacket on and his bag on his shoulder by the time you come to claim your prize. ["I can be counted on to ..." lots right, but one really wrong] [rampart]

best of 2007

Professor Coldheart — Tue, 01 Jan 2008 04:01:00 +0000

Best Entries of 2007: January buying a tape puts work on my odometer: running out of gas on 93 South 24x06: The First Four Hours: Are 24's "politics" inspiring real-life political debate? My Style's Protected by Heat Shields and Ceramics: What I'd hoped would be a continuing series, but I frankly ran out of anecdotes. Regardless, a Tale of the Brain Trust and its experiments with Starcraft. I'm not as young as I look, girl; I'm old school: I plagiarize heavily from Neal Stephenson in talking about OS switching February better be a household name: In which I ask a very important entymological question? (The answer, by the way, is "Stankonia") March Think of the tender things that we were working on: I have a dumb idea about how history should be taught feeling all alone without a friend you know I feel like dying: I ladle hate onto Stephen Brust's The Phoenix Guards and L. Neil Smith's The Probability Broach everybody's at disadvantage speaking with their second language: My thoughts on America's Next Top Model tarzan and jane went swingin' on a vine: I complain about radio edits of pop songs so don't you lock up something that you wanted to see fly: my trip to the dentist. April baroque moved you; you loved mozart: The annotated Dennis Miller and these children that you spit on: I go off on National Review's unofficial responses to the Virginia Tech massacre all you want to do is ride around, sally: My cousin's wedding in Orlando I'm on the straight line when the man comes around: on the two kinds of dumb - the kind that comes from being uneducated, and the kind that comes from being too educated May wish you would step back from that ledge, my friend: my experiences on the 48 Hour Film Project now listen closely to what I say: my one and only auto accident in my life, by way of a Mother's Day anecdote so I made a big mistake: The hot dog flowchart June soul radiation in the dead of night; love in the middle of a firefight: I get in touch with my Hunter S. side You Shall Not Side With The Great Against The Powerless: "No one gets that worked up over civil procedure." you'll see your problems multiply: Depeche Mode haiku day doctor doctor, gimme the news: I just can't stop talking about health care July and he's trading in his Chevy for a Cadillac-ack-ack-ack-ack-ack: My first impressions of Union Square when you're ready we can share the wine: "If you were an evil mastermind, you couldn't come up with a better way to distract me for two hours than to say, 'Hey, perich! Some guy's talking about the economics of the RPG industry! I want to hear what you think!'" nine, nine, nine for the lost god: The Pizza Hut P'ZONE and the birth of "awesrageous" so don't you lock up something that you wanted to see fly: my first time at South Street Barbers well it happens out in vegas, it happens in n'orleans: I rant about licensing planning for the apocalypses: I psych myself out August it's all right; there comes a time: I answer some controversial questions. my friend's from college, they're all married now: and ' wedding, Part 1. don't you never, ever pull my lever: Part 2. I can't hear you; I said, what's cooler than being cool?: Part 3. September there's always room in life for this: I do yoga for the first time ever. when every single meeting with his so-called superior is a humiliating kick in the crotch!: Bizarro how can you refuse it?: When people tell me to "never forget" on September 11th, these are the sort of things I remember. and I follow the speed in the starlight: Interpol live. 'cause when I shoot the gift I shoot to kill: ten hip hop heresies. didn't know I was chillin' with a loaded gun: here's what a shooting day for The Waste Land looked like. October I have always depended on the kindness of strangers: the new roommate. I told you I was trouble: "An institution is not one thousand people all conspiring to do evil. An institution is one million people with no incentive to do good." if you can't make it, stay hard, stay hungry, stay alive: the road to black belt. his palms are sweaty,/A>: the epic rap battle between and I. I've been running monday, tuesday, wednesday, thursday, friday, saturday, sunday: the cast of The Waste Land nearly gets arrested. why'd you say hallelujah when it means nothing to ya?: An open letter to Senator John Cornyn. this radio station is named ... kowalski: "instruments only." "dance of death." dry summer, then comes fall: the family visits Boston. I want so badly to believe that there is truth and love is real: the outline of my future self-help book. November for I can see inside your head: a decent anecdotal weekend. I see a woman in the night with a baby in her hand: the Saudi judiciary and New York Jets fans. my father sits at night with no lights on; his cigarette glows in the dark: Fuck Senator John McCain (R-AZ). seven: this rule is so underrated: it's a survey, but I reveal some interesting things here. December if you could read my mind, love: the best books of the 50 I read in 2007 my mathematical mind can see the breaks: I rant about Bush's mortgage freeze plan drive in, drive out, I'm leaving: my epic drive home in the December 13th blizzard I guess that I should probably leave right now: my epic dash through BWI

and never brought to mind

Professor Coldheart — Wed, 02 Jan 2008 01:02:00 +0000

I don't have any New Years' resolutions. Everything I want to do in 2008, I already started doing at some point in 2007^*. Let me tell you: that makes it much easier to stick to. ^* Lifting, writing, teaching jiu-jitsu, doing improv, taking chances with the girl I love, meeting new people, asking girls out, singing in public, trying new drinks, choosing to spend time with people rather than alone when I'm on the fence about the two, getting a new computer, cleaning my room

the overhead view is of me in a maze

Professor Coldheart — Wed, 02 Jan 2008 14:43:00 +0000

Friday I took my monthly sauna, then drove to Cambridge to celebrate RJ's () birthday at the Midwest Grill. and had made the trek all the way from Chicago to toast the man (and to see family and friends, etc), so I got to catch up with them, as well as the rarely seen Erik . Apparently Erik has just moved into a small but well-placed apartment in Boston's Back Bay. I gorged myself on meat but left room for dessert, as usual. "That plate of ice cream is bigger than your head," Dea observed. "It is not," I retorted. "I've got a really big head." I followed the party to Katie () and RJ's apartment, catching the last few minutes of Santa's Slay and helping RJ break open Super Mario Strikers. Quick review: it's like soccer, but fun. You control the Mario characters with the Wii paddles, maneuvering them around a highly destructible soccer field. Super-charged shots and tackles enable you to set the ball on fire, electrocute your opponents and launch a barrage of multiple shots on goal at once. On Saturday, I cleaned out my closet for the first time in, I believe, ever. I now have a stack of clothes on the floor of my bedroom that can go to Goodwill or a consignment store at some point soon. I then cracked open a Christmas present - some Shield - and had a late lunch. Patriots madness at Fraley and Melissa's place in Newton came next. Guests included Hawver, Dea, Will S. and Kate (). The Patriots obliged us by scraping and scrabbling until the 4th quarter, when Maroney found his footing and the defense started to make some tackles. "I know Wes Welker's of average height," Will said, "but he looks so small on the field." "And his perfectly unblemished skin really stands out on hi-def," I said. "What?" I added a moment later. Sunday found me at Auston and Deirdre's for boardgames. The highlights of the day:

Catchphrase: Pass around a handheld LCD display that gives you a phrase to coax out of your teammates (a la $10,000 Pyramid or Cat Password). If your team's holding the device when the timer goes off, the other team wins. Auston, Deirdre and I share pretty common thought patterns, such that we can guess each other's answers very quickly even with incomplete or incorrect clues. Could you get "Rookie of the Year" if the clue was "not Dustin Pedroia"? Especially considering he was the AL Rookie of the Year?
Illuminati: Despite the occasional moments of hushed and flurried math, I still find Illuminati really fun. I got labeled the scourge pretty early on, leading everyone to gang up on me and (accidentally) give the game to David's wife, Michelle. Rest easy, folks - the Bermuda Triangle does not rule your world tonight.
Cineplexity: Draw two cards at random, each of which names a film trope - a setting element, like a Wedding; an important prop, like a candlestick; a particular actor, like Al Pacino; etc. The first team to shout out a movie that combines both of those tropes gets the card and the point. Christine () and I went on a tear as team "This Totally Isn't Weird," racking up one obscure flick after another. This game proved so fun we all played it twice, discovering in the process that "Back to the Future" can be used for many, many different categories. (Oh, and: if you can think of a movie that both [A] stars a Baldwin, Barrymore or Fonda and [B] stars an Actor With The Same Last Name as a U.S. President, you'll accomplish what a dozen adults couldn't with ten minutes of silent trying on Sunday. Good on ya!)

I ducked out of boardgames early to revive an old tradition over in Newton: Starcraft LAN parties with Hawver and Fraley. In the age of 2.0gHz processors and wireless networking, setting up a local Starcraft game has never been easier, and we were all patched and logged on within minutes. Except for Fraley, who had to disable Windows Firewall first. Our initial forays against the computer proved hilariously abortive; later attempts only prolonged the agony. We retreated to the kitchen to discuss battle plans and consume the delicious hot toddies that Mel had made for us. I rediscovered my early game with a little practice (build, build, build) but forgot everything I knew about the midgame. I never expanded in time and lost the ability to focus on multiple priorities at once. When my Terrans weren't overrun, they quickly lost the ability to contribute in any meaningful way. But just being able to sit around with the gang, drinking heavy and yelling at SCVs while the snow fell outside, brought it all back for me. We can always be young again.

so now watch what you say, or they'll be calling you a radical

Professor Coldheart — Thu, 03 Jan 2008 04:38:00 +0000

From What Privileges Do You Have?, based on an exercise about class and privilege developed by Will Barratt, Meagan Cahill, Angie Carlen, Minnette Huck, Drew Lurker, Stacy Ploskonka at Illinois State University. If you participate in this blog game, they ask that you PLEASE acknowledge their copyright. Bold the true statements. 1. Father went to college 2. Father finished college 3. Mother went to college 4. Mother finished college 5. Have any relative who is an attorney, physician, or professor. 6. Were the same or higher class than your high school teachers. [Leaving this blank because I don't fully understand it. Isn't the point of this test to see what "class" I'm in anyway? How can I know this early on?] 7. Had more than 50 books in your childhood home. 8. Had more than 500 books in your childhood home. 9. Were read children's books by a parent. 10. Had lessons of any kind before you turned 18 11. Had more than two kinds of lessons before you turned 18 12. The people in the media who dress and talk like me are portrayed positively. [People underestimate how big a deal #12 is. As I've said before: I'm a white male over six feet with good hair and no visible piercings. I will never have trouble getting a job, loan or access to a secure area.] 13. Had a credit card with your name on it before you turned 18. 14. Your parents (or a trust) paid for the majority of your college costs. 15. Your parents (or a trust) paid for all of your college costs 16. Went to a private high school 17. Went to summer camp 18. Had a private tutor before you turned 18. 19. Family vacations involved staying at hotels. 20. Your clothing was all bought new before you turned 18. 21. Your parents bought you a car that was not a hand-me-down from them. [First car was a hand-me-down; second car was a used Volvo] 22. There was original art in your house when you were a child. 23. You and your family lived in a single-family house. 24. Your parent(s) owned their own house or apartment before you left home. 25. You had your own room as a child 26. You had a phone in your room before you turned 18. 27. Participated in a SAT/ACT prep course. [Could have if I had to] 28. Had your own TV in your room in high school. 29. Owned a mutual fund or IRA in high school or college . 30. Flew anywhere on a commercial airline before you turned 16. 31. Went on a cruise with your family. 32. Went on more than one cruise with your family. 33. Your parents took you to museums and art galleries as you grew up. 34. You were unaware of how much heating bills were for your family. I don't feel guilty about any of the above. And note that I would have had different answers to those questions at different points in my life. At age 5, mixing apple juice from the frozen Disney concentrate was the high point of a weekend. At age 9 I shared a bedroom with my younger brother and went to a public school. At age 17 I drove a car my parents drove for years - but I had my own car. At the same time, I'd be a fool to ignore the fact that I had advantages other 26-year-olds didn't have. I guess the point is: I'm conscious of class in America, but class isn't a fixed thing (like it is in most other countries in the world). My folks started out lower-middle-class and are now upper-middle-class / well-off. There's greater income mobility in the U.S. than there is in any country in the history of the human species, and the statistics back that up. Know your background: that's the moral.

that her face at first just ghostly

Professor Coldheart — Fri, 04 Jan 2008 14:43:00 +0000

Downloaded Semagic so I could update without having to open up IE. I think it'll be easier to collate my thoughts with a little window sitting on my desktop all day. (Oh, neat - it vanishes from the open programs bar when you minimize it) The lock on the driver's side of my car froze earlier this week. I can get the key about 3/4 of the way in but not far enough to engage all the tumblers and turn it. So I usually unlock the passenger's side, reach across to unlock the driver's side, then walk back around to open the door and get in. Considering the issues I'd been having with the driver's side lock for a full year already - in warmer weather, even - I may take it to a mechanic in a week or two to get it looked at. I devote so much space to my friends' entertaining exploits because I hope they'll do the same for me. My vanity's pretty absolute. So it's always a treat when, instead of recapping Monday (New Year's Eve) and Wednesday (karaoke), I can just link to relevant entries. And a relevant pictures page. If this isn't enough incentive to get out of the door more often, I don't know what. Other incentives: my frigid house. I bought two boxes of insulating plastic last night and taped up my bedroom window and two of the living room windows. Why only three? Many compelling reasons, thus: (1) it was quarter to eleven at night and I'd just been kicked in the midsection an hour earlier at jiu-jitsu; (2) I can't cut in a straight line to save my life, or the life of anyone I care about, like a dear friend I need to perform an emergency appendectomy on in a post-apocalyptic wasteland; (3) I'm waiting to see if the cat screws with the sheets I've taped up so far. The room at least felt warmer once I finished. The news tells me Barack Obama and Mike Huckabee cleaned up at the Iowa caucus last night. Obama's the Democratic candidate I dislike the second-least, and Huckabee's either tied for my thirdmost-hated Republican or fourth behind McCain, depending on what I've just read. So my only response is "... interesting," with the casual stroke of the chin that that implies.

[worst08] ezra klein, the american prospect, "obama's gift"

Professor Coldheart — Fri, 04 Jan 2008 19:48:00 +0000

It may be time to bring back the Worst Writing of the Year series. We're kicking the series off with a bang with Ezra Klein's revivalist paean to Obama in The American Prospect:

Obama's finest speeches do not excite. They do not inform. They don't even really inspire. They elevate. They enmesh you in a grander moment, as if history has stopped flowing passively by, and, just for an instant, contracted around you, made you aware of its presence, and your role in it. He is not the Word made flesh, but the triumph of word over flesh, over color, over despair. The other great leaders I've heard guide us towards a better politics, but Obama is, at his best, able to call us back to our highest selves, to the place where America exists as a glittering ideal, and where we, its honored inhabitants, seem capable of achieving it, and thus of sharing in its meaning and transcendence.

As a conservative satire of an excited liberal, this would be pristine genius. "Obama's finest speeches [...] do not inform." But no, Klein thinks he's paying the man a compliment. Add to that the use of rhetorical touches best meant for an audio speech in a piece of printed text ("... just for an instant", "over color, over despair"). Finally, just the purple turgidness of the adjectives should make even the most enthusiastic supporter of Obama gag. "The triumph of word over flesh" (oh I get it!). America "glittering" and its "honored inhabitants." The act of standing and listening to a guy talk about an election is "sharing in [...] transcendence." Calling this 'saccharine' would be an insult to food additives. Hold on, there's more:

In the days to come, just as in the days that have passed [... and in the day that's happening right now, and yeah, I think that covers all the bases], I'll talk much more about Obama's policies. About his health care policy, and his foreign policy, and his social policy, and his economic policy [again, a repetitive list sounds a lot better when delivered in an oral speech than when read on a flat screen]. But so much as I like to speak of white papers and scored proposals, politics is not generally experienced in terms of policies. It's more often experienced in terms of self-interest, and broken promises, and base fears, and half-truths [see above re: lists]. But, very rarely, it's experienced as a call to create something better, bigger, grander, and more just than the world we have. When that happens, as it did with Robert F. Kennedy [not to make light of RFK's tragic assassination, but it takes a rare kind of fantasist to get excited about a man who never actually served in the Presidency], the inspired remember those moments for the rest of their lives.

Deep breath; there's more:

The tens of thousands of new voters Obama brought to the polls tonight came because he wrapped them in that experience, because he let them touch politics as it could be, rather than merely as it is. And for that, he deserved to win. And he deserves our thanks. The politician who gets the most votes merits our congratulations. But the politician who enlarges our politics and empowers more Americans to step forward into the public square deserves our gratitude. And we, in turn, deserve to permit ourselves to feel inspired, if only for a night.

It seems churlish to lambaste a political blogger for speaking abstractly about an abstraction, as, really, that's all that political bloggers do. But note the jarring comparison between "the politician who gets the most votes" - a clear and vivid image - and "the politician who enlarges our politics and empowers more Americans, blah blah." When a campaigning Senator "enlarges our politics," what exactly is he doing? What's the expression on his face? What words come out of his mouth? What exactly am I, the reader, supposed to be visualizing? The answer, of course, is nothing. I'm not supposed to be visualizing or imagining any concrete thing. The words "glittering," "transcendent," "inspiring, "elevating," etc aren't supposed to convey a thought or feeling. It's just that Ezra Klein felt really, really good listening to Barack Obama speak and he doesn't have the words to describe it. And that's fine. Just say "I felt really, really good listening to Barack Obama speak and I don't have the words to describe it." Hit Post. You're done.

music and blasters and old jedi masters

Professor Coldheart — Sun, 06 Jan 2008 23:14:00 +0000

Someone forwarded the following image to a mailing list I'm on through ImprovBoston: ... to which I responded:

The "Restore the Republic" byline makes me want to see a bunch of Star Wars themed stickers for other candidates. "GIULIANI '08: Fear Will Keep Them In Line. Fear Of This Battle Station."

A bunch of others soon followed:

CLINTON '08: Before the dark times, before the Empire. OBAMA '08: The dark side of the Force HUCKABEE '08: A strong influence on the weak-minded ROMNEY '08: Quite the mercenary. He doesn't care about anything or anybody. CHENEY '08: He's more machine than man now. Twisted and evil. MCCAIN '08: Aren't You A Little Short For A Stormtrooper? EDWARDS '08: Never Tell Me The Odds! KUCINICH '08: They'd Be Crazy To Follow Us, Wouldn't They? GRAVEL '08: Who's Scruffy-Looking?

Your turn.

why did you hide away for so long

Professor Coldheart — Tue, 08 Jan 2008 12:35:00 +0000

God damn, but it's a fucking gorgeous day out.

nerds on sports

Professor Coldheart — Tue, 08 Jan 2008 14:57:00 +0000

Updated Nerds on Sports. I review my football predictions from 2007 and see how they turned out. I weigh myself very objectively.

I bet you drew a crowd

Professor Coldheart — Thu, 10 Jan 2008 16:36:00 +0000

I don't know why I expected Semagic to save three consecutive drafts as separate files, but I did. The long post I spent most of yesterday working on has since been et. That'll teach me. To sum up: my younger brother Kevin came up to visit this past weekend. He'd only been to Boston once before - when the family dropped me off at BC my freshman year, my dad blinking back tears in the lobby outside the McElroy bookstore - but had been promising to visit for a while. Points of interest:

Kev's ears didn't fully decompress on the flight down, so his sinuses were still at about 2 atmospheres while we were chugging along at 1. Every now and then on the drive out of Logan he'd clutch the side of his head and swear briefly.
If you could get either of us to stand up straight, you could definitively say which of us were taller. But Kevin's always slumping a little, just chilling straight back in the cut. Nothing to get worked up about. Conversely, I'm always slouching a bit, bending over to catch the conversations of shorter people, apologizing for my height. What was that? Sorry? At best you can say we're of a height.
The Celtics game pre-show entertainment: a bunch of middle school kids playing half-court basketball. Seriously. Some of them had white T-shirts and some of them had green T-shirts and one poor kid, who clearly forgot the Very Important Instructions that his coach repeated, like, three times, huffed around in a red shirt.
The Celtics game itself: exciting. The Celtics were outhustled in the paint for the first half but came back strong, thanks to the lesser of two Allens. The addition of Garnett transformed the Celtics this season: he's a phenomenal player and an incredible presence on the court. During warm-ups he went over and gave each of the Grizzlies a pound. Hey, how are you? Welcome to my home.
Special Celtics v. Grizzlies sub-highlights: making fun of Miller's hobo haircut. Whenever Milicic makes a play, pumping your fist and swearing, "Darko!" Watching them lose to the best team in the NBA.
Kevin and I went to Razzy's in Somerville afterwards, to hang out with Joanna, David C., Katie S., Trisha, Chris B., Tim H, Emma et al. He had water; I had two beers. We saw two drunk guys try "Total Eclipse of the Heart." No matter what city in the world you're in as you read this, if you're asking, "oh hell, was it those same two guys?" the answer is "Yes." Dave C. and I talked Ravens talk. Someone put popcorn in my beer.
Saturday Kevin got his first glimpse of the MBTA in action. We stood at the Somerville and Stone bus stop, waiting 15 minutes for a bus to slowly crawl through Union Square traffic. Then he watched as I determined, through a rigorous trial-and-error process that excluded all but the courtliest swears, that every CharlieCard machine at Central Square had at least one fatal error. We made it to Park Street intact, thankfully.
Walking tour of Boston included: Downtown Crossing, Chinatown, Boston Common, Back Bay. I pointed out things I recognized ("I used to work down there for three terrible months," "I used to do improv here; now it's a gay nightclub"; etc). Kevin wasn't dressed very warmly but aside from advising him to buy a jacket or a hat or something I didn't nag him too much.
Kevin didn't feel like hitting up Will L's birthday party, so we stayed in and watched football. A line judge got accidentally clotheslined during the SEA/WAS game. "So long as Ed Hochuli's still okay," I said, "I don't care who else gets hit." "Please," Kevin said. "Hochuli would have just stuck his fist out. WHUMP."
Sunday we had lunch at Flat Patties in Harvard Square. I then gave him a brief tour of a college I hadn't attended. "There's a library," I said. "And I'm pretty sure that's a science center." "Cool," he said.

And that's the Kevin experience.

but your name is on a lot of quotes in this book

Professor Coldheart — Thu, 10 Jan 2008 21:54:00 +0000

It's good to know that time, new ideas and exposure to different people can change my outlook on life. This is an odd point to make, I know, since most people hold up ironclad devotion to one's declared ideals as the highest good. Is there any easier attack on a political candidate, for instance, than to call him a "flip-flopper" - someone who changes his mind on the issues? If I told you that Ronald Reagan used to be more conservative when he was married to Jane Wyman than when he was married to Nancy, would you respect him more or less for having altered his views? But I've come to believe that being able to shift your mindset proves a greater rationality than sticking to it. You wouldn't put much stock in a scientific theory that hadn't changed from a hundred years ago (or even ten years ago). And if our goal is to be as scientific as possible with our philosophy - to adapt in order to explain the evidence, in other words - then why shouldn't our philosophies change? All of the above is prologue. The meat of the matter: a post made about sexism. The conservative of eight years ago, or maybe even five years ago, probably wouldn't have given that much weight. But having known Christine for the past four years and having talked these things out with her at length, my opinions on the matter have changed (viz). She explained her point of view to me and, in doing so, changed mine.^* This is the sort of thing Eliezer Yudkowsky talks about all the time at Overcoming Bias. You don't measure the strength of your philosophy in your ability to rebuff attacks; that just tells you how good you are at rhetoric. Even "internal consistency" is not a sufficient test, in and of itself - a canny debater can find consistency between just about any two viewpoints. You measure the strength of your philosophy in how accurately it reflects the real world. And sometimes, as you're exposed to new pieces of the world, this means changing your damned mind. Five years ago, I might have read a post like that and said, "Pfft - feminism." Today I read a post like that and say, "Y'know, I think she's right."^** The virtues of a rational mindset, people! ^* The obvious rejoinder to this is "hurh hurh, changed his politics to match the girl he was sleeping with, no shocker there." But Christine can tell you that I'm no less the hardcore markets-and-free-exchange advocate than I was when we started dating. Or since our break-up. Hell, our opinions on legalized prostitution - an area where my forte of economics and hers of feminist philosophy clearly overlap - would probably spark a fire in a dry season. So suck it, haters. ^** I don't have much to add to the discussion itself, except to reiterate earlier points. 'Offensive' humor, when it's funny - Dave Chappelle, for instance - is funny because it still hits the criteria for being funny: the reversal of expectations, the highlighting of the absurd, etc. I don't find Sarah Silverman funny at all, but I can see where people do: the juxtaposition of a cute woman with a sweet-sounding voice saying filthy things. But just leaning on the 'crude' button? The hell's funny about that?

she's well-acquainted with the touch of a velvet hand like a lizard on the window pane

Professor Coldheart — Thu, 10 Jan 2008 22:49:00 +0000

Could anyone here who (1) owns a cat and (2) puts up plastic sheeting over their windows to block drafts tell me how to keep #1 from colliding violently with #2? Frankly I'm amazed ours survived a whole week, but Tomas has finally managed to shred both sheets in the living room. I have replacements, but I'd like to hear your cat management strategies. Mine: pick him up (gently), carry him over to the window, press his nose against the shredded portion and say, "NO" in a stern voice. I'm not convinced this will do anything.

girls who are boys who like boys to be girls

Professor Coldheart — Fri, 11 Jan 2008 14:10:00 +0000

Let's talk more politics. Democrats: I barely understand the primary system but, if I read this right, odds are pretty good that Hillary Clinton will be the Democratic nominee. She already has a 105 delegate lead over Obama right now and only two states have held primaries (apparently a number of "superdelegates" have already pledged for her). All she needs to do is stay within 2 votes of Obama in each subsequent state - which she's done so far, and I see no reason to suspect she can't - and it's hers. I have a hard time seeing how Clinton would be much different from Bush^*. She supported the bill that declared Iran's uniformed, identified army a terrorist organization. She not only voted for the PATRIOT Act in 2001 (which, to be fair, every serious candidate did), but she voted to renew it in 2006 (which Obama did as well). She was the first lady to the President who sent troops to Haiti in 1994, Bosnia in 1995 and Kosovo in 1999 (and she openly endorsed all those at the time, and when asked later). She's collected the most donations from the defense industry - more than any Republican, in a development that'd make Reagan spin in his grave. And she's been explicit in her rhetorical defense of a strong unitary executive: "I want this President, or any future President, to be in the strongest possible position to lead our country in the United Nations or in war." Obama's not much better in my eyes, but he at least gives lip service to the notion of bringing the troops out of Iraq. I wouldn't start endorsing him all of a sudden: U.S. troops will withdraw from Germany before they withdraw from Iraq. I know that preferring one candidate over another for their rhetoric, rather than their (largely identical) voting record, is pretty feeble, but you're asking me to distinguish between apples and apples here. Republican: It amazes me that Ron Paul is called the "crazy one" in the Republican race, where the lead candidates are a Mormon who wants to 'double' Gitmo^**, an open and avowed creationist and a senile old man who no longer knows what he thinks. Yes, Ron Paul is either a racist or carries water for racists. But I have a hard time believing that, if Fred Thompson or John McCain heard someone say "Order was only restored in L.A. when it came time for the blacks to pick up their welfare checks three days after rioting began" behind closed doors (say, at a fundraising dinner, two to five Scotches in), they wouldn't nod their heads and smirk. Of course, I'm not voting for Dr. Paul, or any Republican, or any candidate at all for that matter. So the question of whether Paul is as racist and crazy as your typical Republican presidential candidate or slightly more racist and crazy is probably academic. So that's what we've got to look forward to until November. ^* Could I have said the same thing 16 years ago, I wonder? Hmm ... ^** Double what, the complement of troops there? the number of enemy combatants held their without trial or recourse? the square footage enclosed by walls?

I am here as you are here

Professor Coldheart — Sat, 12 Jan 2008 21:55:00 +0000

Media blow: A Confederacy of Dunces: I read this book over a decade ago as a precocious teenager. Believe me, reading it with a few years' experience of the world makes it a whole new story. This book still deserves all the accolades given to it. I can think of few things more tragic than John Kennedy Toole killing himself before learning how well this story would be received. (I know the idea of "updating" a story revolts purists, but can you imagine any better time period to set one of the [many abortive] attempts to film this novel in than post-Katrina New Orleans? With Ignatius as a blogger living in his mom's basement? Practically writes itself. Get me Joel Silver on line 2) Across the Universe (soundtrack): I never saw the movie, but the soundtrack came highly recommended. There's not much you can do to improve on the Beatles, the pop icons of the 20th Century, but the various artists here take classic songs in interesting directions. Some of the songs suffer from reinvention (I don't like Evan Rachel Wood's "Blackbird" at all - too ornate). Some of them are greatly improved (I enjoy Bono's "I Am The Walrus," something I could never say of the original). Some of them are merely an interesting take - not meant to replace the original, but entertaining nonetheless (Dana Fuchs' "Helter Skelter", Joe Cocker's "Come Together," Jim Sturgess' "All My Loving"). Worth a listen. The Myth of the Rational Voter: A very dry, very academic take on the notion of voter behavior. Caplan targets people who already have a literate understanding of the subject - he devotes an entire chapter to the internecine debate between the notion of voter ignorance (voters do strange things because they have no incentive to know better) and voter irrationality (voters do counterproductive things because they have no incentive to do otherwise). A useful reference but not exactly a page-turner. Shoot 'Em Up: A thirteen-year-old's idea of an action movie - which makes it a shame that more action movies aren't this good. There's a little too much talking, which is a hell of a thing to say about an 80-minute movie with a body count around 100. Think of it as a live action cartoon for seventeen-year-old boys; when you consider the gratuitous nudity, the puerile humor and the fact that the protagonist crunches audibly on raw carrots before doing things like jumping off of bridges, you'll realize the writers probably thought the same. Fun and forgettable.

and I don't even own a TV

Professor Coldheart — Mon, 14 Jan 2008 16:09:00 +0000

Sometimes you need an action-packed weekend. Friday I had a beer at Bukowski with Dana J. and the elusive Rich Pellegrino (that's three now) before stopping in at Laugh Track at IB. The lady behind the ticket counter - whose name I really ought to remember by now - waved me through and refused to take my money. So I shoved $5 in the donations box on principle. Laugh Track follows the live taping of a popular sitcom, from the first scene being taped to the downtime between shows to the final, televised product. There were a lot of moving parts to the show: in addition to all of the above, we saw a documentary introduction, a live video feed from the show's executive producers and TV commercials. Fortunately, all of the parts ranged from "kind of funny" to "weepingly hilarious." The cast has a priceless sense of comic timing: Serpico's "like the China thing, but real" got the best reaction of the night, second only to Calvin's "after your first gig, buy a gun". And visualizing Harry Gordon stomping down the steps at MIT, reading angrily from a book titled "LAWYER," will sit in my bedside as a stock depression cure for years. Move over, Canadian Club! I had declared early on Friday that I needed to dance (dance), and Sylvia, Joanna, Serpico, Kim and Trisha answered the call (EDIT and Mark who totally put his babies in Rachel by grinding up on her, I swear it's true EDIT). Kate and Mike were killing time prior to setup at Common Ground, so we drank some beer and watched the Celtics lose to the Bobcats. Then Tim H showed up and HOLY SHIT THE ROCK WHAT YES NOW. I found myself starting to drag a little around 12:30 or so - having been exhorted to jump around had strained my abs, still sore from 180 crunches that afternoon. So I shifted listlessly from one foot to another until "Flagpole Sitta" came on and then, well, fuck it. I went to bed hoarse at 2:30ish. Saturday I walked to Target for milk and bread, then used them (separately) to compose a healthy lunch. I watched some Shield and some Shoot 'Em Up, then drove to Newton to watch the game with Fraley and Melissa. Mel was wrapping up her 7th Sea game in the living room, so for once I got to be the cool kid hanging out in the kitchen with the gamer's girlfriend, waiting for the nerds to be done so we could finally watch some football. Verdict: not as cool as it sounds; I'd rather be rolling dice. Christine and I split a pizza from the local pizza joint, shielding our eyes from the Patriots game when we picked it up so we could watch it on DVR. She vented about her weekend navigation issues. "By the time I got to Waltham," she said, "the Rondo cast had already vacated to a bar to watch the Pats game." "Was this Brian P's house by chance?" I asked. It's a notoriously difficult home to find. Patriots: if there's anything dumber than sports pundits saying the Patriots "look beatable" every game, it's Pats fans who predict blowouts. "42-17," I heard in the liquor store minutes before I got to Newton. Brady threw for the game of not just his life, but several quarterbacks' lives: 26 for 28 against the porous Jags. But the Jaguars kept marching up that same old hill, bringing tears to Jack del Rio's eyes. In the end, it was two turnovers that gave the Pats the game. But man, did the Pats' sloppy tackling give us all some agita. "Eat his face!" I screamed at the TV as Fred Taylor pranced for another 5 yards. "With your face!"

there were incidents and accidents; there were hints and allegations

Professor Coldheart — Wed, 16 Jan 2008 13:30:00 +0000

Incidents:

I don't normally use the horn when I drive: if I have enough time to punch the horn, I have enough time to get out of the way and by then the danger's usually past. But there's three lanes coming off of Washington St. in Union Square. From left to right: left turn only, left or straight, and straight or right. I'm in the center lane about to turn left when the guy in the left lane decides he wants to go straight. He edges past me, less than two fingers from my driver's side mirror. I punch the horn and nothing happens. I try it a few more times, idling through the intersection and enjoying the new sharpness of vision that adrenaline confers. Finally I press the horn again a block later (and nowhere near the offending vehicle, I should add). A familiar tone. So the horn didn't freeze overnight or anything.
I stopped off at Wendy's for a burger and a coke on Monday. The young man in line ahead of me nearly flipped his shit at the guy behind the counter for (1) totalling up the order before he'd placed all the items; (2) setting his change down on the counter rather than handing it to him; (3) speaking English with an accent. "I don't speak foreign," he declared, storming off. To his credit, the counterman stood there impassively being yelled at, even after the man came back to angrily insist that he hadn't got all his change back. "I told you that's not your change," the counterman said. After heaping screaming abuse on the employee and the manager, the register was re-opened and the correct change produced. "Thank you," the young man said insolently. "You not welcome," the counterman said. "Man, you just come outside, all right? You just step outside and you see." There was a point, somewhere in the history of our civilization, when a manager would have just said, "You know what? Here's your twelve dollars and nine cents back. We don't want your custom." Until that time returns, don't take any shit - real or imagined - from anyone behind the counter.
Updated Nerds on Sports (as I do every Tuesday). I go into the distinctions between HGH and anabolic steroids, and why the former might not be as bad as the latter.

he'd put coat and tie on over a fitted shirt

Professor Coldheart — Wed, 16 Jan 2008 17:01:00 +0000

Going on an interview can be nerve-wracking. I found it helps to break it down into steps.

~~Fill out an application~~ Buy new shoes. I have vague memories of deciding that my old black dress shoes were too wounded to live any longer. I could have sworn they survived the move to Somerville, though. But the only time I can remember wearing dress shoes since is Hawver's wedding, and those came with the tux. So I could have easily lost them or thrown them out. I had just enough time before the interview to go to Filene's Basement and rifle through their measly stock of dress black size 13s. I found a pair of Kenneth Coles that fit well - better than any pair of dress shoes I've owned straight out the gate, in fact - and took them with me.
~~Fill out an application~~ Find parking. I interviewed at the Arsenal Building in Watertown, which has a seven-level parking garage adjacent to it. Every single spot in that garage was full, however, and drivers were inventing new spots at the corners of the lanes. Swearing and checking my watch, I parked on North Beacon St and hoofed it through snowmelt. I love snow the day it happens but not afterward. Everything's wet and sticky and gritty and staining. I was painfully conscious of the cleanliness of my shoes and trouser cuffs as I sloshed my way around the curb and crossed the street.
Fill out an application. Pretty simple - just duplicating all the same info as on my resume. Except for this last bit: "three work references." I can probably count on L___, J___ and S___ to talk me up. I just ... phone numbers? I don't know their phone numbers! Their phone numbers are in Outlook! You know, where all phone numbers live? Why does it never occur to me to write these down beforehand? All right, L___'s number you know ... and anyone can ask for J___ off the main number, so I'll just put that down. Is our main number an 888- or an 800- ? Fuck. Shit. No, it's cool. Shit.
Meet with potential managers. I had three back to back interviews with the team managers. My secret to getting along with people: infinite flexibility. I adapt whatever tone they're using and mirror it back at them. This isn't some secret verbal jiu-jitsu; this is my absolute inability to deal with human beings except as a party game of some sort. So with the friendly first manager I'm friendly; with the formal second manager I'm an attentive listener; with the casual and jokey third manager I sling a lot of wisecracks and self-effacing remarks. I'd rate the interviews as "great; good; superb" in chronological order.
Take a test. As if the great pressure of adulthood, the Job Interview, wasn't enough, the new company also arranged for the great pressure of childhood, the Timed Exam, as a follow-up. It was a skills assessment of my writing ability, my Excel proficiency and my knowledge of HTML. Writing: trivially easy. Four years of experience breaking bad news to managers and sales reps helped me to draft mock e-mails with ease. I had to flag the HR lady over at one point to ask for help ("this sentence in the instructions doesn't have an, um, predicate?") but otherwise had no problems. HTML: not too bad. Multiple choice, so any areas I was fuzzy on I could narrow down through the choices in front of me. Which of the following codes would change the background color on a page? How would you reference a stylesheet? They threw in some questions about Java which stumped me, but I made some educated guesses. Excel: I sweated the most here. Not because my Excel game is weak - you know better - but because this test had the least margin for error. Writing's graded subjectively and the multiple choice HTML quiz let me make educated guesses. But if I missed something obvious in the instructions and entered a formula wrong in Excel, I wouldn't know it. And these were spreadsheets full of gibberish, so I couldn't rely on my sixth sense to tell me "those numbers don't sound right." Double- and triple-checking everything calmed most of my fears.

If I did well, I have a follow-up some time next week. Keep your fingers crossed.

he came in six lengths ahead; we spent the whole next weekend high

Professor Coldheart — Thu, 17 Jan 2008 16:19:00 +0000

I spent $118 on groceries at BJ's last night. Partly this arose from breaking the first rule of grocery shopping - "never shop hungry" - and partly this arose from the lack of dinnerstuff in my freezer. I now own:

A 3-lb bag of Tyson chicken nuggets (less the 10 I ate last night - surprisingly tasty);
A 32-count bag of Grands frozen biscuits;
30 Gorton's breaded Fish filets;
30 Kosher National hot dogs;
A quart tub of cottage cheese;
A similarly sized tub of some kind of smart "butter-like spread";
Two jars of Skippy peanut butter;
Three sticks of Right Guard deoderant;
A 500-count of BJ's generic answer to Men's One-a-Day vitamins;
24 granola PowerBars, all with some variety of chocolate in them; and
240 pieces of Trident sugarless gum.

Those last two are in my desk at work. I chew gum to keep from grinding my teeth, and I snack on PowerBars between meals. I also wrote another 1,990 words last night. This project feels a lot more fluid than my last one. I think it's because (1) it's not inspired by a dream I had, and thus makes more sense; (2) the setting is a suburban environment, as opposed to a surreal nightmare world where no one knows anything; and (3) I outlined it a little more rigorously before starting. I don't have a full skeleton, but I have points, and those points are in something of a straight line. I can let the story take any path that feels natural and orient back toward a point when I get lost. I watched another episode of The Shield S4. Given the volume of cop shows I watch, I feel it's important to distinguish between "gritty" and "realistic." The Shield is gritty. Almost no one in the regular cast is a hero in any real sense of the word. Everyone's shown at their worst and bad things keep happening to them. The Wire, on the other hand, is realistic. Everything has such verisimilitude to it that, as I've mentioned before, I can't even imagine what the writing process looks like. We often take "gritty" for "real" because the real world has grit to it. And that much is true. But "gritty" presumes a malevolent universe. "Real" presumes the actual, real universe we live in. It's a subtle distinction, but watch those two shows and tell me you don't see it. (The usual caveats apply - I haven't seen the latter half of Shield S4 or Wire S3, so don't refer to anything in the later seasons even in the most oblique terms. Seriously. Thanks) Between the incredible multimedia power of my new iMac, the TV-DVDs I have yet to watch, the reading I need to catch up on and the writing I plan to do, I still haven't bought an XBox 360. And I don't know if I will for a while yet. My life's plenty rich without one, thanks. I definitely won't buy one before black belt - I need to start incorporating the occasional Saturday into my training regimen. So black belt + reading + writing + TV shows + Netflix + real-world friends = a full plate for the next couple of months. But at least I won't have to waste time shopping. Thanks to $118 worth of groceries.

on a wave of mutilation

Professor Coldheart — Thu, 17 Jan 2008 17:12:00 +0000

Okay, this entry seems to have brought out the healthy food gurus, all judgin' on my easy-bake lifestyle. Like I said, I'm open to being shown the error of my ways - but you've got to back your side up. So, open to all comers: provide me a recipe that:

Takes 30 minutes or less to prepare - and that includes pre-heating the oven or defrosting the turkey or whatever; and
Has six (6) or fewer line items of ingredients.

Special bonus consideration to recipes which don't require ingredients that will go bad before I use enough of them to make their purchase worthwhile (e.g., mangoes). My body's a lab, people. Submit your grant requests in writing.

what you gonna do (do) after dark?

Professor Coldheart — Fri, 18 Jan 2008 18:10:00 +0000

Did I ever tell you about my time as an economic advisor to the Bush administration? It was a while ago, before I met most of you, and I don't like to bring it up too often. I met the C-in-C in a five minute meet-and-greet at his ranch in Crawford. This was early August 2001, I want to say: the first of his regular month-long vacations. But he still kept a busy plate, which is why I'd been brought on. He was in his study, staring intently at one of those momentum transfer desk toys: six ball bearings hanging from strings and suspended between two beams. One end would swing up and then fall back down, striking the row, and the one on the opposite end would swing up. He had his lips screwed up and one eye was twitching. I cleared my throat politely. "Professor," he said, just now realizing I was there. "Siddown, get comfy. Let me be quick, get right to it: I'm looking to make this country grow. I want to make the American middle class better off by 2008, when I'll be leaving office ..." -- the boldness of the prediction didn't even make him hesitate; I think he took it as a fact -- "... then when I entered office in January. "What I need you to do," he said, "is do extensive research. I want you to find out what wealthy people have in common. See, my thinking is: if we can find all those common factors, and somehow encourage 'em, we'll raise the standard of living for the whole country. It's that whole 'compassionate conservativism' thing - we're mixing free markets and growth and stuff like that, but for everybody." "So ... just study today's wealthy," I began, "and ..." "No, no, no. All throughout history. Don't want all them Hollywood liberals and their million-dollar paychecks doing a, what'sit, y'know ... skewing the results. We want answers that will stand the test of time." He took this part very seriously. "Okay," I said. At the end of August I came back to him with my research. "I went back as far as we had data," I said, "and I even made some educated guesses from historical records. Wealthy people, regardless of when they lived, have a couple of things in common. For one: they owned property; for anoth--" "Stop," he yelled, dropping the boots he was buffing. "That's it. That's it right there. Property." "What?" "Home ownership. The American dream. If more people owned their own home, more people'd be better off! God, it's so simple! I'm a genius!" "Well, not quite," I corrected. "See, property ownership is an effect of wealth, not a cause. People got to own property for a variety of different reasons. Some were bad - like colonists seizing land from natives or the poor, or feudal baronies and stuff - and some were good - like saving and investment and all that." The President chuckled. "Professor, we ain't living in the time of sharecroppers and barons anymore. This is the Twentieth Century!" "I was just trying to illustrate a point," I insisted. "Wealth isn't like a board game. It's not like standing on Land You Own is worth 50 points and standing on Land You Rent is worth 10. And you can't just move all the pieces onto the 'Owned Land' squares and increase their scores. You can't make people wealthier by giving them land in their name." "Of course not!" the President snorted. "This isn't the Clinton era we're talking about - none of that welfare-state mumbo-nonsense. I'm not giving away land - I'm making it easier to buy land. Through incentives and stuff. I've read Milton Friedman, y'know; where do you think I got that 'school vouchers' idea?" I sighed quietly. "Okay, so where's the money for these 'incentives' going to come from?" "Wha?" "You're going to make it easier for people to own their own homes ... through what, tax credits?" "Maybe," he said, lifting his nose slightly as if he were being mysterious and contrary. "Or maybe the Fed'll just lower interest rates." "So you're either taking in less tax revenue - which means deficit spending - or you're adding to the money supply with lower interest rates - which means inflation. Either way, you're taking money from somewhere and putting it somewhere else: in the hands of potential homeowners. All I'm asking is: where are you taking it from?" He laughed. "You make it sound like I'm just moving steer from one pen to another! But I'm making people wealthier, remember? That leads to economic growth - which means more cows for everybody!" "Where?" I asked. "What's actually growing?" He thought for a minute - and I mean a literal sixty seconds, squinting and biting his lip and twisting his bootrag into a tiny ball - before he snapped his fingers. "Construction! See, there's an increased demand for houses because of all these new homebuyers. So that's more construction jobs. And the construction workers, they'll spend more money on beer and titty mags and whatever it is they buy ..." "Who's going to invest in a construction company?" I asked. "You've lowered the interest rates." "Wha?" "Lowering the Fed funds rate," I said, "lowers banks' interest rates across the board - that's the prime everyone talks about in the 'prime plus one percent' and such. That means fewer people will be looking to invest money - lower interest rates means a less attractive rate of return." "No, no, no," the President said, shaking his head. "Greenspan told me that lowering interest rates stimulates business growth." "Lowering interest rates stimulates borrowing, and companies borrow money to grow. But for someone to borrow, someone else has to be willing to lend. And people are going to be less willing to lend while interest rates stay low." "So we'll wait until that happens," Bush said, "then jack 'em right back up again!" "And bankrupt everyone you put into a borrowed home in the process," I said. "They still have those checks to mail in on the first of the month." He squinted at me, confused. "The mortgage?" "Oh, right, right." I threw my hands in the air and left. "You have my report," I said over my shoulder. "But I still can't advise you to go through with this plan of yours." "Naw, naw, it'll work," he insisted, nibbling his thumb. "I just need some more time to iron out the details. Get that growth and investment all lined up." "If you're sure," I said. "You think you need another month's vacation?" He shook his head. "I think September's gonna be quiet." * * * The anecdote above is, obviously, fiction. The U.S. federal government has been attempting to artificially stimulate the mortgage market for about seventy years; laying this all at Bush's feet would be ignorant. And I would never be let within a mile of the Crawford ranch. But I tell the story that way as a means of illustrating a point: an incentive to create an effect is also an incentive to create the appearance of an effect^*. If elected officials have an incentive to make the country wealthier, they have just as strong an incentive to make the country appear wealthier. Moving more people into homes makes it look like the middle class has grown, when in fact we've just shifted the goalposts. The result is always a "bust" - as in the boom/bust of the economic cycle - though it's not always this bad. __________ ^* I wish I could take credit for this bon mot, but I read it somewhere on the Internet years ago. Maybe CoyoteBlog; it sounds like the sort of thing he'd say or link to. If someone can find it, please let me know so I can credit the author.

do anybody make real shit anymore?

Professor Coldheart — Mon, 21 Jan 2008 13:45:00 +0000

Y'arrgh - 'tis a rich media blow:

Kanye West, Graduation: Maybe I'm spoiled, but growing up on guys like Dan The Automator, Cut Chemist and DJ Shadow, I'm just not impressed. I thought DJing was about taking eight to ten breaks from the most obscure songs ever - I don't mean wax, I mean like wax cylinders - but apparently you can just take the worst part of Steely Dan's "Kid Charlemagne," loop it for three-and-thirty-one, and voila! Kanye's rhymes range from "not bad" to "ugh, why?" The subject matter - getting money, looking back on growing up on the streets, dealing with shorties of both the fake and the hot variety - doesn't break any new ground.
Eastern Promises: An intense and uncomfortable little drama. It's David Cronenberg, so there's plenty of blood and gore. But there's also the genuine weirdness and alienation you expect from Cronenberg. None of the Russian conversations in the movie are subtitled. In many scenes - like when Russian mob boss Armin Muehller-Stahl is celebrating his mother's birthday, complete with traditional Cossack music - this drives home the sheer foreignness of that ancient, alien empire that used to share the world with the U.S. Not mindblowing or groundbreaking but very well done. Ladies: if you ever wanted to know exactly what Viggo Mortensen's junk looks like, this is the movie for you.
God's Secretaries: The Making of the King James Bible: All prologue. Almost no records exist of the actual process of assembling the definitive English text of the most influential book of the last twenty centuries. Adam Nicolson does a bang-up job bringing the story to light anyway, nestling it deeply in its proper context. We read about the crowning of James I after the end of Elizabeth's epic reign, about the Gunpowder Plot, about the persecution of both the extreme Protestant factions (like the Scrooby Separatists, whom American readers might know as the "Pilgrim Fathers") and the Jesuit order. But about the actual assembly of the KJV itself, we only have bits and glimpses. Nicolson approaches the subject matter with a reverent but secular air - he has a great admiration for the majestic language of the KJV but no qualms about its authors being "divinely inspired." A tasty sampler of the early 17th century.
There Will Be Blood: The first truly American epic I believe I've ever seen. Not to take anything away from The Godfather, mind you, but the Old World runs very thickly through its veins - vendetta, omerta, family as social edifice, etc. But There Will Be Blood could only be an American story: the grinding, intractable clash between ruthless ambition and homespun religious fanaticism. The cinematography is excellent: we not only get the sweeping panoramas and the long tracking shots, but also the odd, intimate angle on Day-Lewis's face from time to time. The score is compelling and uniquely unsettling: screeching violins and clopping wood blocks. And while it would be tempting for the movie to fall into didactic lecturing - it is based on an Upton Sinclair novel, after all - what's remarkable is how little the movie reveals explicitly. I shared Roger Ebert's confusion on a particular point regarding two characters (spoilers, of course). But the virtue of the movie is that either interpretation works equally well, given the demonstrable insanity of all parties involved. See this movie in the theaters soonest.

the more that you give, the more it will take

Professor Coldheart — Mon, 21 Jan 2008 18:19:00 +0000

LJ asks: "What's the best concert you've ever been to?" Best: The Quannum Projects tour in spring 2004 with Adrian C. I bought the ticket to see Blackalicious - learning the ways of Lyrics Born, Lateef the Truth Speaker, the Lifesavas and watching DJ Shadow scratch on a DVD player were a bonus. Now that's value add right there. Worst: I haven't been to any real stinkers, no absolute nightmares of sound and violence. Most disappointing was probably Ambulance LTD at the Paradise, only because they had no energy whatsoever. And even that wasn't bad, as I discovered We Are Scientists at that show. I get to say I Saw Them When, my one gem of true indie cred that I cling to desperately. Funniest: Definitely the near fistfight at the Guster concert. Never have I wanted to yell, "Would you smoke some fucking dope and chill out?" more than at that moment. Southernest: Lynyrd Skynyrd, summer of 1999, Arlington Proving Grounds, MD. Kids with rat tails waved banners of skeletons in Confederate uniforms clawing their way out of the ground. A girl in her twenties sat on her dad's shoulders; her arms ended in stumps at her elbows; in the wooden fork splinted onto one of them she chain-smoked Marlboros all night. The Marshall Tucker Band opened; every time Doug Gray closed out the refrain of "Heard It In A Love Song" ("... heard it in a lo-o-ve song / can't be wrong"), he ad-libbed the line "ain't gonna be wrong tonight!"; literally every time. A forty-year-old woman hit on me. Johnny Van Zant namechecked Columbine before launching into "Saturday Night Special." Their encore was - but you know how this story ends - the nine-minute "Free Bird." It was the first concert I'd ever attended and they've only grown better since.

your circuit's dead; there's something wrong

Professor Coldheart — Tue, 22 Jan 2008 16:32:00 +0000

(I put this one on the spike yesterday, not anticipating that other news would occur. But nobody wants to hear me talk about econ again, and all I have to add to the Oscars announcement is "I liked this movie; I didn't like this one." So: enter the pablum) Some important updates: Books: Fifty books in a year divided by 365 days to read them in gives me a ratio of 0.137. I started counting in December. January's not quite over yet and I'm only at a ratio of 0.118. A book a week between now and the end of February would put me closer to that golden ratio (0.132), but not quite there. I'm not worried yet, but Steps may Have to be Taken. TV: Thankfully, the writer's strike persists, so I have fewer DVR'ed shows to watch. I've been rationing out The Shield and The Wire for as long as possible, like the precious drugs they are. After that, I have It's Always Sunny in Philadelphia and a little bit of Arrested Development to catch up on. So that'll occupy me until the writers' strike breaks and DVR starts paying for itself again. Movies: I just downgraded my Netflix plan from 2 at a time, 4 per month to 1 at a time, 2 per month - half the movies at five/thirteenths the price. All of the above, plus the Internet, mean I don't need DVDs being shoved into my brain like a fire hose every month. I barely have time to watch what I rent anymore, meaning I'm just paying Netflix $13 a month for the privilege of keeping my credit card info on file. So, to put it another way: I upgraded to the "Keep More Money and Watch The Same Number of Movies On Average" plan. Video Games: My XBox has finally unlocked its five-year upgrade, going from "buggy" (occasionally ejects the tray) to "unusable" (repeatedly ejects the tray). This means no video games until I buy a 360. Given the media overload described above, however, this may not be for a while. Fortunately, 360 prices have been continuously trending downward (minus a brief spike on the launch date), so this plan only works in my favor. RPGs: The last game I played was probably a pickup game of Randy's; the last game I ran was 7th Sea (Lost Histories II). I've been feeling a bit of the jones lately but, given the media overload described above, I'm in no bleeding hurry to fill it. Theater: Seeing a poster for Henry V last night reminded me that I live in (supposedly) one of the great fonts of culture on the East Coast. Why don't I start taking in more theater? I'm not sure I specifically need to see H5: it's in "The Basement at the Garage," which I only know from its legendarily wretched men's room. But there's a reason I live in Boston as opposed to an equally expensive but warmer, more modern or less corrupt city, and I should start taking advantage. Edit: oh, wait, right. Hey, who wants to see some Mamet?

an elegant weapon for a more civilized age

Professor Coldheart — Wed, 23 Jan 2008 19:17:00 +0000

Updated Nerds on Sports: Your 2007 All Star Wars NFL Roster.

the heat is on

Professor Coldheart — Thu, 24 Jan 2008 15:41:00 +0000

Updated the default pic. There are some awesome promo stills on Marvel's website of Robert Downey, Jr. as Tony in a half-assembled exoskeleton. But I can't turn them into the userpics I want. So I'm settling for merely phenomenal red and gold. Saturday, MICHELLE BONCEK, Kristen and Anna reunited for Spinning Hardcore. Joanna, Brain, Grace, Mia, Bob and I showed up to cheer them on. (EDIT: Rachel V. showed up later, owing me ten thousand dollars [SHE KNOWS WHY]) Kristen and Anna have that unspoken chemistry which makes any improv group work - an instinctive give and take with each other that makes for really fun energy. Bob also performed with Lindsay G. Afterward, we retired to the Cantab, where Diane Blue and the Fatbacks wailed through a catalog of soul and funk standards. At one point I yanked everyone on to the floor and made them dance. Did I mention I bought a Frequent Soaker package at Inman Oasis? Because I did. They have a special in January which makes it a pretty sweet deal. My next best source of intense heat is the sauna in Quincy. The trade-off is: $7 for 30 minutes in a communal hot tub (Inman) vs. $25 for 60 minutes in a private sauna (Quincy). I'm probably going to spend the rest of the morning figuring out what the discount rates of Privacy and Walking Distance are. Maybe I'll publish a graph. Or maybe I'll just go soak in a hot tub.

cash rules everything around me

Professor Coldheart — Thu, 24 Jan 2008 17:50:00 +0000

So I was sitting on the roof of the Temple, cooling my heels and drinking an Ecto Cooler Hi-C, when the devil appeared behind me. "Hey Satan," I said. "Hey Professor," he said, sitting down next to me. He kicked his feet over the side. "I guess you've heard that shit's pretty bad, what with the collapse of subprime mortgages ... banks writing off tens of billions in revenue ... people losing their homes ..." "But I'm guessing you have a plan, right?" "Hear me out," he said, gesturing animatedly. "First, we lower the Fed funds rate by 1.5% - half at an emergency meeting, half during a scheduled meeting. This'll encourage people to take out loans and buy more stuff, because interest rates will be lower." "It'll also discourage people from saving," I said, "because, like you said, interest rates will be lower." "But that's the beauty of it!" He smacked me on the shoulder with a rolled-up copy of Variety. "The Fed funds rate is also the rate at which banks can lend money to each other. So if a bank wants to write a loan but doesn't have the cash available, they can borrow money from another bank!" I sighed and bit my lip. "Is there a second part?" "Are you ready?" I nodded and put on my best expectant look. The devil stood up, spreading his hands dramatically. "We're going to give every American taxpayer ... three hundred dollars!" He waited for my applause. "And?" I asked. He snorted. "It's like you never even studied economics, man! Increased consumer spending will jumpstart the economy!" "How?" "You know ... give it a jolt." He could see I wasn't buying it and his face fell. "What exactly is wrong with the economy currently?" I asked. He didn't have an answer, so I told him: "Let's say you're playing blackjack with a seven-deck shoe. You're counting cards and you're pretty good at it, so you think that the dealer's all out of ~~face~~ low^* cards. You start putting more and more money on the table. With me so far?" "Sure," said Lucifer. "I love Vegas." "But maybe your count was off, or you were misinformed and there's actually eight or nine decks in play. So there are more ~~face~~ low^* cards than you expected. You start losing money." "I don't like this story." "And now other players are walking away from the table, meaning all the bad cards are coming to you now. You start busting on every hand. You keep doubling your bet, because you heard from some guy that that was a good way to stay ahead, but that just means you're hemorrhaging money that much faster. "Now," I concluded, "instead of ~~face~~ low^* cards, it's 'housing prices.' Instead of hands of blackjack, it's 'investment in mortgage-based securities.' And the players at the table are the largest financial institutions in the country - Wachovia, Merrill Lynch, Bank of America, etc." "No, no, it's not that simple." "No, it's exactly that simple. Investors gambled that mortgage-based securities would keep paying off. This was a speculation based on the notion that housing prices would keep rising. They didn't. Investors kept shoveling money into subprime funds in the hopes that they'd rebound, or that they could sell them to someone else. They couldn't. "And what part of this whole exchange," I concluded, "would be improved by consumers getting the equivalent of an additional paycheck?" "But ... but ... consumer spending ..." the devil whined. "The money's coming in the form of additional tax refunds," I said. "Meaning it's being transferred from the federal government to citizens. What would the feds have done with that money if they kept it?" "Spent it." "What are they hoping citizens will do with it?" "Spend it." "So either the feds spend one hundred billion dollars," I continued, doing some quick math in my head, "on highways and dams and bomber jets and bridges that don't go anywhere, or consumers spend one hundred billion dollars on food and clothing and cars and the Nintendo Wii. Where's the 'jumpstart' here? Where's the kick in the pants?" "Yeah, but, c'mon!" The devil smiled, laughing weakly and dismissing my objections with a wave. "We're putting money back into people's hands, rather than letting the government spend it. I thought you were a libertarian! You know: 'taxation is theft' and all that. "That's a question of what level of taxation is moral," I said. "That's irrelevant. This is a question of what's actually going to happen. It's like ... it's like debating whether or not to kill someone by dropping a weight on their head, vs. debating whether or not gravity is real." "So you're telling me the economic stimulus won't have any effect on net?" "I didn't say that. The federal government is now one hundred billion dollars out of pocket. Do you really think Congress will cut the U.S. government's budget by one hundred billion dollars? Or any significant fraction of that?" "So the U.S. government goes another hundred billion into debt," Satan said. "Which means inflation," I said. "And lower interest rates mean easier credit and more loans." "Which means inflation." "I don't suppose inflation's good for the economy, is it?" "Inflation encourages borrowing and penalizes saving," I said. "What's the point of putting money in a 401(k) that earns 7% if prices inflate 8% every year? Better to just buy a car, or a house, or something I can actually wrap my hands around and enjoy. Better to go into debt; the money I put toward interest payments will be worth less and less each year." "But everyone's buying stuff!" Satan said, making one last-ditch effort. "And that stimulates demand, so people will start producing more ..." "So if I'm the Gap, and I see people spending their refund checks on my sweaters, I order up a thousand more sweaters than expected. Then what? People already spent their refund. I've got all these sweaters I intended to sell at $40, which I now have to mark down to $30 in order to sell. And since the thirty dollars a new customer pays for a sweater don't go as far, thanks to inflation, I'm now worse off than before." The devil pouted, tracing doodles in the dust on the rooftop with his finger. Then he stood up. "Well, I tried." "No, definitely. Yeoman's effort." "Same time next week?" "I'll be here." "Could you bring me an Ecto-Cooler Hi-C next time?" "Apage, satanas," I scowled. He laughed. "I get that a lot." * * * "Consumer spending" is a popular target for federal efforts because it ties directly to GDP, one of the most commonly cited statistics. More people spend money, businesses presume that there's an increased demand for their products, and they start to produce more. However, consumer spending is only part of the picture. The opposite side is consumer saving - individuals sinking money into savings accounts, money market accounts, the stock market and retirement funds. Investment also gets businesses to produce more. The moral of this story: the economy is not a thermostat - it's a thermometer. What we call "the economy" is an agglomeration of several favored statistics - the Dow Jones Industrial Average, the strength of the dollar, GDP per capita, inflation, unemployment, etc. If "the economy is doing well," that means those numbers are high. If "the economy is doing poorly," those numbers are low. But those are all statistics. They're numbers that measure the performance of people and firms in the real world. I can't just dial up one statistic without affecting everyone in the real world, anymore than I could crank up the thermostat without also increasing the amount of oil I consume. Those are numbers on paper. This is the real world. And unless you see a pronounced change in the real world, there's no reason to think changing the numbers will make a difference. _________________________ ^* pointed out that I had this exactly backward in the original draft - high cards in the deck favor the player, not the dealer.

when I want my opinion, I'll ask for it

Professor Coldheart — Fri, 25 Jan 2008 17:04:00 +0000

I'm tired of having opinions. I'm going to let the Internet make my opinions for me. Topic: I don't vote, on the grounds that the statistically miniscule impact my vote would have on an election isn't worth the effort (there are tens of millions of voters in any national election and close elections are decided by the courts). However, I refuse to fly if other means (e.g., trains) are available, as a protest against demeaning and counterproductive airport security measures. I do this, knowing that my boycott has a statistically miniscule impact on the bottom line of the commercial aviation industry (they have hundreds of millions of customers a year and get Congressional bailouts when things go bad). The obvious conclusion is, "Well, you're a hypocrite / naif / doctrinaire market fanatic / lazy slacker." However, that conclusion is wrong. What's the real reason that I make this distinction? Internet, I turn to you! Special prizes awarded for the answers Most Likely To Be Accurate, Funniest, Most Convoluted and Most Academic-Sounding. Honorable mention to an answer that can be expressed in a cat macro or silly picture.

nothing else would fit right, or seem so directly applied

Professor Coldheart — Mon, 28 Jan 2008 14:35:00 +0000

I got this job.

I could say it ain't so, but darling, what's the use?

Professor Coldheart — Mon, 28 Jan 2008 16:26:00 +0000

Sifting through the frozen tundra, I uncovered this weekend's media blow:

Nine Stories, J.D. Salinger. It's probably better that I didn't read this as a teenager, when Salinger's "you think everything's normal but it's not" storylines would have steered my writing style down regrettable paths. However, it's good that I read it now, having made a serious commitment to writing, because Salinger's got a unique mastery of the English language that's worth noting. Or cribbing outright. The back cover calls attention to the two critical darlings in this collection, which actually didn't do as much for me as "Teddy," "The Laughing Man" or "De-Daumier Smith's Blue Period" did. Still, they're all gems, rightly regarded in the American canon.
Hairspray. Infectious, inescapable fun. The most laugh-out-loud entertaining musical I've seen in decades. I haven't seen someone blend catchy pop melodies with subversive lyrics this well since, I dunno, early Elvis Costello. The opening number still gets me a little since, as I've said, it's the only time in memory that I've heard someone say something nice about the city of Baltimore. Biggest surprises: James Marsden, who I finally have to admit is better than anyone gave him credit for; Elijah Kelley, as Seaweed ("Run and Tell That" is a real toe-tapper); the song "I Know Where I've Been," which struck me as boringly generic when I heard it on CD but is much more moving when set to film. The only downside: in Christopher Walken's one dance number, he's weighed down by John Travolta in a fatsuit. Since Walken can literally fly when given the chance to show off, this is a crime equivalent to Suharto's.
The Towers of the Sunset, L.E. Modesitt. I'm surprised Modesitt doesn't get more fantasy author accolades, as he writes realer and more complex characters than Robert Jordan or anyone else with the same cover art. The Towers of the Sunset was written after The Magic of Recluce but precedes the first by a few centuries. It weaves political intrigue, social mores, sexual politics and magic as philosophy - not just point a wand and say gibberish words, but a way of looking at the world - into a thick and surprising story. I read the first 440 pages in one snowy Sunday afternoon.

if you like making love at midnight

Professor Coldheart — Tue, 29 Jan 2008 17:17:00 +0000

(1) Has January felt like a long month to anyone else? I think back on some of the big things I've done recently and they've all happened in 2008. Not that I'm complaining; I prefer to stretch each second between here and the grave as long as possible. But it's hard to believe there's still 3 days left before February. Who knows what could happen in that time? (2) Per a website I found the other day, I'm going to start incorporating the phrase "I ... drink ... your ... MILKSHAKE! I DRINK IT UP!" into conversation. It's really only suitable for the most epic level of owning imaginable - someone walks blindly into a perfect punchline, someone gets completely schooled in Guitar Hero, Eli Manning throws 5 picks and gets sacked twice, etc. (3) I think I'm at the closest to 2000 calories a day that I've ever been. And that's coming up from below, not dropping down from above. I've just never been a big eater. I hate taking time away from whatever I'm doing - reading, talking to people, doing work - to prepare a meal. I prefer to stretch each second between here and the grave as long as possible. This explains why I prefer easy-bake bachelor chow: just stick it in the oven, set the timer and walk away. Considering you can still count my ribs by sight and I posted cholesterol in the double digits - that's LDL, not HDL - the last time I tested, I don't think I'm doing anything wrong. (4) I bought a jumbo bottle of generic Men's One-a-Day vitamins the last time I visited BJ's Wholesale Club. The instructions recommend taking them after a meal, something I regularly forget to do. I think my average is about 0.300-A-Day, which would play well in the Major Leagues but doesn't quite cut it for the home game. (5) Updated Nerds on Sports with what may be my nerdiest post yet. Comment there, not here. (6) Postscript media blow: I don't think I ever reviewed Where the Truth Lies, one of my 50+ books from last year. It's a murder mystery that stretches between 1950s Florida and 1970s Hollywood, told from the point-of-view of the ambitious young reporter investigating it. The book read all right and moved at a decent clip, but there are a few ... weird ... points that just didn't sit with me:

The protagonist is writing a biography on one half of Hollywood's most famous showbiz duos. I finally figured out about one hundred pages in (later than most, I'm sure) that the characters were obvious stand-ins for Dean Martin and Jerry Lewis. And while I don't mind the notion that there were dark and twisted secrets to the Martin/Lewis partnership, and while I appreciate the need to use stand-in characters to avoid a libel suit, it's still weird. Reading about how one of the two is phenomenal in the sack, I mean an absolute knock-out, and then remembering, "oh wait, she means Jerry Lewis" just throws a bucket of cold slime on the back of your neck.
The protagonist is a 25-year-old female reporter in the 70s. She's smart, witty and comfortable talking about sex with strangers. Fair enough; not out of character for the time period. However, I couldn't help thinking that her tone - her word choice, her tendency toward irony and verbosity - would work better coming from a 25-year-old female blogger in the 21st century. This struck me so many times that I began wondering if the author wasn't cribbing from Mimi Smartypants or the latest chick-lit offering.
The back-cover text notes that this is the author's first novel. Minor stylistic hiccups aside, I found it pretty impressive. Then I learned that Rupert Holmes, the author, was also Rupert Holmes, writer of "Escape (The Pina Colada Song). That means he was between 50 and 55 years old when he started writing this book. And while there's nothing wrong with entering the writing field late in life, it makes every time that the protagonist (25 years old, female, sexually liberal) examines her naked body approvingly - in the mirror, in the bathtub, while being nailed by Jerry Lewis - really really creepy.

So ... yeah. It's a murder mystery that goes down like a David Lynch movie. I recommend it ... maybe? I don't know.

because I don't mind if you don't mind

Professor Coldheart — Wed, 30 Jan 2008 16:23:00 +0000

Dear everyone who matters, This LJ notwithstanding, I don't talk a lot about myself and what drives me. I've always been the quiet type. And about jiu-jitsu, which I've been studying for seven and a half years - longer than I went to any single school or held any one job - I tend to say even less. I think this is the humility that discipline imposes on you. I never tell people, "I know jiu-jitsu" or "I teach jiu-jitsu" - I always say, "I'm studying jiu-jitsu." And that's what I consider myself: a perpetual student. To make up for years of silence, though, some background: the martial arts fascinated me for years, as with most boys who grew up in the 80s. Brief flirtations with the karate club and the fencing club at BC didn't really engage me. Then I happened to get a flyer from BC's jiu-jitsu club and decided to get off my ass and do something. I took the shuttlebus from Greycliff to Newton Campus and sat in a quonset hut with about forty other underclassmen. Of those, three are still paying students: myself and two others. I always had the expectation in my mind that I'd quit when I ran into something too frustrating to learn quickly. But I stuck it out through forward rolls, rear rolls, judo, breakfalls, shiho nage (don't ask) and other things that, to this day, I still haven't mastered. I always secretly feared that I'd quit when I first got a severe injury. But I've broken my nose and stress-fractured a couple different fingers in class, I end more classes sore than whole, and I still haven't stopped. And I knew - deep down secretly knew - that I'd stop coming once it grew inconvenient. But there was a stretch of about nine months, my senior year in college - when I was applying for grad schools, writing a thesis and directing a play - that I would walk to class at least once a week, sometimes twice. Three miles when I couldn't catch a bus. In the snow a couple of times. I think I keep at it because jiu-jitsu's the only time that I'm regularly challenged during the week. Think about it: how many times in a month - or in a year - do we deliberately throw ourselves into something that we don't know we can do? Job interviews, asking strangers out, standing up to the occasional asshole: we'll take rare trips outside our comfort zone but we don't regularly live there. Anyhow, you've all been very patient with me. You've understood when I have to duck out on Tuesdays and Thursdays for class, or when I limp home bruised and sweaty but still smiling. I think it's time you got to see what I've given seven and a half years of my life to. On the afternoon of Saturday, March 15th, two other students and I will be promoting to black belt. It would mean a lot to me if you could be there.

that ain't no DJ, that was rock and roll

Professor Coldheart — Thu, 31 Jan 2008 13:38:00 +0000

5:35: I get home from work and bring in the mail. Sitting down on my bed, the day catches up with me and I slowly slump over. Just a minute to rest my head, maybe, before I take on the evening. 6:55: I open my eyes. Crap. I snag a handful of snacks to clear my head and then start writing. Tonight feels really productive, but Word tells me I only added 1860 words to my total. Tuesday I felt like I was struggling but ended 2050 words up. In fairness, though, most of those two thousand and fifty words weren't that great. A lot of "then"s and "were"s. 8:05: Writing done, I walk to Inman Square to help ImprovBoston move out. We have to empty the entire theater, even if it means carrying trash with us to the new space to dispose of it there. I help brute force IB's legendary foldout couch from the basement up to the top floor. I also help Bobby's fiancee Claire dispose of the two absolutely filthy rugs from the basement, which cough up blinding clouds of dust every time they're folded over, moved, touched or looked at for too long. There's some minor confusion as to what's going and what's being thrown out, and of course because we're improvisers the typical workload is "move something fifty feet, crack jokes until people pay attention to you, repeat process." But the last load gets out the door at about quarter after ten, when I take my leave. 10:30: I pass crossing the street from the Asgard. "It's packed tonight," he says. "Lots of hipsters. Guys with hats." I understand exactly what he means once I'm in the door: guys with ill-fitting jackets and fedoras, skinny girls with thick glasses and leggings. Asgard's become A Scene. Fortunately, they're all talented singers, so I don't mind listening to them cover "Patience" or Meredith Brooks or "Sweet Caroline." I won't tell you what I sang; let's just say you couldn't call it a comeback. 11:50: After chatting up Greg W., Pete F., John S., and , I make my exit. (Note: , , and others were also there; I just didn't get to talk to them as much. Alas! Alack!). 2:40: My dreams involve keeping a girl who's on Celebrity Rehab with Dr. Drew hidden from the ambassador to England (who happens to be one of the HR generalists at the Company). We run up and down a lot of stairs; the ambassador delivers a lot of angry voice mails to her case worker. I also find a secret 8th floor in a building on Boston College's campus which I'd never seen before. This floor had a huge bar and grill with very low prices and a Barnes and Noble.

but if that's what you had in mind, well if that's what it's all about

Professor Coldheart — Thu, 31 Jan 2008 22:26:00 +0000

Okay friends and hangers-on, it's survey time: Do I need a haircut? Follow-up question: does this guy need a haircut? Answer independently or relative to each other as needed.

there are seven ancient pawnshops around the world

Professor Coldheart — Fri, 01 Feb 2008 16:26:00 +0000

I went out for post jiu-jitsu drinks last night at 21 Nickels^*, where someone raised an interesting question: of the two spectacularly shot existentialist Texas epics in Oscar contention this year, There Will Be Blood and No Country for Old Men, which is better? I struggled with this one for a bit before settling on the latter. Not that either movie really lacks anything, of course. They both feature the most breathtaking cinematography I've seen in years. One has a brilliant soundtrack, the other uses absolute silence to perfect effect. And both use the language of film in faultless service of their unapologetically bleak themes. But I could watch No Country for Old Men again before I could watch There Will Be Blood again. No Country has that Coen Bros' trademark black humor, that whistling past the graveyard, to take the edge off its nihilism. The only laughter in Blood, to quote Orwell, is the laugh of triumph over a defeated foe; the thrill of victory, the sensation of trampling on an enemy who is helpless. And other delightful thoughts for an overcast Friday.
Eating at a Wendy's last weekend, I saw a promotional poster for their new Baconator sandwich. The tagline: "IT CAN SENSE YOUR FEAR." My first thought was what an oddly direct marketing approach. Think on it: the idea of a burger being so mighty that it demands a cowed response requires a certain ironic outlook on the world. The type of mind that appreciates that ad - mine, for one; yours, hopefully - also appreciates the irony of contemplating Chuck Norris hiding a fist beneath his beard. The hip, fairly literate 18-45-year-old. The ad's not meant for anyone else. Let me put it this way: if I took my grandmother out to Wendy's, a darling 75-year-old woman with seven children, twenty-four grandchildren, two great-grandchildren and a South Texas accent so pronounced she inverts the h and the w in "what," she would be profoundly confused by that ad. It might occupy our entire conversation. "Am I supposed to be afraid of that burger?" "No, Grandma." "It doesn't sound very appetizing." "No, it's ..." And so forth. I suppose this is nothing new - hip, fairly literate 18-45-year-olds are the target demographic for most consumer goods. But I've never seen the mechanism so naked before. If you're not able to both anthropomorphize and genuflect before a hamburger, we're not even going to bother explaining it. Get the hell out of Wendy's, old man.
Waking-nightmare hallucinations last night, for the first time in a while. I was distinctly convinced that a green clawed thing was moving on the ceiling above my bed, positioning itself above my face. I could see it, with the same distinction that I see anything in the dark without my glasses on. I bolted out of bed, fumbled for the light switch (which for some reason wasn't in its usual position next to the door), and ended up turning on the floor lamp. Nothing, of course. I took a minute to clear my head and tried to get back to sleep.
Nerds on Sports is having an all-day Pickstravaganza, talking up Sunday's Big Game. Check in every hour between 11:00 and 4:00 to see a brand-new post from each NoS columnist. Or just wait until 4:00 to read them all. Either way.

________________________ ^* The jiu-jitsu school regularly patronizes 21 Nickels after the monthly belt promotion. The owner recognizes us and clears out the back room for us, lining up a table ten seats to a side. "Set these guys up with an appetizer on me," he instructs the waitress - an instruction he could just as easily convey in the kitchen, but I understand the importance of salesmanship. We're so well-known that at this point we don't even have to announce our arrival. I showed up 15 minutes late last night after an ATM run and was waiting in line for the bathroom; the waitress passed me, asked if I was with the jiu-jitsu folks and took my drink order. That's service. I'm now recognized on sight at three different bars north of the Charles, so I suppose I've arrived, or something.

I've got a million ugly words for what you are

Professor Coldheart — Fri, 01 Feb 2008 18:46:00 +0000

(c/o ): The Mississippi Legislature introduced a bill this week to prohibit restaurants from serving food to fat people:

Any food establishment to which this section applies shall not be allowed to serve food to any person who is obese, based on criteria prescribed by the State Department of Health after consultation with the Mississippi Council on Obesity Prevention and Management established under Section 41-101-1 or its successor. The State Department of Health shall prepare written materials that describe and explain the criteria for determining whether a person is obese, and shall provide those materials to all food establishments to which this section applies. A food establishment shall be entitled to rely on the criteria for obesity in those written materials when determining whether or not it is allowed to serve food to any person.

The weblogger who broke this apparently called the state rep who authored the bill and asked if he were serious.

He kindly took a moment to answer my question while the legislature was in session. He said that while, regrettably, he doesn’t believe his bill will pass, this is serious. He wrote it, he said, because of the “urgency of the obesity crisis and need for government action.” He hopes it will “call attention to the serious problem of obesity and what it is costing the Medicare system.”

I said that making health insurance the government's business would create a "trojan horse" by which increasing control over civilian lives would be justified. Giving HHS a vested interest in my health means they have a vested interest in my lifestyle choices - whether or not I smoke, get a tattoo, drive too fast, eat trans fats, run twice a week or never at all. And I said, "unless you can prove that, contra the 20th Century, the world is getting more free and not less, I'm going to be worried." You told me I was crazy. I said that banning trans fats was a predictable next step from banning cigarette smoking in restaurants, and that the active persecution of fat people was only a matter of time. Far from being a slippery slope, this was a logical progression from deciding public policy where one benefit - making people incrementally healthier - outweighs every conceivable cost - civil liberties, consumer choice, entrepreneurship, the simple fucking notion of "live and let live." You told me I was crazy. People can marginalize and mock the libertarian viewpoint all they want, but the truth will out: culture shifts on precedents. It's not that the Guvmint is imposing some draconian new laws on us out of the callousness of its heart - it's that the legislators who pass these laws arose from a cultural institution in which individual choices just don't matter compared to some nebulously defined Social Good. Reps Mayhall, Shows and Read of the Great State of Miss-iss-ipp aren't insane - they proposed this bill because they thought it was a good idea. Because they thought sane people would agree with them. And in a country where health insurance is mandatory in some states (and, if Romney gets elected, probably in the rest of the country), who's to say their guess was wrong? A law like this isn't a sea change - it's a drop in the ocean. When I say that liberty is an all-or-nothing thing, I don't mean that to come off as extreme as it sounds. What I mean is: surrendering your freedom to choose on one front - be it abortion or smoking or wages or flag-burning or breast implants or genetically engineered food or anything - means conceding an argument in the future. It means you'll have one less argument when someone wants to ban, mock or ostracize something that you enjoy doing. It's not a question of electing Republicans or Democrats or Libertarians or Greens or whoever. It's a question of changing the culture you live in. And when the question of whether or not we can forbid fat people entrance to a restaurant is even debatable, we live in a culture that does not value liberty. A century ago, Evelyn Beatrice Hall (in a quote frequently attributed to Voltaire) wrote: "I disapprove of what you say, but I will defend to the death your right to say it." She understood that free speech has to transcend the gross preferences of personal taste. If you start making exceptions for words, images or thoughts that you find personally reprehensible, you are no longer a defender of free speech. Some people get this. But they don't get that it applies to freedom as a whole. Tell me I'm being an extremist. Tell me I'm fighting a futile battle. Tell me I'm missing some finer point that justifies banning this harmless life choice but not your pet cause. I've heard it before. Just please stop telling me that I'm fucking crazy.

that's why they call me mr. fahrenheit

Professor Coldheart — Mon, 04 Feb 2008 20:43:00 +0000

It's been an insanely productive weekend. In the last 48 hours, I have:

Wiped down the entire bathroom - shower, toilet, sink, the works;
Swept the kitchen (you wouldn't notice; Tomas has restored the general dust and debris that I cleaned up);
Thrown out the recycling;
Listed several books for sale on Amazon;
Taken out the garbage;
Filed some outstanding paperwork;
Folded laundry that had been waiting to return to the drawers for about five days;
Did some more laundry - jiu-jitsu gi, bathrobe, sweatshirt and jeans that had gotten dusty in the ImprovBoston move;
Dropped some clothes off at the Salvation Army;
Gone grocery shopping;
Gone to the bank;
Gone to the doctor's office;
Gone to MicroCenter - got a mousepad, monitor wipes and some DVD-Rs; and
Updated Livejournal.

Days like this don't come cheap. But after another 1900-2000 words of writing I can call it a night. * * * I've found myself running a lot lately. Not for exercise - I can think of nothing more boring - but running in anticipation. When I went to karaoke on Wednesday and post jiu-jitsu drinks on Thursday, I found myself jogging lightly from my car to wherever I was headed. This either means that my long dormant alcoholism has finally started making decisions for me, or that I miss my friends. I like writing and jiu-jitsu and all that; they're rewarding enterprises. But I also like hanging out with cool people. I like seeing myself in photos and LJ entries. When I know I'm going to see some folks I haven't seen in a while, I subconsciously hurry and I can't slow down. Who knows what I've missed? I hate travel times and scheduling and conflicts - I just want to be there, doing this, right now. So bear with me if I seem out of breath. It means I was eager to get there; take it as a compliment.

[worst08] kathryn jean lopez, national review online, "re: supporting mccain is some kind of lunacy"

Professor Coldheart — Tue, 05 Feb 2008 12:58:00 +0000

I suspect, given that 2008 carries The Most Important Election Since The Last One, that a lot of this year's Worst Writing will be politically inspired. I'm reasoning from a trend of exactly two entries - Ezra Klein's laborious handjob to Obama on The American Prospect's website, and the winner below - but I feel that's fair and scientifically valid. Anyhow, here's Kathryn Jean Lopez, the editor of National Review (and thus, per Worst Writing's rules, a valid target in any forum), firing off a quickie blog post:

As I said to Michael Medved on a radio show today, the issue — with some exceptions — is issues.

... okay, what's the semantic content of that sentence? What exactly is being said here? Even if we excuse the mealy redundancy that's a cheap substitute for being profound ("the issue ... is issues"), the "with some exceptions" completely invalidates it. When you start off vague and then qualify your vagueness, you're not just saying nothing - you're wasting your readers' time.

This is primary season, and this is the time to debate record and temperament. I think I agree with Jonah that some perspective is in order — but what does conservative mean? What is a conservative candidate? Do we have one? Etc. [sic] are debates to have now, before it's too late

The formatting there is atrocious; I think KJL's trying to say that the debate over "what makes a candidate conservative" is a debate to have during primary season, not later. If you read everything after "I think I agree ..." as one sentence, and not four sentences and a fragment, it makes sense. Still ... Sorry, not as much gristle on this bone - hers was a short blog post. But that lead sentence alone struck me hard enough to merit a nomination. Congratulations, National Review! (thanks to Sadly,No! for the tip)

went to a dance, looking for romance

Professor Coldheart — Tue, 05 Feb 2008 15:34:00 +0000

I don't know why you people continue to listen to my political blather. I've openly and repeatedly acknowledged that I don't vote and probably never will^*. I'm also a bit of a crackpot. But still people argue with what I assert as if it had weight. Here, let me try this: reading my political opinions has been linked, but not definitively tied, with an increase in the risk of heart disease. You've been warned. Inspired by a conversation I had last week with , and since today's Super Tuesday, I'm going to rank the Big Four in order from Least Disliked to Most Disliked: (1) Barack Obama (Dem., Oz): He's at least rhetorically in favor of ending one of America's conflicts in the Middle East. Plus, if his favorite TV show is The Wire, as he's repeatedly claimed, then he's at least sympathetic to the notion that the War on Drugs is failing. Also, saying, "I wouldn't mind Obama" gives me a lot of street-cred in young and liberal Massachusetts. These are probably the shallowest reasons ever to endorse a candidate, except for the reasons that 90% of the voting public uses. Note that this doesn't mean I like him. (2) Mitt Romney (Rep., Mos Eisley): The great thing about an absolutely unprincipled mercenary is that you can count on him to go where the money is. It's the people with ethics you have to worry about. You know, the ones who say they're "defenders of liberty" and then sign warrantless wiretaps into law, or the ones who say "keep your laws off my body" and then ban trans fats. But Romney's so depraved it's predictable. I suspect he's too much of a huckster to mean most of the things he says (like "double Gitmo"). Congress can put the brakes on anything truly abysmal, like a Constitutional ban on gay marriage, and merely allow him to do all the stupid things that Presidents usually do. Note that this doesn't mean I like him. (3) Hillary Clinton (Dem., Klingon): I could make more of the fact that she somehow managed to co-opt withdrawal from Iraq as a campaign plank without ever managing to explain why voting for the war in Iraq for the first five years was a good idea. But if I start calling politicians on changing their stances now, then, well, heh heh, that'd just be wacky. In sum: she's struck me as hawkish for years and the polarization between Democrat and GOP that the campaign season's brought on hasn't lightened her views. (4) John McCain (Rep., Springfield Retirement Castle): John McCain is literally senile. I'm not exaggerating - I believe he's genuinely in the early stages of what will become dementia, Alzheimer's or just general cerebral collapse. He roasts Romney for supporting torture, but voted for the Military Commissions Act. He's considering withdrawing from public financing of his campaign because of the limits it imposes - limits that were written into a bill he authored. He favors the harshest punishments for medical marijuana users, despite the fact that his wife got off easy when abusing painkillers. He lit a fire under Congress to start investigating drug use in Major League Baseball four years ago, and is now gleefully accepting endorsements from convicted HGH smugglers. Even by the low standards we apply to career politicians, McCain does not understand the consequences of his actions. He's insane. And I know that word gets bandied about a lot, so I don't mean "insane" like the really hardcore liberals think Bush or Cheney is insane. I mean "barely capable of goal-oriented thinking." I'm already bothered enough by the notion that the U.S.'s next President will start a war with Iran based on the same sloppy standards of evidence that got the U.S. into Iraq. But McCain could start a war in Iran because the radio told him to. I don't see what the appeal is. If you want a hawk, vote Hillary, or Romney if you can't stomach crossing the party lines. If you want a guy who'll end torture, vote Obama. But could someone who supports McCain please tell me what the appeal is? Is it the idea that electing a man so demonstrably crazy will intimidate our enemies, foreign and domestic? "That's right - we voted a slavering old coot into the most powerful office in human history! Quit pestering us about the Kyoto Treaty, or next term we'll elect a dog! That's right, President Dog in 2012! We won't even give him an adorable name! Confront the unthinking eyes of our Commander-in-Chief!" So that's my take on the subject. ________________________ ^* Nominate a candidate who'll end the War on Drugs, repeal the Military Commissions Act and balance the budget and you'll find me a more agreeable character. However, I consider this promise equivalent to, 'I don't vote and I probably never will,' so I feel pretty solid.

turn off your mind, relax and flow downstream

Professor Coldheart — Wed, 06 Feb 2008 15:09:00 +0000

Saturday started off with jiu-jitsu in Natick. I appreciate the occasional Saturday workout because we drill things in the Advanced Instructors' course that we never cover during regular class. Also, sitting in on the Instructors' Certification class immediately afterward lets me review things that I really ought to know better. Like, how to keep from boring the people I teach. I made the mistake of taking Route 9 homeward, so it took me an hour to get to my next stop: Inman Oasis. Cheryl S. was working behind the desk that night and took pity on my frazzled face. The community hot tub that I intended to use was a little full, so one of the staff ushered me to a private hot tub off to the side. She asked that I keep the door cracked in case someone else needed to use it as well, then left me to it. Nothing beats letting pulsing bubbles obliterate your thoughts, letting 103-degree water support your entire body weight, or taking an extra long time to towel off and apply exotic-smelling moisturizers (tea tree? eucalyptus? whatever, something good). That, plus two Bukowski hot dogs, will restore a man after anything.

your circuit's dead; there's something wrong

Professor Coldheart — Thu, 07 Feb 2008 17:20:00 +0000

Let me tell you: Not Your Average Joe's will smother you in the customer service experience. Both the hostess and the server last night asked if I'd been there before. "Yes," I said, wondering what spiel a "No" would have provoked. NYAJ doesn't serve family-style or buffet or anything like that. What's the arcane process that I need to be walked through? So you'll take my drink order then my food order? Madness. Also, the server came by immediately after taking the drink order and dropped some cards for the "Not Your Average Joe's E-mail Club" on the table. Apparently, I can sign up to get e-mail coupons. And a free sundae on my birthday. I appreciate the effort, but (A) seriously and (B) you drop customer feedback forms off when the conversation at the table's dying out, not early in the meal. Look for people playing with their straws or checking their watches. apparently gets a huge kick out of watching karaoke but not doing it, as this is the second time in recent memory he's made karaoke a stopping point during a big personal event (his bachelor party being the other). I drank to his happy 30th while , , and sang some country and western classics. Eventually the rest of the usual crew showed up - and listing you name by name will only get me in trouble for forgetting someone, so nyah - and we sang while the rain streamed down. Highlights include: Aaron's friend Leah rocking all over "Hit Me With Your Best Shot," covering "Here Comes Your Man" and a complete stranger belting her way through "If I Could Turn Back Time." Mark and I did a duet of "Space Oddity," to much applause. I'm hungry. Let's go get a taco.

if you don't like it, don't knock it: somebody else may want to rock it

Professor Coldheart — Fri, 08 Feb 2008 19:45:00 +0000

Is there a word for "a correction that only strengthens the original point"? On some blog months ago (I know, what a reference, right?), I read someone defending Ayn Rand against the misattributed quote that "a woman shouldn't be president." "That's not what she said at all," the author said. "What Rand actually said was, no rational woman should want to be President." And he cited chapter and verse in defense. Similarly, FactCheck.org (a magnificent website) sent out the following correction in an e-mail today:

The DNC paints McCain as favoring "endless war" in Iraq. What McCain actually said is that he wouldn't mind a hundred-year troop presence "as long as Americans are not being injured or harmed or wounded or killed."

I would classify both of these as corrections that don't improve the original assertion. It's not like hearing the above explanation of Rand's views makes her opinion about female presidents more palatable, or hearing that McCain wouldn't mind a century-long occupation of Iraq under phantasmic conditions makes him sound sane. Each of those so-called corrections make me do a proverbial double-take and say, "So ... you concede the point?" There has to be a word for that sort of correction-that-isn't. And if we don't have a word, I turn to you, Internet, to give me one.

I'm NOT SICK but I'M NOT WELL

Professor Coldheart — Sun, 10 Feb 2008 05:52:00 +0000

it's been a year or two since I was out on the floor: I can't claim full faith and credit for the dance party at Common Ground on Friday, since packs the house every week and , , and are regulars. But I asked people to show up and they did: , who hurled abuse on Boston College's mediocre forward John Oates ("I got a phone call from him and my phone committed a turnover"); , who danced and took photos and looked excitedly at her drink; , who introduced himself and promptly vanished like the shy boy he is. I'm surprised I don't scare more people off the dance floor, because I am a spastic motherfucker. I pitch something close to a full-on grown up temper tantrum whenever Mike plays "Flagpole Sitta" and I throw knees and elbows in all directions during Lo-Fidelity Allstars' "Battleflag." Lest you think this journal is nothing but self-aggrandizement, let me assure you: I'm a danger to anyone who gets near me. Meg had lost her radio job that morning, so she got plenty liquored up. I made sure Steph was giving her a ride home, then stumbled into the night. If there's anything less pleasant than walking through 30 degree in a shirt that's literally dripping with sweat, I don't want to experience it any time soon. I wonder if you wonder: I debated whether or not to go see Double Indemnity at the Brattle on Saturday morning, but common sense got the better of me. I made it from Union Sq to Harvard Sq just in time - on foot, having learned after the last three tries that I won't find parking in Harvard closer than my own driveway. If I was supposed to buy a ticket for the movie I failed that step: Trisha L. waved me right into the balcony. I squeezed in next to , , and . We all checked our watches impatiently until the artistic director for the Brattle took the stage, explaining why it was important that arthouse theaters show classic movies. Then a colleague followed him, explaining that Double Indemnity had been written by Billy Wilder and Raymond Chandler, "author of The Maltese Falcon and those books." She also suggested we watch for the way that the language of film - lighting, cinematography and so forth - placed each character on the "Richter scale of morality."¹ Dave didn't think his empty coffee cup could make it all the way to the stage, no matter how many times I asked. Finally, the movie started. I don't need to add my critical plaudits to Double Indemnity, a movie that still holds up after six decades. And the Cambridge audience did not disappoint: there was enthusiastic applause after Edward G. Robinson went on his phenomenal little rant ("why, I'll bet you've never opened an actuarial table in your life ...") and audible chuckles at every dated innuendo. I had a burger at Flat Patties and went home happy. you're toxic; I'm slipping under: My GPS finally steered me wrong! Two things:

Going northbound on McGrath Highway, just after you cross Broadway, there's a point where if you want to go left you have to bear right, and if you want to go straight (for Medford) you have to stay left. The satellites don't have that fine of an eye, so when they told me to "bear left" I did, not thinking that they meant "end up going left." Oh, well.
The address I meant to hit, on Mystic Valley Parkway, sits at the end of a private way behind a skating rink. The GPS couldn't handle this and put me on the other bank of Mystic River instead. Fortunately I'd made this same mistake last time, using Google Maps directions². So I corrected myself without difficulty.

The event in question, a birthday party for Melissa from jiu-jitsu, was fun and low-key. I drank Red Stripe and mixed fruity drinks for the girls. Apparently four girls were celebrating February birthdays simultaneously: Melissa, Rita, Tammi (who's also going up for black belt) and Lisa. Melissa was already on her way to wasted when I walked in the door and blew right by it, windows down and hair streaming, in the short time I was there. "Don't jiu-jitsu throw your sister!" I yelled at her, three times in rapid succession, in the presence of witnesses. I had a good time. _________________________ ¹ A 1 is a mere fault tremor of good taste - a 6 is an EARTHQUAKE OF MORAL PURITY. ² Oddly enough, Google Maps can pinpoint the address exactly - I checked just now. But asking it for directions to that address puts me completely in the wrong.

you've got to know when to hold 'em

Professor Coldheart — Sun, 10 Feb 2008 17:55:00 +0000

I've finally realized the problem I have with Joss Whedon's dialogue: the actors delivering it aren't very good. Consider a line from Firefly. Taking one at random: "well, my days of respecting you are quickly coming to a middle" (paraphrasing slightly). I think Nathan Fillion has that line and he just butchers it. Spits it out like he's getting a prize for delivering it in less than two seconds. It's a line that looks great on paper but just fell flat for me on screen (am I supposed to believe people talk like this?). Now consider a line from No Country for Old Men. Taking one at random: "what are we supposed to say? looking for a person who has recently drunk milk?" Tommy Lee Jones' dry, tired delivery is just so perfect that I want to take it and put it in the veggie drawer of the fridge for later. Holy hell. But if I read that line on a printed page I might not have the same pleasant reaction. Maybe the problem is that I could never buy Nathan Fillion as a cowboy. He always struck me as one of those people who tells jokes expecting the laugh - their eyes wet with anticipation, the smile that they're about to share with you already half-formed on their lips. I want to punch those people. Forever. I want that to be my job. What makes a clever line clever, in my eyes anyway, is the straight-facedness with which it's delivered. If you're hanging yourself out there, with such desperate vulnerability and the need to be liked, it ruins the pitch. When you say something like, "I swear, by my pretty pink bonnet, I will end you," you can't be thinking about how smart you are for coming up with such a witty thing to say. I think my standards are too high, as 90% of my peer group loves Joss Whedon. So I'm the crank here. All I'm saying is the good actors on that show - Adam Baldwin, and I'm sure another name will come to me in an hour or twelve - carried a lot of weight for the rest of the cast.

can you hear me? can you hear me running?

Professor Coldheart — Tue, 12 Feb 2008 11:40:00 +0000

New job's likely to keep me busy for a few days. Until then, here's a weekend media blow: Life of Pi: It says something of my cynicism that my first reaction to this book's explicitly mystical tone was, "Is this some kind of sick joke?" Seriously. I wasn't sure whether we, the audience, were supposed to mock the teenager's wide-eyed religious faith or pity it. That's just me, though, and aside from that I found the rest of the book entertaining. It's a clever little yarn that moves at a good clip and always hangs something in front of you to keep you occupied. Body Heat: Smoldering and perfect. The cinematography suffers from some occasional "neat camera tricks," but that's a trifling complaint. Double Indemnity with the roles reversed three-quarters of the way through. One of these days I'll have a "new noir" film festival; this'll be in it.

now I'm looking for the sky to save me

Professor Coldheart — Wed, 13 Feb 2008 14:59:00 +0000

Speaking only in the most general terms, work has been engaging. I've never engraved so many new wrinkles into my brain in such a short period of time. Most new job training that I've been on has involved rote repetition until I get a series of commands down and then being left to my own devices. Now, I've been given an entirely new nest of concepts to wrap my head around. Fascinating stuff, though a little daunting. I'm drinking from the firehose. This week has picked up my internal clock and chucked it across the room. I went to the Beanpot on Monday, which meant I didn't do any writing and didn't get home until 11:30. I had the first stage of my black belt pre-test last night, meaning I worked out for three hours straight (at varying levels of intensity) and didn't get home until 10:45. And I'm no longer driving to Quincy in the morning, so I'm breaking 4 years of habit in my morning routine. And it's been bitter cold all week. I apologize if I don't see you tonight at karaoke. I'd like to make it out, really and truly, but I may just get home and lapse into a coma.

and I feel my finger on your trigger

Professor Coldheart — Thu, 14 Feb 2008 13:26:00 +0000

My Valentine's Day plans: hugging men in heavy cotton robes and throwing them to the ground with great force. Yours?

I could love you baby 'till it's a cri-ime

Professor Coldheart — Mon, 18 Feb 2008 20:50:00 +0000

Weekend media blow: Gone Baby Gone: Probably the most morally ambivalent film I've seen in some years. I'm still not quite sure whether the protagonist did the right thing in the end or not. Amy Ryan disappears into her role as a Dorchester townie; I didn't even recognize her until the credits. And kudos to Ben Affleck for being competent enough to direct a movie; I honestly didn't think he had it in him. See it soonest. Speed-the-Plow: Bad Habit Productions put up David Mamet's Speed-the-Plow this past weekend; it runs through the end of next weekend. A Hollywood producer debates whether to sign off on an action flick with a big-name star that he knows will make boatloads, or a risky film adaptation of a critically acclaimed novel. On one side is his long-time chum, a scheming power player who brought the action script to his door; on the other side is his secretary, who's moved by the book and wants to see it on screen. It's a Mamet play, of course, so the woman is paying the price for the sins of her entire race. Fortunately, the woman was being played by Kate Bailey (BC '02), so she had a viewpoint and an integrity of her own and wasn't just an object for the men to alternately covet or mistrust. It took me about five minutes to place the accent of the man playing Bobby Gould - Dutch? Norwegian? - but after that it never bothered me again. His mastery of Mamet's prose was fluid enough that it wasn't an obstacle. And the sweaty young man playing Chuck Fox was a perfect amalgamation of every coke-huffing Hollywood agent ever depicted on film while still being an original in his own right.

do a little bump just to clean your apartment

Professor Coldheart — Wed, 20 Feb 2008 16:05:00 +0000

You want a weekend? You've got it. On Friday I bought Grace a hot chocolate for her birthday. We made it to Bloc 11 minutes before it closed; the spiky-haired girl behind the counter offered us our choice of pastries that she would otherwise have to throw out. We selected a remarkably bland walnut scone. "Even by the standards of day-old scones," Grace said, "this is pretty bland." She talked about seeing flowering cacao trees at the Garfield Park Observatory on her recent trip to Chicago. I ought to get one of those for the front yard. Afterward I stopped in on an impromptu evening at Rachel's (). Bob (), Mia, Michu () and a nice gent named Ian were there already. I poured myself a Diet something and something and talked theater with the crowd until fatigue o'ercame us all. Saturday started with jiu-jitsu. I've been scheduling additional workouts to get up to snuff for black belt, taking advantage of Paul's Natick campus for weekend workouts. Tony, Paul F. and I threw each other around for about an hour and forty-five minutes, pausing only occasionally to critique. After changing back into street clothes, we leafed through the Century Martial Arts supply catalog that Paul keeps on his desk. "I want to show up on Tuesday with a blue gi and a camouflage belt," Paul F. said, eyeing one page warily. "Just to see how far Nick smacks me across the room." I drove back to Cambridge and went to Franco's for the quickest haircut I've had in twenty-five years: eight minutes from entry to exit. The gentleman took off just enough so that my hair's no longer feathering out in the back like I'm opening for Quiet Riot. I now have two favorite barbershops in the Boston metro area - Franco's and State Street - and the former is fifty percent cheaper. Then I grabbed a leisurely thirty minutes in the community tub at Inman Oasis and two hot dogs from Bukowski. If I did anything else on the day, other than read and watch Gone Baby Gone, I don't remember it nor do I want to. On Sunday, Vickie () and I went to see Speed-the-Plow at the Piano Factory. We talked about theater, oddly enough, and opined about the gulf between football and baseball season. We accidentally wandered into an art exhibition at the Gallery at the Piano Factory before finding the theater - around the corner, behind the parking lot, down a steep hill. It's a neat little black box. The evening led me to Razzy's for Trisha and Joanna's () combined birthday party. They'd rented out the entire top floor, so I binged on $2 Molsons and said hi to everybody. David M. waxed enthusiastic about his upcoming burlesque show. I caught up with Kevin H. and Jake G., whom I don't see nearly often enough, and got to talk books with Sly () and Katie (). "I need to take up a new vice for Lent," I told them. "What do you suggest?" "Sloth?" Sylvia suggested. "Gluttony? Anger?" "Nah," Katie said. "I don't think he could pull off anger." "What?" I raged. "Why, you little ..." Someone had made off with Trisha's iPod adapter, so the usual post-bar dance party relied on some hasty CD burning. I only stuck around until about 2:30. Photos of me rocking halfway the hell out may have surfaced; these should be discounted as fraudury. On Monday I went to the gym. Pounding the heavy bag should be a staple of any serious workout. Running may be good for cardio, but nothing turns the adrenaline on and makes you sweat like sixty seconds of punching. Repeat that three times and you're good. Also of note: I was the only man under Social Security age in the sauna. You figure it out. It took me forty-five minutes to figure out my lunch, as the line at Panera was too long, Friendly's was too packed (on a school holiday? what're the odds?) and CitiGirl Cafe was closed. I finally gave into deliciousness at S&S, by way of steak and eggs. Now that's a post-workout meal. Home brought laundry, another 2000 words of fiction and reading until the time came to lay my weary head down.

and the story it told of the river that flowed made me sad to think it was dead

Professor Coldheart — Mon, 25 Feb 2008 14:35:00 +0000

Bundle up tight, LJers, for your weekend media blow: American Gods: Neil Gaiman's entry into the surprisingly crowded mythological-figures-battle-over-the-American-landscape genre. Gaiman's got that good "sense of story" like Whedon has (hey, I never said I hated the guy) and he uses it to interesting ends. Compare this book to any given novel by Tim Powers (specifically, Last Call or Three Days to Never) and you'll find that Gaiman tends to veer toward the twee in cases where Powers would veer toward the gritty. That doesn't mean you'll wince, however, and Gaiman's advantage is that you never get confused as to what's going on, whereas I still don't understand how Three Days to Never turned out. I furrowed my brow a little at one scene near the end that looked like it was lifted, line for line, from Roger Zelazny's Lord of Light. However, (1) Gaiman has acknowledged his debts to Zelazny multiple times in the past, and (2) oh, wait, it's a modern retelling of mythology - they're probably both cribbing from the same source; duh. Very entertaining read. Good Night and Good Luck: Handles very well for such a talky flick. Characters who'd be unsympathetic in a weaker script - the Air Force colonel who tries to intimidate CBS into silence, Frank Langella as the CBS exec answerable to the station's sponsors - have depth, integrity and backbone. And of course Strathairn's delivery as the most well-regarded editorialist of the 20th century is letter perfect. The writing is cool and fairly minimal - to a great extent, Clooney lets the original players speak for themselves: newsreel footage of McCarthy, the actual text of Murrow's broadcasts, etc. Better than a documentary. Girl with a Pearl Earring: A very quick read that failed to really move me one way or another. I got hints of what the narrator was experiencing - her frustration at the prospect of a lifetime of drudgery, her secret obsession with Vermeer, her conflicting feelings regarding the young butcher, her mixed curiosity and distrust of differing religions and customs, etc. But we never dwelt on any of those in detail. All I can say with certainty is that it sucked being poor and a woman in the 17th century, though in fairness that was true for every century save this one and the last. The behind the scenes look at how Vermeer created his masterpieces was certainly interesting.

I fought the law and the law won

Professor Coldheart — Mon, 25 Feb 2008 18:06:00 +0000

On Friday I braved the wintry mix to see Laugh Track in ImprovBoston's new space. It's brighter and more open by leaps and bounds than the old Inman Square black box. The lobby is actually a lobby, not a low-ceilinged deathtrap. The stage in the main theater is huge and sweeping. That being said, I think they need to do something about the seats - for the first time in probably fifteen years, I had trouble seeing over the heads of the people in front of me^*. I understand, of course, that construction is still ongoing, so I wouldn't hold this against the new venue. The show itself was a blast, with Harry Gordon as special guest Attorney Joey Franks ("... Joey Franks") stealing the show and running. Since I didn't go to the gym on Friday, I went all-out on Saturday, doing my usual odd-day routine (rows, pulldowns, lunges, crunches, punching bag) and topping it off with ten minutes of sauna. Then I watched Mel's () 7th Sea game in Newton. I honestly don't know what she was so nervous about - she's GMing like a pro. She gets deeper into character quicker than I did and she always had something fun to throw at her players. She asked me to sit in as Nicklaus Trague (Eisenfurst of Freiburg and mentor to 's character of Logan Sieger), which I did gladly. I lounged about and watched movies with the rest of my Saturday. On Sunday I tried Veggie Planet in Harvard Square for the first time. It's a brunch restaurant in the basement of Club Passim that looks like what you'd expect a Harvard vegetarian restaurant to look like - exposed brick, low ceilings, natty wood tables, lots of men with beards and women with piercings. I had an "open face grilled cheese" - essentially a cheese pizza - which was very tasty. I had time to kill before Neutrino, so I drank a Guinness and read some Graham Greene in the Burren until Shannon and Jason () showed up. We talked about one of Neutrino's long-term projects (more on that as the situation develops), drank more beer and had lunch. At Neutrino rehearsal proper, Dave S. divvied us up into teams for impromptu sketch-filming - filming a sketch, not an improvised scene, in 45 minutes. Manny, Jeff P., Pete F. and I did fairly well, coming up with a short subject on office gophers and impossible tasks. Line of the evening: "Why would I ask you to kill Hernandez? I love Hernandez!" Sunday evening merits its own post. ^* And pity the poor people sitting behind me! Or laugh at them; your call.

here comes your man

Professor Coldheart — Tue, 26 Feb 2008 17:22:00 +0000

"In point-one miles," the GPS told me, "turn left." I turned left off of Columbia onto Blue Hill Ave. "Fuck," I swore. I pulled into the icy strip of road behind Chez Vous, Boston's only roller rink, just behind Will, Gina and DJ. Teetering across the sidewalk, I paused outside the front door. "I need cash for the cover," I said. "I can get you," Will offered. "I need cash in general," I elaborated. "Let me find an ATM." "... are you sure?" After an uneventful run to an ATM and a thorough pat-down in the front door of Chez Vous, I cashed in a ticket for a pair of size 13 roller skates. The gang had filled out in my trip across the street - , , , , , in addition to those already listed. I laced up and teetered over to a coin locker to deposit my shoes. My balance felt all right. It had been more than a decade since last I tried on roller skates, but I felt confident. I rolled off the carpet and onto the rink and immediately regretted my decision. Hands cartwheeling, I grabbed for the guide rail along the wall. I shuffled my feet back and forth like snowshoes, making the slowest progress possible. I coasted along the farthest perimeter of the rink before reaching the corner where the rail ended and steeling myself for the unaided twelve foot crossing to the next rail. Slowly I scooched, step by step. I completed two laps in this fashion to everyone else's six or seven. Melissa and Fraley sat with me - better skaters by far, but a little more tired and hungry than the rest of us. We watched older skaters, veterans of the roller disco era, pirouetting and gliding backward around the rink. An old man stood in the exact center of the rink, bopping and dancing to the tracks on the speakers without moving his feet an inch. "Did he really need skates for that?" Fraley asked. "They wouldn't let him on the rink without them," I observed. Christine talked me into trying another lap. We rolled tentatively out to the far side of the rink. She coached me through the first tentative steps. "You'll probably want to crouch a little," she said, considering my center of gravity was about nine feet off the floor. Suddenly, Robert Loggia's skinnier brother - I have no better way to describe him - skidded to a twirling halt between the two of us. "The first rule of skating," he said, by way of introduction, "is: if you look down, you fall down. Same as riding a bicycle." "... okay," I said with some confusion, locking eyes with him. "The second rule of skating," he continued, "is: if you walk like a person, you look like a duck!" He shifted his feet back and forth in a heel-toe, heel-toe, making zero forward progress and wobbling comically. "But if you walk like a duck, you move like a person. Observe." He placed his heels together and his toes pointing outward, at maybe 45 degrees from each other, and began to shift his feet. Slowly he started to move. "You see?" "So." He positioned himself about ten feet from me. "Walk like a duck! Eyes on me!" I positioned my heels together, looked straight forward in response to his two-fingered point between his eyes and mine, and began to walk forward. Sure enough, I started picking up speed - and at no cost to balance, either. I made it all the way to the end of the rail before stopping. "Third rule! You see this?" He teetered suddenly, throwing his arms out to cartwheel. "Those are the wobblies. You get two of those, you sit down for fifteen minutes. You get three, you're done for the night. You don't just want to stop on the rink, just like you wouldn't stop on the interstate. You're working an entirely different set of muscles here." He skated off, backwards on one foot. "What's the first rule?" he called. "If you look down, you fall down," I answered. I made less than another lap on his instructions. Then I realized that throwing my back or knee out while rollerskating wouldn't be the silliest injury possible prior to a black belt test, but pretty close. So I stopped for the evening. People started getting hungry as well. Fraley and I played Warzaid while waiting for folks to skate themselves out. "The fact that these skeletons can pilot helicopters," Fraley said, "suggests that we might be able to reason with them." "Defeatist," I said. Will led us on a roundabout route to the IHOP in Quincy Center. We were the only folks in the restaurant bar some late night teenagers and a guitar-playing hermit. The waitress heckled us good-naturedly, bringing out stacks and stacks of breakfast. "Does everything here come with pancakes?" Katie asked. "Actually, the pancakes come with a side of omelets^*," I corrected. _________________________ ^* Side omelets come with a side of pancakes.

all my dreams, all my dreams fall like rain

Professor Coldheart — Wed, 27 Feb 2008 13:41:00 +0000

I only read a couple of liberal / progressive webjournals, but I've already seen plenty of hand-wringing and venom-spitting over the news that Ralph Nader is entering the Presidential race. From Making Light:

Okay, everyone. Help save America. Work to keep Nader off the ballot in your state.

From Scott Lemieux of Lawyers, Guns and Money:

Reactionary vanity candidate Ralph Nader is apparently pleased enough with record of the man he put in the White House that he's running again in hopes that we can get four more years of similar policy outcomes.

All I can say to that is thank God. People are now freely admitting that running a candidate who accurately reflects the will of a substantial portion of the American people takes a back seat to getting a Democrat into the White House. It's not about what citizens or progressives or socialists or liberals want - it's about shilling for the century-old multi-million dollar corporation we call the Democratic Party. Better that a Democrat get elected than some dirty old Independent. But not a particular Democrat, no: just anyone who happens to have the "D" tag next to their name. Meaning, anyone who has the blessing of the superdelegates, the party machine, and the giant companies that finance this and every other election. Just anyone but him. Let's presume, for the sake of argument, an acknowledged fiction: that Ralph Nader will garner enough popular support in this election to seriously threaten $DEM_CANDIDATE's chances at the Presidency. This won't happen. But if it did, which would be the more moral choice: for the Democratic candidate to tailor their views leftward to accomodate Nader's base of support, or to do whatever it took to keep Nader from being heard? To paraphrase: would it be better for the Democratic candidate to acknowledge the will of his constituency or to use the millions of dollars and thousands of bureaucrats at the Party's disposal to silence the upstart? I have to be missing something here, because the idea of fighting a Nader candidacy strikes me as not just immoral but so contrary to the supposed spirit of the Democratic Party - they're the progressives, the populists, the ones sticking up for the little guy - that the idea that anyone could seriously be mad at Nader baffles me. If he's so unpopular that he won't make a difference, then what do you care? On the other hand, if he's popular enough to take votes from your favorite candidate, doesn't that indicate how weak your candidate was? Or would you rather have an election with as few candidates as possible, just so those gullible idiots in the Midwestern states don't get confused? Hell, let's just abolish the opposition party and have single candidate elections from now until the Germanic tribes sack Ravenna. So please, someone: help me out. If you're as mad at Nader for the craven audacity to run as Jim MacDonald or Scott Lemieux are, please explain to me what I'm missing. Say "I think it's less important that people have a chance to vote for a candidate they prefer than to put a Democrat in the White House in 2009 because ..." and then go from there. I'll hear you out. (And I don't like Nader at all. The man's got all the reactionary charm of Pat Buchanan but without the naked aggression. So if you're opposed to Nader entering the race because you despise his ideas, that's fine. But that has nothing to do with why every progressive I've read since Sunday wants him swept under the rug)

but I still spit your girlfriend's favorite verse

Professor Coldheart — Thu, 28 Feb 2008 13:39:00 +0000

# # # This may shock you: it's snowing. # # # On Monday, I saw Michu () and Vickie () spin at River Gods. I've probably passed that bar at least two hundred times in all the years I've lived in Boston but never set foot in it before this week. It's not just Celtic - it's fucking pagan. And I mean in the "let's ritually kill our king to ensure a good harvest" sense. The DJ booth is a little alcove above the floor with a tiny church window; it's quite cozy. Someday I hope to sit there. # # # Going to sleep after tying two on always leads to interesting dreams. Last night's featured a mash-up of, well, MASH, the UFC, McDonald's, high school debate and jiu-jitsu. Some of you were there. No, I'm not saying who. # # # Nobody ever warns you about the logistics involved in preparing for black belt. Tammi, one of the other students promoting with me, has graciously acquired several precut sheets of eastern white pine, which I'll need to drive my elbow through in just about two weeks' time. We did the math and figured we'll need at least 14 boards each (4 to break on the day of, 1+2+3+4 to practice breaking in incremental stages) plus probably another 10 each to practice. Remind me: I owe her a check. On top of that, we need to pick a place to go drinking afterward. Sensei Nick regularly asks me if we've picked a watering hole yet and every time I tell him no (I do have a lot on my mind). It needs to be some place that can accomodate twenty to forty people. Fortunately, there aren't any major holidays coming up that weekend so I anticipate very little trouble. # # # For the past 24 hours, I've devoted a significant portion of my day to trying to unscrew the spigot on a bottle of Target brand moisturizer lotion. It's one of those little push-down spigots that comes snapped into place; you need to twist it a few times in one direction to get it to snap up. I have twisted it infinite times in all directions, to no avail. If you're in the Watertown area and are smarter than me, please stop by my desk. # # # I'm no longer a karaoke regular, to my chagrin as well as yours, but I braved the bluster and snow last night to stop in at Asgard. DJ Paul apparently didn't know he'd been nominated for Best Karaoke in Boston (vote, you fools!). I chatted BC improv with Serpico () and Devil in the White City with Victoria. After some depressing hipsters failed their way through "Baba O'Riley" and "Because You Loved Me" ...

: Oh, I get it! He's wearing that tie ironically. : Because it's not a button-down collar! : And he's wearing that hat with the earflaps ironically too. : Let's be fair - he could just be cold. : Or it could be a resonance chamber.

... I felt obligated to do some DJ Kool. So I did. The end. # # # Graham Greene: good light reading.

the most important time: right now and ever after

Professor Coldheart — Fri, 29 Feb 2008 23:22:05 +0000

Thanks for making the move over from the old digs. I promise to keep providing the same content you've come to expect, including (but not limited to):

Political rants no one agrees with;
Recaps of parties you didn't attend (no pics, sorry);
Sparse reviews of books / movies that everyone got over months ago;
Introverted whining;
And dozens more!

Posts written here will be duplicated on LJ indefinitely, so you won't miss a thing.

About

Professor Coldheart — Fri, 29 Feb 2008 23:22:05 +0000

WARNING This brings me to the one note of disappointment I must echo from our Benefactors. Obviously I am not on the ground to closely command or second-guess the dedicated forces of the Overwatch, but this does not mean I can shirk responsibility for recent lapses and even outright failures on their part. I have been severely questioned about these shortcomings, and now must put the question to you: How could one man have slipped through your force's fingers time and time again? How is it possible? This is not some agent provocateur or highly trained assassin we are discussing. Professor Coldheart is a theoretical physicist who had hardly earned the distinction of his Ph.D. at the time of the Periscope Depth Incident. I have good reason to believe that in the intervening years, he was in a state that precluded further development of covert skills. The man you have consistently failed to slow, let alone capture, is by all standards simply that - an ordinary man. How can you have failed to apprehend him? Well, I will leave the upbraiding for another time, to the extent it proves necessary. Now is the moment to redeem yourselves. If the transhuman forces are to prove themselves an indispensable augmentation to the Combine Overwatch, they will have to earn the privilege. I'm sure I don't have to remind you that the alternative, if you can call it that, is total extinction - in union with all the other unworthy branches of the species. Let's not allow it to come to that. I have done my best to convince our Benefactors that you are the finest the species has to offer. So far they have accepted my argument, but without concrete evidence to back it up, my words sound increasingly hollow even to me. The burden of proof is on you. As is the consequence of failure. I'll just leave it at that. Ten Most Popular Posts of 2008 LOLcatnomics: LOLcats explain the core concepts of basic economics. God Loves Ugly: Why the "Monkey's Paw" conceit is kind of tired, and what we can do about it Don't Worry, Be Happy Was the Number One Jam: On the four "Americas" - the people, the territory, the government and the culture - and why you shouldn't confuse them. White People, Do the Humpty Hump: Ten hip-hop songs that white people can sing at karaoke, no problem You'll Never Watch Your Life Slide out of View: Five different versions of Pulp's "Common People" Lower the Curtain down on Memphis: Did the logo for the 2008 Republican National Convention look like Cthulhu to anyone else? Also: if a gypsy shoves a baby in your arms to pick your pocket, is it okay to drop the baby? Like Joseph Stalin and Gandhi: What is the worst thing a celebrity, artist or other public figure would have to do before you lost respect for them? Racism? Beating a spouse? Murder? You Don't Know Me; You Just Love Me: The difference between a book and a movie, and why adapting one into another is rarely a cause for celebration Just like Witches at Black Masses: Let's stop letting engineers name things. 'Cause Saturday Night's All Right for Fighting: My black belt test in March.

even if we're just dancing in the dark

Professor Coldheart — Mon, 03 Mar 2008 13:30:20 +0000

Bundle up tight - 'tis a frosty media blow: First, an anecdote: According to IMDB, which never steers me wrong, NBC producer Brandon Tartikoff lamented, in the early 80s, about the poor acting chops of the leading males in the channel's primetime slots. He and his assistant came up with a (joke) concept called "The Man of Six Words." Each episode would start with the guy getting out of bed with a different woman ("Thank you"). He'd then get an assignment from his boss ("Okay"), get the drop on some bad guys ("Freeze!") and save someone's life ("You're welcome"). "What about all the rest of the dialogue?" his assistant asked. "I don't know," came the reply. "We'll give him a talking car or something." Knight Rider: This one wasn't bad - and I've seen more bad TV in the last year than I normally watch in three - but it just reinforced the mediocrity of prime time television in every aspect. When we're introduced to our hero, Mike Traceur (French for "the tracer"), he's tooling up a drag racer for some mid-level thugs in Southern California. They demand $90,000, which he doesn't have. "What, are you gonna break my legs?" Traceur asks. "Are you kidding?" the boss exposits. "You're an ex-Army Ranger. No, that's what he's here for." He snaps his fingers at his big flunky, who proceeds to get beat up by ex-Army Ranger Mike Traceur. The boss then pulls a gun out and points it at the head of Traceur's plucky roommate/sidekick. So ... why bother trying to engage Traceur in fisticuffs when you've got a gun, and intend to threaten his pal, anyway? (I know why: to spice up the pacing and to show our hero as a badass. But is there a real-world reason?) A bunch of forgettable soap opera vets, Sidney Poitier's daughter and Bruce "I'm Not Harry Anderson" Davison round out the cast. Greg Ellis ("Michael Amador" from S3 of 24) plays the head of a team of mercenaries (how do you know he's evil? because he's British). David Hasselhoff has a cameo as a ~~half-filled duffel bag perched atop a suit stuffed with ham~~ the original driver of KITT. Val Kilmer plays the voice of KITT, miraculously failing to impress me with what should be the easiest role in the show. You're the sarcastic computer! Come on! Breach: A remarkably accurate depiction of the Robert Hanssen takedown. Cooper's portrayal of Hanssen is subtle but compelling. There's a scene where Hanssen (a rigidly Catholic hardass) is being photographed for his service anniversary portrait. He loses his temper at being fussed over for twenty minutes by the homosexual photographer and stalks off. A lesser film would have made the photographer not just gay but fa-LA-ming, and had Hanssen not just walk off bitterly but throw a temper tantrum. The understated touch, however, pays off here. The script impressed me with its intelligence. In addition to Cooper's star turn, Laura Linney, Dennis Haysbert and Gary Cole also do some remarkable work, and Ryan Philippe doesn't screw anything up too bad. This Gun For Hire: One of Graham Greene's early "entertainments." A hitman assassinates a British minister in 1936, nearly kicking off another Great War. Betrayed by his employers, he scrambles for shelter one step ahead of the cops. Greene has a pretty remarkable ability to put us in the heads of all of the minor characters - their concerns about class and the petty mundanity of life, their fears, their history, etc. It's not as rampantly Catholic as his later books (like The Power and the Glory) but still contains some philosophical divergences on the notion of sin and redemption. Good light reading.

end of work week, chillin' on a saturday

Professor Coldheart — Mon, 03 Mar 2008 17:30:18 +0000

I sat down and crunched some numbers last night and I'm pretty sure this past weekend was a good one on net. Check for yourself: +: I spent Friday evening in, watching Breach instead of heading to 90s' Night. Sparkgrrl suggests that this was the wiser course, as apparently Allston has been invaded by drunken college kids. I'm as shocked as you. -: The Saturday jiu-jitsu workout felt marginal. I had a hard time focusing for the first hour - couldn't remember obvious stuff, couldn't commit to what was in front of me. I knocked over one of the fancy blown glass soap dispensers in Paul's bathroom, scattering a fist-sized blob of soap and several shards of glass across the tile floor. It actually took a sharp blow to the head - from someone's knee - to wake me up. -: On top of that, every time I make progress on one set of techniques I lose ground on another. I found myself struggling with stuff that I blew people away with three weeks ago (arm bars off of multiple attackers), though I had surprising luck with a usual trouble spot (irimi nage off of multiple attackers). And I haven't even reached the stuff that I know I'm going to have trouble with - the black belt techniques. I'd lump this in under the point above but it's a broad frustration, not a particular incident. -: And I still can't do judo. +: I caught up with Vickie and heard about her weekend. We talked about her review gigs, our first concerts and the Red Sox whipping up on BC. Ask her how much she loves Ashlee Simpson, because you will be hard-pressed to find a bigger fan in Boston. +: The Neutrino writing team for the ITV submission had a remarkably productive meeting on Saturday night. I think we were all amazed at how much we cranked out in 2 hours. We've got some compelling and interesting characters who all have real reasons to be doing what they're doing - namely, typical sitcom hijinks. We also established that the opposite of "womanizer" is "man-eater," and that nothing's funnier than a waiter dropping a tray of glasses. Nothing. +: After sitting untouched for weeks, two of the books on my Amazon storefront sold within 36 hours of each other. I have no idea how Amazon makes money off this. They gave me $8 for shipping the two books, and even buying those cushioned MediaMailer envelopes at the Post Office I only spent $7 on Standard shipping. Hello, pocket change! -: I felt pretty tired on Saturday and Sunday. I pulled something in my lats on Friday after working them out really hard and then reclining funny on the bed later that evening. -: Also, it snowed again. Could someone just dump three feet of snow on Boston and then stop for the year, rather than three to five inches every six days? +: I went grocery shopping on Sunday. I now have a variety of healthy snacks at my desk at work: Honey Nut Cheerios, Craisins, etc. So the + and - seem pretty even. But I inflated my jiu-jitsu anxiety out into three separate entries where two might have sufficed. So I think, on net, that the weekend turned out productive.

I'm not as young as I look, girl, I'm old school

Professor Coldheart — Tue, 04 Mar 2008 17:25:31 +0000

A couple of recent discussions, and some recent online reading, have led me to think about the following. I can't think of any female stars in Hollywood today who can pull off what Lauren Bacall did effortlessly: play older than her actual age. The demand, for years, has been for twenty-somethings who can play teenagers and thirty-somethings who can play college girls. But Bacall could hold her own as a romantic lead against a man old enough to be her father. Who today has that gravity? Ellen Page, maybe, but (as was pointed out to me recently) she's been pigeonholed into low-presence roles. Anyone else? Also: I was reading an article online about Burt Lancaster and a similar thought occurred to me. In two of my favorite classic movies, From Here to Eternity and Gunfight at the OK Corral, Lancaster does something that I can't vision a male action star doing today. He lifts a woman by the waist and lowers her to the ground - in the former from a rocky outcropping, in the latter from the saddle of a horse. I'm sure there are action stars today with the raw lifting capacity to pull that off, but I can't picture anyone doing it as gracefully. The closest I can see to that type is Dwayne "The Rock" Johnson. He's got the muscle, the fluidity of movement and the boyish charisma. However I can't see The Rock taking on roles as challenging as Lancaster's, like a Nazi judge being tried by a military tribunal, or a gay hairdresser (not played for laughs) (which role he lost to William Hurt), or an anti-Vietnam movie at the height of the Vietnam conflict (which he took a pay cut to finance). Lancaster wasn't just good hair and teeth, don't forget - he had acting chops, too. I know, I know - kvetching about how great the movies of yesteryear were never goes out of style. But don't blame me for wanting more out of Hollywood.

the victims have been bled

Professor Coldheart — Tue, 04 Mar 2008 19:00:46 +0000

Gary Gygax, co-creator of Dungeons and Dragons and father of the modern role-playing game, has ~~supposedly~~ died today.

like a castle in its corner, in a medieval game

Professor Coldheart — Wed, 05 Mar 2008 13:30:09 +0000

CNN confirms the passing of Gary Gygax. I think I first started recognizing Dungeons and Dragons from ads in the back of the occasional Marvel Comic that I'd buy. One day in 4th grade I discovered a huge standing display of D&D boxed sets in the local Waldenbooks - the black box with the red dragon on the cover, for those who remember it. I begged my parents to let me buy one, which they said I could - out of my own pocket. So I scrimped and saved twenty whole dollars (plus $1 tax) and walked out with one about a month later¹. I was already familiar with Choose Your Own Adventure books, and video game RPGs like Dragon Warrior and Final Fantasy. But the idea that I could make and explore my own worlds thrilled me to no end. It turned on an addiction that I'm probably never going to get over. Now here's the pathetic part: I spent far more time preparing to play D&D than I spent actually playing. I had a friend, Stephen, who'd play D&D on occasion but liked Champions and Marvel Super Heroes better. My friend Patrick liked Shadowrun - the cyberpunk RPG where the 2050s look just like the nightmare of 1985 - and we played on and off for a couple summers. Other than that, though, I never had a regular gaming crew in high school. I was always too conscious of the judgment of the "cool kids" to risk admitting that yes, I liked half-elven fighter/mages and slaying pit fiends. Those kids at the corner table? With the greasy black hair and the pasty skin and the Dungeon Masters Guide with the cracked spine? They had more cojones than I did.² I got back into D&D in college, with the gentle coaxing of Kevin H. and Serpico. I played a big, glorious mess of a one-off game with them and about seven other people one spring. Inspired, I took the slow steps necessary to start running my own campaign. Melissa, Serpico, Kevin and Aaron followed the trail I set for them, recovering two ancient artifacts that outlined a ritual for godhood and keeping them out of the hands of the demonic/celestial crossbreed, Duvaran the Fair. There were vicious halfling mercenaries and religious zealots and genocidal elves and half-orc barbarians and snow dragons and kobold traps galore. I think I even worked a barbazu in there. Good times. Without RPGs, I never would have run the 7th Sea campaign (The Lost Histories) that got Melissa and Fraley better acquainted. Without RPGs, I never would have known Christine any better than I did. I probably wouldn't still be friends with Bobby, Auston, Dana J., Will S. or half the people I went to school with. I probably wouldn't still be reading. Or writing. I'd also probably be at least $1000 richer, judging by the contents of the bookshelf closest to my computer, but that's neither here nor there. I've had a rich and imaginative gaming life so far and I've only been at it sixteen years. You'll find me and a regular crew at the nursing home, shaking polyhedral dice and arguing over who has initiative. I can almost promise. "We don't stop playing because we grow old. We grow old because we stop playing." - Oscar Wilde _________________________ ¹ This should be especially funny to anyone still in the hobby, where $20 will buy you about 2/3 of one of the three core handbooks you need to play D&D today. ² Not hanging out with geeks all the time in my developing years had its other advantages, of course, so I don't rue the whole experience.

Media Blow

Professor Coldheart — Wed, 05 Mar 2008 16:31:29 +0000

Every now and then I read something. Book Reviews 50 Books a Year 2008: Tracking | Recap 2009: Tracking | Recap 2010: 1, The System of the World (Part 1), Neal Stephenson, Dec 8 2009 2, The System of the World (Part 2), Neal Stephenson, Dec 15 2009 3, The High Window, Raymond Chandler, Dec 23 2009 4, Innocents Abroad, Gene Wolfe, Dec 24 2009 5, Master and Commander, Patrick O'Brian, Dec 25 2009 6, The IPCRESS File, Len Deighton, January 5 2010 7, The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo, Stieg Larsson, January 8 2010 8, Ad Nauseam, Carrie McLaren and Jason Torchinsky, January 11 2010 9, Blood Meridian, Cormac McCarthy, January 15 2010 10, A Distant Mirror (Part 1), Barbara Tuchman, February 5 2010 11, As You Like It, William Shakespeare, February 9 2010 12, On Writing: A Memoir Of The Craft, Stephen King, February 12 2010 13, Bird by Bird, Anne Lamott, February 19 2010 14, House of Leaves, Mark Danielewski, February 28 2010 15, Infinite Jest (yes it counts as two books), David Foster Wallace, April 5 2010 16, Infinite Jest (I'm almost convinced it counts as three), David Foster Wallace, April 5 2010 17, The Dark Tide, Andrew Gross, April 12 2010 18, Bad Luck and Trouble, Lee Child, April 15 2010 19, The Sword of the Torturer, Gene Wolfe, April 23 2010 20, Singularity Sky, Charles Stross, April 23 2010 21, Fans Friends and Followers, Scott Kirsner, April 30 2010

I'm surrounded by more babies than Ashanti songs

Professor Coldheart — Thu, 06 Mar 2008 13:30:22 +0000

I'm not going to talk much about work on here, as a rule, but: were I still in the semiotics game, I might have a lot to say about the degree of weeding I need to do when sorting a list of common search results related to babies. I mean actual babies, not ooh baby, so I have to manually pick out anything inappropriate. No, I don't want baby got back lyrics. Or hey baby. Or mtv cribs. Or baby got boobs. Or america's next top wet nurse. There's enough infancy imagery in pop culture to make at least two masters' theses, if not a grant proposal.
Tuesday night I put just shy of 16 gallons in the tank and paid a few dimes shy of $50. That number's going to sit with me for a while. I can buy an XBox 360 for 7 tanks of gas. I can get a decent suit for 5 tanks of gas. I can take a girl out for a quality dinner or I can fill up my car. You try it - it's fun!
Work and jiu-jitsu have taken over my life recently, meaning I haven't had as much time to devote to the simple pleasures like paying bills. I still haven't touched my W-2s. I know that I have more than a month to do them and the actual process will take me maybe 2 hours, but I still feel the obligation sorely. My all-time record for earliest filing remains Valentine's Day. One year I hope to beat that record.
While woeing is me the other day, I forgot one awesome development that blew the rest of the weekend's bad news out of the water: I landed tickets to Atmosphere's next show in Boston! April 26th. I've branded this date on the surface of my brain. I will have no schedule conflicts on April 26th. Nothing will stand between me, the Theatre District and the twin sons of Mini-Hopelessness. I understand that the birth / death of your loved one may be important, sir / ma'am, but I've got GA seats to Atmosphere, so you'll excuse my rudeness.
Speaking of memory, and of work: I have yet to forget where I parked or which locker I'm using in the gym. Given my tendencies toward occasional absentmindedness I consider this a pretty serious accomplishment. Apparently, all it takes is a conscious effort to remember a number - even if that number changes every day ("P3", "44", etc) - and I'm good. Or maybe I'm growing sharper in my old age.
I transition from "mid twenties" to "late twenties" in about three weeks. I'll make sure to update my viewpoints accordingly.

but I never thought you'd be a junkie because heroin is so passe

Professor Coldheart — Fri, 07 Mar 2008 14:02:09 +0000

Time to troll the week's headlines:

I've never registered to vote because, for other reasons, I want to stay off of jury duty rolls in Massachusetts. Lately, though, I've started to wonder whether that's really the right tack. My one vote is so insignificant as to be statistically discountable - but think of the havoc I could wreak on a jury! That's just eleven other people! And they can't leave the room! I remembered this malicious little thought when I read an op-ed in Time by the writers of The Wire, the greatest show that the medium of television has yet produced: Ed Burns, David Simon and George Pelecanos. Quoted (emphasis mine):
"A long habit of not thinking a thing wrong, gives it a superficial appearance of being right," wrote Thomas Paine when he called for civil disobedience against monarchy — the flawed national policy of his day. In a similar spirit, we offer a small idea that is, perhaps, no small idea. It will not solve the drug problem, nor will it heal all civic wounds. It does not yet address questions of how the resources spent warring with our poor over drug use might be better spent on treatment or education or job training, or anything else that might begin to restore those places in America where the only economic engine remaining is the illegal drug economy. It doesn't resolve the myriad complexities that a retreat from war to sanity will require. All it does is open a range of intricate, paradoxical issues. But this is what we can do — and what we will do. If asked to serve on a jury deliberating a violation of state or federal drug laws, we will vote to acquit, regardless of the evidence presented. Save for a prosecution in which acts of violence or intended violence are alleged, we will — to borrow Justice Harry Blackmun's manifesto against the death penalty — no longer tinker with the machinery of the drug war. No longer can we collaborate with a government that uses nonviolent drug offenses to fill prisons with its poorest, most damaged and most desperate citizens. Jury nullification is American dissent, as old and as heralded as the 1735 trial of John Peter Zenger, who was acquitted of seditious libel against the royal governor of New York, and absent a government capable of repairing injustices, it is legitimate protest. If some few episodes of a television entertainment have caused others to reflect on the war zones we have created in our cities and the human beings stranded there, we ask that those people might also consider their conscience.
But, in order to get on the jury duty rolls, I need to register to vote anyway. So who do I talk to about that?
Nobel Prize-winning economist Joseph Stiglitz thinks the war's responsible for the U.S. recession. His reasoning:
"The Fed has flooded the economy with liquidity and the regulators looked the other way when very imprudent lending was going up," Stiglitz said. "We were living on borrowed money and borrowed time and eventually a day of reckoning had to come, and it has now come." The war has also altered how the United States has reacted to its current economic troubles, he said. "When America's financial institutions had a problem, they had to turn to the sovereign wealth funds in the Middle East for recapitalization, for the bailout," he said. "The reason was obvious. The war had led to high oil prices. The war had meant that America had to borrow more money. There weren't sources of liquid funds in the United States. The sources of the liquid funds were in the Middle East," he said.
I don't expect to shake the man's Nobel laurels at you and silence the argument there. But if you still thought wars were good for the economy - and you forgot that the "economy" is a thermometer, not a thermostat - then ask me about the Broken Window Fallacy sometime. Or Google it. That's what I'd do if I had to explain it to you. Which I don't. Because Joe Stiglitz just did. I forget the point I was trying to make, except that there's no good reason for American troops to be stationed in Iraq at present.
I continue to sit agape at Cracked's transformation from "MAD Magazine knock-off" to "prime source for clever online essays." Here, for instance, are seven insane conspiracies that actually happened, like the Tuskegee experiments, MKULTRA, Scientology's "Snow White" project and President Bush's grandfather's (alleged) plot to kill FDR. If you haven't had enough yet, you can read about the South American coup that the CIA conducted on Chiquita Bananas' behalf. And if you can still handle the jive, read David Wong's much-linked article on the monkeysphere. Holy shit, dude. If I could be so profound.
My favorite entry in the Funny/Tragic file this week has to be Mukasey's Paradox:
In his twisting of legal principles, the attorney general has succeeded in creating a perfect paradox. Under Mukasey's Paradox, lawyers cannot commit crimes when they act under the orders of a president -- and a president cannot commit a crime when he acts under advice of lawyers. [...] Once in office, Mukasey still had the nasty problem of a secret torture program that was now hiding in plain view. Asked to order a criminal investigation of the program, Mukasey refused. His rationale left many lawyers gasping: Any torture that occurred was done on the advice of counsel and therefore, while they may have been wrong, it could not have been a crime for CIA interrogators or, presumably, the president. If this sounds ludicrous, it is. Under that logic, any president can simply surround himself with extremist or collusive lawyers and instantly decriminalize any crime. However, this is only half of Mukasey's Paradox. The other half occurred last week when Mukasey refused to allow contempt charges against White House Chief of Staff Josh Bolten and former White House counsel Harriet E. Miers to be given to a grand jury. Bolten and Miers stand accused of contempt in refusing to testify before Congress in its investigation of the firings of several U.S. attorneys in 2006. Mukasey wrote to House Speaker Nancy Pelosi that their refusal to testify could not be a crime because the president ordered them not to testify under executive privilege. Under this logic, no official can be prosecuted for contempt as long as a president ordered them to commit the contempt -- even if the president's assertion of privilege is clearly invalid or incomplete. In this case, many experts have expressed skepticism that all or any of President Bush's assertions of privilege in this case would be upheld.
I'm going to shotgun these last few: John McCain declares there's "strong evidence" for a link between vaccinations and autism (note: there isn't); a blindfold test confirms that Monster brand stereo cables are no better than coat hangers at conducting sound; readers of the Freakonomics blog come up with a six word motto for the United States; and Dubai may own a quarter of the world's construction cranes.
To end on an upbeat note, here are some publicity stills from the set of Watchmen. Based on these, I can say with certainty that it'll be a kickass first 75 minutes. No question. After that it's anyone's guess.

Have a good weekend, folks.

chain chain chain

Professor Coldheart — Mon, 10 Mar 2008 13:30:32 +0000

The groundhog predicted six more weeks of media blow: Palm Sunday: A collection of Vonnegut's letters, speeches and editorials (as of 1981) collected into one volume. If you know the man already, you know what you're getting into. I found some parts hilarious, some parts insightful and some parts a little picayune but not too bad. Reading an existentialist and an attempted suicide always puts me in a bit of a mood, though, so I advise caution. Metamorphoses: Mary Zimmerman's adaptation of Ovid's best known myths went up in the BCA Black Box this past weekend. They did a lot with the space: three pools to dapple in, arches to enter and exit from. Some of the performances felt just a bit stiff but no one disappointed. BC alum Krista D'agostino was phenomenal in her multiple roles - sometimes heartbroken and melodramatic, sometimes godly and imperious, sometimes coy and playful. Worth seeing.

I said, fine ma! How's Washington?

Professor Coldheart — Tue, 11 Mar 2008 12:00:34 +0000

A couple notes from the weekend: #: Once you get to Natick on the Mass Pike, missing your exit will add about 20-30 minutes to your trip. Especially in the driving rain. #: An eagle-eyed Watertown police officer spotted my expired inspection sticker in my windshield on Friday. So I took the car to get inspected first thing Saturday morning. There's a tiny garage around the corner from my place where you can drive in the back and get an inspection done while you wait. I'm used to handing the car off to a mechanic and waiting fifteen minutes for the good word, so sitting in the car and doing most of the inspection myself opened my eyes to its simplicity. "Turn on the headlights," the guy said. "Now the high beams. Okay, put on the parking brake, then shift into Drive." And so on for less than ten minutes. #: I always knew you paid a markup when buying liquor in a bar¹, but man! I tried an Irony Cabernet Sauvignon on Saturday that treated me just right. I Googled it today to see what I'd pay to take home a bottle of my own: less than 50% of the menu price. If I'm willing to trust my credit card to a sketchily-named online vendor, I can get a bottle for what I paid for a glass of this delicious wine. Why do I even leave the house to drink? #: Speaking of: if someone's invented a better beer for Chinese food than the Dogfish Head 60 Minute IPA, bring this person to me. I will reward him with spices of Araby, silks from Cathay. #: Sunday I made the right call in blowing off Neutrino rehearsal (sorry), as a fit of productivity followed: taking my bedroom rug outside and thwacking it severely, sweeping and Swiffering my room, and not only doing laundry but putting it away, too. In the same day! #: Cooking experiment last night; stay tuned for updates. _________________________ ¹ When I say "markup," I mean "the increased cost of a Boston liquor license, commercial zoning and downtown real estate, paid for by increasing the resale price of consumables." C'mon! Who do you think you're talking to?

if I was Santa Claus, I'd bake up a feast

Professor Coldheart — Wed, 12 Mar 2008 12:30:37 +0000

Abstract: I did what strangers on the Internet told me to do and it paid off. Document: Last week, meandering through the last Star Market in Watertown, I saw whole chicken breasts on sale for a sweet deal. An experimenting mood struck me, so I bought a couple pounds. I also bought some flavorful mixings from the McCormick aisle. I also bought a cutting board (at Target; separate trip entirely). I didn't have time for a real home-cooked meal before last night (which is what I've been telling you people). So I stuck the chicken breasts in the fridge to defrost on Sunday evening and took them out to cook on Monday. Anyone who's cooked with me before knows I have a pathological fear of deviating from instructions, so the clear explanations on the back of the McCormick Bag 'n Season were a soothing relief: (1) Sprinkle seasoning over chicken. I cut 2 chicken breasts out of the package, coated them generously with the herbs and spices, and rubbed the seasoning in with the back of a spoon. (2) Put chicken in bag. The seasoning mix came with a tiny plastic bag that unfolded into an arm's length cooking tent. I carefully placed the chicken in there, poking a few holes to vent steam. Off the bag's suggestion, I emptied the rest of the mixings into the floor of the bag. (3)Cook thirty minutes on 350. Easily done. After a few minutes I stuck some biscuits in there too. Verdict: god damn, this is delicious! It's just as tender as I like it, it's got that good McCormick flavor and it was remarkably easy to make. I ate one chicken breast with the aforementioned biscuits and wrapped another one for lunch leftovers. Any Downside? About forty-five minutes later I heard a clattering sound from the kitchen. My roommate and I arrived at about the same time. My roommate's cat had darted into one of his usual hiding spots - the chair at the kitchen table. The cutting board had vanished. "Where is it?" I asked. "The cat must have knocked it down," Lauren said. "Yes, but where is it?" I asked. "He can't have ... disintegrated it." I looked under the chairs and behind the trash can. I looked inside his cubbyhole and peeked into the living room. I even opened the cupboards and the dishwasher, on the off chance that one of them had been open far enough for him to knock a large Formica board in there and then accidentally shut it. No dice. I went back to my room but the mystery continued to plague me. Going back into the kitchen one more time, I got down on my knees and realized that the stove wasn't quite flush with the floor (space for the pilot light, maybe). Voila. Other than that, the meal went off without a hitch.

they know my name 'cause I told it to them

Professor Coldheart — Thu, 13 Mar 2008 13:39:48 +0000

I gave The Neon Bible another try (the Arcade Fire album, not the posthumous John Kennedy Toole novel) - and it's not as bad as I first thought! I don't know if I'd feel a pressing need to see them live if I'd already seen Interpol play within the last 12 months, but I can stand their music better now. I even found myself rocking out, just a little, on the drive in this morning. Similar feelings about Dismemberment Plan (I owe Jason for bringing these both to my attention, though Elizabeth N. turned me on to D-Plan way, way back in high school). Don't expect me to revisit Kanye, though. I fed Pandora a smorgasboard of entries yesterday - I held the cutting board up to its gaping maw and scraped Atmosphere, Interpol, controller.controller, Massive Attack, Chemical Brothers and Otis Redding into it. It spit out a couple interesting recos: Arctic Monkeys, Blue Scholars and The Editors, among others. New fodder, new fodder! I watched a repeat of America's Best Dance Crew in the break room at work over lunch on Tuesday. I have the following observations, possibly heretical:

Sure, Breaksk8, the roller-skating dance crew, is talented, but doesn't half the novelty lie in the fact that they're not falling down? It's like wearing ten pound wristbands while you pop 'n lock. Lil' Mama would say, "Your moves weren't the freshest, but DAMN - how'd you do that with those weights on?" If they were doing the same caliber of moves without skates they wouldn't have even made the cut. And you don't get extra points for handicapping yourself ... on the street.
The repeat we saw had a Michael Jackson theme to it, in honor of the 25th anniversary of Thriller (and god damn, that album stands the test of time). One group actually drew "Thriller" as their song to dance to. "Isn't that cheating?" I asked. "Can't they just do the Thriller dance? And then J.C. Chasez will say, 'You guys did the dance from "Thriller." You win.'" Because that shit is hard. I speak from experience here.
Status Quo - represent!

I think I better knock ... on wood

Professor Coldheart — Fri, 14 Mar 2008 12:30:05 +0000

Patrick Swayze diagnosed with pancreatic cancer, an asymptomatic cancer with a 5% survival rate inside the first five years. Jeff Healey, famed blues guitarist, dies at 41. Am I the first person to notice that a death curse is stalking the stars of Road House? Quick - someone check on Ben Gazzara! Also: I know I'm the first person to remark that the brothel Eliot Spitzer patronized at some cost was named after that shitty Kevin Kline movie from about six years back. I know there has to be a better Kevin Kline movie to christen a cathouse. My suggestions:

Fierce Creatures
Consenting Adults
I Love You To Death
In & Out

Actually, those were all pretty mediocre movies. Why is Kevin Kline well regarded again?

'cause Saturday night's all right for fightin'; get a little action in

Professor Coldheart — Mon, 17 Mar 2008 12:55:31 +0000

But it wouldn't be a martial arts demo without board breaks, would it? Photos courtesy of Victoria, Dave and Christine

you hate to see another tired man lay down his hand

Professor Coldheart — Tue, 18 Mar 2008 12:30:00 +0000

In the wake of the subprime mortgage collapse, legendary brokerage house Bear Stearns lost 80% of its value in the year up to this past Friday, and 89% of its remaining value over the weekend. J.P. Morgan, in a deal financed by the Federal Reserve, will be buying Bear Stearns for $2 a share, or a total of $236 million (not billion). Here's a short list of better ways to spend $236,000,000 (inspiration for this idea c/o Brad at Sadly,No): Alex Rodriguez: Possibly the best hitter of the modern era, Alex Rodriguez is the third baseman for the New York Yankees. His current contract is guaranteed by the Texas Rangers (not as storied a bank as the Federal Reserve, but no slouch) through 2010. J.P. Morgan could pick up the remainder of his contract with the Yankees (extended through 2018 after some recent shuffling) for probably a little shy of $236M. They'd then have an experienced hitter in the prime of his career, rather than the decrepit remains of a once great investment firm. 236,000 ounces of gold bullion: Gold recently made an historic close at over $1000 / oz. Valued for its rarity and luster in ancient days, gold's value on the modern market is as a hedge against inflation. As the dollar devalues, the price of gold skyrockets. And with Bernanke cutting the Fed funds rate late on Sunday (and probably cutting it again later this week), the price of gold will probably continue to climb. Therefore, J.P. Morgan could invest $236M and end up with, maybe, $237M after holding their investment for a while. This would be preferable to throwing two hundred and thirty six million dollars into a fire. The Harvard Business School Classes of 2008, 2009 and 2010: The Harvard Business School remains one of the most competitive and prestigious graduate business programs in the world. Harvard typically accepts between 1000 and 1050 students for its MBA program every year. Tuition runs about $77,150 per year (that includes room, board and expenses). J.P. Morgan could pay the entire cost for three classes full of MBA students - let's say only those currently enrolled, so as not to flood the poor dears in Cambridge with cheapskate applicants next year. A fancy letter could arrive in the mail, "Dear So-and-So: Your entire tuition has been reimbursed thanks to a grant by J.P. Morgan. If you'd like to learn more about what America's greatest investment firm can do for you, please contact our local recruiter." Presuming that only one student in fifty ends up working for J.P. Morgan after receiving such generosity, do you seriously doubt that 63 Harvard Business School graduates couldn't bring more than $263,000,000 to the company over their careers? Or is making sure your buddies at Bear Stearns get to retire with a decent nest egg a wiser bet? This is Bear Stearns we're talking about: a firm that weathered two World Wars, the Great Depression and any number of recessions until this past weekend. And this is the blow that leveled them. Bear Stearns was one of the heaviest riders on subprime mortgage bonds, but they were not the only one.

don't worry, be happy was the number one jam

Professor Coldheart — Tue, 18 Mar 2008 18:44:09 +0000

Sorry to disagree with you, everyone on the Internet, but I wasn't impressed with Barack Obama's big speech on Tuesday. Obama took the pulpit today to denounce some speeches made by his pastor, the Reverend Jeremiah Wright, over the last six years. Apparently, Rev. Wright suggested that "the United States brought the Sept. 11 terrorist attacks on itself and say blacks continue to be mistreated by whites." Here we have a problem with proper nouns. The "United States" can refer to a number of different things. It can refer to:

a particular region of land defined on a map;
the people living within its borders - you, me, that guy sitting next to you, the people on the street, etc;
a set of shared historical and cultural ideals - truth, justice, the American way, democracy, etc;
the policy of the governing body that claims a monopoly of force over the aforementioned region - the laws passed by Congress, the actions ordered by the President and the movement of armed forces carrying the U.S. flag.

Osama bin Laden had a particular grievance with the United States (4), in the presence of troops in Saudi Arabia and Somalia. Because of his radical religious beliefs, he also has issues with the United States (3). So he recruited a number of sleeper agents to infiltrate the United States (1) and carry out attacks on the United States (2). The outrage comes because citizens of the United States (2) tend to connect, implicitly or openly, the ideals of the United States (3) with its actions abroad (4). They also identify strongly with those actions in their own selves (2), seeing them as a reflection of their democratic voice. However, #1, 2, 3 and 4 are entirely different entities which can - and usually do - contradict. Witness Bush declaring, "We do not torture." Witness leftists declaring, "Bush is not our President." To believe either of those statements, you have to ignore - or even worse, embrace - the contradictions between the U.S.'s citizens, culture and elected officials. So it is with the Rev. Wright's statement. To believe that the U.S. brought the attacks of September 11th "on itself," you have to believe that #2, #3 and #4 are one and the same - that every action the U.S. takes abroad, from funding anti-Sandinista rebels in Nicaragua to bombing Cambodia to sending CIA agents to Cuba to firebombing Dresden to occupying the Philippines - reflects the will and culture of the people living in Delacroix, Denver and Des Moines. You call yourself a U.S. citizen so, apparently, every dead Iraqi baby is all your fault. Oops. To reject the Reverend's notion, you have to reject the idea that democracy does what it says on the tin - that it creates a government responsive to the explicit desires of the civilians it governs. Sometimes people who ran in open elections start secret wars. Sometimes the U.S. lends its name to torturers and thugs. But if you accept that you are ruled by forces out of your control, it's not an issue. One or the other. Take your pick. Obama, of course, doesn't take his pick. He doesn't cling to the balm of the democratic process and say that yes, you voted for Nixon and Carter and Reagan and Bush and Clinton and Bush again, and therefore those dead Vietnamese and Cambodians and Laotians and Grenadians and Iraqis are on your head. And of course he doesn't say, "Sure, vote for whoever makes you feel good, but the U.S. will continue to conduct extraordinary renditions and cover operations and bombing campaigns all over the world." Rather, he embraces the contradiction. He says that the Reverend Wright's comments are "not only wrong but divisive." Really? Not only wrong but divisive? Being wrong isn't sufficient? If the Reverend's comments were right but divisive, would you object? If they were wrong but unifying, would you stay silent? Is divisiveness not an inherently wrong thing, such that you have to call it out? You can accuse me of nitpicking over word choice, but if I have to accept this man on the quality of his rhetoric - as so many other people are - then I'm going to take my time double-checking it. Barack Obama said that the Reverend Wright's statements about America are wrong. He doesn't say in what way. Barack Obama said that the Reverend Wright's statements about race were divisive. He doesn't say what would unify. Barack Obama takes the controversial maverick stance of saying, "I disagree with this person you don't like," puts a little more wear on some platitudes about investing in schools and rebuilding the economy, and people get giddy! Update: Yes, I read the part about "binding our particular grievances to the larger aspirations of all Americans." And about "providing this generation with ladders of opportunity." What do those words mean? Reverend Wright may be wrong. That doesn't make Barack Obama right.

don't give heed to temptation

Professor Coldheart — Wed, 19 Mar 2008 12:30:48 +0000

I'm offering points off this media blow, but only if you give me your corners: The Plot Against America: An odd little novel. Roth gives an excellent depiction of a country's slow descent into fascism, starting with an alternate history where Charles Lindbergh is elected President in 1940. He keeps America out of the war in Europe and implements a plan to integrate America's Jews into mainstream culture. Nothing radical, nothing extreme. Just, y'know, sending Jewish boys between the ages of nine and thirteen to farms out in the South and Midwest so they can get a sense of American culture. Just providing tax breaks to companies that will relocate Jewish employees to offices in the middle of the country, breaking up Jewish ghettos on the East Coast. Little things. Harmless things. The book does such a monumental job showing how gradual and soothing the descent into nationalism can be that it's frankly disappointing when Roth abandons that style in the last hundred pages for a half-baked conspiracy theory. Suddenly the villains of the piece are no longer well-meaning bigots or rationalizing fellow travelers, but out and out comic book tyrants. And as a piece of alternate history I think it could stand a little more rigor. Apparently, the landslide election of a nationalist and racist to the Presidency changes none of the history that follows it - America still goes to Vietnam in the 70s, Bobby Kennedy still gets shot in '68, etc. Roth's style of jumping back and forth in the narrative timeline ("three days before von Ribbentrop came to the White House, I was on the playground at school ...") and of introducing characters just in time for their first important scene, rather than laying the groundwork earlier, threw me a little. It's not bad writing but it's a little artless. The Wire: So I had a plan with Trisha L. to only watch S3 with her, so as to prolong the duration of this limited commodity. However, temptation overtook me and I watched the last two hours of S3 on Sunday night. Then I watched the first two hours of S4. And I just watched another hour just now. Yeah, I'm binging, but with everyone in the world having seen S5 to completion except me, I'd rather get up to speed. Watching a generational show like The Wire has a social aspect (chatting it up with like-minded friends) and a personal aspect (the effect it has on you alone), and right now the former outweighs the latter for me. Observations on S3 in the cut. Don't click if you don't want anything spoiled: When I watched Gone Baby Gone, I was stunned by how completely Amy Adams fell into her role. I might have been less stunned if I'd realized that was Amy Ryan. I recognized her from S2 of The Wire, so my brain automatically dropped her in the "talented actors named Amy whom I recognize" slot without looking. I'm still impressed with her performance regardless - the transformation just seems less shocking to me. Stringer Bell's fate had been unwittingly spoiled for me but that just made certain aspects of the penultimate episode more poignant. The directors continue to amaze me with little touches. Like Barksdale and Stringer on the roof deck, recounting the story of when Stringer got caught shoplifting as a kid ("and you runnin' ..."). It's amazing how such little changes can make a difference for you. Like seeing McNulty walk a beat with a smile on his face. Or seeing Daniels and Rhonda cuddly in bed. Or seeing Cutty go collect his trainees off the corner. The show's relentless pessimism beats you down so much and then lets up on the pressure just for a second.

now she's with one of my good time buddies, drinking in some cross town bar

Professor Coldheart — Thu, 20 Mar 2008 13:25:39 +0000

#: Unless something changes, I may end up doing karaoke on three consecutive nights this week. I may have a Problem that needs Care. #: I'm almost done with ~~Scrabble~~ Scrabulous on Facebook. The idea seemed cool enough - play a low-pressure game of ~~Scrabble~~ Letter Tiles with your friends. Let the computer do the hard work of calculating scores and validating words. What I forgot at the time: I'm bad at ~~Scrabble~~ this game. I'm really not good. Sure, I've got a decent vocabulary, years of Internet fora notwithstanding, but I don't have a good sense of the game's strategy. I think I lost the thrill when Zabeth got three bingos on me in one game. Damn her. #: I got a massage on Sunday to loosen up after throwing stuff around for two hours on Saturday. A healthy woman named Tamika bore down on my lats and traps with the full weight of her body, delivered via elbow. Sadly, I didn't realize that most of the soreness wouldn't set in until two days after the event, so the massage didn't help as much. I had a stiff but not painful neck on Monday morning. Verdict: Tamika's not bad, but she's not my favorite masseuse at Inman. #: My cooking experiment continued last night, but with new and exciting developments. For the first time in my culinary history, I deliberately diverged from the cooking instructions on the package! The results: pretty mediocre! Here's the scoop: I thawed two chicken breasts and pulled down some lemon pepper seasoning while the frying pan heated up. I was supposed to coat the chicken in a mixture of lemon pepper and flour, but I had none of the latter. I pulled down the rotisserie mix to see if that would work, noting that this bottle advised a mixture of seasonings and olive oil. "Well, if it works for one," I thought, and kneaded the chicken with olive oil and lemon pepper. Next, I threw the breasts on the greased up skillet. I'm no Gordon Ramsay, but I very quickly feared that a frying pan's heat might not be sufficient to cook this chicken all the way through. I double-checked the instructions: thinly-sliced chicken breasts. Ah. So I let the chicken grill for a few minutes longer than recommended, until the insides were warm though still pink, and called it a day. Despite all this it still tasted all right. Cleanup didn't take too long, and if I had to hover over the stove for longer than I might normally like, the savory smell of the (top quarter-inch of) chicken paid off.

insane in the membrane; insane in the brain

Professor Coldheart — Fri, 21 Mar 2008 13:26:01 +0000

"Hey Professor," you asked, "what are the four craziest things John McCain has said in the last month? Not just goofy or indicative of a radical political bent, but out and out deranged?" And here I am to tell you: #4: "Al-Qaeda Would Be Taking A Country." Responding to a statement by Obama on February 27th, McCain said:

"And my friends, if we left, they (al-Qaida) wouldn't be establishing a base. [...] They'd be taking a country, and I'm not going to allow that to happen, my friends. I will not surrender. I will not surrender to al-Qaida."

Right. The predominantly Shi'ite Iraq is going to be conquered by fringe Sunni guerillas. I mean sure, it's happened before, but they had the U.S.'s help that time. Joe Klein from Time calls McCain out on his error in the link above, but makes the mistake of saying "McCain knows better. He knows the complexities of the world, and the region." Joey, presuming that McCain knows the day of the week is wishful thinking. #3: "There's Strong Evidence Linking Thimerosal to Autism." At a town hall meeting in Texas on February 29th, John McCain told a crowd of supposedly literate adults that "there's strong evidence" that thimerosal (which used to be a common ingredient in childhood vaccines) is responsible for the rise in autism. This is not true. There is no evidence to support such a conjecture. Anyone who says this or thinks this disagrees with the CDC, the American Academy of Pediatrics, the FDA, the Institute of Medicine and pretty much every doctor with a credible license. #2: "You've Stumped Me." I'm cheating a little, because this is a quote from an interview with McCain in 2007. But it came up in a 2008 op-ed, so I'm shoehorning it in. And if you'd like to argue that McCain has grown less senile and not more in twelve months' time, I'll entertain the argument. Now, if McCain's position were that abstinence education was the most effective way to reduce teen pregnancy and teen STDs, that'd be one thing. I happen to think that position is silly, puritanical and unsupported by anything empirical, but at least it's a recognizable Republican talking point. At least McCain would be a voice of the establishment at that point, instead of a decrepit lunatic who shouldn't be allowed to drive. But! When asked what exactly he thought about sex education, on the spur of the moment, he had the following to say:

Q: "What about grants for sex education in the United States? Should they include instructions about using contraceptives? Or should it be Bush's policy, which is just abstinence?" McCain: (Long pause) "Ahhh. I think I support the president's policy." Q: "So no contraception, no counseling on contraception. Just abstinence. Do you think contraceptives help stop the spread of HIV?" McCain: (Long pause) "You've stumped me."

Not a "No, they make people more promiscuous." Not a "Yes, but they encourage loose morals." He just simply doesn't get the connection. Do prophylactics reduce the spread of STDs? Hmm, that's a puzzler! You might as well ask McCain what's the difference between rhubarb and a pigeon in the attic? You're just talking gibberish! #1: "Al-Qaeda is Going Into Iran and Receiving Training ..." For this one, I'm just going to quote the Times entirely:

Mr. McCain said several times in his visit to Jordan — in a news conference and in a radio interview — that he was concerned that Iran was training Al Qaeda in Iraq. The United States believes that Iran, a Shiite country, has been training and financing Shiite extremists in Iraq, but not Al Qaeda, which is a Sunni insurgent group. Mr. McCain said at a news conference in Amman that he continued to be concerned about Iranians “taking Al Qaeda into Iran, training them and sending them back.” Asked about that statement, Mr. McCain said: “Well, it’s common knowledge and has been reported in the media that Al Qaeda is going back into Iran and receiving training and are coming back into Iraq from Iran. That’s well known. And it’s unfortunate.” It was not until he got a quiet word of correction in his ear from Senator Joseph I. Lieberman of Connecticut, who was traveling with Mr. McCain as part of a Congressional delegation on a nearly weeklong trip, that Mr. McCain corrected himself. “I’m sorry,” Mr. McCain said, “the Iranians are training extremists, not Al Qaeda.”

Even if you believe that the war in Iraq is still worth conducting - and as insane as I find that, I know some people believe it, so I'll take it for argument - how can you support a man so blithely ignorant of the basic facts of the matter? So willing to let fantasy and delusion rule his words? What would it take to prove to you that John McCain is delusional?

everybody told her it was sweet and good

Professor Coldheart — Mon, 24 Mar 2008 12:30:24 +0000

Some stuff about writing: #: I'm maybe ten to fifteen thousand words shy of the first section (of three) of The Levittown Barbecue Club. Already I'm much more excited about this novel than I am my last one. So much so, in fact, that I think I might pass around this first draft to readers before I let anyone see a page of Three Born In Eden. Why? Levittown feels more polished, already, than Three Born in Eden. Part of it has to do with the genre, no doubt - this one's a thriller set in the modern day; the first one was a surreal horror novel set, well, somewhere weird. Further, Three Born in Eden was inspired by a dream I had, which gave it miles and miles of creative juice but not much in the way of coherence. But above all else, the very fact that I wrote Three Born in Eden first means that I have 110,000 words of experience going into this novel. I'm at least 5th level already. I don't think that Three Born in Eden will prove to have been a waste, even if Levittown becomes the first novel that I feel comfortable showing other human beings. The experience alone made it worthwhile. So I guess if there's an object lesson in all this, it's that no writing is ever wasted if it makes you a better writer^*. #: A conversation I had with Victoria the other day reminded me of why I want to write:

Victoria: I was talking about mcsweeney's and open letters with a coworker who was unfamiliar. Victoria: and I went to find one that has been my favorite for a long time. Victoria: so I was rereading it and got to the end. Victoria: and started to laugh. Professor Coldheart: that's how you and I hit it off so quickly - you've known my name for years Victoria: must be the case. my coworker is still laughing at me right now. Victoria: well played, Professor. well played. Professor Coldheart: I set that one up years in advance just to sting ya

I enjoy talking about writing with friends and peers. But that's not why I write. I write because I hope someone's going to find my writing, before they ever meet or know me, and say, "Damn - that hit the spot." I don't want to be a cool guy who also happens to be a writer; I want to be a writer who happens to be cool. I know that my lifelong dream - to see my name on the cover of a hardback novel on a stranger's house or in a bookstore in a foreign city - won't be the End-All of everything. There are thousands of people who hit that step and fade into obscurity. But humans aren't built to achieve One Perfect Moment and then die quietly. We're constantly seeking new goals. We're always moving. So I don't consider Getting Published my lifetime dream. It's my dream for now. And I'm making slow progress. Postscript: That ended a lot more after-school special than I thought it would. Short version: positive feedback on my writing makes me happy; accidentally discovering that I wrote something you love makes me happier still. I suggest randomly searching the forums on RPG.net and then IMing me when you find something funny: "did you write this?" Odds are I didn't. _________________________ ^* Except Head of the Class fan-fiction. C'mon, Kev. I mean: seriously.

why you at the bar if you ain't popping the bottles?

Professor Coldheart — Tue, 25 Mar 2008 12:30:08 +0000

So what did this past weekend hold? I finished up some revisions for a Neutrino video project on Friday. Then, at the last minute, I drove to Central Square to catch an IB Show. Serpico, Michelle McN., Manny R., Paul K. and others did a series of Boston-related sketches. They hit all the important notes for some good Boston satire - drunken college girls, rowdy Red Sox fans, the mumblings of Mayor Menino - and kept me laughing. I ran into Jacey and grabbed dinner with her at Tavern on the Square. For some reason the bar hosted a live DJ mixing some generic top 40 pop at too loud of a volume to allow for easy conversation. Dance music's apparently a regular fixture at the Tavern but not a popular one - we were there until 11:00 and nobody started moving. Saturday, Dennis Hurley asked me to play an extra in a sketch video he was shooting at IB. I showed up, held a notebook, and chatted with Matt McG. and Aaron C. about Obama during downtime. Immediately after, I met up with Shannon and Brian P. for that aforementioned Neutrino project. Watching Dennis's pals mess around with shot placement and multiple takes infected me with the video bug once more, leading me to volunteer to direct a project I had just helped write. I have been infected. I expect a two month convalescence. I hung out with Lisa C. at B-Side Lounge on Saturday night. The nice server at B-Side introduced me to the wonders of the Manhattan - all the taste and power of whiskey, but without the indelible stigma of ordering a shot of Canadian Club. It is now my favorite drink. We compared notes on the Cambridge dating scene and agreed that it's fraught with traps. Sunday I stayed in my bathrobe all day. Every now and then I need a day where I don't speak to another human being. It scours the palate, like one of those water diets that drops you two dress sizes in a weekend at a slight cost to kidney health. It leaves me eager for human contact by sundown. My introversion rules me but doesn't rule me, if you value the distinction. Also of note: Star Wars Battlefront has some of the highest replay value of any video game I've ever bought. If I'm in the mood for violence, I don't need to load up a game and start some highbrow, ivory-tower "mission." I don't need to begin a quest and speak to the city fathers. I just say, "Put me in the gas refineries on Bespin and let me shoot stormtroopers" and forty seconds later I'm doing it. It has a beautiful purity I almost fear to touch. Those last two paragraphs are probably the most interesting. Once again I have buried the lede.

dollars and cents and no accidents, not in the name of democracy

Professor Coldheart — Wed, 26 Mar 2008 13:30:44 +0000

Time to rant about economics again. First, some stupid journalism about housing:

After falling for six straight months, sales of existing homes posted an unexpected increase in February. But the median home price tumbled by the largest amount on record.

How did journalists meet deadlines before they could just hit CTRL-A, CTRL-C, CTRL-V on a press release? The above comes from a helpful e-mail from the National Association of Realtors, who I'm sure don't have a pony in this race. Rant #1: Why is there a "but" in that sentence? What do you expect sales to do when prices drop? Rant #2: Patri Friedman pointed this one out: January is always the low point of the year for home sales. So a month-to-month increase between January and February should shock no one. Year-to-year, sales are still way down (here, have some graphs). Second, Paul Krugman says something dumb again. If you've known me for a while, you'll know I have no love for the man, possibly the dumbest popular writer on the subject of economics after Thomas "Being Wrong's No Reason To Withdraw" Friedman. And that's still a hotly contested spot! The rankings could switch any day now! Krugman weighs in on the three candidates' stances on the economy. He's hurt and saddened by what the Democrats are spouting:

On the Democratic side, it’s somewhat disappointing that Barack Obama, whose campaign has understandably made a point of contrasting his early opposition to the Iraq war with Hillary Clinton’s initial support, has tried to score a twofer by suggesting that the war, in addition to all its other costs, is responsible for our economic troubles. The war is indeed a grotesque waste of resources, which will place huge long-run burdens on the American public. But it’s just wrong to blame the war for our current economic mess: in the short run, wartime spending actually stimulates the economy. Remember, the lowest unemployment rate America has experienced over the last half-century came at the height of the Vietnam War.

(1) "In the short run, wartime spending actually stimulates the economy." Thank the devil he qualified that one with "in the short run" or I'd be checking the signature on his diploma. Not that this is a more defensible statement. As I've said before, the economy is not a thermostat - it's a thermometer. What we call "the economy" is just a collection of statistics that experts believe measures the wealth of a set of people. A nice bloody war can increase capital spending (by defense contractors), for instance. But paying for that war inevitably means higher taxes or massive inflation. You can't crank up one statistic without making the others fluctuate wildly. The fact that Krugman defends this as a short-run gain means he's at least anticipating the "but in the long run" objection. The fact that he offers nothing to that means he's either a coward or a moron. Take your pick, America! (2) "the lowest unemployment rate America has experienced over the last half-century came at the height of the Vietnam War." First off, who's complaining about unemployment right now? Sure, there's griping over jobs moving overseas, but is anyone suggesting that unemployment's a problem on the national scale? Unemployment's at its lowest monthly average since 2003. How long did it take Krugman to cherry pick this statistic? Second, if we go back 40 years, the numbers back him up: unemployment was at its lowest during the height of the Vietnam War. Once the war ended, however, and the U.S. had to actually start paying for its misadventure, unemployment shot back up. Between 1973 and 1983, unemployment hovered between 5 and 10%, typically on the higher end. We didn't see "Vietnam levels of prosperity," to use a term Krugman's itching to get into the lexicon, until the dot-com bubble of the late 90s. Third: I'm just reasoning from my armchair, here, but wouldn't the forced conscription of a lot of able-bodied young men be a huge drain on the workforce? Wouldn't reducing the supply of available laborers reduce the unemployment rate, in the same way that smashing every third camera on their shelves would reduce Best Buy's inventory? Is this the sort of economic miracle Krugman's looking for? Wouldn't a great solution to the (nonexistent) unemployment problem be to shoot one out of every five Americans between the ages of 18 and 34? Or did Krugman simply not think about the consequences of his reasoning, as is standard?

America came out of the Great Depression with a pretty effective financial safety net, based on a fundamental quid pro quo: the government stood ready to rescue banks if they got in trouble, but only on the condition that those banks accept regulation of the risks they were allowed to take. Over time, however, many of the roles traditionally filled by regulated banks were taken over by unregulated institutions — the “shadow banking system,” which relied on complex financial arrangements to bypass those safety regulations.

I pick on the "managerial liberalism" mindset a lot, to the point that I worry sometimes I'm attacking a strawman. But Krugman spells out exactly what's wrong with it here and then blithely stumbles onward. Here's the history of central banking in this country, exactly as Krugman laid it out: (1) Banks went wild. (2) Regulations were created to restrain them. (3) Pseudo-banks (e.g., savings and loan institutions) emerged to evade regulations. (4) Pseudo-banks went wild. Even if you don't buy every step in his reasoning, can you see where it breaks down? #3 is a direct and inevitable result of #2. Investors saw regulations and looked for loopholes to exploit. Krugman's solution is to revisit #2 - create more regulations. And apparently he doesn't have the imagination to see that new institutions would arise to exploit those new loopholes. So either regulation doesn't make humans better people, or ... I'm not an apologist for the healing power of free markets, any more than I am for the healing power of gravity. Gravity makes a lot of machines work. Gravity can also knock you on your ass if you're not careful. But regardless of whether you like it or not, gravity's a fact you can't escape. You can't pass a law to make it slower than 9.8 meters per second squared. So it is with supply and demand, inelastic commodities and incentives. Markets evolve; legislation does not.

Given the risks to the economy if the financial system melts down, this rescue mission [Bush's and the Fed's bailout] is justified.

Do I even need to address this? It's one thing for someone completely ignorant of the science to make these kind of mistakes - if you're still subscribing to zero-sum economics or conspiracy theory economics or one of the many common stand-ins. But Krugman's nominally an economist himself. He supposedly has a degree. But he's so clearly surrendered the logic of economic thinking in the name of his own agenda - which is a weird agenda in its own right, by the way - that I wonder what he calls himself. How does he introduce himself at parties? What does he put on his resume? And so forth

I'll take on any man here that says that's not the way it should be

Professor Coldheart — Thu, 27 Mar 2008 12:29:51 +0000

The clauses in this media blow expire in twenty-four hours; take it or leave it. Michael Clayton: What separates this film from others in the legal thriller genre - and a crowded little genre it's become - is the focus on characters. You have to be broken in some fundamental way to devote sixty hours a week for five years at a time to a single court case. Tilda Swinton plays a tightly wound corporate attorney who rehearses not only her statements but her pauses and nervous laughter before she speaks to anyone. Tom Wilkinson plays a manic-depressive attorney who flips out during a videotaped deposition. And George Clooney plays the compulsive gambler, the firm's in-house "fixer," who's sent to bring Wilkinson in. Clooney doesn't play a lot of low status characters - this one, and maybe his put-upon role in Syriana, are the only two I can think of. He doesn't break into full-on alpha male mode until the very last scene, and then it's like a breath of fresh air. Until that time he's a beleaguered, confused man in his late 40s, swallowing his pride and dealing with petty insults and business swindles from everyone around him. It's one of his best roles. The plot itself is nothing to write home about, but the editing and the acting carry this one home. The Color of Magic: Cute, I guess. I don't feel compelled to go out and pick up any of the other books in the series, though I don't suppose I'd pass them up if they tumbled into my lap. Aside from a few original ideas (the color octarine, the notion of dragons as solid figments, etc), there's nothing here you couldn't pick up by playing Dungeons and Dragons with some particularly silly people for a few years.

I still had two strong legs and even wings to fly

Professor Coldheart — Fri, 28 Mar 2008 13:25:46 +0000

In lieu of actual content, here are some entertaining links: #: I pick on the kid a lot, but really, Ezra Klein does not strike me as very bright. In talking about using carbon taxes to fund government programs, he says the following (emphasis mine):

This is the problem when people talk about replacing, say, payroll taxes with a carbon tax. If you want that carbon tax to fund Medicare and Social Security, as payroll taxes do, then you have to tax carbon at a rate that ensures stable, large returns. Alternately, if you want to tax carbon at a rate high enough that we stop emitting so much carbon, then your tax base is, by design, going to rapidly dry up, and Medicare and Social Security will no longer have funding. In general, there are two types of taxes: taxes that fund things, and taxes that stop people from doing things. Taxes that fund things cannot be taxes that stop people from doing things, as if people stop doing the thing, there will be nothing to tax.

Really, Ezra? Two types of taxes? Oh man! Quick - somebody tell me which kind I'm paying, so I don't inadvertently bankrupt public schools or defund the U.S. adventure in Iraq or build shoddy bridges. Am I being taxed to finance the latest project or as penance for my sins? Am I supposed to do less of what I'm doing or do more of it? No one told me! I live in a world of terror and mystery! AAAH! #: Adobe launched a beta test of their new Photoshop Express product yesterday, a user-friendly entry into the image editing software so popular it's become a verb. You can sign up for free and use it online. Seriously. You don't download anything to your desktop; you just manipulate images in your browser. In other news, expect nothing productive of me for the remainder of this month. #: As a fan of fantasy literature and Bayesian rationality, I was surprised to find peanut butter in my chocolate in one of Eliezer Yudkowsky's latest posts:

In one of the standard fantasy plots, a protagonist from our Earth, a sympathetic character with lousy grades or a crushing mortgage but still a good heart, suddenly finds themselves in a world where magic operates in place of science. The protagonist often goes on to practice magic, and become in due course a (superpowerful) sorcerer. Now here's the question - and yes, it is a little unkind, but I think it needs to be asked: Presumably most readers of these novels see themselves in the protagonist's shoes, fantasizing about their own acquisition of sorcery. Wishing for magic. And, barring improbable demographics, most readers of these novels are not scientists. Born into a world of science, they did not become scientists. What makes them think that, in a world of magic, they would act any differently? If they don't have the scientific attitude, that nothing is "mere" - the capacity to be interested in merely real things - how will magic help them? If they actually had magic, it would be merely real, and lose the charm of unattainability. They might be excited at first, but (like the lottery winners who, six months later, aren't nearly as happy as they expected to be), the excitement would soon wear off. Probably as soon as they had to actually study spells.

#: Finally, the Onion once again highlights the path to truth: Study: 93% Of People Talked About Once They Leave Room. I won't even bother quoting the article, since headline writing has always been the Onion's strongest suit. But seeing it satirized by America's paper of record helped me see that yes, it is silly to worry about this sort of thing - which is something I frequently do. I worry about a lot of stuff. I worry about being talked about behind my back. I also worry about saying something stupid, looking foolish in public, getting in trouble for something I didn't do, losing my job, wrecking my car, breaking my spine, suffering hideous facial scarring, being arrested, getting rejected by girls, hooking up with girls and then having things be awkward, entering relationships with girls and then coming on too strong, never seeing a girl again, running out of money, having too much money, looking immature, growing old, wasting time, being too serious, being too silly, and skin cancer. Among other things. I used to spend a lot of time brooding over these unlikely scenarios - high walls in my mind that I could never imagine myself getting over. "I don't know how I could possibly survive something like that happening," I'd think. But you know what? There's only one thing in my life that I'm not going to survive - and I have no way of guessing what that is. Everything else should be cake.

and I never let the mic magnetize me no more

Professor Coldheart — Mon, 31 Mar 2008 13:47:46 +0000

First: c/o IMDb:

Jackie Chan and Jet Li team up together for the first time ever in The Forbidden Kingdom, filmed on location in China and featuring the martial arts choreography of Woo-Ping Yuen (Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon). While hunting down bootleg kung-fu DVDs in a Chinatown pawnshop, Jason Tripitikas (Michael Angarano) makes a discovery that sends him back in time to ancient China, where he's charged with finding the Monkey King, a fabled warrior imprisoned by the powerful Jade War Lord. With the help of kung fu master Lu Yan (Jackie Chan) and a band of misfit warriors including Silent Monk (Jet Li), Jason embarks on his journey, hoping to succeed in his quest and find a way to get back home. [emphasis mine]

Why couldn't this have been the best movie of all time, instead of the worst? God damn it. Also: I'm considering buying a video camera. I spotted a Panasonic PV-GS320 in Best Buy the other day for about $350 and I'm leaning toward that one. The price is right for a 3-CCD camera. The obvious downside is that it lacks a mic input. I can also get a Canon ZR800 for about half that price, which does come with a mic input. However, it's only got about 0.68 megapixels of image quality. I'd like some advice from you pros before I drop the money. My criteria are: REQUIRED: Firewire input, Mini-DV, does not contain the word "Sony" PREFERRED: 3-CCD, mic input BONUS: Good low-light, good battery life And then: I'm going to buy both part of a tailgate parking spot and some BC football season tickets this year. Let's go Eagles.

you can find me in the club

Professor Coldheart — Tue, 01 Apr 2008 13:03:56 +0000

Today being my actual birthday, I'll recap the birthday celebration: #: I caught up with Christine and surprise guests Meghan and Sam by getting to Common Ground early. Not early enough to avoid a cover, unfortunately. They've also switched to using bracelets instead of stamps, but the bar was already pretty packed with people who weren't wearing bracelets. So I chucked mine soonest. I have hairy wrists. #: I should have learned by now not to try listing attendees, as I inevitably forget someone and hurt their feelings. But: Joanna, Tim, Sylvia, Dan, Stephanie, Matthew, and Katie - thank you for coming out for my birthday. #: Melissa and Fraley asked me to officiate their wedding! I accepted. #: Someone stole my green thrift store coat at some point between 10:00 and 2:00. Stephanie used her pull with the staff to ask them to search, but with no luck. Apparently mine was the last of four coats to be taken in the evening. I love Common Ground, and I dearly love 90s Night, but this might be my last time there until the weather warms up. #: So my first birthday present to myself - a green thrift store coat! I bought it at the same secondhand store in Allston as the last one, also for $20. It has a slightly warmer liner but feels a bit lighter. #: Other birthday presents: Bridge of Birds, the House of Cards trilogy, Mind Performance Hacks, a sword stand for my recently acquired sword, and a big stack of graphic novels. Expect a digest on the lattermost with your next media blow. #: I saw a bunch of two-person improv shows at IB on Sunday night. They ranged from the fantastic (Flynn/Maclean, Reynolds/French) to the mediocre (two BU alumni who just, I don't know, god). Improv is tricky, and the two-person show is a tricky format. #: I'm now in my late twenties.

we know the game and we're gonna play it

Professor Coldheart — Tue, 01 Apr 2008 17:30:05 +0000

In the spirit of that original prankster's holiday, April 1st, I will now do a minute by minute analysis of the most pranked video on the Internet - Rick Astley's Never Gonna Give You Up. Click the link and follow along! 0:06: That weird dance move of his - shaking sunflower seeds in his hands while his elbows are stitched to his sides - never fails to confuse me. 0:13: It takes a man's man's man to rock the denim on denim. 0:22: Rick Astley looks like that ugly redheaded kid who ratted out Robin Williams in Dead Poets Society. You ever notice that? 0:43: "Okay, I'll let you use the banquet hall for an hour, but we've got a wedding reception at three o'clock. Just get all the cameras out by then." 0:56: See? Black people approve of his sound! He's got the Soul Seal of Approval. 1:36: Are his backup dancers doing a choreographed routine? I can't really tell. 1:56: Whoa, whoa, hold the phone - who's this douche? I'm having a hard enough time following the plot as is. 2:08: If I could pull it off, I don't think it technically qualifies as a dance move. Though I couldn't get away with wearing those shorts. 2:15: I think this clapping silhouette we keep seeing is actually the Euro-blonde douche from earlier. Note that Astley's not that broad in the shoulders. 2:32: Is this the same bridge where that first firefight took place in Ronin? Why couldn't Robert deNiro and Jean Reno be firing guns right now? 2:43: Okay - so the blonde guy is a poor man's Paula Abdul. Which, since Paula Abdul was a poor man's Janet Jackson, says worlds about the quality of this video. Meanwhile, the black guy quietly invents parkour a decade early, but will receive no credit. 3:25: Despite the depth and maturity of his soulful voice, Rick Astley looks like he's nine years old when he smiles. And I'm okay with that.

tell me all your thoughts on god

Professor Coldheart — Wed, 02 Apr 2008 13:01:32 +0000

This media blow offers a terrifying vision of the future: Planetary: Warren Ellis cutting loose with superhero tropes like he always wanted to. You've got ~~Doc Savage~~ Axel Brass, ~~John Constantine~~ Jack Carter, ~~the Fantastic Four~~ the Four Voyagers, etc. The early issues suffer a little from a lack of protagonists - our heroes show up at a place, witness something happening, and then usually do nothing. But it rattles into high gear after a few issues and then takes off. Half Nelson: I watched about half of this and then just turned it off. I just couldn't keep interest in a white guy who's (1) addicted to crack, (2) still able to keep a day job as a teacher and (3) engages his uniformly non-white students. Perhaps watching this in parallel with Season 4 of The Wire, where all three elements also exist and end poorly, made for bad timing. It's not a bad movie at all - just doesn't do it for me. The Immortal Iron Fist: A solid, fun introduction to the character. I'd never read page one of an Iron Fist comic before but was able to follow this without difficulty. The action keeps up at a frenetic pace; the expository boxed text never clutters the scene. And even the plot twists are sufficiently surprising. If Matt Fraction stays on as a writer I think I'll buy some more. The Space Merchants: Have I mentioned C.M. Kornbluth in the last sixty seconds? No? Okay: Cyril Kornbluth was one of the sharpest, darkest, funniest minds ever to write in the sci-fi genre. He's like Philip K. Dick on martinis instead of psychedelics. Anyhow, The Space Merchants, written in collaboration with Frederik Pohl, tells the story of a bizarre and distant future. The narrator works for a nearly omnipotent ad agency that's responsible for turning India into a single megacorporation ("Indiastries") and has been granted the contract to colonize Venus. But corporate rivals and radical eco-terrorists (who believe crazy things like "the interests of producer and consumer are not identical") keep trying to kill, kidnap or recruit him. Dark hilarity ensues. Iron Man: Director of S.H.I.E.L.D.: The past year hasn't been kind to my favorite Marvel character, who kind of became a dick during the whole Civil War storyline. Fortunately, in Dan and Charlie Knauf's hands, Tony Stark becomes the conflicted yet ass-kicking futurist we've come to know and love. It only collects 4 current issues, but the printer pads the run out with a garish 1960s classic (the first appearance of S.H.I.E.L.D.) and a peppy 70s throwback (in which Tony holds firm against Nick Fury's attempts to buy out his company). There's also an extensive history of Iron Man in the back.

always love the one you hurt

Professor Coldheart — Thu, 03 Apr 2008 13:07:27 +0000

Link rundown for the week: #: The L.A. Times had an online feature about best celebrity pranks. They include Sarah Silverman's "I'm Fucking Matt Damon" video (which no one will remember five years from now, funny as it may be), two entries for George Clooney, and Bill Gates getting a pie in the face (which I don't think is technically a prank). The illiterate bankruptcy of our entertainment media astounds me. How can you talk about celebrity pranks and not include the greatest celebrity prank of all time - Raoul Walsh stealing John Barrymore's corpse from the undertaker and propping it up on Errol Flynn's couch before Flynn got home from attending John Barrymore's funeral? Top that with a god-damned text message, George Clooney. #: Is the EconoLodge in Jersey City, NJ the worst hotel in America? If not, submit your own nominations! #: Stop Making Movies About My Books - Dr. Seuss (c/o The Onion)

Did you learn all but squat from The Cat In The Hat? Please tell me you fired the prick who made that. I would have stopped writing, maybe sold Goodyear tires. If I knew one dark day I'd costar with Mike Myers.

#: After serious consideration and some useful input, I'm leaning most heavily toward the Canon HV20. It shoots in high-def (HVD format, which Final Cut Express 4 can handle), it shoots in 24p (the standard format for professional film), it's got an accessory shoe (so I can slap on a mic) and it records to MiniDV (which, as outdated as it sounds, is still the least lossy medium available). Five months ago, when Wired gave it its highest recommendation, it cost $1100. Today you can get it for less than half that. This industry's crazy. #: Apparently, Teller (of Penn & same) has put together a production of Macbeth that's going up at the Folger Theater in D.C. This guy's review draws attention to (1) the masterful illusions used in the production - ghosts and weapons appearing and disappearing, etc and (2) the dark comedy brought out by careful timing. Macbeth^* never struck me as a funny play, but re-reading it uncovers a few laugh lines:

LADY MACBETH What's the business, That such a hideous trumpet calls to parley The sleepers of the house? speak, speak! MACDUFF O gentle lady, 'Tis not for you to hear what I can speak: The repetition, in a woman's ear, Would murder as it fell. [Enter BANQUO] O Banquo, Banquo, Our royal master 's murder'd! LADY MACBETH Woe, alas!

#: "At the age of 19, Murat Kurnaz vanished into America's shadow prison system in the war on terror. He was from Germany, traveling in Pakistan, and was picked up three months after 9/11. But there seemed to be ample evidence that Kurnaz was an innocent man with no connection to terrorism. The FBI thought so, U.S. intelligence thought so, and German intelligence agreed. But once he was picked up, Kurnaz found himself in a prison system that required no evidence and answered to no one." [Sorry - this was the unfunny one] ^* Macbeth, Macbeth, Macbeth, Macbeth, Macbeth, Macbeth, Macbeth, Macbeth, Macbeth, Macbeth, Macbeth, Macbeth, Macbeth, Macbeth, Macbeth, Macbeth, Macbeth, Macbeth, Macbeth, Macbeth, Macbeth, Macbeth, Macbeth, Macbeth.

it's coming; keep the car running

Professor Coldheart — Fri, 04 Apr 2008 12:53:06 +0000

So, a little over a month into the move from LiveJournal, how'm I doin'? #: Between February 29th and April 2nd, I had 2748 views - an average of 83 per day. That average varies pretty wildly, though - linking to a post by The Ferrett about Barack Obama's speech brought a lot of eyeballs; talking about Patrick Swayze's pancreatic cancer, not so much. I didn't move to WordPress strictly to increase my page hits - for more on that, see my new blog, Eliot Spitzer Sex Prostitute Barack Obama Steroids Final Four American Idol. But having the numbers now makes me curious. #: I love the ability to write a post, set it to publish while I'm away, and then forget about it. Love it, love it, love it. #: I miss threading comments and auto-reply comments. If I find a solution I'll let you know. #: I've also hit up Akismet for answers for those of you who keep getting quashed as spam. My apologies for that - not sure why Akismet's much-vaunted ability to "learn" isn't coming in to play here. I've sent them some fairly detailed e-mails; we'll see if that makes a difference. #: At some point I will probably stop duplicating posts to LiveJournal (and will watch my audience plummet as a result). LJ readers can prepare for that day by subscribing to my RSS feed (thank you, Lindsay Jean). Every now and then I'll write a post on here that I don't mirror, like my deconstruction of Rick Astley's "Never Gonna Give You Up". This is largely due to laziness. #: Every day I'm grateful to Tom for inspiring the name of this weblog.

stringer_bell_1145658509.jpg

Professor Coldheart — Sun, 06 Apr 2008 19:58:42 +0000

http://periscopedepth.files.wordpress.com/2008/04/stringer_bell_1145658509.jpg

all the pieces matter

Professor Coldheart — Mon, 07 Apr 2008 13:17:37 +0000

If The Wire, the greatest show which the medium of television has yet to produce, was ever just about the War on Drugs, that moment's past. The Wire is about the power of institutions to destroy human lives. In Season One, it was "the game" - cops chasing dealers, dealers chasing each other. But that focus changed over time, to American industry (S2), city politics (S3), public schools (S4) and print media (S5). We never lost anyone along the way, either - faces from the early seasons keep popping up in the late ones, if you know where to look. But in all this time we never had any real villains. That's because an institution doesn't need a villain to make it a terror. An institution is not one thousand people all conspiring to do evil. An institution is one million people with no incentive to do good. Short of a documentary, there has never been a more real look at the American urban landscape than in this series. The writers aren't just residents of Baltimore or experts on it - they're beat cops and ex-reporters who know the city inside and out. Many of the cast come direct from the streets themselves. The show avoids tidy resolutions, pigeonholing and - to a surprising extent - moralizing. There is no quick fix. People routinely find themselves at the head of the table with nothing to serve - they have the power they've craved for so long and find themselves powerless. One scapegoat or kingpin gets taken down, only for his subordinates to begin scheming at his wake. The City, and the infrastructure that prop it up, are bigger than any one person. While you can't tie all of it back to the War on Drugs, most of it springs from that hole. The rise in paramilitary tactics in urban police work. The illegal economy that takes over the lives of black and Hispanic youth. The corresponding rise in violence. We're now seeing multi-generational cycles of poverty, where crack addicts give birth to poor children who end up hustling, slinging or robbing to survive. Like the generation of young men killed in Europe during the World Wars, we have two to four generations of men and women who will never get out of the trap of crime, drugs and death. And this is my city it's happening to. This is my city that got destroyed by the War on Drugs. Take the casualties you see in a given season of The Wire - not just the bodies, but the folks who succumb to cynicism and start shooting up, or cutting corners, or lying to shine themselves up - and multiply that by ten thousand. That's my home town. And odds are, if you live on one of the coasts of the U.S., that it's your city, too. And there's no way to fix it. This week is a special The Wire retrospective here at Periscope Depth. Every day I'll give my thoughts on one of the five seasons, starting with Season One. Spoilers below the cut. Season One The Wire didn't hook me with a splash-bang beginning, like The Shield did, to convince me it was going to be different. What I noticed instead, after three or four hours on the streets, was that The Wire was something different from splashy: it was perfect. D'angelo, Avon, Stringer and Omar spoke with such verisimilitude - not just realistic accents, but word choices, phrasing and delivery - that I couldn't imagine this show being written. I couldn't picture some white guy in rolled up shirt sleeve sitting in front of a PowerBook with Final Draft up, murmuring, " 'He has to get got' ..., no, 'he gots to get got.' " And even with this naturalist take, D'angelo and the terrace boys still managed to hint at a few kernels of truth. Like the guy who designed the new Chicken McNuggets. Or how to play chess. Or how it doesn't have to be about the bodies. What further impressed me about the show was its near total lack of exposition. Nobody has a conversation purely for the benefit of the audience. Either you see the detail - like Omar shooting his boy a look when he uses his name during the stickup - or you don't. And it works. When McNulty and Moreland reconstruct a months-old crime scene, using nothing but measuring tape, eyeballs and the word "Fuck," you know just what's going on. We get our first glimpse of the inhuman cruelty of institutions in this season. The Feds are unwilling to take the unit's case unless they can get a corruption charge out of it - and they won't press a corruption charge without rolling Barksdale and offering him immunity. D'angelo is made to stand the rap for crimes unrelated to him, but he does - not because he's family, but because the Game has consumed his family. McNulty is punished for "giving a fuck when it's not his turn" by being relegated to the docks; Carver is rewarded for playing along with the Commissioner. The city moves on. Other thoughts:

The Wire gives us strong female and minority characters. ADA Rhonda Pearlman and detective Kima Greggs are smart, opinionated and sexually aggressive without being bitchy or catty (an easy hole to squeeze "strong" women into). And the black characters on the show - Moreland, Freamon, Sydnor, Carver, Daniels, Barksdale, Bell, etc - are all able to address issues of race without being typecast as The Black Guy Who Talks About Race. Have I mentioned that this is the best show on television? Because it is.
"You can't even call this shit a war." "Why not?" "Wars end."
Fitting with the show's zero exposition style, no one ever explicitly spells out the nature of the drug trade on the street. But you can pick it up after a few episodes: a consumer pays the count man, who shoots a signal to the guy on the stash. The stash and the money always stand far enough apart that you can never catch the buy and the handoff happening in the same surveillance shot. You have a couple guys hanging around for muscle and one person - in this case, D'angelo - in charge of the entire corner.
"So, tell me: where don't you want to go?"

it's all in the game, though

Professor Coldheart — Tue, 08 Apr 2008 13:30:02 +0000

Season Two In Season Two, The Wire proves that its success wasn't a flash in the pan. The show broadens its scope from the decay of America's inner cities to the decay of America's industries - in this case, the port of Baltimore. S2 also follows some of the original cast of S1, proving that the writers create original and organic characters, not just stock types in dramatic situations. The drugs angle in S2 falls almost by accident; it's a convenient hook for Major Valchek to hang his persecution of Frank Sobotka on. But the longshoremen have enough problems without the "Greeks" shipping drugs. Baltimore has lost its relevance as a port city. They're the last of a dying trade. Where Barksdale was a cunning player, Sobotka's a man in over his head. He is, in a role we'll soon become familiar with, caught under the Weight of the Lie. To keep the union afloat, he has to compound his lies with more lies, getting in deeper with the "Greeks" all while railing against them for dumping a can full of dead girls on his dock. S2 also continues the story of the Barksdale syndicate. This is another of The Wire's greatest strengths - its characters are organic and they live in a real world. Stringer labors to keep the syndicate afloat in West Baltimore. Instead of gaining ground by warring with competitors, as Barksdale might, Stringer chooses to partner up with Proposition Joe. He sees a seat for himself at the head of the table - a union between East and West - imagining that he can make the Game less violent and more profitable. The cops aren't quiet, either. Every department backs up from the 13 dead girls like a live grenade, not wanting to be caught with the associated paperwork, or the presumed failure to solve the case. McNulty continues to spiral out of control. And the team of Herc and Carver show a backbone for once, storming into Daniels' office when they're left in the dark on a stakeout and proving they're not just comic relief. This depth will be more important for Carver later on. Other thoughts:

This season felt the most grounded in Baltimore for me, probably because I knew more white kids growing up than I did black kids. When Ziggy introduces his pet duck as "Stephen L. Miles," the show had me hooked. You can write about Baltimore, you can be an expert about Baltimore, but only someone who's lived in Baltimore for at least five to ten years would know that hack attorney's commercial by heart.
"You look like you could use a good cup of coffee."
Is this the performance that launched Amy Ryan's career? She's a real gem - she starts off looking like the quiet, mousy townie girl but shows some real wit and fire when polished. She ends the season with an office job, apparently, but we never see her around the building again.
"Did he have hands? Did he have a face? Yes? Then it wasn't us. Idiot."
Both this season and Season One end with the core target - the "Greek" in this case, Avon Barksdale in the last - walking away from most of the rap. Avon at least gets some jail time, for what little good it does, but the "Greek" walks away clean. David Simon does a lot to disabuse us of happy endings.
"You are amoral, are you not? You are feeding off the violence and the despair of the drug trade. You are stealing from those who themselves are stealing the lifeblood from our city. You are a parasite who leeches off--" "Just like you, man." "The culture of drugs-- Excuse me, what...?" "I got the shotgun. You got the briefcase. It's all in the game, though, right?"
Frank Sobotka walking to his last meeting with the "Greeks" is one of the saddest goddamned things I've ever seen. Trisha L. can confirm this: I was visibly cringing as the importance of the fax, the FBI data entry and the phone call all coalesced in my mind.
"Nicky is with us. His cousin ... But family cannot be helped." "Who you tellin'? I got motherfuckin' nephews and in-laws fuckin' all my shit up, all the time. And it ain't like I can pop a cap in their ass and not hear about it Thanksgiving time. For real, I'm livin' life with some burdensome niggers."

leave you when the summer comes along!

Professor Coldheart — Tue, 08 Apr 2008 16:30:11 +0000

Time for some scattered observations about the weekend. #: Who knew fruit could be so tasty? Fresh bananas with breakfast, strawberries and cream as a snack, mandarin oranges in gelatin with lunch ... yum. Thank you, Shaw's!^* #: Browsing in Brookline Booksmith on Saturday, a friend brought up a copy of Stephen Landsburg's newer book, More Sex is Safer Sex. I hadn't read this one, but I'd followed his Slate column for years and owned a copy of The Armchair Economist. "Landsburg is about fifty-fifty," I warned, "between 'wow, that's interesting' and 'wow, that's completely specious reasoning.'" #: I think Knights of the Old Republic holds the current prize for highest replay value of any XBox game I own. Morrowind's probably a close second. #: A double snootful of Nasonex and some eyedrops courtesy of Dr. Grace have been staving off the worst of my allergies so far. That and the occasional twenty degree plunge in temperature. #: I installed the Diplomacy app on Facebook and look forward to stabbing you all in the back. _________________________ ^* I'm not being facetious here; this is genuinely a discovery for me.

well, get on with it, motherf--

Professor Coldheart — Wed, 09 Apr 2008 12:30:31 +0000

Season Three's my favorite of the entire run. We meet a broad cast of new and interesting characters. We return to the same setting of Season One. We have just enough history on all of these characters that we can start fucking with expectations. And, interestingly enough, the show begins to engage in a sort of meta-dialogue with the audience, which I'll elaborate on beneath the cut. If S1 was about losing the War on Drugs, S3 is about counting the casualties. Season Three Stringer is now the man under the Weight of the Lie this season. He has to juggle furiously to keep the co-op happy and to keep Barksdale from ruining everything he's gained. On top of that come the added burdens of renewed interest in D'angelo's death and the struggles of going semi-legit. Stretched in several directions at once, it's little wonder that he gets pinned down and ends up dying alone. Though his death was inadvertently spoiled for me early on, that took nothing away from watching him play the season out. Also under the Weight of the Lie is Major Colvin, who seems convinced that he's safe from the Game (six months from retirement, pension guaranteed, etc). He also represents a sort of meta-dialogue with the show. "If the War on Drugs is so corrosive," the audience asks, "what happens if we legalize drugs?" Hamsterdam is the unapologetic answer. The Wire doesn't shy away from the downsides of the plan - concentrated vice, health hazards, and a general urban ugliness - but the message seems clear overall: legalizing drugs ends the body count. Of course, Major Colvin is not immune from the Game; the View Never Changes. We also meet Tom Carcetti for the first time, a seemingly likable career politician who nonetheless has the ruthless ambition needed to reach for higher office. And the show doesn't cut any corners here - Carcetti has to unequivocally shaft his good friend in order to siphon off black votes. He's got a bit of a stubborn streak, but it's hard not to root for him. The final newcomer we follow in this season is Cutty, the ex-hitter who dallies briefly with life on the corner but ends up going straight. Losing someone like Stringer is regrettable, but (nearly) losing Cutty is the real hard knock - a man who's got the chance to get out of the Game and doesn't. Fortunately, he perseveres. Prison cooled off his hate at the world. Every now and then The Wire gives us hints of someone getting out of the Game. That's the closest we get to a happy ending and boy does it taste sweet. Colvin advises Carver early on to get to know the streets better. We start to see the hints of that in this season, as Carver takes the initiative and gets to know the kids on his block better. Daniels gave Carver a dressing down at the end of Season One - about how the men who served under him would follow his example. Carver's been acting as a role model ever since. Bubs gets his act together. He's apparently cleaner, if not fully clean. He's also gone from outright scamming to street peddling, making close to an honest buck. He loses his Season One sidekick only to gain another, the young boy Sherrod. Bubs doesn't end on a much higher arc than he started, but for him that constitutes progress. Kima seems to be mirroring McNulty's arc as of last season. All she is (to borrow a line from Heat) is what she's going after. The notion of regular hours at home and the responsibilities of raising a kid frighten her; she hides from it with office work and drinking. The Wire shies away from the storybook ending for her - by the end of the season, she's separated from her wife and apparently dealing with it. No tearful reconciliation, no standing on the doorstep with a pleading look. Unstructured thoughts:

"That's good. That's like a 40-degree day. Ain't nobody got nothing to say about a 40-degree day. Fifty. Bring a smile to your face. Sixty, shit, niggas is damn near barbecuing on that motherfucker. Go down to 20, niggas get their bitch on. Get their blood complaining. But forty? Nobody give a fuck about 40. Nobody remember 40, and y'all niggas is giving me way too many 40-degree days! What the fuck?"
Did Lance Reddick (who plays Lt. Daniels) request more shirtless scenes this season? The man's chiseled out of wood! His torrid affair with ADA Pearlman reinforces something I've thought for years - that interracial relationships in TV and film do better when nobody comments on the racial aspect. Movies like Save the Last Dance wore their multiculturality on their sleeve and lost the impact. But movies like Boiler Room do a lot more for advancing the cause.
"You only do two days up in here. The day you go in ..." "... and the day you come out."
McNulty is the kind of man who will say "Fuck loyalty!" and mean it.
I want to include on my list of sequences that any director needs to see the following: episode 1, where Avon, Cutty and Wee-Bey exchange a few words before Cutty's release. Cutty and Wee-Bey are standing along the fence, watching a softball game. Avon comes down the steps into the yard and cuts across the baseball field. Without anyone having to say anything, the game just stops. No words, no meaningful glances. No one even comments on it. But that right there says more about Avon Barksdale's power than any monologue could.

get out of town (get out of town!)

Professor Coldheart — Wed, 09 Apr 2008 16:12:57 +0000

I had a powerful craving for beach just now. That specific sensory combination of dazzling sun, salty air and soft sand (not rocks) between my toes. And fried food from a boardwalk cafe. And used paperbacks. Someone hook me up. Not now, obviously, but some time this year. I'm dyin'.

you want it to be one way. but it's the other way.

Professor Coldheart — Thu, 10 Apr 2008 12:30:50 +0000

Season Four was the hardest for me. I think it's fantastic television - the writers, actors and directors are all at the top of their game - but S4's like a wound I don't want to touch. You can tolerate folks on the street rising and falling; it's all in the Game, after all. But the kids didn't make this world. They got born into it. And the absolute failure of public schools to save kids from the Game kills me. Season Four You know The Wire's gone gritty when none of the kids we follow this season - Namond, Michael, Kevin or Duquon - ends up dead, and that counts as a success. Still, any decent writer could tell a depressing tale of urban abandonment and the generational cycle of poverty. But a truly masterful writer flips all your expectations by the time the season's over. It's Namond, Wee-Bey's son, who gets out of the Game. It's Michael, the strong kid with promise, who ends up hitting. It's Kevin, the friendly entrepreneur, who falls into a group home. And it's Duquon, who's got the potential to outshine them all, who ends up on the corner. The Carcetti / Royce race continues throughout this season. Carcetti's harder to like this time around - he's petulant when he's losing, he hates the mundane details of fundraising and handshakes, and he'll look for any opportunity to screw his opponent over. He spends the latter half of the season making promises to everyone who'll hear him, the cops in particular. But by the end of the season, he learns that the View Never Changes. Even as mayor of Baltimore, he has to deal with a squandered budget, the machinations of the Governor and his unstable voter base. Marlo's crew takes center stage this season. Snoop Pearson and Chris Partlow finally get some character under their belts. Snoop shines in particular in the first episode: her exchange with the hardware store clerk ("you earned that tip like a motherfucker") and her slow, silhouetted reveal on Lex's killing^*. Chris Partlow, heretofore just a stone-eyed sociopath, gives us just a hint of backstory when he beats down Michael's stepfather ("sometimes you just gotta bust a nut, you know?" "I do"). And we come to recognize Marlo has some brutal cunning to him as well, if not the finesse of Barksdale or Bell. Handing out hundred dollar bills to corner kids might not be the smoothest move, but it serves its purpose. At the same time, Marlo drops a ridiculous number of bodies: killing people for snitching, for suspected snitching, for the potential to snitch, and just to send a variety of messages. Omar, the invincible king of the streets, falls into some serious shit for the first time - alone in a prison full of people he's robbed^**. Fortunately he's got Bunk on the case, who breaks down Andre the convenience store owner's shitty alibi in about four minutes. Omar then proves he can work the angles as well as a shotgun, going back on Proposition Joe for using him as a cat's paw, then playing yet another game on Joe to steal an entire truckload of product. It is his finest hour. A lot of people's lives are ruined in S4. Kevin loses his harsh but fair foster home thanks to a few incompetent missteps (by Herc and by Holley) and the relentless grind of the system. Duquon gets separated from the only friends he has by a public school that has to promote a certain number of people each year. And Duquette and Colvin's program, to separate the corner boys and see what makes them tick, falls victim to standardized testing and budget cuts. As usual, there aren't any villains operating behind the scenes - there's simply the institution, cruel and uncompromising. Unorganized thoughts:

An unexpected callback to Colvin's advice to Carver in S3, when Carver and Herc go tearing off after some corner boys only for Carver to come to a screeching halt. "I know where half these kids live." Carver knows his beat now. You know what that makes him? Good po-lice.
"We're giving them a fine education. 'It ain't even mine. It was just laying here when I came in.' You know, this right here -- the whole damn school, the way they carry themselves -- it's training for the street. The building's the system. We the cops."
The parallel between the new teacher briefing on how to quiet kids and the Homeland Security briefing in the Western is a bit obvious. But that doesn't cost it flavor.
"Money Laundering? They gonna come talk to me about money laundering? In West Baltimore? Shee-it. Where do you think I'm gonna raise cash for the whole damn ticket? From laundromats and shit, from some tiny ass Korean groceries? You think I got time to ask a man why he given me money or where he gets his money from? I'll take any motherfucker's money if he given it away!"
Omar is the kind of man who, when he walks down the street in his bathrobe and pajamas, will get stashes thrown at him in self-defense.
"Let me let you in on a little secret: the patrolling officer on his beat is the one true dictatorship in America."
Tell me you weren't biting your knuckles when Chris and Snoop went hunting Michael through that warehouse. With the paint guns, as it turns out, but still. God damn.
"Just shut up and play dumb." "... I can do that. No problem."
I saw Sherrod's death coming - the way the camera lingered on Bubs' coat full of hot shots as he threw it over the cart; the way the camera stayed on Bubs and off Sherrod when Bubs woke up the next morning. That didn't make it any easier, though: that heartbreaking cry, Bubbles' half-hearted attempts at CPR, none of it.
"You gonna look out for me, Sergeant Carver? Do you mean it? You gonna look out for me? You promise? You got my back, huh?"

________________________ ^* Which, when you think about it, is also probably the last sight of a lotta other motherfuckers in Druid Hill. ^** You have to know whoever shot that episode read a lot of Watchmen growing up.

there ain't no back in the day. ain't no nostalgia.

Professor Coldheart — Fri, 11 Apr 2008 12:27:42 +0000

By Season 5, we've assembled quite a cast. We've got the cops - street level, detectives and command - all angling for position. We've got the dealers, all the way from the twelve-year-olds counting the stash to the masterminds dealing with supply. We've got politicians. We've got folks we picked up along the way, from the ports and the schools. It's no longer just a TV show - it's a real live city we've assembled. Let's start tearing it down, one brick at a time. Season Five Mayor Carcetti finishes learning the lesson he started last season: the View Never Changes. In order to scrape together $54,000,000 for the schools, he has to short the police budget something fierce. Unsurprisingly, crime skyrockets as a result. I consider it evidence of the writers' genius that, in the process, they could make me feel sympathy for the ass-sucking, weaselly Burrell on his last day in office. "No one ever tries to tell Sanitation how to do their job ..." Clay Davis weasels his way out of trouble with some slick talk. And the writers don't just tell us Clay has the gift of gab. Oh, no, sir. Listening to him on the radio ("can I tell it how I feel, brother?") and at the courthouse, I half believed him myself. Why, Clay Davis just wants to spread some of the surplus of our rich city to the working family! Sorry he's too unconventional for your hidebound besuited asses. Sorry he's bleeding gold out of every pore in his body trying to keep West Baltimore afloat. Can I tell it how I feel? The bloody cunning of Marlo Stanfield ramps into overdrive. He displays a remarkable naivete for the fundamentals of a criminal enterprise, but I buy it. I genuinely believe that someone raised on the street, without a formal education, could be completely ignorant of things like money laundering and offshore accounts. Fortunately, Joe takes him under his wing. Then, when Joe becomes, um, indisposed (one of the great twists of the season, by the way), Levy walks him the rest of the way. McNulty, in a rare feat of drunken inspiration, comes up with the idea to stage a serial killing. He very quickly starts to buckle under the Weight of the Lie, generating more attention and more paperwork than he ever imagined. I had a hard time with this at first, but eventually warmed to it: McNulty has always believed that he's the smartest man a hundred miles in any direction. He's shown no problem stepping outside his bounds to give a case some real attention before (see: bitching to Phelan; faxing tide charts to the Coast Guard; etc). And he knows that a case only needs so much wind before it dies out and collapses in the uncleared file. Lester coming on board saved it for me, I think; he lent an air of sobriety (no pun intended) to some decidedly haphazard proceedings. A lot of established critics loathed the Baltimore Sun storyline (a real shocker: Journalists Unhappy With Critique of Journalism; Film at 11). I didn't have a problem with it at all. Maybe my econ degree speaks for me here, but I didn't see Klebanow and Whiting as the cartoonish ogres that everyone else (Salon, TWOP, etc) seemed to. I saw another case of the institution steamrolling over truth - a harsh but realistic conflict between profits and justice. Same thing as juking the stats in Season 3, or the standardized tests in Season 4. I didn't see Gus as the bleeding Christ figure that everyone else did. Sure, he takes the bullet for the sins of the paper, but he smokes and drinks and says "fuck" like a regular human being. Templeton (edit - played by Tom McCarthy, Boston College class of '88) ... eh, the writers painted him a bit strong. Inventing a kid in a wheelchair after a day of striking out on Camden Yards interviews - that, I buy. We follow Templeton through his frustration, we wince a little at the cloying cliche of the cheat, but it makes him human. When Templeton fabricated details on what already sounded like a good story (the homeless Marine vet), I had a harder time with it. But when Alma dropped the bombshell that Templeton had never written word one in his notepad - the notepad he called attention to by screaming across a crowded newsroom at Gus - I checked out. The Wire had done such a good job in not serving us absolute villains, and then Simon, Burns and Pellecanos give us this sniveling tool. Oh, well. At least he didn't let out a nefarious cackle at any point. Omar goes out in the right way. His preternatural ability to set ambushes finally fails him. He jumps from a four story window and walks away - not with a limp but with a broken leg that probably sets crooked. He goes on a wild, ambitious campaign to draw Marlo out, a path that he has to know will end in his own death. Finally, he takes one in the dome when he's not even looking. He nearly gets shipped to the morgue with the wrong name on his bag. You had to root for Omar while he was winning - but the Game always exacts the same toll. The saga of Baltimore and the Game doesn't come to an end in Season 5; rather, the writers simply get off at this stop. Everything comes around again. Carver becomes the new Daniels. Sydnor becomes the new McNulty ("just keep my name out of it"), although Kima jockeys for a piece of that action ("giving a fuck when it's not your turn"). Marlo becomes the new Stringer Bell, though for how long we can't say. Michael becomes the new Omar which, though it means an early grave for him, we have to applaud. Slim Charles becomes the new Prop Joe - and for all his talk about not dealing with the street, Vondas doesn't quail from the musical chairs of ambitious dealers who've sat across from him. Valchek becomes the new Burrell (tell me you didn't laugh knowingly at that one). Herc doesn't quite become the new Levy, but he starts the journey - a couple years in law school and he could start representing little hoodies. Duquon becomes the new Bubbles and it breaks us all a little inside. So who made it out of the cycle? Daniels, apparently. Pearlman, maybe. Bubbles, definitely. McNulty ... ah, McNulty. McNulty's the reckless jerk we all wish we saw in the mirror: a man who'll stake everything - his friends, his health, his career - on a hunch. Jack Bauer, through a glass darkly. And just like Jack keeps getting in trouble in Los Angeles, no matter how much he loses, I think McNulty will find himself back in the Game at least one more time. The season ended on a higher note than I thought it would, and for that I thank the writers. If Seasons 2 and 4 meant anything, this show had the potential to absolutely wreck me. But writers like Simon and Burns count Baltimore as part of their family. And you love your family, even when they beat you down.

"How my hair look?" "You look good, girl."
Did anyone else find the quotes that opened each episode a little weaker than usual? They didn't evoke anything. They didn't come from strong or pivotal scenes. Episode 9's quote, "Deserve's got nothin' to do with it," comes to us by way of Unforgiven. I think Marlo's only moment of pure anger this season - "My name is my name!" - would have suited better. Ah, well.
"That sentimental motherfucker just cost us nine large!"
Say what you will about the Sun storyline: the writers used it to excellent purpose to show the small stakes of the Game. Neither Proposition Joe nor Omar, two of the most legendary names on either side of Baltimore, get so much as a paragraph when they die. If you consider that in line with Marlo walking up to a corner in the last minutes of the show - "you know who I am?" - the message rings clear: you do not triumph over the Game. Your name might ring out, but for how long or how far?
"Likely a white male in his late twenties to late thirties. He likely is not a college graduate, but feels nonetheless superior to those with advanced education ... And he is likely employed in a bureaucratic entity, possibly civil service or quasi-public service, from which he feels alienated. He has a problem with authority and a deep-seated resentment of those who he feels have impeded his progress professionally. The suspect has trouble with lasting relationships and is possibly a high-functioning alcoholic, with alcohol being used as a trigger in the commission of these crimes. His resentment of the homeless may stem from a personal relationship with someone who is in that cohort, or his victimization of vagrants may merely present an opportunity for him to assert his superiority and intellectual prowess."
Be honest: you got a little misty when you saw Namond holding court on stage at the Urban Debate League. Come on now. Don't pretend. Meanwhile, I'm guessing the UDL does Parliamentary style debate, because I know from experience they know how to spread C/X in Baltimore. For real.
"In my neck of the woods, it's a jungle out there. Everybody living hand to mouth. Improvising, hustling, making do with as little as you can imagine. Hell, that TV show...Survivor? Man, they want some good contestants, they need to come around Westside. And Fear Factor? Don't even get me started. My world is strictly cash and carry. And I'm Clay Davis. My people need something, they know where to find me. Let me tell you, brother, I step out the door, hit the corner of Mosher and Pennsylvania, you better believe my pockets are bulging. But by the time I get to Roberts Street..."
Shardene's still around!
"Goodnight, moon. Goodnight, stars. Goodnight, po-pos. Goodnight, fiends. Goodnight, hoppers. Goodnight, hustlers. Goodnight, scammers. Goodnight to everybody. Goodnight to one and all."
The Pearlman / Daniels relationship bearing out makes me happy. No one promised it will last forever, of course, but it lasted this far. Each of them needed a strong partner (and a good time in the sack, too); they deserve each other.
"Close your eyes. It won't hurt none."
Mr. Prezbo looks good in a beard.
"You can go a long way in this country killing black folk."
Everyone spotted Nicky at the opening of the condos on the old Granary Pier; a no-brainer. But did you spot Johnny Fifty in the hobo camp under the JFX? Hiding at the edge of the firelight? Bravo.
"I say this seriously: If I was laying there dead on some Baltimore street corner, I'd want it to be you, standing over me, catching the case. Because, brother, when you were good, you were the best we had." "Jay, if you were lying there dead on some corner, it was probably Jimmy that done ya."
I want to hear your speculation on where every character ends up three years from now. Shoot.

I'm taking the cure so I can be quiet whenever I want

Professor Coldheart — Mon, 14 Apr 2008 12:30:51 +0000

You might think that; the media blow couldn't possibly comment. The Wire: ... ha ha, just kidding, see all last week. Franny and Zooey: Remarkably well written. I don't care much for Salinger's brand of inoffensive, Western-flavored Orientalism, but I can't help but admire his style. Another exhibit in my case that a story's subject matters far less than its style; "what's the book about?" is the wrong question to ask. Could any writer other than Salinger pull off a story which takes place in a bathroom, a living room, and a bedroom and has nothing but conversation? A History of Violence: A little stiff, but what do you expect from a movie adapted from a comic book? William Hurt got a Best Supporting Actor nomination for his spot here, with good cause I feel. Maria Bello surprised me. Viggo Mortensen gave the natural and nuanced performance we've come to expect from him, as well as a glimpse of his junk. A bit gory in spots. Mind Performance Hacks: An early contender for the best non-fiction book I've read in this year's fifty. Born-agains must feel this way while reading the Bible, though I know I could pick a better metaphor: this book is an instruction manual for thinking. It teaches better ways to memorize lists, to organize your thoughts, ways to get better sleep, how to focus through meditation (not transcendental hippie shit, just clearing your thoughts), how to inspire yourself creatively, etc. I've already found four or five things worth putting to immediate use and will be turning back often for more. House of Cards: The premier story of political intrigue, brooking no challenger. The late Ian Richardson plays Francis Urquhart, chief whip of the Conservatives in the days after Thatcher stepped down. Passed over for a plum promotion, he stealthily puts into motion a series of events that will unseat the Prime Minister, shake up the Party, and may just leave him a spot at the top. I've already seen it once before, but I got it for myself as a birthday present and it continues to sweeten on a second viewing.

well, I've got friends in low places

Professor Coldheart — Tue, 15 Apr 2008 13:21:02 +0000

Joe (a/k/a Big Daddy Hookup) had some extra pavilion seats for the Sox' first game of the season against the Yankees. I quickly pounced on two of them. Wanting to share the tickets with the person who'd most appreciate them, I immediately thought of Victoria (a/k/a Tessie) and called her up. How fun can a baseball game be with driving rain, sub-40 temperatures and a Sox loss? A hell of a good time, I say. Amanda (a/k/a Sarah Connor, Attorney at Law) and Joe recounted their trip to Tokyo to see the Sox play. Apparently the legendarily disciplined Japanese cheering section has now been introduced to the phrase "Yankees Suck." That kind of gunboat diplomacy I can get behind. And, of course, pavilion seats afford you a nice, unobstructed view of the players you're yelling at. "That's some Gold Glove fielding right there, A-Rod," I yelled, off his early game error that left a runner on first. Later, after a neatly fielded double play: "You're still not very good!" Giambi, starting the season with a masterful .050 average, homered one off the recovering Timlin. "Nice work, juicer," I yelled. "Almost at .100! You'll get there!" I dragged myself out of bed on Saturday into 60-degree temps and went to advanced instructor training for jiu-jitsu. Good news: my judo keeps getting better. Better news: the current crop of newly certifying instructors, including Katie (a/k/a the Redheaded Brown Belt), keep getting much better. They already have poise, confidence, engagement with the audience and good technique. Keep at it, trainees. I finally saw Will (a/k/a Sketchy Bear) and DJ's (a/k/a Gimli son of Gloin) place in Dorchester, a cozy little walk-up with some real class to it. I helped Serpico, Meghan, Will and Auston stat up characters for a forthcoming Mutants and Masterminds game. Boston can sleep soundly, knowing that Deluge, Rumble, the One-Man Battalion and an as-yet-unnamed ghost monk watch their streets. Afterwards, Will and I played Pain on the PS/3, which combines ragdoll physics models, crunching sound effects and cartoonish graphics for a perversely fun game. Today's theme: nicknames.

so much to say, so much to say, so much to say, so much to say

Professor Coldheart — Wed, 16 Apr 2008 13:48:04 +0000

Link dumps in lieu of content: #: Actual inflation up at least 6.9 percent in the past year. Most inflation statistics that you read in the news report core inflation - inflation that excludes changes in the price of oil or food. But if inflation comes from an increase in the money supply relative to the demand for dollars, then we'd want to look extra closely at any industry the U.S. subsidizes - any stops along the trough where the feds pour more money in. And the U.S. subsidizes domestic food production, to the point that American corn sells on the international markets below cost, and wheat sells at nearly half cost. And the price of oil today certainly reflects decisions that the Commander-in-Chief makes in regards to certain Middle Eastern provinces. So if you have an argument for why I should pay more attention to core inflation than bottom-line inflation, I'd love to hear it. (This article explains inflation in better detail than I can) #: On the subject of economics: a New York Times article on Jan Chipcase, a "human behavior researcher" for Nokia. He travels all across the planet - to Vietnam, to Sri Lanka, to Bangladesh or to Mississippi - to simply document how people live. Nokia's not trying to sell these people cell phones - at least not through Chipcase, anyway - but rather, trying to understand what their needs are and if Nokia can make a product that fulfills them. The article also explores one of my favorite themes: markets evolving out of nowhere, unbidden and unpredicted. How does a Ugandan day laborer send money to his mother in a rural village where only one person (a "phone lady") owns a cell phone?

Someone working in Kampala, for instance, who wishes to send the equivalent of $5 back to his mother in a village will buy a $5 prepaid airtime card, but rather than entering the code into his own phone, he will call the village phone operator (“phone ladies” often run their businesses from small kiosks) and read the code to her. She then uses the airtime for her phone and completes the transaction by giving the man’s mother the money, minus a small commission. “It’s a rather ingenious practice,” Chipchase says, “an example of grass-roots innovation, in which people create new uses for technology based on need.”

Order arising from chaos turned me onto economics in the first place. I eat nuggets like this for dessert. #: ""Expelled, Ben Stein's new jeremiad against Charles Darwin, purports that Darwinism caused the Holocaust. Not true! In fact, the Holocaust is almost solely the work of Scandinavian astronomer Tycho Brahe!" #: More coverage of John McCain on the campaign trail:

McCain has a whole slew of superstitions and rituals, many stemming from his days as a Navy fighter pilot, a notoriously superstitious bunch. He won't throw a hat on a bed (bad luck), and he carries a lucky feather, a lucky compass, and a lucky penny — and nickel, and quarter. [...] He's got more stuff on him, too. On St. Patrick's Day in Chicago, "this guy had a lucky four-leaf clover that was laminated," Buchanan said. "He pulled it out of his pocket and told the senator it had brought him good luck and now the senator carries it around in his wallet."

I don't know what bothers me more: the notion that President Dog might decide to bomb Iran based on a horoscope, or that he'll carry any random piece of shit that a stranger hands him. Here, Senator - my grandfather had this rusty sewing needle with him when he landed at Omaha Beach. My mom buried it with him five years ago but I want you to have it. #: Finally, Delta and Northwest announced plans yesterday to combine and form the world's worst airline. Finishing the work that the TSA started on September 12th, 2001 would daunt most challengers, but I think Northwelta can handle the task. Combining their unions' contracts, their legacy software and the various deals they have with our nation's airport hubs, they can make transcontinental travel just as quick, safe and cheap as it was in 1908. If you need me, you can find me in the club car, stretching my legs.

just like witches at black masses

Professor Coldheart — Thu, 17 Apr 2008 12:45:35 +0000

Does anyone else find it odd that we refer to activating a hyperlink in HTML, or an icon on a graphical desktop, as "clicking"? That we call the action by the noise the input device makes? I find it weird - not offensive, mind you, just deeply odd - that that evolved the way it did. I would never say, "Hey, could you go vreet-vreet this on the copier for me?" Or "Yeah, just hummmmmmmmmmmmm-BEEP-BEEP it in the microwave for thirty seconds on High." Everything else in the graphical metaphor we call an Operating System has a real world analog. Your "desktop" at home might have a stack of "folders" on it, which you could open to discover "documents" or close and arrange in "files." But clicking doesn't connect to any other real world behavior. I don't push in on the spine of a book before taking it off the shelf. File clerks of a century past weren't tapping twice on the cover of an account ledger before opening it, unless they had the palsy. While the mood strikes me: I hate the word "blog." I remember first seeing it a few years ago and praying it wouldn't catch on. The word just sits there on the screen, stiff and ugly - the clumsy bl blend, the dissonant og on the end of it. If a two-year-old child kept mispronouncing "weblog," that's the noise I'd expect. To hear it coming from a supposedly literate adult irks me. "Click" I just find weird, but "blog" turns my stomach. And as long as I have you here: should I pronounce .gif like the peanut butter or like the space hippo? Does anyone else pronounce the word "MMORPG" so it rhymes with a certain Black Sabbath song? Why does it take longer to abbreviate "World Wide Web" than to say it? And why do all those kids on my block keep listening to that loud garbage music? You know the kind I mean. My point: stop letting engineers name things.

white people - do the humpty hump, just watch me do the humpty hump

Professor Coldheart — Fri, 18 Apr 2008 12:30:54 +0000

As a helpful service to our readers, I give you a list of Ten Hip Hop Songs White People Can Sing At Karaoke, No Problem: (10) In Da Club (radio edit) - 50 Cent. To sanitize this club anthem for radio airplay, Dr. Dre surgically removed all references to "n---as" and most references to drugs. This makes for the occasional awkward stretch (50 sees Xzibit in the cut and observes a moment of silence) but no one will hear it over the tinny blare of most karaoke speakers. You can also earn some instant street cred by changing it up for the original hardcore lyrics if you know them, while still avoiding anything racist. [youtube=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=EjIYLdalYeE&hl=en] (9) Regulators - Warren G and Nate Dogg. This song celebrates two elements of street culture which white people have no problem appropriating - carrying unlicensed firearms and picking up women for one-night stands. Plus, it boasts that smooth Michael McDonald hook. Michael McDonald resonates with Caucasians on a genetic level, meaning this song will bring any crowd to its feet. [youtube=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zhWGDGHupYA] (8.) Poison - Bell Biv Devoe. Most people don't actually know this song as well as they think they do, as illustrated by the mumbles you hear about midway through verse two. But everyone recognizes the drum break. And everyone knows never to trust a big butt and a smile; big butts are Serious Business. [youtube=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=N6blgjF6UkU] (7) Hey Ya - Andre 3000. Does "Hey Ya" count as a hip hop song or a pop song, technically? Dre wrote the music himself, rather than sampling it, and he sings rather than raps. Additionally, the song studies different themes than traditional hip hop subject matter, including a rather mature questioning of whether a modern relationship can survive OH WAIT HERE COMES THE CHORUS SHAKE IT LIKE A POLAROID PIK-CHA! [youtube=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XvIw5ZqC1ms] (6) Gangsta's Paradise - Coolio. Every person in America, white, black or otherwise, started out as an angry teenager. If you spent your teenage years between 1990 and 2000, you remember Coolio asking for something to learn but "nobody's gonna teach [him]." This song comes from the 1995 movie Dangerous Minds, though nothing else worth remembering did. [youtube=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=N6voHeEa3ig] (5) Mama Said Knock You Out - LL Cool J. "Don't call it a comeback," yells LL Cool J, coming to us from an era when most of us hadn't even heard of him to begin with (come on - tell me with a straight face you listened to LL before "The Booming System"). This song requires good flow, excellent delivery and exceptional breath control - it's a tiring four minutes and fifty-eight seconds. [youtube=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-7l250E5uM4] (4) Shoop - Salt 'n Pepa. Ladies, I did not forget you. We can all thank Salt 'n Pepa for reminding us that girls can ogle just as well - and just as graphically - as guys can. Bring all your friends to the mic and get a round of applause if you know even half the words. Fellas, you can horn in on the spotlight if you know the male part. While we all frown on calling black people "n---as" during karaoke, no one minds if you talk about "sounding like a retard." I mean, who's gonna complain - the retards? [youtube=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UKaVBVikysw] (3) The Humpty Dance - Digital Underground. The least serious song on the list. Karaoke draws its appeal from clowning around: getting up on stage and acting drunk and ~~stupid~~ looptid with a mic in hand. So what better song for karaoke than a song so ridiculous that its author only felt comfortable singing it in a Groucho Marx pimp costume? Speaking from experience: never point the mic out to the audience for shout-outs (i.e., "I'm the one who said ..."). They never expect it. [youtube=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2-jVU5Lqxx0] (2) Gin and Juice - Snoop Dogg and Dr. Dre. "I know what you're doing, Professor," you might be saying. "You're just listing the least offensive rap songs ever, right?" Joke's on you, smart-ass - "Gin and Juice" is a karaoke standard. White people enjoy smoking endo and drinking gin; the song speaks to them on a comfortable level. And the unspoken subtext about the culture of violence and poverty created by the War on Drugs which makes such a hedonistic lifestyle an aspiration, rather than an occasional detour? Man, save that shit for "187." This is a party song. [youtube=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=czyfws7OLCs] (1) Baby Got Back - Sir Mix-a-Lot. I have never seen a black person sing this song live. Ever. [youtube=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=41APzy5kqBU] For this week's Friday Feedback: what's a song that crosses gender, racial, sexual or cultural boundaries that you still feel comfortable singing?

fuck the police, straight from the underground

Professor Coldheart — Mon, 21 Apr 2008 12:30:27 +0000

This media blow logged your IP address. Little Brother (by Cory Doctorow): A bold, seditious and action-packed young adult novel. Marcus Yarrow's a teenage hacker living in San Francisco who wants nothing more than to cut class, IM his friends on his school-issued laptop (without the school's spyware monitoring him) and play in online scavenger hunts. But when terrorists bomb the Bay Bridge, his subversive habits get him scooped up by a Homeland Security dragnet and locked away in a "detention facility." When he's finally released, he wants nothing more than to create a secure network he and his pals can communicate on - and to find out why DHS won't let one of his friends go. His encrypted network quickly turns into a way to humiliate Homeland Security, however - making 17-year-old Marcus Yarrow an enemy of the state. Set maybe a year into the future, the San Francisco of Little Brother bristles with foreign but recognizable technology (XBoxes given away free in a Microsoft PR stunt, gait-recognition software, etc). The villains - school administrators, DHS interrogators, cops - speak in language that you might read today in any mainstream media outlet. After the Bay Bridge attack, civilians blithely accept the false dichotomy between privacy and security, grumbling but consenting to random frisking, showing ID when asked, and the like. Doctorow lays the juvenile slang on a little thick in the first few pages of the book. Bear with it - like the first five minutes of Juno, the author needs to work it out of the system before getting to the actual meat of the story. It gets better, I promise. And if you can squint a little at how conveniently Marcus knows everything he needs to to make his case (a 17-year-old script kiddie reads Jane Jacobs? really?), you'll be educated on some of the truly scary ways the U.S. has become less free. I'm already pretty paranoid, and it opened my eyes. Doctorow doesn't sacrifice plot for diatribe, though - the action moves at a steady and suspenseful pace. In addition to fighting the DHS, Marcus cares about all the things 17-year-olds care about: losing touch with his friends, making out with girls, cool alternative music, where to get the best burritos, etc. Even if the language comes out a little awkward at times, you know where the kid comes from. "Don't trust anyone over twenty-five" resounds throughout the book: more than a touch ironic, given the novel's 36-year-old author. But if this novel moves anyone, it'll move the kids who haven't been inured by the banality of evil yet. I hope a copy of this book finds its way into the hands of someone who hates being told what to do, who fears the way the country's going and who doesn't think the solution is to vote in "more and better Democrats." If they do find this book, they'll find how easy it is to hack corporate and government surveillance, how important it is to stand up and get arrested for what you believe in, and - if we're lucky - they'll join a long list of heroes whose neighbors called them criminals at the time. Meanwhile, I just hope I'm still young enough.

though you're dead and gone believe me, your memory will carry on

Professor Coldheart — Tue, 22 Apr 2008 15:47:28 +0000

After work on Friday I met up with Rachel, RJ, Colby, Jason and Jess, Mark and his boy Ben and some other folks in Davis Square. I ate a hot dog while the rest of them slurped down ice cream.

Colby: Have you eaten six hot dogs? Me: In my lifetime, or ... Colby: For the contest. If you eat six hot dogs in 90 minutes you get your picture on the wall. Me: I think I'd like the five years that'll take off my life, so ... no. RJ: You could just wait until winter then go into hibernation. Jason: We should enter a grizzly bear in the contest. Man, that'd be awesome. Me: 'Um, excuse me sir, I hate to be rude but my manager's making me ask. You're not, um, a bear, are you?' Bear: GRROOOOOAAR! Me: 'Right, right, okay.'

Eventually, Mark and Ben left to make out, Colby and his friends retreated to his house to prep for Battlestar Galactica, and Jason and Jess went back to eat salad. That left Rachel, RJ and me at a park table in Davis Square.

Rachel: It feels good to be in the majority again. Me: Do you mean 'straight people' or 'white people'? RJ: Hey! Rachel: Both? Me: Or tall people? Rachel: No, I wouldn't - hold on, YES, them too. RJ: Not that I have anything against straight people - some of my best friends are straight - but they can be a little much sometimes, you know? Me: Oh yeah. A little flamboyant. Rachel: I just wish they'd keep it to themselves.

We got bored with each other's company, so we went to Jason and Jess's house to play Smash Bros on the Wii. I took a while to adapt to the Wii controls - beating RJ twice in a straight-up fight but losing about ten consecutive matches of 4-for-all. N.B.: playing as Solid Snake is not as cool as it sounds. We then tromped across the street to Colby's to watch Battlestar Galactica. Despite nearly getting smacked by Colby ...

Colby: Don't shush me in my own house. Me: Shh!

... we all cowered around his big screen in sugar-induced terror and watched the last human fleet of Caprica continue to deteriorate. Oh, man.

I am not afraid to keep on living

Professor Coldheart — Wed, 23 Apr 2008 12:30:47 +0000

An observation: I intend to "boycott" the Beijing Summer Olympics, in the same way I "boycotted" the 2006 Turin Winter Olympics, the 2004 Athens Olympics, the 2002 Salt Lake City Olympics, and the 2000 Sydney Olympics, and the 1998 Nagano Olympics, and NASCAR racing, and most professional basketball, and all hockey on the professional level, and Pirates/Brewers games, and strongman competitions unless it's Saturday afternoon and I've got nothing to do for at least four hours and really there's nothing else good on, not Shawshank, not Trading Places, nothing. To be serious for a moment (but just one): were the Olympics that much of a ratings draw that we can call any form of boycott meaningful? Beijing sits twelve hours ahead of the East Coast of the U.S. - their early games will start just as you're finishing dinner, the late games will end just as the clubs let out. Would anyone in the U.S. really have had the fortitude to watch the Olympics live in the absence of a boycott? Or were you just going to get your Olympiad coverage from CNN and ESPN recaps, which you're going to do anyway - thus making any form of boycott silly? Then again, China remains perhaps one of the most despicable tyrannies in the modern world, except (to paraphrase Churchill) for all the others. So I suppose a mild objection to a nation's censorship trumps none at all. A quandary: Free exchange is pretty objectively good, if you know the theory behind it. If you have something I want and I have something you want, a trade profits both of us even if no one creates anything new. In fact, no one can come up with a better way to make as many people as wealthy as possible than by allowing them to trade freely with each other. Just as pointing out gaps in the fossil record does not discredit evolution, pointing out the side effects of profitable behavior - pollution, monopoly, etc - does not discredit free trade. Corporate behavior is pretty objectively bad, if you know the history behind it. Even the best corporations engage in rent-seeking and bureaucratic makework, with communication stifled through so many layers that success becomes an accident and incompetence becomes assured. And the worst among them bungle, cheat and get away with it. That's not counting the ones that used to hire Pinkertons to shoot strikers, either. The quandary: explain the (apparent) contradiction between the obvious benefits of free trade and the obvious failings of the modern corporation. Serious responses will be answered seriously; frivolous responses, frivolously. Show your work.

(passion) to play through pain, to love the game (passion) to break the chain, to blaze the flame

Professor Coldheart — Thu, 24 Apr 2008 12:30:39 +0000

I lived immediately adjacent to the Boston Marathon route for 3 years at Boston College without once seeing it. The Marathon literally ran past my front door - both at Castle Greyskull and Sketchy-Six - and I couldn't be bothered to watch. This year I remedied that. I caught the 86 at about quarter to ten, taking it from Union Square to three blocks shy of Chestnut Hill Ave. At that point the driver kicked us off, so I walked the rest of the way. I saw the men's wheelchair competition speed by as I walked downhill and snuck aboard an empty C Line train. J. (whom I work with) had a keg of Magic Hat and french toast in the oven when I arrived at her place, just behind the St. Mary's T stop. More friends and coworkers trickled in over the next hour. We stepped out briefly to watch the two leading female runners - Russian Alevtina Biktimirova and Final Fantasy villain Dire Tune - sprint past, then returned indoors for breakfast. The bulk of the pack hit our stretch by about noon, so we filed into the street to cheer them on. A weird, friendly anarchy prevails on Marathon Monday. Cops lined the street, but so long as you keep your beverage in a red SOLO cup they'd never bother you. The spectators cheered total strangers, urging them to stay strong until the finish, but mercilessly booed girls who darted across the street in drunken packs, clotting up the Marathon's main artery. Anyone can cheer on an athlete, but being inches away from marathoners gives you the opportunity to cheer and be recognized. I would yell wild sports cliches at every runner I saw, calling them out by what they wore. "Yeah, Dana Farber!" I cried, for a team that ran for the titular cancer institute. "One more mile! You got it!" Watching them tilt their heads wearily and raise their hand in a salute made my afternoon. "Come on, Children's! Come on, Tufts! Keep it moving." "That's it, Mass General! One mile! Gimme one mile!" "It's actually a mile point two," someone corrected me, at one point. Probably an MIT grad. But the high point of the day came when an older guy, already well tanned from the gorgeous day, hit my stretch walking and left it running. "One more mile," I screamed at him. "Come on! Give me one more! You're almost there!" I'd like to believe I made the difference for that one guy. I got a bit of a sunburn but I can't complain.

believe in me, I'm with the high command

Professor Coldheart — Fri, 25 Apr 2008 12:30:13 +0000

Guys (and I mean Thoreau over at Unqualified Offerings and Brad Hicks of Livejournal). Seriously. Thoreau

[Philippe] Sands reports that the military commissions act of 2006 may increase the likelihood of a future foreign war-crimes prosecution for those in the torture chain-of-command. Sands glosses a European prosecutor saying that "it would make it much easier for investigators outside the U.S. to argue that possible war crimes would never be addressed in their home country."

Hicks

So I'm hoping that those of us who'd like to see almost the entire top ranks of the Bush administration brought up on charges somewhere, ideally at Nuremberg or The Hague but at the very least in front of a US federal court, on war crimes and crimes against humanity charges, not just liberal activists but some very serious and non-partisan constitutional scholars, I'm hoping that we manage to keep the pressure on [Ashcroft] about this.

No member of the Bush Administration, from the Commander-in-Chief down to Harriet Myers, will ever stand trial before a war crimes tribunal. Not one of them. Not ever. Thinking otherwise comes from a foolish urge. The very notion of a war crime itself dates back only eleven decades, if that. You can pin the origin of the concept to the first Hague convention of 1899, but the principles then established only got a test run following the first World War. So you don't have to look through centuries of precedent to find some obscure decision - a fairly superficial reading of Twentieth Century history will get you up to speed. I don't mean to say that the human race didn't have a notion of "war atrocities" before 1917. Every king, commander and warlord had a deeply ingrained sense of things that Just Were Not Done. But people did them anyway. The first example that leaps to my mind: in the Battle of Agincourt, lord Ysambert d'Agincourt attacked the rear baggage train of King Henry V, slaughtering the unarmed peasants and page boys guarding it. Shakespeare's Henry V depicts this rather tragically, and the melodramatic grief and vengeance that Hal suffers at seeing the carnage. But Shakespeare, partisan and patriot, ~~omits Henry's next order~~ [EDIT: includes Henry's next order anyway]: to slaughter all French prisoners in retribution. If either side revisited these incidents after, they did so at the signing of the new treaty in 1415, not before any sort of court. (thanks to Grenacia in comments for the correction) We have understood implicitly, for centuries, something that Robert McNamara only recently made explicit in the Errol Morris documentary Fog of War:

[Curtis] LeMay said if we lost the war that we would have all been prosecuted as war criminals. And I think he's right. He, and I'd say I, were behaving as war criminals. LeMay recognized that what he was doing would be thought immoral if his side has lost. But what makes it immoral if you lose and not immoral if you win?

Let me make clear what Thoreau and Brad get wrong: no one will ever prosecute the victors. Empirical data alone backs that up. If the U.S. did not stand trial at Nuremburg for Tokyo, or Dresden, or Manzanar, or Hiroshima, then nothing that the Bush Administration has done will get them called on the carpet. But even without a century of precedent we can figure this one out from our armchairs. Say that President Bush and his employees knowingly violated tenets of the Geneva Convention. Who will charge them? Who will issue the summons? Who will force them to attend? What sanctions will be levied should they fail to appear? America has no challenger on the world stage when it comes to military might. The U.S. Government can not be compelled; they do the compelling. "Okay, Professor," you say, "my long-dormant fantasy of Cheney in shackles before Spencer Tracy can never come to pass. But what about a federal prosecution? Couldn't a U.S. prosecutor charge Ashcroft or Rumsfeld or Gonzales or their subordinates?" Again, this will never happen. For one thing, the Bush Administration has already laid a shaky, spurious but thorough legal framework to cover themselves. The Opposition Party has controlled Congress for over a year now^* and mounted no serious challenges to it. I can speculate as to a number of reasons why:

For career politicians, prosecuting an exiting official, elected or appointed, sets a horrifying precedent. When you retire from office, you're supposed to step into a world of ghostwritten book deals, lucrative speaking engagements and the occasional Viagra commercial, not a jail cell. "Christ ... if they got him, they could come after me next term!"
The Opposition Party likes the precedent that the Ruling Party has set in bizarre legal roller coasters and would not want to dismantle the ride without trying it first. "So executive privilege protects anything I order my lawyers to do ... and I'm justified in using executive privilege because I acted on the advice of my lawyers! Brilliant!" (Please note: not making this up)
The Opposition Party does not have any actual objections to anything the Ruling Party has done, and only claimed such in order to win an election. I hesitate to endorse this level of cynicism but I have to offer it as an option.

But again, all of this we can arrive at through reason as such. The machinery of empire will not dismantle itself. A federal prosecutor, whose role only exists through a complex network of appointments, confirmation hearings and internal memoranda, will not turn around and attack that network for being complex. A war crimes tribunal will not press charges against the country that gives them most of their business in the first place. If you want the bastards out, you'll never hit them from the voting booth. President Bush took advantage of the immense machinery of state to order several inhumane acts under the cover of bureaucracy. He joins a long list of Presidents - both Opposition and Ruling party - who have done the same. His only failing, aside from giving torture the blessing of the American flag, killing a few thousand Iraqi civilians and displacing tens of thousands more, and putting into place a program of domestic surveillance that later villains may use to more villainous ends? He got caught. Oops. ________________________ ^* Please don't talk to me about how tenuous their majority is. If Republicans in the Senate could threaten to nuke a filibuster, the Democrats can as well. The talk I regularly hear about how important it is that the Democrats build support, not alienate voters, not appear weak, etc., makes the Democrats sound more like the Party of Political Expediency and less like the Party of Principle. Which, I have to emphasize, I have no problem with. I just wish you'd stop calling them the latter.

when the crowd gets loud it can burn up the roof or make the walls all fall down

Professor Coldheart — Mon, 28 Apr 2008 13:26:39 +0000

This media blow stacks the tracks and cuts the wax that split the facts and rock the racks. Atmosphere: If you haven't already checked out the hippest cat on the underground scene, I can sum up the best parts of Slug and Ant's live act with the following. Ten minutes before the end of his sadly shortened set (all-ages show, early curfew), Slug grabbed the mic and said, "All right, instead of doing that fake ass pretentious encore shit, I'm just gonna sing two more songs, then I'm out." I HAVE FOUND THE LAST REAL MC. Even if you don't know every track he raps on, you can't help but bob along with Slug's delivery - lyrical but not too clever for his own good, rhythmic but not predictable. As big a fan as I am, I probably only knew about half the songs they played - When Life Gives You Lemons You Paint That Shit Gold had only dropped on Tuesday, and apparently more people liked God Loves Ugly than I did. Still, I'd change nothing but the curfew. Johnny Cash - "Hurt": I saw the first 30 seconds of this video on YouTube, back when it made the rounds, and thought, "Oh, it's just like the original song, only slower" and shut it off. For whatever reason I came back to it the other day and listened the whole way through. Wow. I was so wrong it's fucking embarrassing. I could not have been any more wrong and still been speaking in the English language. If you have never seen it before, watch it alone or with a trusted friend: [youtube=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SmVAWKfJ4Go] The Editors: Pretty good. Indie without being slowcore or atonal. They have the same symphonic bombast as Arcade Fire and the same lead singer who can sing but has clearly never had voice lessons as Interpol. I listened to An End Has A Start and liked it; you could probably talk me into listening to others. David Gray: On a whim I picked up his Greatest Hits the other day. Maybe my musical tastes have mellowed with age - I don't know if this guy would have made the same impression on me contemporaneously as he does now. Though I remember liking "Babylon" at the time. Good, chill pop music. "Shine" has been wrecking my face pretty continuously for about a week or so now. [youtube=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=IerbEn5CXqE] Gnarls Barkley: Give it up for Cee-Lo and Danger Mouse, who completely flipped the mainstream hip-hop concept by rapping about fear, self-consciousness, hubris and isolation. The Odd Couple, their sophomore effort, covers a lot of the same ground as their debut. Cee-Lo spits simple-sounding tracks that come from a complicated place, emotionally. Not as many toe-tappers as on St. Elsewhere (no "Crazy," no "Smiling", no "Gone Daddy Gone," no "Last Time"), so it might not stand the test of time. The GZA: To break up the monotony of top 40 pop and emo heartbreak for a minute, here's the Genius's hardcore track "Knock Knock." Chappelle's Show fans will recognize the song, though not the video, from Season 2. [youtube=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cfpRGoJLmnk] Dave Matthews Band: I stopped listening to these guys after Crash came out; I'll argue I made no mistake. I picked Crash back up again after maybe a decade of not having listened to it and I still loved it. Aside from "Cry Freedom" and "Proudest Monkey" you can't find a sleeper on there. Trent Reznor: I've had "The Hand That Feeds" stuck in my head for about a week now. I listen to that one, plus something off of Wu-Tang's Enter The Thirty-Six Chambers, plus at least one Soundgarden song, at least once a week at work. I've turned 27 and suddenly I just want to hit 17 again. [youtube=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bJN2SPUcXTQ]

fly me high through the starry skies

Professor Coldheart — Mon, 28 Apr 2008 19:03:01 +0000

Roger Zelazny, Nine Princes in Amber:

There is Shadow and there is Substance, and this is the root of all things. Of Substance, there is only Amber, the real city, upon the real Earth, which contains everything. Of Shadow, there is an infinitude of things. Every possibility exists somewhere as a Shadow of the real. [...] If one is a prince or princess of the blood, then one may walk, crossing through Shadows, forcing one's environment to change as one passes, until it is finally in precisely the shape one desires it, and there stop.

Wikipedia.org:

On the October 3, 2006 edition of Jimmy Kimmel Live, [Dax] Shepard declared that he is a Libertarian and opposed the War in Iraq.

JustJared:

New couple Kristen Bell and Dax Shepard ring in the new year together, sharing a passionate kiss on the beach in Miami, Florida on Tuesday.

Damn it! So close! Edit: Also, this: [youtube=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0wCL_b9cOEU]

medals on a wooden mantle next to a handsome face

Professor Coldheart — Tue, 29 Apr 2008 16:06:17 +0000

# After buying Fraley dinner and drinks on Friday, we retired to Katie's house in Davis Square. Melissa and Christine gave him a lactose-free crepe to blow out for his birthday wish. Then we all read the latest Cosmo for "Ten Secret Ways to ~~Blow~~ Please Your Man." I should warn you: they're no longer secret. I've read them. # I've been playing a lot of Diplomacy online lately, either on Facebook or on PHPDiplomacy. The Facebook game sloppily ports the latter, so I greatly prefer PHPDiplo. I haven't played for long enough to see whether my skills have atrophied, although twenty-four hours will reveal the outcome of my latest ambitious move (France attacking England and Italy simultaneously, with Germany's aid). So we'll see. If you want to play me on Facebook or on PHP, let me know and I'll set something up. If you have any love of game theory or European history, or just a general ill-defined distrust of fellow humans, you owe it to yourself to try. # Out of nowhere, and unbidden by man nor beast, I finally came to terms with the ending of the Bale/Crowe remake of 3:10 to Yuma while driving to work yesterday. The Apparent Problem: Ben Wade (Crowe) establishes, early on and repeatedly throughout, that his character would kill, gut or betray anyone in his party if he thought he could profit by it. Yet on the basis of one chance confession by Dan Evans (Bale), in re: the nature of his war injury, he suddenly cooperates in helping Evans turn him in. He becomes a lovable scoundrel instead of a villain. He even guns down his own gang after they catch Evans and execute him. What Finally Hit Me: Ben Wade just wants to play a game. Remember, in the last shot Ben whistles for his horse as the prison train pulls away. So even if he gets to the train, he fully intends to get off before they drop him in Yuma. He's not surrendering himself to redeem Evans; he's playing along because he likes Evans. So he runs the race to its finish, congratulates Evans as he boards the train - and then has his fun ruined when Charlie Prince shoots Evans in the back. Wade may not have agreed with Evans' stated purpose - namely, to convey him to federal prison - but he liked him more than he likes the bootlicks and scum he rides with. So Therefore: It works.

for a moment this good time would never end; you and me, you and me

Professor Coldheart — Wed, 30 Apr 2008 13:47:52 +0000

"Free Tibet" flags made in China (BBC)

Police in southern China have discovered a factory manufacturing Free Tibet flags, media reports say. The factory in Guangdong had been completing overseas orders for the flag of the Tibetan government-in-exile. Workers said they thought they were just making colourful flags and did not realise their meaning. But then some of them saw TV images of protesters holding the emblem and they alerted the authorities, according to Hong Kong's Ming Pao newspaper.

I never limit myself to one meaning when I can encompass two or more, so take away the following from this story:

Globalization commands a lot of power;
You can find irony anywhere if you know where to look, and;
Propaganda permeates the civilized mind in ways outsiders can't comprehend. The police didn't uproot this factory in an undercover sting - workers voluntarily turned themselves and their employer in. Tibet never did anything to harm these guys, but they so thoroughly believe the Chinese government's gospel of Tibet As Guerilla Radical that they went out of their way to make the State's job easier. Fortunately, in the free and enlightened West we don't have that problem.

Speaking of, how goes the campaign to nuke Iran, Senator Clinton? [youtube=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fUiFcaWxn8o] Got it - thanks! Meanwhile, black males took a bump down to Junior-Level Citizenship in New York on Monday, when three NYPD detectives were acquitted of killing an unarmed black man whom they "feared" might be threatening them. Fifty shots it took, which places the 18- to 35-year-old Black Male somewhere between a charging African Rhino and Wolverine of the X-Men in the Scared White Guy Hierarchy of Indestructability. Remember, black people: you don't have an inherent right to life as such while in the city of New York. You exist on the sufferance of every paranoid cop. Kai Wright talks a little more about the Sean Bell shooting here, and also sheds some light on the mystery of New York's falling crime rate over the last decade. If you believe that Giuliani's "broken windows" theory of Better Living through Petty Harassment reeks of bullshit - as I always have - then the drop in crime looks like a mystery. But Wright points out the following:

[B]lacks accounted for 66 percent of those killed by New York City police between 2000 and 2007 (New York is a perennial leader in police fatalities, averaging 12 a year over those years). And while the violent crime rate plunged to historically low levels in that time period, the number of people killed by police has not budged—indeed, the number of cop bullets fired has skyrocketed. And it's happened with impunity. Out of 88 fatal shootings, including at least 12 in which victims were unarmed, in only one instance was an officer convicted of criminal wrongdoing.

So Giuliani didn't reduce violence so much as outsource it to the NYPD. Juking the numbers, if you will. In other news, rice continues to get more expensive - and more scarce, which really means the same thing - all around the world. Tyler Cowen of Marginal Revolution offers his take on why in the New York Times:

The damage that trade restrictions cause is probably most evident in the case of rice. Although rice is the major foodstuff for about half of the world, it is highly protected and regulated. Only about 5 to 7 percent of the world’s rice production is traded across borders; that’s unusually low for an agricultural commodity. So when the price goes up — indeed, many varieties of rice have roughly doubled in price since 2007 — this highly segmented market means that the trade in rice doesn’t flow to the places of highest demand. Poor rice yields are not the major problem. The United Nations Food and Agriculture Organization estimates that global rice production increased by 1 percent last year and says that it is expected to increase 1.8 percent this year. That’s not impressive, but it shouldn’t cause starvation. The more telling figure is that over the next year, international trade in rice is expected to decline more than 3 percent, when it should be expanding. The decline is attributable mainly to recent restrictions on rice exports in rice-producing countries like India, Indonesia, Vietnam, China, Cambodia and Egypt.

Tariffs and export restrictions choke off valuable goods and services. You can't call arguments for free trade a trivial academic debate anymore, like whether a country profits more from cheaper cars or more domestic jobs. Open trade across borders will save the Third World from starvation. Fortunately, in the free and enlightened West we don't have that problem. Speaking of, how goes the effort to dismantle NAFTA, Senator Obama? [youtube=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AkWEwwLBuvs] Got it - thanks! As continuing proof of the ancient assertion that no one has ever drafted a law so noble that it can't be misused, local British councils have started using surveillance cameras to nab litterers and dogs shitting in public. And a student who photographed some cops ticketing other civilians earned himself a $628 ticket for "sitting on a park ledge." Finally, on a somewhat upbeat note, Clay Shirky (author of Here Comes Everybody) talks about the growing wealth of a globalizing economy, the surplus of free time that results, and how we spend that time:

I started telling her about the Wikipedia article on Pluto. You may remember that Pluto got kicked out of the planet club a couple of years ago, so all of a sudden there was all of this activity on Wikipedia. The talk pages light up, people are editing the article like mad, and the whole community is in an ruckus--"How should we characterize this change in Pluto's status?" And a little bit at a time they move the article--fighting offstage all the while--from, "Pluto is the ninth planet," to "Pluto is an odd-shaped rock with an odd-shaped orbit at the edge of the solar system." So I tell her all this stuff, and I think, "Okay, we're going to have a conversation about authority or social construction or whatever." That wasn't her question. She heard this story and she shook her head and said, "Where do people find the time?" That was her question. And I just kind of snapped. And I said, "No one who works in TV gets to ask that question. You know where the time comes from. It comes from the cognitive surplus you've been masking for 50 years." So how big is that surplus? So if you take Wikipedia as a kind of unit, all of Wikipedia, the whole project--every page, every edit, every talk page, every line of code, in every language that Wikipedia exists in--that represents something like the cumulation of 100 million hours of human thought. I worked this out with Martin Wattenberg at IBM; it's a back-of-the-envelope calculation, but it's the right order of magnitude, about 100 million hours of thought. And television watching? Two hundred billion hours, in the U.S. alone, every year. Put another way, now that we have a unit, that's 2,000 Wikipedia projects a year spent watching television. Or put still another way, in the U.S., we spend 100 million hours every weekend, just watching the ads. This is a pretty big surplus. People asking, "Where do they find the time?" when they're looking at things like Wikipedia don't understand how tiny that entire project is, as a carve-out of this asset that's finally being dragged into what Tim calls an architecture of participation. Now, the interesting thing about a surplus like that is that society doesn't know what to do with it at first--hence the gin, hence the sitcoms. Because if people knew what to do with a surplus with reference to the existing social institutions, then it wouldn't be a surplus, would it? It's precisely when no one has any idea how to deploy something that people have to start experimenting with it, in order for the surplus to get integrated, and the course of that integration can transform society.

I have always measured wealth in units of Time I Can Spend Doing What Makes Me Happy. It pleases me to see that that calculation works on a social level as well.

shaolin shadowboxing and the wu-tang sword style

Professor Coldheart — Thu, 01 May 2008 12:30:50 +0000

I give you an entire post about jiu-jitsu: # For as much work as I do on grappling, throwing and joint locks, I definitely need to drill old-fashioned stand up boxing. Tuesday night's class proved that, even if a decent boxer only landed one jab in four on me, he could drive me across a room thanks to my piss-poor defense. I need to work parrying, shuffling or fading without moving backward. I can't think of a better way to do this other than to get someone I trust, stand them exactly two feet away from me, verify that they can touch but not pound my skull with a jab at full extension, and say, "Just go until I say stop." # One of the students in our Tuesday night class got in a fight over the weekend. I won't go into details (per the student, "an investigation is pending"), but the circumstances reminded me of how much the classroom environment differs from a real street fight. I hope that I'd acquit myself well. I know that when the adrenaline's pumping I react aggressively, not passively, and I know that I can take a hit and keep moving. Because of those two factors - not because of any fancy techniques - I trust I'd do okay. But I want more than trust. # I still have rugburn on the back of my wrists this morning. Now before you go making any snide comments, I got it from a grappling drill on the rug-covered mats at our school. So I got rugburn from a two-hundred and fifty pound man mounting me and pinning my hands to the ground. There. Try and find something lewd in that; I dare you. # Finally got my hand X-rayed yesterday, since the jammed finger I got on March 12th has still been bothering me on occasion. The diagnosis: broken! "I had to zoom it 8x," the doctor said, pointing at my X-ray. "See this tiny line here?" Apparently the ligament around one of my joints has a bit of a crack, and the capsule that protects those ligaments has swelled as a result. I still have full range of motion, but it could take six months for the swelling to entirely disappear. "I get more martial artists coming in here six weeks after their injury," the doctor said.

pray for the thunder and the rain to quietly pass me by

Professor Coldheart — Fri, 02 May 2008 12:30:02 +0000

For this week's Friday Feedback, I want Songs That Tire You After The First Forty-Five Seconds: My top picks: Enter Sandman - Metallica. That mildly dissonant riff, followed by the pounding drums after a few measures, really ramps up my adrenaline. Then the song becomes, well, the foundation of every metal song for the next 20 years, and I lose interest. Bonus points: James Hetfield may be a cool motherfucker, but in this video he's everything that's wrong with the 80s. "Say a prayer / just for once / or I'll tow your truck / from the Arby's parking lotttttt-TA!" [youtube=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jRYDetbwegs] Sweet Child of Mine - Guns 'n Roses. Really? Can you get that excited to hear Axl Rose sing? Really? Admit it - this song coasts off of enthusiasm after Slash rocks us all the way out in the first minute. It never really reaches those heights again until the "Where do we go-wo" part near the end. [youtube=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=P-AYAv0IoWI] Hot'lanta - Allman Brothers Band. Starts off really strong, then descends into the unidentifiable mish-mash of every jam session. Better than the Grateful Dead, at least. [youtube=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yeXMutpWmgs] Now that I've made my half-assed attempts at music criticism, I'd like to hear yours. What songs never live up to the promise of their first few seconds? List a song that's not even worth downloading off iTunes so long as there's a free sample. Take your shot.

he was turned to steel in the great magnetic field

Professor Coldheart — Mon, 05 May 2008 12:30:39 +0000

This week's media blow incorporates the latest in Stark repulsor technology. Iron Man: Dude. Iron Man. Dude. Iron Man. Dude. Jon Favreau directed perhaps the best superhero movie I've ever seen (short of The Incredibles). I suspect he pulled this off because he made a priority of making a good movie first, and a superhero movie second. Favreau wandered through the same minefield that every superhero movie does but emerged unscathed. Let's take a look: Tedious Origin Story: Robert Downey Jr, as playboy millionaire Tony Stark, spends the first half of the movie inventing his suit, testing its powers and reveling in his new identity. Why does this work, when it failed for other movies? Because Tony Stark makes Iron Man. He didn't wake up one morning with super-strength and wall-stickiness. He didn't get struck by lightning after being dosed by chemicals. The process of experimentation and forging invests us more than following the blithe adventures of a lucky idiot. Wacky Villains: When you adapt a comic book to the big screen, you realize that guys in blue tights or villains in green and yellow costumes look ridiculous in the real world. Seriously. They look like cartoons. No one would take them seriously. Favreau avoids this by retaining the same names and general ideas, but completely revamping them for a modern story. I won't spoil the connections for comic book purists - just pay close attention to what people say. I ... Will Avenge ... You: As fun as Spider-Man was, I had a hard time with a movie where everyone took everything they said so seriously. Tobey Maguire couldn't tell someone he needed milk from the store without a wistful look in his eyes and stern resolution in his jawline. But Downey, Terence Howard and Jeff Bridges talk just like regular people talk. They talk over each other, sometimes. They throw off-hand remarks. They're regular people who just happen to have access to incredible weaponry. Well, My Work Here Is Done: I never realized how weak the traditional superhero origin story sounded until walking out of Iron Man. Okay, I have super powers. I'm going to put on a costume to avenge my parents' / family's / neighbor's death. Having finished that, rather than return to a normal life, I'll keep doing this, going after lower and lower stakes until I die or get tired of it. Stark's purpose in becoming Iron Man doesn't stop after the first film's villain buys it, though. He has a clear goal in mind: ridding the world of the weaponry his company created. That goal may expand (it'll probably have to, to keep the franchise going), but at least he starts with a logical reason for superheroics. Flip the Script: In addition to surviving and improving on all the standard superhero movie tropes, Iron Man flips several on its head. These will not only entertain your average comic book fan, but will keep the casual moviegoer from rolling their eyes at the awkward suspension of disbelief. I recommend this film without qualification. I may discuss some spoilers in the comments, so tread with care.

every little piece of your life will mean something to someone

Professor Coldheart — Tue, 06 May 2008 12:28:47 +0000

# Waiting in line for a scrip at the Target Pharmacy, I glanced down the aisle and saw a sign for Insolence Aids. Useful little niche, I thought. Use Dr. Fulghum's Patented Mollifying Tonic for Ages 3 to 13. Same great formula for over one hundred years. Guaranteed to cut back-sass, pouting and tantrums by fifty percent. Then I realized I'd conflated the words Incontinence Aids and Insoles in a hasty skimming, a mistake I can't be the first to have made. # I went to a co-worker's party in Brighton on Friday night. Folks I never saw played Beirut (which I always clarify as "beer pong," because I don't know that everyone uses that name) in the kitchen, while I sat in on several heated discussions to the rules of Asshole in the living room. We watched the Celtics lose Game 6 ("you've got to go for the percentage shots," I kept yelling at the TV). I danced to an amateur DJ's relatively small 90s crate and smoked a clove cigarette outside. Good times. # I have a variety of exciting new bruises on my forearms from jiu-jitsu on Saturday. One's about the size of a White Castle slider; the second, maybe a silver dollar. Another student got nicked in the temple with the point of a wooden knife. It bled worse than it turned out to be but, if the divot below my right index knuckle indicates anything, he'll have an exciting new scar in about a week. Look out, ladies! # I attended a Kentucky Derby party on Saturday! I don't know if I made myself a mint julep, but I combined bourbon, ice, seltzer, syrup and mint leaves in a combination I found tasty. Gentlemen lounged around in suits and ascots; ladies preened and cooed under floppy sun hats. I missed the entirety of the actual race due to the smallness of the living room, but had an excellent time regardless. I hope to see everyone involved again some time soon. # Allow me to confess some petty larcenies. FIRST: while driving through a McDonald's on Saturday morning, I arrived at the first pay window with a dollar held out expectantly. The lady inside didn't even glance my way in the thirty seconds I idled, fussing with an umbrella. Presuming I'd picked the wrong window - sometimes the drive-through uses one window, sometimes two - I motored up to the next one, where a young man thrust a cheeseburger on me. So I got a McDonald's double cheeseburger without paying. SECOND: I trust the laundromat on my corner enough to leave stuff in the washer or dryer without sitting in front of it. You can always see a staff member hovering inside while the 'mat has its doors open. On my third and final trip to the 'mat on Sunday, the shy Asian lady behind the counter shuffled up and pressed a crumpled dollar bill on me, nodding and smiling. I looked at her in confusion until another customer translated: "you left it in the machine." "Thank you," I said, unsure how to explain to someone who apparently spoke no English that I hadn't laundered anything that day other than bedding. So I'm up $2 on the weekend. # I somehow took the exact same Red Line train car to and from Park Street on Sunday night, four hours apart. How do I know? The train compartment smelled vaguely of shit; it got so I didn't mind it. That's the worst thing that I can confess. # "Does the bet still pay off if they shoot the horse?" "Yes, it does." "The system works!" # Finally, congratulations to ImprovBoston for holding a fantastic date auction at Venu on Sunday night. IB raised, if Sasha's math can be trusted, just over $6000 from the auctions and raffles alone. Special congratulations to Serpico and Christine, friends and regulars both, for their fund-raising efforts. The whole night really felt like a grown-up prom, with classy folks parading on stage for the crowd's approval and a late night dance party in formal wear. I had to practically tear myself away at 11:30 but could have stayed later.

I think his name was Chips Ahoy

Professor Coldheart — Wed, 07 May 2008 13:46:03 +0000

Links for breakfast: Jesus Made Me Puke: Matt Taibbi of Rolling Stone goes undercover at a Texas megachurch's "Encounter Weekend." The text speaks for itself:

"Let me ask you a question," he said. "Why do alcoholics give birth to alcoholics? Why do the fatherless give birth to the fatherless?" He paused. "There are some people out there who will tell you it's genetics. It's in our genes, they say. Well, I tell you, it's not genetics. It's a generational curse!" Fortenberry then started in on a rant against science and against scientific explanations for cycles of sin. "Take homosexuals," he said. "Every single homosexual is a sexual-abuse victim. They are not born. They are created — by pedophiles." The crowd swallowed that one whole. One thing about this world: Once a preacher says it, it's true. No one is going to look up anything the preacher says, cross-check his facts, raise an eyebrow at something that might sound a little off. Some weeks later, I would be at a Sunday service in which Pastor John Hagee himself would assert that the Bible predicts that Jesus Christ is going to return to Earth bearing a "rod of iron" to discipline the ACLU. It goes without saying that the ACLU was not mentioned in the passage in Ezekiel he was citing — but the audience ate it up anyway. When they're away from the cameras, the preachers feel even less obligated to shackle themselves to facts of any kind. That's because they know that their audience doesn't give a shit. So long as you're telling them what they want to hear, there's no danger; your crowd will angrily dismiss any alternative explanations anyway as demonic subversion. A team of twenty of the world's leading scientists wouldn't be able to convince so much as one person in this crowd that homosexuals are not created by pedophiles.

Hillary Clinton Rejects Science, Reasoning:

STEPHANOPOULOS: Can you name one economist, a credible economist who supports the [gas tax] suspension? CLINTON: Well, you know, George, I think we've been for the last seven years seeing a tremendous amount of government power and elite opinion basically behind policies that haven't worked well for the middle class and hard-working Americans. From the moment I started this campaign, I've said that I am absolutely determined that we're going to reverse the trends that have been going on in our government and in our political system, because what I have seen is that the rich have gotten richer. A vast majority -- I think something like 90 percent -- of the wealth gains over the last seven years have gone to the top 10 percent of wage earners in America. STEPHANOPOULOS: But can you name an economist who thinks this makes sense? CLINTON: Well, I'll tell you what, I'm not going to put my lot in with economists.

Couple this with her support for the autism/vaccination link and we finally have the pure Anti-Science candidate that this country has been aching for since its inception. (I kid, of course - none of them are that great) Bridging the gap between mathematics and civil liberties, Radley Balko talks about the problem of DNA databases. Knowing that a test has a 99.9996% (or whatever) accuracy rate does not tell you all you need to know - you also need to know the actual incidence of what's being tested for within the population. Few people know that. Hell, I still need to remind myself from time to time. Bayes' Theorem in action.

Let’s say the U.S. adopts a Great Britain policy on collecting DNA–basically a move toward, at some point in the future, having DNA on file for everyone in the country. Well now the 1 in 1.1 million odds against the suspect in the L.A. Times case are being run against a database of 380 million people. The numbers say that you’re going to pull up about 345 matches in the U.S. alone. In the California case, the database is obviously much smaller than the entire U.S. population, and only one of those 345 people showed up from the 330,000-person FBI DNA database–the (admittedly unsympathetic) subject of the article. But any of the other 344 potential matches in the U.S. (or the 2,200 matches worldwide) could have committed the crime. They just weren’t in the database.

To put it another way: if I run an anabolic steroids test with 99% accuracy in a nursing home with 400 residents, I'm going to get at least 4 positive results. Does this mean that 4 octogenarians shoot themselves in the butt with parabolan every morning? Probably not. Finally, for all my cheerleading about globalization, it helps to have a saner mind like IOZ put me right once in a while:

So, you know, on one hand "there were once nation-states," but now there are "dynamos like India and China," which are, what, anarchoprimitive agricollectives? The idea that some sort of stateless transnational borderless economic singularity is swiftly ripping away borders like stagehands rip up gaff tape on load-out is plain kooky. I am of course for the free movement of labor and capital. Call me the next time you hit Charles de Gaulle, or Beijing Capital International Airport for that fucking matter, without a passport. I'm just saying.

rulers make bad lovers

Professor Coldheart — Thu, 08 May 2008 12:30:36 +0000

Another look into the writing process: My writing style tends to imitate whoever I've read most recently. This process smooths out over time, and if I read a lot of different styles in rapid succession, such that I'm no longer a total slave. Picture a blank canvas: you start with red strokes, fear the final product will have too much red in it, then add in more colors until the final product looks rich and real. Then you tear it off the easel, hide it in your closet behind the winter coats, and go play Bejeweled instead. Anyhow, take a look at the twenty-one books I've read so far this year, then try to guess what my writing sounds like as a result. Bonus points if your answer incorporates needless French expressions (e.g., melange, fait accompli, pret-a-porter, mise-en-scene, and so forth). A significant portion of my ideas come from the unconscious: random word associations or images that flit into my mind at odd hours. I vividly recall floating in the hypnagogic haze between wakefulness and dozing during a presentation at The Company when the word library planet appeared in my head. Those of you who've read "The Archivist" will recognize the result. My current project, which some of you have seen, came to me from the phrase murder kit. What goes into a murder kit, I wondered? And who would come up with that list? And why? When I start writing and really hit the proverbial "zone," I find myself in a sort of trance state. I become hyper-conscious of the sensory content of the world I'm writing, as perceived by the narrator or protagonist. Some people write best with music on or in a coffeeshop; I can't stand the slightest surprising noise. Traffic and birds and crickets, yes; doors opening and people talking, no. I never offer much in the way of description because I never go much for description in what I read. I frequently glaze over large blocks of text in order to get to dialogue; quote marks act as highlighter for me. Raymond Chandler and writers in his vein have proven the only exception, and you could make the argument that his particular method of description ("... the hole in her face where she unzippered her teeth ...") counts as dialogue anyway. I never do a lot of research before I start writing, and I never break the trance once I get going. If I find something that I cannot reasonably fake, I'll leave a note in brackets ("the total came to [[INSERT DOLLAR VALUE HERE]]; I paid in plastic") and come back later. On occasion this gets me in trouble, as I'll forget who I named what and pay for it later. That's why I still need friends; that and the whole human thing. Laptops work for some folks; not for me. At the end of an hour my lap feels too warm, and if I'm writing on a table I might as well have a desktop. I never write outside of my room (see above re: coffeeshops). I try not to write on my bed; it doesn't have great lower back support when I'm sitting up and it confuses my body as to bedtime. And I prefer a larger screen and a higher resolution anyway: easier on the eyes. I worry most about being melodramatic or grotesque, or about the picture in my mind being depicted clearly on the page. I worry least about being boring. Two thousand words counts as a good night's work for me, though I'm comfortable with anything over fifteen hundred. I can produce this in about an hour. Two nights of this a week means 3000-4000 words per week. Presuming you miss some nights and, on average, only stick to schedule 75% of the time, that's still 112,500 words in 50 weeks. I give you two weeks' vacation and one night in four off and you can still turn out a pretty thick novel in a year. The best writing teacher I ever had, Dr. Vincent Fitzpatrick, always cautioned us against "writing abstractly about an abstraction." I've just done that for about six hundred and fifty words here. All apologies.

there's one more kid that'll never go to school

Professor Coldheart — Fri, 09 May 2008 12:30:43 +0000

Allergies have returned with a vengeance. A heavy medical cocktail - two snoots of Nasonex, 10 mg of Zyrtec and some prescription eye drops - have staved off the worst of it so far. This morning, I merely felt severely congested and only one eye looked red enough to merit suspicions of a drug test. Which I would have passed, thank you. Winners don't use, because users don't win. The weather gizmo on my desktop says yesterday's high was 78. Today's: 58. New England - the cradle of our nation, folks! Several people have asked what I think of the economy in the past week or so. I don't have any insight that you couldn't draw from reading any major paper. Things grow worse. Once I get some money to move around I intend to invest in a mix of ETFs from Vanguard. But you shouldn't necessarily take my advice on where to put money. How the economy's doing and how I'm doing don't always go hand in hand - and that's presuming I even get the first part right. Plus, my ideas change constantly. I used to want to save up enough to buy my own place. But then someone (either Julian Sanchez or Will Wilkinson) made the point that young, single people rarely improve their lot by buying a house. Once you get tied to a significant investment of real estate, you can't pack up and move on a month's notice. Now's the time I should be chasing job opportunities, crazy projects or hot blondes with a passion for Chandler novels, 70s movies and straight whiskey. Call the difference between my rent and a mortgage (less interest deductions) a flexibility premium. I'm happy to pay. My point: listen to me if you like, but don't follow me out onto the lake. A rare end-week media blow: The Handmaid's Tale, by Margaret Atwood. I don't suppose I need to lend my voice to the volumes of critical praise for this novel, other then: yeah, that. Flynngrrl had a post once about a Supreme Court decision on abortion. In it, she made the point that the question of abortion rights comes down to one fundamental fork in the road: either you believe a woman owns her body or you don't. Either a woman has an inherent value outside of her social role as Childbearer, or she doesn't. The Handmaid's Tale gives us a world where this question has been decided. I don't think it presents a realistic view of how religious fundamentalists would seize control of the United States (I hardly think they'd need to gun down Congress). But it doesn't have to. Good science-fiction doesn't look for the most likely future outcome starting from today's events. Rather, it starts from a What If (no matter how outlandish), grounds it in verisimilitude, then rolls from there. And Atwood pulls that off beautifully. And not only does Handmaid move and inform and signify (yeah, yeah, trivial accomplishments, those), but Atwood's style amazed me, too. She uses a remarkable economy of language to describe the protagonist's conflicted emotions - her loathing of her captors, her fearful desire to obey, her absolute and paranoid despair, her nostalgia for an admittedly troubled past, and so forth. Finding a novel this powerful leaves an impression on you; finding a novel this well-written delights you.

there's no one in here but the fighters

Professor Coldheart — Mon, 12 May 2008 12:30:24 +0000

This weekend media blow drew the black marble: Battlestar Galactica: I have been greatly impressed by the depth of writing this season. You can always count on BSG to throw in plot twists and sudden traumatic developments. That doesn't take much in the way of skill. But the last couple of episodes - particularly "Escape Velocity" and "Faith" - have really floored me. Little details, like the offhand mention of the "Mithras cult" in the former or the understated symbolism with Anders in the latter, show me that the writers know what they're doing. The Office: Back up to speed in a strong way. I'm pretty happy with them. "... and then you said, Pam, Pam, Pam, and then you sneezed in my tea, but you said not to worry because it was just allergies." 30 Rock: I think the shortened season hurt these guys more than anyone else I watch regularly. The last few episodes I saw seemed rushed and heavy on exposition. The penultimate episode - with the mystery sandwich shop, and Floyd's random visits - felt so weak I worried that I'd recorded the wrong show. But the season finale won me over again. "There's not actually a leak. We've done a study." Redbelt: So a David Mamet movie about jiu-jitsu instructors draws me in like black tar heroin, and I fulfilled my obligation this weekend. As with all Mamet movies, you get the impression that the intricately constructed ride would fall apart if it went off-road: one plot twist too many. Also, as usual, the lone women in this script must pay for the sins of their entire race in Mamet's eyes, leaving only the steadfast men to defend principles, yadda yadda. That being acknowledged, Redbelt still shines better than any other movie you'll see about martial arts, sports or Hollywood this year. Mike Terry (Chiwetel Ejiofor) owns a small jiu-jitsu dojo in southern Los Angeles. A chance encounter in a bar results in him saving the life of drunken action movie star Chet Frank (Tim Allen). This earns him an invitation into the world of high-budget movie production. The movie parallels the glamorous world of mixed martial arts tournaments - a world from which Terry deliberately abstains, despite much enticement - and the quiet tradition of self-defense, exemplified in Terry's instruction of the timid and high-strung Laura (Emily Mortimer). I may discuss some spoilers for all of the above in the comments, so: proceed with caution.

make sure he a thug and intelligent too

Professor Coldheart — Tue, 13 May 2008 13:18:27 +0000

Some life lessons, smuggled in the form of weekend anecdotes: Learn Enough Dance to Dance to Funk / Soul; Everything Else is Wasted. Well, okay, and the bare minimum of dance required to get married in the States. But so few places bust out any sort of swing worth swingin' to, and salsa can only be found in seedy gin joints with knife artists in sharkskin suits. But if you're ever in Central Square on a Friday night - like I was for Rachel R's birthday - stop by the Cantab and listen to Diane Blue and the Fatback Band lay down the oldest and greatest. "Dancing in September," "Knock on Wood," and maybe even a little James Brown for you. Really - all you need. Pick a Party and Stick With It. I left Rachel's celebration midway through to see if anyone had camped out at 90's Night in Allston. Had I called ahead I could have saved myself the trip - the cool kids had been crowded out by the BU kids. After waiting in line for a minute and confirming the situation with Matthew, I returned to Cambridge and closed out the night at the Cantab. I probably missed a lot of prime dancing thanks to my indecision and I will regret it until the day I die. You Build a Surprise Party with 90% Discipline and 10% Innovation. I went to a surprise party with Kym from work on Saturday evening. Kym's friend Allie had been planning this for about a month and had gone above and beyond to keep everything quiet. But it takes more than just secrecy to get a surprise party going. So, that afternoon, she recruited Kym's landlord, who called Kym and told her that a burst pipe had flooded her closet. She hurried home and found us waiting. Never Drink On An Empty Stomach. Seriously! Never! What did you think would happen? And no, two plates of tortilla chips and a bowl of creamy dip do not count! And no, a single slice of a pulled pork quesadilla does not count! How old are you? Have you learned nothing? Seriously! It's like I can't even look at you! (But I had an excellent time at Bukowski regardless, helping Kate G. tick off the last few items on her beer card. If you go into the Inman Square dive and find the Charlotte Perkins Gilman mug off its hook, you'll know she's in town) If You Have Time Alone, Enjoy It. I caught up with Jodi at the Grafton St Pub in Harvard on a cool Sunday afternoon, giving her the chance to vent about dealing with undergrads (apparently, the dumb kids at Harvard are just as dumb as the dumb kids anywhere). After seeing her off, I took the T to Kendall and walked to Kendall Cinema to get tickets for Redbelt. With two and a half hours to kill, I had an early dinner at the Cambridge Brewing Company right around the corner. The afternoon had hit that "magic hour" that photographers love, when the sun lights everything soft. The red brick of the CBC kept the inside warmer than the outside (low 60s), but the ceiling fans provided a gentle downdraft. Not quite dinner time yet, so I had a quiet corner of the bar to sit and read some Fritz Leiber while a perky bartender brought me a pulled pork sandwich and the house pale. Afterwards I walked two blocks and bought ice cream at a 7-11. Don't look too hard for those moments; that never helps. Just stay ready when they arrive.

god loves ugly

Professor Coldheart — Wed, 14 May 2008 12:30:37 +0000

A quick one to start us off: my favorite workout at the gym - to observe, not to perform - is the desultory chin-up. That's when a guy walks up to the bar and does one chin-up, maybe two, before remembering how hard they were. Then he drops to the mat and walks off like he has something else in mind. Now to talk about how much reading sucks: I'm glad that the fantasy story trope of "your wish comes true, but it's twisted" gets less play these days. You know the one I mean: I wish for a million dollars, but it comes in the form of a life insurance payment when my wife dies. Or I wish for time to read in peace and quiet, but I only get it after a nuclear bomb wipes out civilization. Also known as the "monkey's paw" conceit, after the 1902 short story which spawned it, this slapdash shortcut has been worn into a faceless grit through overuse. Holy hell, it's annoying. For one thing: if horror is really just a form of Gothic moralizing (the prince who taunts the Red Death plague gets infected; the girls who sleep around get their throats slashed; etc), then what lesson should the reader learn from this story? "If you get the chance to make a wish, phrase it very carefully"? Great lesson; I'm sure it'll stick with me in the wish-filled future I anticipate. "Getting what you want without hard work will curse you with sorrow"? I can see that - kind of the Protestant work ethic with slick urban styling - but maybe there's a better way to phrase it. Really, I see nothing but downsides to telling generations of impressionable children that "getting what you want will ruin your life." For another: note that the magical malefactor always picks a particularly ironic way to fulfill the wish. Irony requires intelligence - recognizing a pattern that matches in some ways but differs in others - so we have to presume that the monkey's paw has, I dunno, some evil genie watching it and waiting to screw over the life of whoever holds it. Because if I had to grant evil wishes, and I felt particularly lazy, I wouldn't be very creative about it:

Rube: I wish my boss hadn't fired me. Genie: Fine! Now your boss hasn't fired you, or anyone else - because he's dead! Rube: I wish I looked just like this for the rest of my life. Genie: Mwah-ha-ha! You'll look exactly the same for the rest of your life if I kill you in five seconds! Rube: So you're not exactly granting my wishes as much as looking for an excuse to murder people, are you? Genie: Just for that, I'm going to murder Jeff Probst! Ha ha ha ha ha!

And so forth. Fortunately, sci-fi / fantasy is a great and terrible beast that eats its young and pits them against each other. Every trope worth naming in the genre has been established, re-hashed, deconstructed and reassembled in the 20th Century alone. Take time travel for instance. Ray Bradbury gave us the notion of the fragile past in "A Sound of Thunder," in which stepping on a butterfly in the prehistoric past causes the entirety of Western Civilization to be rewritten. Fritz Leiber riffed on this concept, presenting a past that stubbornly resisted time travellers' attempts to change it in "Try and Change the Past." Alfred Bester did the same, but with a bit more style, in "The Men Who Murdered Mohammed." Rather than telling the same tedious story over and over again, sci-fi turned time travel into an open-ended source of inspiration. Let's do the same thing with "wishes." Instead of a wish that twists the speaker's words, how about a world where every wish comes true - a constantly fungible reality, alien and nightmarish, subject to the most recent whims of the greatest number? Or how about a world where warring nations use Monkey Paws like weapons? Drop a Monkey's Paw in an enemy garrison, let opposing soldiers start screwing up their own lives until they run out of wishes, then send a black ops team in to mop up the chaos? I picture a hazmat team in full chem-gear, stalking through an outpost filled with titanium statues in tortured poses, carrying out a glowing orb in a lead container. "Let me guess - I'll bet they wished to be bulletproof. Or maybe to live forever. Gets 'em every time. Who's paying for the beer, anyhow?" In an unrelated closing observation: have you ever noticed how the questions "can you do me a tiny favor?" and "can you do me a huge favor?" mean almost exactly the same thing in requested effort?

step into your wake with your blood on my shirt

Professor Coldheart — Thu, 15 May 2008 12:30:19 +0000

Many years ago, Bobby and I were playing Axis and Allies on one warm afternoon. We started joking about Germany's terrible chances. Inspired by the board game in front of us, I commented, "Wouldn't it be terrible if some Germany game company made a 'Concentration Camp Management' game while the Reich was in power? Like Puerto Rico or one of those other city-builders, only you have to manage an extermination camp?" Bobby shook his head, chuckling. "You'd have to make sure your railroad depot wasn't too far from the gas showers or you'd lose turnaround time." We both agreed that that would be uniformly twisted. Flash forward about five years. Browsing through one of the transient dollar stores in the Arsenal Mall, I found the following gem in the Discount Software section: Prison Tycoon 3: Lockdown. If the title didn't make it clear, I'll spell it out: the cheery folks who gave you Roller Coaster Tycoon and Zoo Tycoon developed a game where you run your own prison. Actually: they developed three of them. What makes Prison Tycoon 3: Lockdown such a comically monstrous game? If I had to make a list:

"Begin with a low security prison and build it up to a SuperMax." I don't know if I'd consider a SuperMax prison an "upgrade" from a minimum-security facility. They serve two entirely different functions - one to house non-violent offenders, the other to provide rigorous supervision and restriction. This is like buying a flight simulator for your computer that boasts "start out with a prop plane and build it up to a C-47."
"Hire trust-worthy prison guards and arm them with weapons, riot shields and guard dogs to maintain peace and control, but keep your eye on your budget." Per the advertisements, budget is the only restraint on how brutal you can be with your prison population. Not your innate concern for civil liberties. Not the inherent dignity of the human. No, the only thing that'll stop you from giving every guard on the block an autofire shotgun with rubber shells and full Kevlar is a lack of funds. Fortunately, you can augment your budget by building factories onsite - auto shops, print shops, metal shops, etc - so even that limit can be overcome. It's a circle of some kind ... begins with a "v" ... I want to say "virtuous," but I don't think that's it ...
"You determine whether to release your prisoners on parole or keep them locked down tight to protect society." Rehabilitating prisoners gives you a cash bonus and (I suspect, can't confirm this) improves your overall prison score. Releasing someone who goes out to commit another crime? No real downside. Don't worry about rehabilitating too many prisoners, though - you'll get another busload tomorrow morning!
"Manage gangs and prisoner morale to avoid riots." Like in the other Tycoon games, each individual visitor to your ~~theme park~~ prison facility has his own mood. Happy prisoners work eagerly in your shops. Angry prisoners start fights, which can escalate into riots through a cascading effect (one angry prisoner makes the prisoners around him angry, which makes their neighbors angry, etc). Managing prisoner morale doesn't take much effort - simply dispatch a prison guard over to an angry prisoner. The guard will beat the prisoner with a nightstick until his mood improves to "passive." No, I'm serious; that's how you do it.
"Interrogate military prisoners for vital intel. Earn extra bonuses by getting prisoners to provide crucial information." ... so.

Disclaimer: some of my intel came from an FAQ for the first Prison Tycoon game. My prior experience with the Tycoon series indicates that later games in the series don't deviate significantly from earlier ones - they just add more gameplay options. If anyone who's actually played this gem of a game wants to correct me, leave a comment.

you'll never watch your life slide out of view

Professor Coldheart — Fri, 16 May 2008 12:30:15 +0000

For this week's Friday Feedback, I want Five Different Versions Of The Same Thing. To get us started, I select the song "Common People" by Pulp. First, here's the original music video: [youtube=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=F39RS3I0D0Y] Second, here's a short comic by Jamie Hewlett illustrating the lyrics: Third, here's William Shatner, Ben Folds and Joe "Into The Night" Jackson covering the song on the Tonight Show: [youtube=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-y5eBRWQerY] (Sweet tapdancing Christ, Joe Jackson looks like Gollum fucked Abe Sapien) Fourth, here's Chris Sims' Photoshop of an Archie Comic strip: And Fifth and Finally, here's a personal anecdote about the song:

Not this past Wednesday but Wednesday a week, I hit up karaoke at the Asgard - voted Boston's best karaoke in the Phoenix - as per usual. I covered Fiona Apple's "Criminal" with Rachel V. for my first song and, for lack of inspiration, fell back on "Common People" for my second. As a sop to irony, I usually sing it in the style of Shatner / Jackson, as pictured above: a staccato, querying monotone for the first verse and a half, then a bolt-upright trill for the remainder of the song. So I'm sitting on the corner of a table, nursing half a shooter of Jameson and murmuring into the mic, when I think I hear someone say: this song sucks. It doesn't ruffle me; nothing ruffles me when I'm putting on an act. But if you're going to hate on the current singer in karaoke - a favorite pastime of mine, don't get me wrong - you never do it loud enough for them to hear you. Sure enough, I hear it again a few seconds later: boo. Terrible song. A woman in her late thirties, early forties stands at a table at about my ten o'clock. I suspect she came with the larger and equally drunk party that monopolized the mic earlier in the evening. I remember one intoxicated night hag faking a grind on one of our friends while he sang, after stumbling up to the DJ booth to put in her own request. Those folks had left half an hour ago, or so I thought. Apparently two of them remained. Boo. What an awful song. Maybe she just dislikes Shatner's delivery, I thought - shocker, I know - so I went out of my way to sell the hand-off. "But ... but she didn't understand," I mumbled. "SHE JUST SMILED AND HELD MY HA-A-AND!" I took off like a rocket. This song sucks! Despite the gentle pleading of her hopefully sober friend, she continued to repeat the same three or four criticisms every few seconds, in increasingly louder tones. Clearly she wanted more than to make her opinion known, since everyone within three tables knew it by now. She chanted her condemnation like a litany against taste and soul. Protect me from my betters, she seemed to say. Boo. Terrible song. She spit that last one during the four-bar keyboard solo that made up the bridge. "Thank you, ma'am," I told her, looking her dead in the eye. No, it's -- you're good, the song sucks ... "No, thank you. Really. I appreciate it. You're a big help." Four, three, two, one, and, "Sing along with the common people! Sing along and it might just get you through! Laugh along with the common people!" I strutted up to the edge of her table, pointing right at her face. At 6'5", my armspan covered half the distance between us. "Laugh along with them while they're laughing at you! And those stupid things you do! 'Cause you think being poor is coo-oo-ool!" She didn't seem any more conscious of it than anything else I did; maybe she was that drunk. But I wasn't doing it for her benefit. Returning to my corner of the stage, I chanted the song's abbreviated close ("I want to live with common people like you") into a slow, steady crescendo. Applause, handshakes, high-fives. Then I hit the road.

Your turn. If your Five Different Versions of the Same Thing are also media-heavy, feel free to post them in your own blog and link to them in the comments.

the only guarantee in life is a life worth dying for

Professor Coldheart — Mon, 19 May 2008 13:04:06 +0000

A short, sharp and shocked media blow this week: The Best of Fritz Leiber: "America the Beautiful" and "Poor Superman" can be read as prophetically savage satires of the American right and left, respectively, at the dawn of the 21st Century. Or they're just good sci-fi, as the rest of this collection is. When Life Gives You Lemons, You Paint That Shit Gold: Cherchez la DJ, the poet tells us, and when I couldn't put my finger on what fell short on Lemons I looked to Ant. Atmosphere's DJ, normally reliable, picked a succession of synth-heavy, bass-laden tracks for Slug to rap over, instead of the usual funk / soul / rock blends. Given Slug's Midwest baritone and aging voice, the results don't move quite as well as they ought. Still, subpar Atmosphere still beats the best that the Yin-Yang Twins have to offer any day, so add it to the collection. (If you want an Atmosphere album of nothing but upbeat, tubthumping, house party jams, check out Strictly Leakage - a free download on Rhymesayers) Virtual Unrealities: The Short Fiction of Alfred Bester: As I've remarked before, if Philip K. Dick is the glue-sniffing kid from the back of the glass with Elvis Costello glasses and conspiracy theories, Alfred Bester is the clove-smoking kid in the mod jacket who's read Chomsky and Paglia. Where Dick runs manic and weird, Bester reads cool and peppery. But the subject matter resounds through both: questioning reality, our place in it and our relation to it. To Play the King: "Remember that frightfully nice man who talked a lot about 'the classless society'? He had to go, of course, in the end." Ian Richardson returns as Francis Urquhart, the brutally Machiavellian Tory who secured his role as Prime Minister in House of Cards. To Play the King depicts a remarkably daring caricature of English government in the early 90s. While no one calls the King whose coronation kicks off the series "Charles," or his ex-wife "Diana," or his estranged sister-in-law "Fergie," you can't mistake who they mean. Urquhart's schemes don't stack quite as deeply or as intricately in this series as in the last one - but you don't watch these shows for the labyrinthine plot. You watch them for the utter depravity: Urquhart's unmitigated lust for power and his cold, Shakespearean rage at anyone who stands in his way. He talks a lot about being the only person fit to run the country, but that's clearly a rationalization. The object of power is power, like the book says. Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade: I've long maintained that Last Crusade holds the title of Best Action Film of the 80s. Watching it again on Saturday night, however, I wondered: could it be the Best Action Film of all time? Your thoughts, people.

I'm the daddy of the mac, daddy

Professor Coldheart — Tue, 20 May 2008 13:16:41 +0000

I got sucked into the videos at TED.com late on Sunday night and lost an hour or so watching them. If you only have time to watch one video in your busy day, watch Ken Robinson's talk on how institutional education kills creativity. It has the virtues of being both moving and entertaining: (I can't embed the video, despite three tries, so just view it on the TED.com site) Memorial Day hangs on the calendar as my Point of No Return for the allergy season. If I can survive Memorial Day weekend, I'm good for the rest of the year. If I can't survive Memorial Day weekend then, well, I suppose I'll have other things to worry about. As of last night, the current project sits at 60,000 words (Microsoft count, not estimated count). I think I just passed the halfway point last night. I don't know if that means I have another 60,000 words of manuscript to generate, but I know that the ball needs to start rolling a little faster at this point. I spent $60 on gas on Sunday. More updates as the situation warrants.

it's like that, and that's the way it is

Professor Coldheart — Wed, 21 May 2008 13:29:06 +0000

First and most important, c/o Phanatic (who swiped it from a friend of his) here's some fresh breakin' to start your day. [youtube=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KoQb8vb4blA] Next: I remember reading a copy of the Journal at the kitchen table in the family homestead over Christmas and seeing a full-page ad for Lifelock - an identity theft protection service. In this ad, which I'm sure you've seen since, Todd Davis, CEO of Lifelock, stood in front of block text declaring his Social Security Number to the world. So confident was he, apparently, in his company's product. Well, according to a class action lawsuit filed last week, the inevitable happened:

“The lawsuits allege that LifeLock and its multi-million-dollar advertising campaign provided false and misleading information about the limited level of identity protection the company provides, and failed to warn them about the potential adverse impact the company’s services could have on their credit profiles,” according to the press release. Additionally, the release alleges that Lifelock CEO, Todd Davis has been a victim of identity theft multiple times since using his SSN as a marketing tool to sell the service.

Oops. Next up: could the "obesity epidemic" plaguing America have anything to do with ... the shifting definition of obesity?

“Overweight:”Definition changed from BMI ≥ 27 to BMI ≥ 25 by the U.S. National Heart Lung and Blood Institute in 1998, instantly increasing by 43% the numbers of Americans, an additional 30.5 million, deemed ‘overweight.’ “High cholesterol:”Definition changed from a total cholesterol ≥ 240 to ≥ 200 in 1998 increasing by 86% the numbers of Americans labeled has having high cholesterol, an additional 42.6 million adults. “Hypertension:”Definition changed in 1997 from 160/100 to 140/90, instantly adding 35% more Americans, 13.5 million, to the rosters of hypertensive. A new definition for ‘prehypertension’ in 2003 increased to 58% the Americans believing they have hypertension. “Diabetes:” Definition changed from a fasting glucose of ≥ 140 to ≥ 126 in 1997 by the American Diabetes Association and WHO Expert Committee on the Diagnosis and Classification of Diabetes Mellitus, increasing by 14% and 1.7 million the people diagnosed with diabetes. With the proposal of a new term, ‘prediabetes’ by the First International Congress on Prediabetes, and promoted by the International Diabetes Federation (sponsored by 12 pharmaceutical companies), 40% of the adult population was added to the rosters believing they have diabetes and are in need of treatment.

I've still seen plenty of fat Americans, but this explains a lot. In news abroad, Jesus tapdancing Christ, don't fucking invade Burma in the name of humanitarian aid, you fucking stupid fucks:

One of the illusions that convinced some otherwise well-meaning people to go along with the conquest of Iraq in 2003 was, “Iraq is so bad, how could we make it worse?” But we could. So with Burma. I know almost nothing about the junta that rules Burma. But I know that it’s the junta that rules Burma - that is, that they’ve extended their writ over a preponderance of the territory we think of as Burma, more or less. That is to say, they successfully maintain power. The junta apparently numbers 19 guys, but 19 guys don’t run a place like Burma by themselves. They’ve got people for that. Cops, soldiers, secret policemen, bureaucrats. And those people have families and friends and hangers-on. Stakeholders. And apparently “regional commanders enjoy a great deal of autonomy in their respective areas.” So they and their retainers and whoever else profits from existing arrangements have a stake in the existing system. And the habits and attitudes of the bulk of the population are the habits and attitudes that enable one to survive under tyranny. It’s not about knocking off that one bad guy and his eighteen friends. There’s a whole set of structures and class interests and cultural patterns, local peculiarities and regional fault lines to cope with. I don’t know much about Burma, but I know that much about any place. It’s hubris to be sure you can start rearranging such a society without a good chance of making it even worse.

And, because I haven't ragged on President Dog in a while:

“I believe that it’s not an accident that our hostages came home from Iran when President Reagan was president of the United States. He didn’t sit down in a negotiation with the religious extremists in Iran, he made it very clear that those hostages were coming home.'’ [...] Asked if he thought Mr. Obama was an appeaser — the Democratic candidate has said he would be willing to meet with Mahmoud Ahmadinejad, the president of Iran — Mr. McCain sidestepped and said, “I think that Barack Obama needs to explain why he wants to sit down and talk with a man who is the head of a government that is a state sponsor of terrorism, that is responsible for the killing of brave young Americans, that wants to wipe Israel off the map, who denies the Holocaust. That’s what I think Senator Obama ought to explain to the American people.'’

I should barely need to open my mouth to refute something this illiterate, but: (1) Reagan had no problem sitting down with Iranian religious extremists when he needed some loose cash to fund Nicaraguan guerillas. (2) Not that I want to defend Obama's foreign policy acumen, but: Senator Obama would probably want to sit down with the head of Iran for the same reason Reagan sat down with Gorbachev, or the same reason Nixon shook hands with Mao Zedong. I know these aren't strictly analogous cases, as Russia and China were threats to the U.S. and Iran is not, but I hope everyone can still follow along. From the Washington Post, an op/ed that examines the social cost of terrorism:

Fear, in other words, is a tax, and al-Qaeda and its ilk have done better at extracting it from Americans than the Internal Revenue Service. Think about the extra half-hour millions of airline passengers waste standing in security lines; the annual cost in lost work hours runs into the billions. Add to that the freight delays at borders, ports and airports, the cost of checking money transfers as well as goods in transit, the wages for beefed-up security forces around the world. And that doesn't even attempt to put a price tag on the compression of civil liberties or the loss of human dignity from being groped in full public view by Transportation Security Administration personnel at the airport or from having to walk barefoot through the metal detector, holding up your beltless pants. This global transaction tax represents the most significant victory of Terror International to date. The new fear tax falls most heavily on the United States. Last November, the Commerce Department reported a 17 percent decline in overseas travel to the United States between Sept. 11, 2001, and 2006. (There are no firm figures for 2007 yet, but there seems to have been an uptick.) That slump has cost the country $94 billion in lost tourist spending, nearly 200,000 jobs and $16 billion in forgone tax revenue -- and all while the dollar has kept dropping. [...] What is happening to the American character? True, the country has gone through crises of confidence before, some of them cresting in sheer hysteria -- from the Alien and Sedition Acts to Sen. Joseph McCarthy's search for a commie under every State Department desk. But the worst acts from 1798 were repealed or allowed to lapse within three years, and the senator from Wisconsin was censured a few years into his red-baiting career. Alas, the USA Patriot Act and DHS have already endured longer than either earlier excess, and neither is fading.

I vaguely recall someone mentioning how important it was that American citizens live out their lives as normal - without fear, in other words - in the days immediately following the September 11th attacks. My mistake. Next, you might have seen this on a CNN scrolling banner last week: Marijuana may up heart attack, stroke risks. Of course, the beauty of modern cable news comes from not having to tell you the interesting parts of the story:

The marijuana users in the study averaged smoking 78 to 350 marijuana cigarettes per week, based on self-reported drug history, the researchers said.

78 joints per week makes 11 per day, or one every hour and a half while awake. 350 joints per week makes 50 a day. Drinking 50 glasses of distilled water per day would cause kidney problems, but you don't see that making the news. Was there some mythical era of American journalism when obviously bogus news stories like this one would have been caught at the editor's desk? Or is that wishful thinking? Finally, I worry about the rising price of oil as much as anyone, but I hope that my worries sound more literate than those of the dumbest man with a Times byline, Paul fucking Krugman:

Now, speculators do sometimes push commodity prices far above the level justified by fundamentals. But when that happens, there are telltale signs that just aren’t there in today’s oil market. [...] The only way speculation can have a persistent effect on oil prices, then, is if it leads to physical hoarding — an increase in private inventories of black gunk. This actually happened in the late 1970s, when the effects of disrupted Iranian supply were amplified by widespread panic stockpiling. But it hasn’t happened this time: all through the period of the alleged bubble, inventories have remained at more or less normal levels. This tells us that the rise in oil prices isn’t the result of runaway speculation; it’s the result of fundamental factors, mainly the growing difficulty of finding oil and the rapid growth of emerging economies like China. The rise in oil prices these past few years had to happen to keep demand growth from exceeding supply growth. [emphasis mine]

Speculators? Hoarders? Heaven forfend, Dr. Krugman! Are the Freemasons poisoning the wells? Should I let some blood to dispel the bad humo(u)rs? Quick, without peeking at a calendar: what century are we living in right now? The bizarre distinction between "speculators / hoarders" and the "fundamental" business of the market belies an odd, illiterate bias on Krugman's part. To demonstrate why, substitute the word investor for every instance of the word speculator or hoarder. They're the same thing: people who buy a commodity in the expectation that its price will rise. But one can be found in every basic Econ textbook in print today - none of which, apparently, Krugman has ever read - while the other evokes images of a miser in a mud hovel on the outskirts of a Prussian village. Speculators! Hoarders! Assemble a posse! Notify the burgomeister! Maybe I wouldn't be so mad all the time if I lived in Iceland:

Iceland, lodged in the middle of the North Atlantic with Greenland as its nearest neighbour, was too far from the remit of any but the more zealously obstinate of the medieval Christian missionaries. It is a largely pagan country, as the natives like to see it, unburdened by the taboos that generate so much distress elsewhere. That means they are practical people. Which, in turn, means lots of divorces. 'That is not something to be proud of,' said [city councilor and single mom] Oddny [Sturludottir], with a brisk smile, 'but the fact is that Icelanders don't stay in lousy relationships. They just leave.' And the reason they can do so is that society, starting with the parents and grandparents, does not stigmatise them for making that choice. Icelanders are the least hung-up people in the world. Thus the incentive, for example, 'to stay together for the sake of the kids' does not exist. The kids will be just fine, because the family will rally round them and, likely as not, the parents will continue to have a civilised relationship, based on the usually automatic understanding that custody for the children will be shared.

Fewer Puritans, a high GDP, greatest number of books per citizen and hot springs? I now have a designated escape country.

you don't know me, you just love me

Professor Coldheart — Thu, 22 May 2008 13:17:17 +0000

Why do people (I include myself here, for once) get so excited when hearing that their favorite book will be made into a movie? Without drowning you in theory I barely understand myself: different forms of media come bundled with different expectations, both by the creator and the audience. A painting stands as a single frame and its contents; everything you want to say, you have to say there. A sculpture needs to be accessible from all viewable angles: you can't just do the front portion and call it a day (or rather, if you do, you need to do so for good reasons). Commercial television shows fit a formula, a formula so ingrained and automatic that we the viewing public would feel vaguely unsettled if a show departed from it. You would not expect a painting to pull off the same three-beat structure of Introduce Tension, Heighten Tension, Resolve Tension that a TV sitcom does - at least not without doing some multi-panel Roy Lichtenstein homage, and even then the painting would be more about this smuggling of forms than its actual content. You would not expect a TV show to stand up to the rigorous scrutiny that we can apply to a statue on a pedestal - despite the efforts of the Internet (9 pages on a half hour sitcom, people! vying with the episode's actual script in word count). So it goes with books and movies. I could do a line-by-line comparison of the difference between books and movies (and I did, in the first draft of this post). Really, though, it boils down to one key distinction: the audience controls the book; the author controls the movie. When you're reading a book, you can slow down or speed up the pace of reading as you desire. If you reach a particularly intense or scary portion, you can set the book aside for a while and regain your bearings. You can blitz through long expository paragraphs in search of the next chunk of dialogue (a habit of mine), or you can immerse yourself in description and detail. All the imagery must come from your own head, even if the page gives birth to it: if you have your own notions of what a "clanging din" or "breasts like champagne glasses" should be, the author cannot change them. To quote Fight Club without irony, you decide your own level of involvement. None of that holds true for a movie. You can start and stop a movie if you've rented it at home, but that's not how the director means you to view it and I think we all understand that. No one can mistake the person on screen for anything other than who she is: you might not buy Scarlett Johansson as an ambitious journalism student, but you can't argue that she's not Scarlett Johansson. The director can force your perspective in one direction with the camera; he can direct your mood with lighting and soundtrack. The movie dictates your experience of it, not the other way around. (Neither of these work as absolutes. The book's author, obviously, has some say in whether you think the protagonist is a blonde or a redhead. A bad director can not only fail to steer the audience; he can actually repel their efforts to engage. Still, we approach the media in these specific ways, and they work for us) So: a book does one thing, a movie does another. Isn't a project to turn one into the other innately weird? If I told you I wanted to adapt the "Mona Lisa" as a dance recital, where could I expect to exhibit it - other than maybe an art school mid-term recital, where such experiments thrive? We think that books and movies can naturally flow into each other because they both involve narratives. But paintings and sculptures both involve visual imagery. Dance and architecture both involve the choreography of light and space. I'm turning "Swan Lake" into an office building atrium; you're invited to the opening. When a book-to-movie adaptation works - The Godfather, Gone with the Wind, Jurassic Park, A Clockwork Orange, The Shawshank Redemption, Trainspotting - 99.9996% of the time it comes from one reason: nobody's read the book. Nobody in the theater audience has a preconceived notion of what the world should look like. In the era of mass culture, I don't have a hard time believing this. I don't even really have a problem with it. Sure, functional adult illiteracy makes almost everything it touches worse - but not movies. A book does one thing; a movie another.

professor? what's another word for pirate treasure?

Professor Coldheart — Fri, 23 May 2008 12:30:44 +0000

Before taking the current job, I had one interview and a follow-up with Extensive Enterprises (they took over the old Bear Stearns offices downtown). I had almost reached the elevator after the second interview when the COO caught up with me in a hurry. "I actually wanted to talk with you a bit more before you left," he said. "Sure thing, Mr ... Xamot?" "No, I'm Tomax, actually. Xamot heads up Marketing and Relations." "Right, Tomax. Is that Greek?" "Corsican." He steered me toward a private elevator off a back hallway - a glass-walled cage that looked out over the entire city. We began our slow descent. "So, what are you spending your stimulus check on?" he asked with a conversational chuckle. "Hadn't planned that far ahead yet, actually. I figured I might just invest it." "You don't want to do your part to help stimulate the economy?" He put the weirdest emphases on certain words. "I'd rather preserve the check's value against inflation." "Inflation!" He hissed like he'd suffered a paper cut. "Why is inflation such a big deal?" "Okay," I began, "a lot of times, when people want to see how wealthy a country is, they look to see how many dollars it has. This can be dollars of goods produced per citizen, also known as GDP per capita, or the average value of the companies based in that country which sell public stock, also known as a stock index. Or any method of your choice." "I like exports over imports myself." "Yeah, you and Lou Dobbs. But dollars aren't just a method of measuring wealth, like the pressure gauge on a barometer. Dollars are also an actual trade good. People exchange dollars for other goods all the time. "You look at a supply and demand graph in any Intro. Econ textbook and you see price, in dollars, on one axis and quantity, in units, on another. But nobody ever thinks about the supply and demand for dollars." "Hmm," Tomax said. "Could you elaborate?" "You have a given amount of liquid money on hand," I explained. "Cash in your wallet, plus whatever you can draw from an ATM or write a check against. Let's say $100,000. You also have a house full of stuff: a flat screen TV, an Italian leather couch, some imported rugs, a boxster in the garage, etc. At any point, you can trade that stuff for dollars, or those dollars for stuff. The fact that you have $100,000 and a set amount of stuff currently - as opposed to, say, $80,000 and ..." "And a hovercraft with a giant snake's head on it," he suggested. "... is a function of your current desires," I concluded. "Think of it as the intersection of Money and Stuff on the supply and demand graph in your head." "I see. So how does this tie in to inflation?" "It works the same way on a national level. The total amount of dollars available as liquid cash - hard currency, checking accounts, savings accounts, traveler's checks - is about seven trillion, seven hundred billion dollars - what the Federal Reserve calls M2. The total amount of stuff available is ... well, everything on the planet, really. At every second of the day, people exchange dollars for stuff or stuff for dollars. "Dollars," I continued, pulling one out of my wallet to illustrate, "are banknotes issued by the central bank of the United States: the Federal Reserve. The Fed has at its disposal a variety of tools to put more dollars into the market:

They can buy or sell Treasury bonds - which would put dollars into or take dollars out of circulation, respectively.
They can raise or lower the discount rate - the interest rate that U.S. banks can charge each other for interbank loans. Raising it tightens the dollar supply; lowering it expands the dollar supply.
Or, they can change the reserve requirement - the percentage of dollars that a bank has to keep on hand to honor outstanding accounts.

The Fed typically only uses the first of these three. "The problem: the Federal Reserve can, and does, increase the supply of dollars without actually creating any more stuff. So now you have more dollars chasing fewer real world goods. The purchasing power of the dollar declines overall." The elevator dinged as it hit the 30th floor. A man dressed identically to Tomax stepped on board. "Ah, Professor," said Tomax, "you've met my brother Xamot, haven't you?" "Last time I was here," I said, shaking his hand. "I was just telling Tomax about how inflation reduces the purchasing power of the dollar." "I'd heard that," Xamot said. "But doesn't it level out over time? The economy adjusts to the new equilibrium between dollars and goods, and we all trundle on." "It levels out," I replied, "but not all at once. "Let's say the U.S. orders up one hundred billion dollars worth of bomber jets. The DoD cuts Boeing a check for $100,000,000,000.00, which Boeing can cash out and use to pay its employees, suppliers, distributors and the like. But the DoD doesn't have one hundred billion dollars - they spent what they got in taxes long ago. The DoD has now added to the U.S. national debt by one hundred billion dollars. Fortunately, every bank in the world cashes their checks, so no one starves this month. "Now, the supply of dollars has increased by one hundred billion dollars. But this rising tide doesn't lift every boat. Even though the dollar has just lost a bit of purchasing power, not everyone knows it yet. The employees and customers of Boeing got their hands on that hundred billion first. They get to spend it on food, gas, clothes, cars, industrial materials, investments, whatever. The people they buy from then get to spend it on food, gas, clothes, etc. So that hundred billion trickles out to the economy slowly. Some people profit from it; some people get screwed by it." "What does the Federal Reserve ..." Tomax began. "... have to do with all this?" Xamot concluded. "The U.S. government finances its debt through Treasury securities - which, as I said before, the Fed sells. You exchange cash for the T-bill, which is a promise to pay back that cash plus interest on a future date." "I'm still not sure what the big problem with inflation is," Tomax said. "Sure, direct beneficiaries of government spending get the new cash before anyone else does. But so many people benefit from government spending that the effect has to be pretty broad." "It's like a perpetual motion machine," Xamot said. "So long as people keep exchanging cash for T-bills, the U.S. debt remains guaranteed, and money keeps pumping along." "You're forgetting one thing," I corrected. "Overseas investors." "Oh," Tomax and Xamot groaned. "Overseas investors buy a lot of Treasury securities. They also buy a lot of dollars. Sometimes they pay for these dollars with goods produced in their countries, like clothes from Singapore or cars from Japan. But people in other countries have a demand for dollars and a supply of stuff, same as Americans do. If foreign investors simply refuse to buy Treasury securities, this means they no longer have as high a demand for dollars. When the demand for dollars drops, compared to the demand for euros or yen or rupees, economists call this a weakening dollar." The elevator let us off on the ground floor. Tomax and Xamot exchanged a meaningful look. Then Xamot drew a gun, backed up ten feet and pointed it at me. "Is that a laser pistol?" I asked. "You've found out our plan," Xamot snarled. "Our master plan to bankrupt the U.S. and destroy the world economy! Whether you're a spy sent by G.I. Joe or you just figured it out on your own, we can't let you spoil our scheme. Terribly sorry, Professor." Xamot had me dead in his sights. At ten feet away, I couldn't hope to close the distance and knock the gun out of his hand in time. So I kicked Tomax in the crotch. "Guh!" Xamot and Tomax moaned simultaneously, doubling over in pain. I picked the laser pistol out of Xamot's limp fingers. "Seriously, guys," I said, exiting the lobby. "You really ought to do something about that." # # # The Federal Reserve creates easy credit, by targeting a lower Fed funds rate and expanding the money supply. A certain industry - whether it's housing or domestic manufacturing or savings and loan houses or Internet companies or housing - borrows this easy credit and expands quickly. Once investors start losing confidence, though, this industry stops expanding. Then it contracts, and drags down every company tied into it. How the Fed gets championed as the solution to this problem, instead of part of the problem, I'll never understand. The moral of this story: you can't create wealth out of thin air. An expansion of credit is not the same thing as a growing industry. Government spending is not the same thing as investing. Money on paper is not the same thing as food in the fridge. At the closing bell, if it doesn't point to liquid cash or something you can touch, think twice about it. I'm not suggesting a return to a barter economy or a withdrawal from the modern economy. But remember the rosy figures Enron posted simply by switching some numbers around in their accounting. Or just consider how many years it would take to pay down the U.S. national debt if the federal government did nothing else. If it's not real wealth - the clothes on your back, the house you sleep in, free time with the ones you love - it's bookkeeping. And the world's short on honest bookkeepers.

and it feels like love, got the radio on and that's all that we need

Professor Coldheart — Tue, 27 May 2008 12:30:00 +0000

A memorial media blow: First off, I'm saddened to hear of Sydney Pollack passing. I only knew two of his films well enough to comment on them - The Firm and They Shoot Horses, Don't They? - but those two showed enough of his style to merit some acclaim. Bridge of Birds: A grown-up fairy tale of the first caliber. The broad-backed village farmhand Number Ten Ox and an ancient scholar, Li Kao, set out on a quest to discover what plague afflicts the children of Ox's village. In doing so, they discover swordfighting ghosts, limitless treasures, impervious tyrants, hermit sages, invisible monsters, lost cities and a dozen other wonders of Chinese folklore. Exciting, sweet and ironic all at the same time. Recommended without qualification. The Defection of A.J. Lewinter: Back cover copy describes Lewinter as "the American LeCarre," which I take as a deviously subtle insult toward America. The story of a missile tech's defection to the Soviet Union may be set in the 1970s, but it reads like it's from the 1870s. I had the hardest time placing the dialogue until I realized that it read like a modern translation of Dumas. The plot twists seem almost juvenile. For instance, the CIA agents who interview the defector's friends and family in the States find out that someone has already been asking questions about him. It doesn't occur to anyone except Our Brilliant Protagonist that maybe, just maybe, the other people asking questions are Russian agents. In a LeCarre novel, you'd take that for granted. About halfway through, I stopped reading it as a straight spy thriller and started reading it as a sort of vulgar satire - like The President's Analyst or The Taking of Pelham One Two Three - and had much more fun with it. You have bumbling spies on both sides of the Atlantic, making dire pronouncements based on threadbare speculation. This made the novel much more satisfying for me, especially at its conclusion. The Confidential Agent: What a contrast, to turn from Littell to Greene. While Greene infuses his spy thrillers with a healthy spritz of melodrama, it still comes with a dry British wit and the dark heart of a world at war. If Raymond Chandler's protagonists worked for OSS instead of a one-man detective firm, he would write these sort of novels. A bit fantastic, but that's usually to its benefit. Indiana Jones and the Kingdom of the Crystal Skull: A little slapdash. Spielberg could have tightened the screws a little more: the pacing needed work, the dialogue felt rough and I had little investment in the new characters. But I wouldn't demand a refund. The first three movies had the virtue of solidly incorporating the theme into the action setpieces. In Raiders, Indy must choose between satiating his own curiosity about the Ark and blowing it up to keep the Nazis from using it. In Temple of Doom, Indy has to choose between "fortune and glory" and doing the right thing - freeing the kids, restoring the shiva stones, etc. And the tension between theme and action works at its best in Last Crusade, when Indy has to find the Grail in order to save the father he'd long ago written off. Compare those to Crystal Skull where, in the last 20 minutes, our heroes simply walk until they run out of space. I did not have as hard a time with Shia LeBoeuf as I feared I might. I don't know that he could play a tough guy, but he can definitely play a motorcycle punk greaser who thinks he's a tough guy. Cate Blanchett frankly didn't satisfy me as a villain: she doesn't do anything typically villainous, like execute henchmen or torture civilians or conduct human sacrifices. And Harrison Ford can only recapture the trademark wry cynicism of Dr. Jones about fifty percent of the time; the rest of the time, he just looks tired. The film discards about one third of its subplots and barely develops any of its characters. The third act plot twist barely counts as a twist - more of a Moebius strip half-twist, really. But the worst of the four Indiana Jones movies still ranks higher than the best of the Hellboy movies any day of the week, so I can't complain. (Also: is anyone disturbed by the remarkable similarities between Crystal Skull and this SomethingAwful parody page - the latter of which was published fifteen months ago, before anyone knew anything about this movie?)

chain chain chain

Professor Coldheart — Wed, 28 May 2008 13:14:05 +0000

This week's links have some games in them: Budget Hero: a colorful online game that challenges you to balance the budget. First, you assign yourself various badges to reflect your priorities, like Health and Fitness or National Defense or Fiscal Responsibility. Then, you choose which programs you want to expand or cut, in the form of cards to be played. Then you pull the trigger and see how long you can last before the debt becomes unsustainable. Challenging and deep, despite its simple appearance. I submit that the libertarian fantasy of wantonly slashing federal programs might not even be possible, much less realistic. The infrastructure has become tangled with kudzu and it may be tough to clear it. I've been talking about Bayes a lot lately, and not always as clearly as I'd like. Here's Cory Doctorow, writing on Bayesian probability and terrorist screening, in the Guardian:

Our innumeracy means that our fight against these super-rarities is likewise ineffective. Statisticians speak of something called the Paradox of the False Positive. Here's how that works: imagine that you've got a disease that strikes one in a million people, and a test for the disease that's 99% accurate. You administer the test to a million people, and it will be positive for around 10,000 of them – because for every hundred people, it will be wrong once (that's what 99% accurate means). Yet, statistically, we know that there's only one infected person in the entire sample. That means that your "99% accurate" test is wrong 9,999 times out of 10,000! Terrorism is a lot less common than one in a million and automated "tests" for terrorism – data-mined conclusions drawn from transactions, Oyster cards, bank transfers, travel schedules, etc – are a lot less accurate than 99%. That means practically every person who is branded a terrorist by our data-mining efforts is innocent. In other words, in the effort to find the terrorist needles in our haystacks, we're just making much bigger haystacks. You don't get to understand the statistics of rare events by intuition. It's something that has to be learned, through formal and informal instruction. If there's one thing the government and our educational institutions could do to keep us safer, it's this: teach us how statistics works.

Let's break up all this depressing political talk with a little alternate universe cosmology:

Among the unnatural aspects of the universe, one stands out: time asymmetry. The microscopic laws of physics that underlie the behavior of the universe do not distinguish between past and future, yet the early universe—hot, dense, homogeneous—is completely different from today’s—cool, dilute, lumpy. The universe started off orderly and has been getting increasingly disorderly ever since. The asymmetry of time, the arrow that points from past to future, plays an unmistakable role in our everyday lives: it accounts for why we cannot turn an omelet into an egg, why ice cubes never spontaneously unmelt in a glass of water, and why we remember the past but not the future. And the origin of the asymmetry we experience can be traced all the way back to the orderliness of the universe near the big bang. Every time you break an egg, you are doing observational cosmology. The arrow of time is arguably the most blatant feature of the universe that cosmologists are currently at an utter loss to explain. Increasingly, however, this puzzle about the universe we observe hints at the existence of a much larger spacetime we do not observe. It adds support to the notion that we are part of a multiverse whose dynamics help to explain the seemingly unnatural features of our local vicinity.

I hate how the modern news cycle discards stories just as they get interesting: a Texas Appeals court has thrown out the state's seizure of children from a polygamist compound:

In a ruling that could torpedo the case against the West Texas polygamist sect, a state appeals court Thursday said authorities had no right to seize more than 440 children in a raid on the splinter group's compound last month. The Third Court of Appeals in Austin said the state failed to show the youngsters were in any immediate danger, the only grounds in Texas law for taking children from their parents without court action. It was not clear when the children - now scattered in foster homes across the state - might be returned to their parents. The ruling gave a lower-court judge 10 days to release the youngsters from custody, but the state could appeal to the Texas Supreme Court and block that. The decision in one of the biggest child-custody cases in U.S. history was a humiliating defeat for the state Child Protective Services agency. It was hailed as vindication by members of the Fundamentalist Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints, who claimed they were being persecuted for their religious beliefs.

Child Protective Services vs. the Fundamentalist Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints. I'm honestly not sure who to cheer against here. I wonder how much worse England would have grown, as a surveillance state, if Orwell hadn't given us his last name as an adjective. Very few people understand the true dangers of the state described in 1984 - namely, historical revisionism and control of language - but the general thrust, "cameras = bad," is better than nothing. I mention this as a prelude to the Home Office's plan to monitor every single phone call and e-mail sent in the UK:

A Home Office spokesman said: "The Communications Data Bill will help ensure that crucial capabilities in the use of communications data for counter-terrorism and investigation of crime continue to be available. "These powers will continue to be subject to strict safeguards to ensure the right balance between privacy and protecting the public." The spokesman said changes need to be made to the Regulation of Investigatory Powers Act 2000 "to ensure that public authorities can continue to obtain and have access to communications data essential for counter-terrorism and investigation of crime purposes". But the Information Commission, an independent authority set up to protect personal information, said the database "may well be a step too far" and highlighted the risk of data being lost, traded or stolen. Assistant information commissioner Jonathan Bamford said: "We are not aware of any justification for the state to hold every UK citizen's phone and internet records. We have real doubts that such a measure can be justified, or is proportionate or desirable. "Defeating crime and terrorism is of the utmost importance, but we are not aware of any pressing need to justify the government itself holding this sort of data."

Let's break up the depressing news with some photographs. Here's some wedding photography, taken during last week's 7.9 quake in China: Finally, the Economist does some math:

Data centres consumed 0.6% of the world's electricity in 2000, and 1% in 2005. Globally, they are already responsible for more carbon-dioxide emissions per year than Argentina or the Netherlands, according to a recent study by McKinsey, a consultancy, and the Uptime Institute, a think-tank. If today's trends hold, these emissions will have grown four-fold by 2020, reaching 670m tonnes. By some estimates, the carbon footprint of cloud computing will then be larger than that of aviation.

I'm innately leery of any figure that arises from predicting 12 years worth of trends. But a "peak server" crash could be just as bad as a peak oil crash. Having a 1980 volume of oil in 2020 would be terrible; having a 1980 level of computing power in 2020 would fuck us. Hard.

hurricanes and faster things

Professor Coldheart — Thu, 29 May 2008 12:30:35 +0000

o Good news, everyone: I found the filthiest toilet in Boston.¹ It's the men's room in the Borders at Downtown Crossing. The first time I used it, several years ago, I remember I needed a token to open the door but nothing else about the experience. The second time I used it, this past Sunday: disaster! Picture the worst train station bathroom you've ever entered, but with a lone Robert Doisneau print on the wall. A floor awash in urine. Two stalls, one of which won't stay closed and the other of which o'erflows with solid fecal waste. The soap dispenser hangs on the wall above the trash can, rather than within arm's reach of the sink, thus guaranteeing fewer people will find or use it. Can I blame the entirety of its disgusting decline on no longer requiring a token for entry? Yes. Yes, I can. o I have nothing but good things to say about the lunchtime bartender at the Grafton St Pub in Harvard Square. He not only has an Irish accent, but he's everything you'd expect of a proper European bartender. Picture that guy in the Stella Artois commercial, trying to pour a beer in a train car and failing, but without the snooty attitude. o Sometimes when I get out of jiu-jitsu, I notice that the music on the stereo seems about a quarter-step slower. I never notice it at any other time. Still flushed from exercise, I attribute it to the cocktail of adrenaline and oxygenated blood. I've worked out so hard that I've stepped outside of time. I have a mutant power. On Tuesday night, driving home from jiu-jitsu, I decided to at least offer a sop to the scientific method and turn on the radio to see if other music sounded slower. It did not. o I'd fret publicly over how much I still needed to pack, but that wouldn't accomplish anything. I really ought to be fretting over how many boxes I need to buy. o My school's five-year reunion falls this weekend and I don't know if I'm going. I already have plans on Saturday, so I'll show up to the Saturday event late if at all. And I'd gladly forego the Friday party if someone had a better offer. Many of my better friends from school can't make it, many of the rest fall either a year ahead of or behind me, and the few that will be there I see every week anyway. As I've said before: BC was big enough to have subcultures, and for that I'm grateful. Smaller schools tend to drown students in the overwhelming social circle of the same hundred people. But I got to hang with the theater kids. Specifically, the improv kids. Specifically, the improv murder mystery kids. You can't drill down to that level at St. John's, let me tell you. _______________________ ¹ If you have a website, weblog, LiveJournal or Facebook page, please post the above link, using the text "filthiest toilet in Boston." I'd like to revive the dormant tradition of Googlebombing as a public service. The people must be warned!

the grandma test

Professor Coldheart — Fri, 30 May 2008 13:06:14 +0000

Whenever I wonder whether I should get really angry about a feud on the Internet - or even in real life, where many Internet tendencies are born - I use a private standard, which I believe I invented, called the Grandma Test. The Grandma Test works as follows: could my 85-year-old Southern grandmother understand the nature of this dispute if I brought it up to her in casual conversation? I'll give an actual example that has nothing to do with Internet arguments. Many years ago, my parents gave me a Sony minidisc player for Christmas. I started playing with it while visiting them for the holiday. My grandparents were visiting as well, and my grandmother saw me in the living room with the player one morning.

Grandma: Is that one of your gifts? Me: Yes it is, Grandma. Grandma: What is it? Me: A minidisc player. Grandma: What does it do?^* Me: It records mp3s that I download off the Internet onto minidiscs. Grandma: It does what?

I explained it to her in detail, because I'm not a dick, but the sheer volume of concepts that I had to unpack in order to speak on it meaningfully - mp3, download, Internet, minidiscs - made it into more of an adventure than I anticipated. Since then, I realized that many of the intractable differences I felt with strangers on the Internet would seem ludicrously trivial if viewed through the eyes of my grandmother. And 99.9996% of the time, this was because they were ludicrous. They were trivial. If my grandma couldn't understand why I got so upset, what reason did I have? Some examples (note that I never actually had any of these conversations; playing them out in my head served to soothe my nerves):

Grandma: What are you so mad about? Me: Well, one of the mods on the RPG.net forums banned someone for posting a quiz on which movie Batman was best: Michael Keaton, George Clooney, Val ... Grandma: One of the who? Me: A mod. A moderator. Grandma: Moderating what? Me: A forum. A message board. It's where people go to post messages on the Internet. Grandma: Messages about what? Me: About sci-fi and comic books and pretending to be elves and ... you know what, it's not that big a deal. I don't know why I'm so worked up over it.

Or:

Grandma: You look awfully perturbed. Me: All the new members in this LJ community keep spamming the page with cat macros. Grandma: In the what community? Me: LiveJournal. It's a blog aggregator. Grandma: It's a what? Me: It puts all these blogs in one place. A blog is what people used to call a web page. Grandma: That's certainly an unusual name. Why do they call it 'blog'? Me: I don't know. Grandma: So this is a place you can go on the Internet that activates blogs? Me: No, aggregates them. Collects them all onto one page. Grandma: And what is this LiveJournal doing that got you so worked up? Me: It's not LiveJournal; it's ... actually, I can't even remember at this point. Thanks, Grandma! Grandma: Oh, I'm glad to help. Have a Fresca.

Or:

Grandma: What's got you so mad, dear? Me: Well, Atrios misinterpreted Glenn Greenwald's response to Meghan McArdle's post about ... you know what, forget it. I'm better now.

My grandmother isn't dumb, and she's certainly not senile. But she doesn't have the immense contextual investment that many of our generations (Gen X and Millennials) have in the Internet. In certain cases, that's a good thing. It means she doesn't take Facebook de-friending, threadcrapping, trolling or fisking as seriously as we do. And being able to reach that sense of perspective from time to time can only be healthy. Face it: we're arguing with strangers on the Internet over things we can't control. It's like leaving a slip of paper under a rock in the road for the next traveler to find, debating about how hot the sun should be tomorrow. We're ridiculous people. If the source of your frustration doesn't pass the Grandma Test, for the devil's sake let it go. ________________________ ^* My grandmother, a Kentucky native and a lifelong Texan, transposed the h and the w in what, as all deep Southerners do. Try it yourself.

this night is winding down but time means nothing

Professor Coldheart — Mon, 02 Jun 2008 12:30:04 +0000

This media blow has survived the allergy season. Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles: I caught a few minutes of the movie on TV while eating dinner. Man, did this age poorly. You've got wisecracking turtles whose jokes would make Huckleberry Hound roll his eyes. They manage to emote better, even with faces made of literal rubber, than most of their human co-stars. They pit their ninja skills against the Foot Clan, a multi-ethnic gang of high school dropouts and carjackers who live in a subterranean arcade / casino / dojo that's marginally cleaner than the Good Times Emporium in Somerville, MA. I'm not sure about Shredder's plan, as the skill sets for "effective martial artist" and "kid too dumb for New York public schools" don't have a lot of overlap. Were the ninjas the slackers of shogun-era Japan? Did the petulant sons of noble landowners, when asked for the nth time when they'd get off their asses and start bringing home the koku, say, "well, maybe I'll just become a ninja! d'you ever think of that? I've got a lot of projects going on right now." As much grief as I give this movie, the full-body Turtle suits hold up remarkably well. They look like they belong in the world they inhabit, as opposed to the glossy slickness of even the grittiest CGI. They're flexible enough to allow for some mild acrobatics - no Jackie Chan, perhaps, but Leonardo throws a faster punch than David Hasselhoff ever did. And I'll bet, even adjusting for inflation, it cost less to animate their facial expressions than it would to create a comparable motion-capture in a 2008 film. And yet we still suffer through phony CGI Hulks and Things and Ant-Men and what not. Also: in one scene, the lieutenant of the Foot Clan actually orders a retreat by yelling "ninja vanish!" Respect. [youtube=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3Urnzz-eXO8] We Are Scientists: I really, really liked their debut album because of its frenetic garage-punk energy. For whatever reason, they abandoned that sound for their sophomore effort - Brain Thrust Mastery, which sounds dirty if said in any other order - and I'm not sure I like it as much. They go for a bit more of a Killers motif, but with less of the pomp and fanfare. Don't expect anything to get you out of your seat the way "Callbacks" or "It's A Hit" or "Cash Cow" did. Still - not bad. [youtube=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rv2_LSIujHk] Battlestar Galactica: Man, did this last episode - "Sine Qua Non" - disappoint me. The writers could have excised the Romo Lampkin subplot entirely. Seriously: what function does he fulfill that the Quorum could not have managed themselves? On the other hand, certain scenes - like a long awaited dust-up between the two old men - went over very well in the Coldheart household. I'm not writing the season off yet on the strength of one uneven episode, but I hope the staff has some real kickers in store when we get back to the Cylon base ship. [youtube=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0dXWrPUWfzI] To close us out, here's Michael Jackson's "Smooth Criminal," set to the Fred Astaire film that inspired it - 1953's The Band Wagon. If you like either Jacko or Astaire, take seven and a half minutes and watch it: [youtube=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1gB0UNey-Uk]

I said whoa no, William and Mary won't do now

Professor Coldheart — Tue, 03 Jun 2008 11:00:28 +0000

I had a rare Friday with a choice of four simultaneous engagements to go to. I honored two of them: watching Game 6 of the Celtics / Pistons series at a bar in Watertown with some friends from jiu-jitsu, then catching up with Kate G. for a drink at Bukowski's. The former involved sliders, talk about Baltimore and two Guinness; the latter, a surprise visit from Dana J. and Orit, the soundtrack to Lock, Stock and Two Smoking Barrels and two PBR. Melissa and Fraley had their engagement party on Saturday, so I dressed reasonably well and helped toast their upcoming marriage. Dave Green had unearthed the infamous "Reality Bites" photo of Mel, Fraley and I on the night of their first date, way back in ... March of '04? Holy hell ... and framed it for the two of them. Now I want a copy. Fraley and Mel ordered catering, so we ate tasty steak tips and exotic cheeses while sipping champagne and toasting the happy couple. Christine and I held court in a small corner with Edward Tufte horror stories. PowerPoint is evil, people! Learn it and fear it! I excused myself early to stop in on the BC reunion which, as I speculated, did not turn out to be awesome fun. Don't get me wrong: I enjoyed seeing Lindsay M. (now Lindsay D., and I approve of her husband), and hanging out with Aaron and Tim H. always means a good time, but all of those people live in the Commonwealth. I can do that any weekend - and not in a humid gymnasium that I didn't need to pay $45 to get into, since I had to write my name on a badge anyway. I saw a roomful of people I took one class with or lived across from, tried to place the names of girls I hadn't had the courage to talk to as a college student and couldn't, and drank cheap beer. I left early. More updates to come re: Sunday.

sus-sus-sudio

Professor Coldheart — Wed, 04 Jun 2008 13:05:09 +0000

I haven't told everyone, but: I'm moving this weekend. It's not that far a move, though I won't publicize where to/from over the Internet. And technically I've been schlepping boxes all week, as I've had the keys since Thursday. But Saturday marks the big transition. Though everything has worked out so far, this whole arrangement weirded me out from the beginning and hasn't let up. Consider: o I'm leasing a fully furnished studio. I can't replace any of the furniture in the studio with stuff I own - it all has to stay within the studio. I don't object to this; it's a nice enough place. But I'm only bringing my bed, my largest bookcase and an office chair to the new apartment - everything else must go. (By the way: if you live in the Boston metro area and need a love seat or air conditioner, let me know and we'll work something out) o I put a deposit down on the place on April 23rd. I filled out a rental application and waited to hear back on the credit check. After a week went by and I verified with HR that yes, someone from the realtor had called, I checked in with the broker to see if I got the place. "Yeah, sure, you're fine," she said. "When should I come in to sign the lease?" I asked. "We'll sign it when you take the place," she said. "So ... you don't want me signing a lease before June 1st?" This bothered me in that way which only pure irrationality can. A lease protects the landlord more than the tenant. Which of the two of us has a better chance of vanishing overnight: a skinny white guy or an apartment building? Why they wouldn't want to lock me into a year's worth of rent as early and as rigorously as possible baffled me. o I talked them into signing the lease a whole three days early (since June 1 fell on a Sunday), drove to the realtor's office before they closed at 5:00 (who do these people do business with?), and filled out the appropriate paperwork. After moving into enough apartments, the signatures fall into a comforting routine: mold inspection, de-leaded paint, blah blah blah. "All right," the broker said as I signed the last bit of paperwork. "So now it's just the check and we're all set." "You have my check," I reminded her, pointing to the check for $x that I'd given her on the 23rd. "No, this is the first month," she said. "We need one for the last month as well to hold in escrow." "You didn't tell me that," I said. "I don't have my checkbook on me." We puzzled for a minute over what to do. "Just cross out the $x and write in $2x on the check," the broker suggested. "... are you sure?" Again, as with the lease, the broker - and the property owner, standing in the room with us and nodding enthusiastically - seemed perfectly willing to screw themselves over here. Most banks won't accept a check that's had dollar values crossed out and re-entered, even if someone does initial the changes. So it's not a con - I don't think. I've actually been to the apartment; my keys allow entrance to it. I'm not being sold an empty barrel. But everything about the whole transaction seems either slapdash or slightly dingy. I'm documenting it here in case I end up in trouble later on. I really like the place, though; you ought to come see it.

lower the curtain down on Memphis

Professor Coldheart — Thu, 05 Jun 2008 12:56:45 +0000

First off a question: did Charles Dickens name Amy Winehouse? No? Are we sure? So it's just serendipity, then? Now, an anecdote with a moral: a few months ago, a friend told me about a trip she took to Italy with her mother. In a dense part of Rome one morning, a pack of gypsies surrounded the two of them. One of them thrust a baby into her mother's arms, proceeded to strip her mother of purse and watch, and then reclaimed the baby. "What do you do in that sort of situation?" she asked me, rhetorically. "Drop the baby," I answered. She stared at me in horror. "You can't just drop a baby!" "No, you can't force a baby on a stranger and rob them. What obligates me to show more concern for this child's life than his own mother did?" Of course, I have no problem saying this in my armchair - or, as when I heard the anecdote, the evening streets of Harvard Square - but I don't know if I'd react as coldly in the actual situation. For one thing, the sheer bizarreness of it all ("who are these people? what's this baby doing here? hey, my wallet!") would probably stun me for the few seconds a pro needed. For another, I'm a notorious softy when you get past my cynical exterior; I don't know that I'd actually drop a baby on the filthy cobblestones of Rome just to prove a point. And finally, the gypsies have been doing this for centuries - I'm sure they have a contingency plan for finding a hardass like me (scream in suddenly fluent Italian for the cops, press charges, etc). Another bit about language: no one can agree on the proper nomenclature for the satisfied humming noise people make when they see tasty food. Either "mmmm" or "ummmm". I always use the former, as I associate the latter with the awkward mouth sound people make when they struggle for the right word. Are you hungry or confused, sir? Please indicate in a follow-up letter. Normally this doesn't matter, except when someone goes overboard and writes in all-caps. Consider the following e-mails:

And then we can stop in at J.P. Lick's for some ... cake batter ice cream! MMMMMM!

Vs.

And then we can stop in at J.P. Lick's for some ... cake batter ice cream! UMMMMM!

The latter, to me, looks like oddly loud indecision. "I DON'T KNOW WHAT I WANT. UMMMM ... SHOULD I GET ICE CREAM OR COOKIES? UMMMM ..." An autistic child, instead of a dessert connoisseur. Finally, has anyone seen this ad on YouTube over the past two weeks? The Republicans want people to submit videos for their convention. I just want you to look at the elephant silhouette in the lower left: For those of you not as steeped in nerd culture as I am, take a look at this image of iconic Lovecraftian horror, the mad alien god Cthulhu: Do you see it? Am I the only one who sees it? At the very least, making the trunk and the tusks the same color fails as a design choice.

now let's get it all in perspective

Professor Coldheart — Fri, 06 Jun 2008 12:59:59 +0000

You caught me on a busy day, so just some links to get us started. First, our nation's capital has gone under martial law:

D.C. police will seal off entire neighborhoods, set up checkpoints and kick out strangers under a new program that D.C. officials hope will help them rescue the city from its out-of-control violence. Under an executive order expected to be announced today, police Chief Cathy L. Lanier will have the authority to designate “Neighborhood Safety Zones.” At least six officers will man cordons around those zones and demand identification from people coming in and out of them. Anyone who doesn’t live there, work there or have “legitimate reason” to be there will be sent away or face arrest, documents obtained by The Examiner show.

Though the guys at Cato still aren't getting any of my money (too many conservatives on their payroll), I do appreciate a good smackdown of National Review as much as anyone:

Andrew McCarthy:If we are detaining such a terrorist, it is because we already know he is a terrorist. Except when they’re not terrorists.

I love the use of hypertext for irony. I love the era that's made that possible. In juvenile delinquency news: I can think of no better way to get children to hate Robert Frost than making them study his poetry as punishment:

More than two dozen young people who broke into Robert Frost's former home for a beer party and trashed the place are being required to take classes in his poetry as part of their punishment. Using "The Road Not Taken" and another poem as jumping-off points, Frost biographer Jay Parini hopes to show the vandals the error of their ways - and the redemptive power of poetry. "I guess I was thinking that if these teens had a better understanding of who Robert Frost was and his contribution to our society, that they would be more respectful of other people's property in the future and would also learn something from the experience," said prosecutor John Quinn.

Now granted, vandalizing Robert Frost's home for a wicked kegger is pretty despicable. I have no sympathy for these punks. But - seriously? You think lecturing them on poetry at gunpoint will strike them as anything but torture? On the lighter side of things, The Smoking Gun got their hands on Iggy Pop and the Stooges' concert rider. It's an insane, hilarious glimpse into the mind of a bizarre man:

3 X MARSHALL VBA BASS AMPLIFIERS: Make sure they're good ones or we'll all end up as wormlike web-based life forms in the bass player's online literary diarrhea. Honestly. He's like a sort of Internet Pepys or Boswell, except without the gout and syphilis. For all I know.

He works in an ICP diss on the first page too. And there's 17 more! For those of you who wondered why I never backed Ron Paul during the early stages of the Republican runoff, Jim Henley explains it better than I can:

The full measure of Paul’s failure isn’t even that he’s not going to be the Republican nominee. It’s that, even since everyone else dropped out of the race but Paul and McCain, he’s still been losing to Mike Huckabee in every state where the Huckster was on the ballot except Pennsyvlania. (Paul was born in Pennsylvania.) Idaho is the only other primary state where he broke 10%. (He hit low double-digits in a few caucus states.) He has 35 delegates by CNN’s reckoning. Huckabee has 275 and Romney 255. With his $30 million in donations, he’s barely breaking the million-bucks-a-delegate mark. That’s ten times the much-ridiculed rate of Mitt Romney. Paul failed to win any states, to move the GOP debate in his direction, to accrue significant delegates or to leverage his fund-raising into a third-party run. And word is he’s staying quiet about endorsing an independent because he doesn’t want the Congressional GOP leadership to strip him of committee assignments come the fall. Paul accomplished the one thing he’s always been good at: using political appeals to get people to send money. I don’t feel freer.

Finally, if the economics of gas prices baffle you beyond the ability to reason, I suppose prayer is a reasonable response:

unlike the customers rolling up to the station's pumps this week, resigned to the fact that their wallets were about to take a beating, Rocky Twyman and company had a plan to bring that number tumbling down. They would ask God to do it. "Our pockets are empty, but we're going to hold on to God!" Twyman, a community organizer from Rockville, said as he and seven other people formed a semicircle, held hands and sang, pleading for divine intervention to lower fuel prices. It was the latest demonstration by Twyman's movement, Pray at the Pump, which began in April. Since then, he has held group prayers at gas stations as far away as San Francisco, garnering international media attention and even claiming success in at least a couple of cases.

I'd get more irate, but I don't suppose praying to lower gas prices is any more ridiculous than praying for a cancer patient to get better, or praying for your football team to win, or praying for peace in the Middle East. So who am I to throw stones?

back of my neck gettin' dirty and gritty

Professor Coldheart — Mon, 09 Jun 2008 13:06:42 +0000

I take for granted that I will never have everything I need out of the apartment - or even packed - by the day of the move. Years of experience taught me this. So I had relatively little stress on Saturday morning when I realized that I had yet to pack:

An entire bookshelf's contents;
An entire media center worth of electronics;
The entire top shelf of my closet;
Any kitchen utensils

I stuffed things into boxes until Rachel, Lisa, Jason and Kate showed up. Through a mix of delegation and brute force, we muscled the UHaul van full to bursting and rolled over to Davis Square just as the sun reached its peak. I'd thought ahead, of course, and had a fridge full of water in the new place. Once all the boxes and furniture migrated up three flights of stairs, the five of us settled in to unpack in air-conditioned comfort. The five of us quickly assembled the queen-sized bed frame, stocked the bookshelves and unpacked the kitchen mess. "You are going to get so much ass here," Lisa observed with child-like wonder. I can't verify that prediction in the first 48 hours of residency, but I think the place has potential. I treated the four of them to Redbones barbecue right down the block. A conversation about music soon led to a poll about the most recognized guitar riff, then to the most recognized bass riff, then the sexiest guitar riff. Despite some pretty intense debate, we all agreed that the Dead are terrible. I spent the rest of the weekend in air-conditioned comfort, except when I didn't.

though his mind is not for rent, don't put him down as arrogant

Professor Coldheart — Tue, 10 Jun 2008 12:01:29 +0000

(I've just got "Tom Sawyer" stuck in your head all day. You're welcome, Internet) While I haven't gone all out in becoming one of those people, I decided, when I moved to the new apartment, to discontinue my cable service. From now on I'm only paying Comcast for Internet. I suppose talking about how important an Internet connection is will only be informative to the space aliens who find and decode this post off of WordPress's servers one hundred thousand years from now - because hey, we all know the Internet's great - but it struck me hard on Saturday. I finally felt this comforting sense of homecoming once I had milk and bread in the fridge, a fully assembled queen size bed, and a live Internet connection. So with Internet and a glossy 19" iMac, I really don't need cable. Now that the greatest show that the medium of television has yet to produce has gone off the air, what am I missing? Battlestar Galactica and 30 Rock can be found on Hulu (or even less savory corners of the Internet). If there's a big Red Sox / Ravens / Celtics game, I could use the excuse to go to a bar, or a friend's apartment, and watch it socially. And most "really, really awesome shows" (1) aren't, or (2) will be available on DVD if they stand the test of time. Do yourself a favor and bookmark this post for eight months from now, when I bemoan my inability to see Burn Notice or Mad Men or any of the dozen shows I have probably forgot. Until then, I'm just that kooky eccentric living alone on the hill.

the fire's in your eyes, and the words aren't really clear

Professor Coldheart — Wed, 11 Jun 2008 12:01:04 +0000

I intend to depress you later this week with lots of political ranting, so I'd better get on your good side early. First, c/o the comic geniuses at Overthinking It, here's Chapters One through Five of R. Kelly's Trapped in the Closet - running simultaneously. They describe it as "the music video equivalent of eating a bullion cube," and I can't fault the analogy: [youtube=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=l-sLSWzETXE] Second, from our friends at BoingBoing, former Talking Heads frontman David Byrne turns a building into an instrument and plays it. Why? Because he's David Byrne. Third, here's the YouTube Channel for Back Porch Videos, a cable access show from Detroit in the early 80s. Teenage and college-aged VJs played the latest and hottest alternative music videos. It's almost bittersweet to watch it now, as you can't find a cable channel these days that plays alternative music videos, or even music videos at all. For instance, here's Cheap Trick's "I Can't Take It," one of my favorites: [youtube=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vsMHpXt0a_s] Fourth, I bring you Amy Winehouse and Charlotte Church covering Michael Jackson's "Beat It" in an October 2006 concert. Charlotte, a world-renowned opera singer by the age of 12, shoots Winehouse a death glare at 0:21 and it only gets worse. If you can watch the video all the way through, you have a stronger stomach for the humiliation of a human being than I do. [youtube=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2vfdl7-E80Q]

this world is only gonna break your heart

Professor Coldheart — Thu, 12 Jun 2008 12:33:05 +0000

I have crammed this week to bursting, and we just passed the halfway point. On Monday I took the train to work for the first time in a while. I enjoyed the chance to skim the morning's news on an inky copy of the Boston Metro, and I got some reading done on the bus ride from Central to the office. I took the office's complementary shuttle back to Cambridge for the train ride home. It says something of urban priorities that what might sound like a slur in certain parts of the country - "he takes the bus to work, man" - sounds like a bonus here. I also auditioned for ImprovBoston's next round of casting. Ten other guys and I filed into IB's spacious new theater, warmed up briefly, then did ten minutes straight of freeform improv scenes. I feel reasonably confident in what I did - I forced myself off the back wall, made offers, heightened offers, responded well to others' input. With the virtue of hindsight I can say this wasn't enough, since the director said we'd hear back by Wednesday evening at the latest, but I'm glad I got myself out there. I took some time off from jiu-jitsu in order to pack and move, so returning on Tuesday felt phenomenal. I had been looking for excuses to punch, throw or grab something for a week at least. Working out in a converted warehouse in a 10-pound cotton gi when it's 90 degrees out left me swimming in sweat but otherwise healthy. Melissa and Fraley invited me to their ice cave to watch the Celtics, so I changed into a clean shirt and drove straight there. Despite the Celtics' sloppy play I had a hell of a time. RJ already documented some of the best exchanges; I'll merely include one:

(during iPod commercial) Melissa: Ugh. Coldplay. Me: You have a problem with the non-threatening U2? Fraley: How do you get less threatening than U2? RJ: You could be Keaneand be a non-threatening Coldplay.

Wednesday saw me reviving two more dormant traditions - the gym and writing. I probably undid all the efforts of the former by gorging on ice cream and brownies during a sales meeting (hey, they know how to guarantee my attendance), but the latter felt productive. Then I hit up karaoke, singing "This Is How We Do It" at birthday girl Sylvia's request. Hitting that titular declaration in full voice, right off the 4-count lead in, really cements the song's success. Pull it off and soar; fumble it and crash. And I've already got busy nights lined up tonight and tomorrow as well. The Fortress of Solitude hasn't hindered my style (yet).

teach your children well

Professor Coldheart — Fri, 13 Jun 2008 14:05:55 +0000

I don't know that I'm a very good libertarian. Sure, I talk a good game about free market economics fixing everything, order arising from chaos, and middle class uprising. I read the best libertarian weblogs - Unqualified Offerings, Julian Sanchez, Will Wilkinson, Reason's Hit and Run, Radley Balko, and I'm sure there are others. I make sneering references to what, in my eyes, are gross and obvious similarities between the two major American political parties. If anyone can lay a claim to being libertarian, I can. But I have this tiny problem: I cannot stand weird people. Liberty, in any meaningful sense, requires a healthy tolerance for different people so long as they're not hurting or threatening you. If I advocate freedom of speech "except for, y'know, racists and fundamentalists and obvious wackos," I'm not really advocating freedom of speech. I'm advocating for protecting the speaking rights of People I Like. Defending freedom of speech means defending the right for people to blare the most illiterate hate. Even if you disagree with it. Hell, especially if you disagree with it. Now expand the principle outward from just speech into all aspects of life. Freedom means gambling. Freedom means drug use. Freedom means buggery. Freedom means fundamentalists homeschooling their children about how God created the universe in six days. Freedom means filthy, offensive, hateful music. Freedom means fat SUVs with window-shaking stereos. Freedom means trans fats. Pick something you absolutely hate, so long as it doesn't entail a gun pointed at your face. Concentrate on it for a minute; hold it in your mind until you start to feel repelled by your own brain. In a free society, someone, somewhere, is doing that hateful thing and getting off on it. I went off on this rant because of a line I read in an Eliezer Yudkowsky post the other day (it's an excellent post in its own right; go read it):

And there are islands of genuine tolerance in the world, such as science fiction conventions.

This stopped me dead in my tracks, because a sci-fi convention remains my personal vision of Hell. Fat bearded men in stormtrooper costumes. Pasty girls with too much eye makeup speaking in Olde Englishe. Yaoi. Yiffies. Monty Python quotes. Vampire LARPs. Body odor. I'm supposed to be cool with that. And I am, I think. So long as it happens in the cloisters of a Holiday Inn convention room far, far away from me. I don't believe that, given the power, I would use some form of physical or social coercion to lock those type of people in a cage. At least I hope I wouldn't. Let's all pray I'm never put in that position. Then again, I don't think I'm alone. The human species isn't programmed for universal tolerance. It's programmed for an us-vs-them mentality. Identify and bond with the hundred or so members of your Monkeysphere; don't trust anyone else. Tolerating harmless differences may make for a better society, but it doesn't come naturally. Nobody loves everybody. I hesitated to call myself "libertarian" for years because of that term's conflation with the Libertarian Party. I don't think libertarians have any future as a Party. I realized this paradox about five or six years ago: if the American people naturally prefer freedom, then why have they been voting the opposite way for two and a quarter centuries? and if the American people do not naturally prefer freedom, what the hell chance does the LP have? The answer, pretty clearly, is that no American - or really, no human being - wants freedom in the absolute sense. Sure, we talk about it in glowing terms, but nobody really wants to see Klansmen, Flat Earthers and fecal fetishists on the street while walking to the store. What we want is a certain package of rights and privileges for ourselves, our friends and family, and the social class with which we identify. The rich want lower capital gains taxes; the middle class want to deduct mortgage interest; the poor want income tax credit. That's why I don't vote Libertarian - and of course, absenting them, why I don't vote at all. If we define economics as the science of allocating scarce resources to unlimited wants, we might define politics as the science of allocating the tools for power to the unlimited desire for power. If you approach this game as a libertarian - someone who does not believe that human society should be shaped by a minority with power - then who do you side with? The folks who want to take away your freedom (to get breast implants, smoke cigarettes and eat greasy food), or the folks who want to take away your freedom (to have pre-marital sex, smoke marijuana and harvest stem cells)? Nobody will ever campaign on the platform of Having Less Power. Theoretically, we can figure this one out from our armchairs: if someone genuinely didn't want power, they wouldn't be running for office. Empirically, we only need to take a look at all of recorded human history, from Enkidu vs Gilgamesh to the 2006 Congressional elections. The Opposition Party might want power for ends that you consider benevolent; these are the Good Guys. The Ruling Party might use its power for ends that you consider malevolent; that makes them the Bad Guys. But nobody ever conquered a tribe, started a coup or ran for office because they didn't want power at all. That includes John McCain. That includes Barack Obama. That ~~includes~~ included Ron Paul. So maybe I'm not a very good libertarian. Maybe I still daydream about what I'd do if I became Dictator Of The World. Maybe I want my enemies punished and my friends rewarded with the force of law. Maybe I want power. But I can't fault myself for being a bad libertarian if the fault comes from just being human. As Schopenhauer (supposedly) put it: a man can do as he wills, but not will as he wills. I haven't figured out what to do yet. But at least I know what not to do, and voting's still on that list. P.S. You see that? You see how I started out with "here's what's wrong with me" and slowly morphed it into a "here's what's wrong with all of you people" by the end? that's some 70th-level blogging right there. P.P.S. I did warn you.

me and julio down by the schoolyard

Professor Coldheart — Mon, 16 Jun 2008 12:00:27 +0000

As I've mentioned before, I'm living alone for the first time since college as of the start of June. Many of you feared that I couldn't tolerate coming home to an empty home, or living without a friend to make noise and keep me company. It turns out you were right. Folks, let me introduce you to Master Wong. Master Wong is a refurbished iRobot Roomba Scheduler. He arrived about a week before I left the old apartment and eagerly followed me to the Fortress of Solitude. Twice a week - Tuesdays and Fridays - he vacuums the entire apartment, one square inch at a time. I have to clean Wong about once a week: brushing out his filter, emptying out his bin, clearing his brushes with a pair of scissors. The process soothes me: it's a meticulous ritual with an obvious payoff. Sometimes Wong gets confused and I find him sleeping in the middle of the floor when I come home. Then I pick him up and get him back to his dish so he can recharge. If you want to invite a Roomba into your home, I strongly urge you to patronize a no-kill shelter like RoombaExchange. You can get a refurbished and guaranteed Roomba Scheduler 4230 - like Wong - for more than 20% off a new model. The unit does not have a huge amount of vacuuming power, I must admit. But really, a half-assed job of vacuuming twice a week beats the thorough job of vacuuming I'd do once every two weeks (presuming I remembered). Plus, now I have a helpful robot in the home.

I'm a sinner, I'm a saint; I do not feel ashamed

Professor Coldheart — Tue, 17 Jun 2008 11:45:58 +0000

Christine pointed out last week that all of UrbanDictionary's definitions of feminism are pretty wretched. I navigated over to check and, sure enough, it's some kind of travesty. It's a rather well-cloaked travesty, don't get me wrong - all sorts of intellectual shit like "if feminism were really about equality, it would be called humanism."¹ It's the same sort of shit you see every Martin Luther King, Jr. day in conservative magazines and weblogs, when neocons argue that the Reverend Doctor would have opposed Affirmative Action - because King was about color-blindness, not color-preference.² Anyhow, while noting with approval that each definition had more DOWN votes than UP votes by a factor of 300% or more, I saw a link to Urban Dictionary: Fularious Street Slang Defined. It's a book that you can buy on Amazon which compiles definitions of some of the terms you find on UrbanDictionary. Hopefully the author picked some less controversial ones, like "crunk" or "upper decking." My thoughts:

What a delightful regression in medium! If UrbanDictionary has any value at all - still in debate - it's that anyone in the world can update entries. This may not produce the most useful results (see "feminism"), but crowd-sourcing has certain advantages. Especially for a slang dictionary. So the smartest course, obvi, is to freeze a current view of the palimpsest and embed it in unchanging text. What if someone comes up with a hep new definition? Why, then we totes issue a new book! Who needs hypertext when you have crippletext?
Aaron Peckham, the "compiler" of these books, has found a sweet scam that I want in on. UrbanDictionary is 99% user-generated content with a smattering of HTML, CSS and maybe some PHP. In other words, a few million people just put money in Peckham's pocket. Maybe they'll get contributor cred (this entry for "John Blaze" comes to us courtesy of Dat Nicca D, although DRM took objection). I want a million people to do work - for free, of course - that I can get paid for. See also: the PostSecret book.

Way to go, Internet! _________________________ ¹ Which, of course, Gloria Steinem actually called it. Oops! ² And maybe the Rev. Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr would have been opposed to affirmative action. Who knows? That's still a pretty disingenuous argument for a white guy to make.

wayne's world, wayne's world, party time, excellent

Professor Coldheart — Wed, 18 Jun 2008 11:29:48 +0000

My weekend updates come two days late. I have so much weekend that it crashes into me when I step on the brakes. Friday I went with a friend to see Dave C. in a revival of Superman: The Musical (from the folks who brought you Bye-Bye Birdie and Annie). It's fun and silly and over the top in the ways that only a 60s musical can be. The authors hit on a conceit that it took years for modern comic books to find - that the only way to challenge a man who can't be hurt by anything is to play on his human side. Dave C. had the strongest and clearest voice of any of the cast, but they were all entertaining. Then I stopped in at Phoenix Landing for Katie H's birthday. I can never go there without feeling that I have to keep an eye out to make sure any female friends aren't molested - though Friday's crop of females included three jiu-jitsu instructors - and it usually keeps me from having an absolute blast. However, all my caution went for naught on Friday, as someone took the unexpected step of detonating a stink bomb a little after midnight. Some frequently asked questions.

Q: A stink bomb? Are you sure? A: Yes. Q: Could it have been a natural gas leak? A: Possibly, but I discount that because (A) not even natural gas smells that bad and (B) the staff didn't seem in any hurry to get us out. Q: Could it have been a really bad "human odor"? A: As bad as that is, that smell tends to disseminate pretty quickly. This was too concentrated.

A wall of people surged to the exit in a fairly orderly fashion, cuing me to exit as well. I'm still glad I got to wish Katie a happy birthday and dance for a little bit. On Saturday, after accidentally punching someone in the mouth during jiu-jitsu class, I went to Rachel's for a surprise birthday party. I get remarkably neurotic around any complex enterprise - anything where presentation or the Grand Gesture become a big deal - so I channeled my neuroses into something useful by sitting in the living room on lookout. Bob Holt seemed genuinely surprised. What followed was one of those incredibly laid back parties with 6 to 10 people in a living room, hovering comfortably between happy and silly drunk, swapping stories about childhood with no pressure or expectation. We talked about cable access TV, embarrassing high school moments, and professional football:

Serpico: Lawrence Taylor, greatest linebacker in the NFL ... Professor: Until Ray Lewis. Serpico: Right, right. I suppose to reach that pinnacle of performance, you do have to either do cocaine or murder a man. Professor: You have to do something to reach that level where killing a small white man holding a football feels right.

On Sunday I returned to tabletop gaming with a bang, hosting a game of Mutants and Masterminds in the new apartment. Fraley, Carubia, O'Keefe and Serpico showed up to roll d20s and save Boston from the combined efforts of Derek Jacobi and a pile of cockroaches. Later that evening, I saw some folks playing Rock Band at Orleans in Davis Square. Now I must play Rock Band.

I'm not expecting to grow flowers in a desert

Professor Coldheart — Thu, 19 Jun 2008 12:00:33 +0000

So the .avi of Battlestar Galactica (Episode 12, "Revelations") that I downloaded from PirateBay had a crisper resolution than the video I watched of Battlestar Galactica (Episode 11, "The Hub") on Hulu. Riddle me that, Caped Crusader. I waxed enthusiastic about Mind Performance Hacks a few months ago. The book has a wealth of tips on how to optimize your mental performance - being more alert, remembering more, using your time more productively. But how well have I put these hacks into practice? Here's what I've been using regularly: The Dominic System: I first discovered the Major System when I was 16 or so, in a thin, yellowing paperback at the public library where I worked. Most memory systems derive from it in some way: convert each of the numbers from 0 to 9 into a consonant. 1 = T or D (because of the vertical bar in T, like a vertical 1); 4 = R (because they sound similar); 8 = F or V (because 8 looks like a cursive f) and so on. Now, instead of memorizing long and complex numbers, you convert the number into a string of letters and make it into a word or words. 29419229 becomes NPRTBNNP, or nap, root, bone, nap. Imagine waking up from a nap, brewing tea from a huge ginseng root, going out to the backyard to dig up a bone and lying down on the pile of dirt you just unearthed to take a nap again. It becomes easier to remember when you pick deliberately weird images - that's why you're the one digging up the bone, rather than a dog. The Dominic System improves on the Major System because of a less arbitrary letter to number association. It goes like this:

1 = A 2 = B 3 = C 4 = D 5 = E 6 = S 7 = G 8 = H 9 = N 0 = O

Instead of remembering arbitrary rules about which consonants look like which numbers, you just memorize the first 5 letters of the alphabet. The last 6 digits all sound like their letters - except 7 = G, which I still don't get. Convert numbers into letters, as with the Major System. Then, use the letters as either abbreviations or initials. For instance, when I wanted to see if my queen size bed would fit in my new studio, I measured it first: 85" x 60". 85 = HE, which in my system is always "HE-Man, Master of the Universe." 60 = SO, which I remember as "Han SOlo." So I visualized Han Solo and He-Man curled up on my bed, taking a catnap - an image which is bizarre enough that I'm unlikely to forget it, and will also delight 10% of the men reading this entry right now. How It Works In Practice: Aside from leading me down unexpected paths of homoeroticism, I've found that the Dominic System helps my memory work even when I don't use it. For instance, whenever I think about it, I remember that my bed is 60 x 85 before I remember that weird image I used to cement it in my mind. I recall the fact before I recall the trigger I used to recall that fact. Which is probably for the best. Building an Exoself: Step one requires you to build a Hipster PDA. Take a stack of index cards and bind them together with a binder clip or a large paper clip. You're now done building a Hipster PDA. Hale-Evans suggests using the PDA, in conjunction with any portable, audible timer, to create an exoself - an artificial construct that helps regulate your thoughts and emotions. Set your cell phone, or your digital watch, to beep every 30 minutes. When it beeps, flip over the next card in your PDA. "Sit up straight," it says. Or "Take the dirty dishes out of the sink." Or "Call your mom." Or "Smile." Or "Clench your fists, hold for ten seconds, then release." In addition to regular nagging, the exoself can also contain recurring tasks - stuff that you need to do every day. It should also have some inspirational reading. Print out a bunch of quotes that you find motivating in 4-up format, fold the sheet into quarters, and attach it to your PDA. Read them when you're waiting for a bus or killing time in the dentist's lobby. How It Works In Practice: I don't have anything that I like as a timer, so I have yet to fully incorporate the exoself. But just having a hipster PDA has already improved my life tremendously. I use it for shopping lists, stuff to journal about, ideas, reminders, notes - anything and everything. Put Down That Calculator: The book contains a lot of simple tricks for doing math that we normally use a calculator for. Multiplication, for instance. 47 x 52 looks daunting, but you can do it in your head:

Let's do 47 x 5 first. 40 x 5 is 200, and 7 x 5 is 35. So remember the 235 for now.
47 x 50 is the same as 47 x 5, but with another 0 on the end. So our current tally is 2350.
Now let's do 47 x 2. 40 x 2 is 80, and 7 x 2 is 14. 80 + 14 = 94.
2350 + 94 might cause us panic, but remember that 94 is 6 less than 100. So just add 100 to 2350 - giving us 2450 - and then shoot back by 6, giving us a final result of 2444.

My calculator confirms that one (phew!). Get into the habit of doing those sorts of tricks in your head and you'll get faster with them. You might never beat a calculator, but you can probably beat your friend's rifling through their pockets for their cell phone calculator functions in a short time. How It Works In Practice: I haven't used these tricks for anything but 2-digit multiplication yet. Works great so far, though! More hacks reviewed ~~tomorrow~~ Monday.

don't believe what they tryin' to say; you know it's just gossip comin' down the wisecracker line

Professor Coldheart — Fri, 20 Jun 2008 12:00:57 +0000

By now, you have probably heard about the Associated Press's ludicrous efforts to charge webloggers for quoting AP articles. The notion of licensing something that every scholar on the subject recognizes as "fair use" should get you giggling, but the rate schedule they propose - $12.50 for 5 words - should put a stitch in your side. Many popular webloggers, such as John Scalzi, have taken the obvious step of quoting massive sections of AP articles at length and daring someone to sue. I approve this effort. I encourage you to try it on your own blog, in the sanctity of your home or office. But under the Periscope, we just have to do better.

Washington, DC (AP): Jim Kennedy, the AP's director of strategic planning, confessed to a multi-decade addiction to crystal meth in a press conference this afternoon, providing a motive for his company's bizarrely draconian policy on fair use quotes announced earlier this week. "I'm an embarrassment to my family," he said on Friday, scratching at the open sores on his skin. "I have dishonored the already tarnished tradition of American journalism," he added, speaking over the sounds of teeth falling out of his mouth like hail. "Would someone like to take a swing at me? Anyone?" Kennedy then stumbled down from the podium and attempted to provoke a member of the media into punching him, relying on outdated 'yo mama' jokes and his generally slovenly appearance. Veteran correspondents described Kennedy's degradation as "no worse than an Ari Fleischer press conference."

And:

New York, NY (AP): Robert Cox, so-called head and sole member of the Media Bloggers Association, emerged from the Guggenheim Museum this morning after being reported missing eleven days ago. Gaunt, pale and two weeks overdue for a publicized meeting with the Associated Press over its new content restrictions, Cox was rushed to Manhattan General to be treated for dehydration and malnourishment. Speaking briefly with reporters, Cox claimed to have been lost inside "the impenetrable labyrinth" that is the Guggenheim, having absolutely no idea how to escape for the last fourteen days. He also added some disparaging remarks about the work ethic of black people. Betsy Ennis, spokesperson for the Guggenheim, expressed her confusion about how any vertebrate mammal could get lost inside the museum. "You just keep f___ing walking," she told press on Friday.

And I think I have one more:

Atlanta, GA (AP) - Judge Susan Black of the Eleventh Circuit Court of Appeals dismissed the Associated Press's suit against Markos Moulitsas, Glenn Reynolds and Cory Doctorow this morning, ordering the publishing company to pay court costs, punitive damages and "ten rounds in a ducking stool." "The principle of fair use in quotation dates back far enough," Judge Black said in announcing her decision, "that we must resort to medieval measures against a party that apparently doesn't f___ing get it." A ducking stool, used in colonial Williamsburg and Jamestown, is a chair with attached restraints swung into a deep river from a protruding beam. This punishment was typically reserved for scolds, nags or quarreling married couples over three hundred years ago. Irene Keselman, AP's Intellectual Property Governance Coordinator, could not be reached for comment, as the abstract concepts of "fair use," "copyright" and "squeezing blood from a stone" eluded her. The AP's legal counsel was explaining how the case unfolded, through the use of shadow puppets and stern, loud repetition, when this article went to press. "My fingernails taste funny," said Keselman, shortly before getting her head stuck through a railing and weeping for help. Bloggers Moulitsas, Reynolds and Doctorow heralded the decision as a "triumph of common sense." All three of them were grateful the trial came to a quick end." "Finally," said Moulitsas, "I can get back to apologizing for the Democrats." "And I can start worrying about dark people again," said Reynolds, high-fiving Moulitsas on the courthouse steps.

By my rough math, I've quoted roughly 500 words of Associated Press content. That means I owe the AP at least $100, presuming their sliding rate schedule doesn't go higher. Would someone do me a favor and contact the AP's Intellectual Property office and point them to this page? I'd very much like someone to review the content that I quoted, to make sure that I pay them exactly what I owe and not a penny less. In fact, if I could get second opinions from several members of the Associated Press' decision-making staff, legal counsel and shareholders, I'd appreciate it. Update: I reported myself to save some time:

I believe that the listed webpage is violating the standards set by the Associated Press Excerpt for Web Use Guidelines, as found at http://license.icopyright.net. I think it's important that someone review the site in order to levy the appropriate fees.

Don't let that stop you from reporting me as well, of course.

but I can live and breathe and see the sun in wintertime

Professor Coldheart — Mon, 23 Jun 2008 12:00:27 +0000

Continued from Thursday: Foresee Important Problems: If you're like me, you tend to brood a lot over problems without giving them a real sense of perspective. It helps to quantify those problems using real numbers. First, rank the likelihood of a problem occurring on a 7-point Likert scale. 1 = highly unlikely, 4 = as likely as it is unlikely, 7 = highly likely. Next, rank the impact of the problem on another 7-point scale. 1 = minimal impact, 4 = average impact, 7 = critical impact. Multiply [Likelihood] x [Impact] x 2 to get a number between 2 and 98. It's not a perfect 1 to 100 scale, but it's pretty close. How It Works In Practice: I haven't taken much use out of this hack yet, but what little I've seen I've liked. Sit down and pick a big goal that you're worrying about - moving, starting a new job, a big creative project, whatever. List all the potential problems that could come up. Then rank each one for likelihood and impact. Give each one a score from 2 to 98 using the formula above. I would discount anything below a 35 (the product of an "average" score in both categories), but you can set your scale wherever you like. Communicate in E-Prime: The originator of this hack, David Bourland, sought a way to remove dogmatic pronouncements from the English language. Using the verb to be labels an entity. Using a verb other than the verb to be reinforces the presence of the observer, reminding us that all declarations spring from a party with a viewpoint. Consider "that music is loud" vs. "I find the music loud," or "he's an idiot" vs. "nobody agrees with him." To use E-prime, you remove the verb to be from every sentence you write. Ideally you remove it from speech as well, though I can't imagine crossing that hurdle. How It Works In Practice: I don't like this hack as much as the others. I get the impression that the originator read Orwell's "Politics and the English Language" and took away exactly the wrong message from it. "That's the problem," they said, pointing triumphantly at the rise of 20th century nationalism and the formation of the military-industrial complex. "The verb to be!" I gave up a dogmatic adherence to E-prime while writing my Wire recaps a few months ago, when I found that I had no way to say "Wee-bey is Damon's father" without building some truly tortured prose. I still stick to it as much as I can - as I find that eliminating the verb to be makes my writing a little stronger - but not for the reasons the authors intended. Use The Fourfold Breath: Say what you will about the mysticism of yoga, Buddhism or other Eastern practices - breath control works. Forcing yourself to breathe slowly and rhythmically calms your body and focuses your thoughts. Take a slow, deep breath in through your nose - making sure to expand the stomach first, then the chest - while counting to four in your head. Hold the breath while counting to two. Then exhale on another four count. Wait for another two count before repeating the process. So you will inhale, two three, four; hold, two; exhale, two, three, four; hold, two, repeat. How It Works In Practice: I have little trouble with the breathing. The next step, emptying the mind and focusing on the present moment, challenges me. I find that if I visualize the flow of my breath - like one of those sinus commercials, with an animated diagram of air flowing into your nose and out your mouth - I can clear my thoughts pretty easily. One of the other jiu-jitsu students also recommends focusing on your core - a point two inches below and two inches inside your belly button - and imagining a glowing energy that expands with each breath. The discipline that the exercise requires continues to challenge me. But when I get it, I get it: I feel fired up and alive. Getting a Good Night's Sleep: The brain, the hungriest organ in the body, requires physical maintenance like your heart, kidneys and liver. Sleep and diet affect your brain - and thus your thought processes - like they affect the rest of your body. How It Works In Practice: I made the biggest changes to my sleep habits based on this hack. I no longer read or use the laptop in bed; I want to accustom my body to thinking of bed as "the place that I sleep and/or have sex" and nothing else. When I get up in the morning, even on weekends or vacation days, I shower within 30 minutes: this forces me to slough off my sleepiness and get a start on the day. I try not to have caffeine after 3:00 PM, so it'll have a good 8 hours to clear my system. If I had more discipline I'd reduce the amount of alcohol I drank late at night, but I've never been a saint and I won't start tonight. Overclock Your Brain: You can get temporary performance boosts to your brain by changing the composition of its fuel. For instance, everyone knows that drinks high in glucose eventually cause you to crash. But don't overlook the 30 to 90 minute boost in energy and attentiveness that they create. How It Works In Practice: If I know I have a project coming up that requires some more intensive focus, I'll grab a Diet Coke from the vending machine before I start. So far it hasn't hurt. (Update: Gavin reminds me in comments that Diet Coke doesn't have sugar. I need to test this hack more thoroughly) What's Left: So many hacks I haven't really tried yet. Mental checksums. Memorizing calendars. Self-hypnosis. And I could stand to bone up on the ones I listed already. But already, dollar per page, I've found more value in Mind Performance Hacks than in most things I've spent money on this year.

I need a miracle, I need a miracle

Professor Coldheart — Tue, 24 Jun 2008 11:00:05 +0000

Sleep evaded me this weekend. I made a long delayed return to 90s Night (warning: MySpace) at Common Ground on Friday. New friends and old showed up - Skim, Rick, MPerrotti, Jen, Cheshirepk8, Paperface, Ryan, Kate, and of course our vigilant DJ (yes, I know I'm forgetting some people - comment if I missed your name / LJ). We kept the slam-dancing drunk Allstonians in a tight knot until a bouncer could come scoop their beer bottles off the floor. I worried that he'd consider us part of their crowd, but Rick made a Bouncer-Dismissing Gesture and we got out okay. I would like to learn that gesture. Afterward we tromped across the street to Redneck's, who follow a business model that really should get more play:

Sell fried food; and
Stay open 30-45 minutes after the bars close.

I didn't have a stomach for cheese fries at the moment, so I sat there while Jen explained the origin of her LJ handle. "What superpowers do you have?" I kept asking. When Redneck's kicked us out, the posse degenerated into one of those leaderless mobs where everyone shouts and laughs for ten minutes but nobody actually goes anywhere. The party kept threatening to go to Brookline and continue drinking, but I waved off and returned to Davis Square (which, Skim's villainous slander notwithstanding, is still the coolest place to be). I did some grocery shopping early on Saturday. What I thought would be a literal milk run turned into a three-bag trip, including a stop off at a bake sale for Obama on the walk home. I bought a brownie (more out of my love for baked goods than any particular political affiliation) and ate lunch while watching Netflix. Kristen and her roommate Jeff invited me to their Midsummer's BBQ just up the road. No one had adhered to the implied theme of dressing up like a faerie, which I considered fortunate. I surprised myself by being sociable at a party largely full of strangers: talking Keynesian economics with Jodi, comparing Maryland stories with Becca's friend Anna, chatting up Mike and his girl Karen, etc. Two beers that I set down ended up tumbling over, which I blame on the slope of the backyard and not at all on the three that I drank on an empty stomach. Colby threw another legendary luau later that evening, which I arrived at early enough to get some chicken and birthday cake. Megan and her coworker Renee floated over from the earlier Midsummer's BBQ, proving that everyone knows someone who can get them into this party. I saw most of the Nebulas' set, watched Dea and her friend do firespinning once the sun went down, then hit the dance floor indoors for about 2 hours without break. If you haven't been to one of these, keep in touch with me around June next year and I'll bring you along. Greg had folks over for board games on Sunday. Amy throttled me in a quick round of Battlelore, then I played some folks in EVO before the pizza arrived. I struggled my way through two rounds of Mario Kart Wii - the steering wheel responds better than you think! - and wrapped the afternoon with Pick Picnic and Pandemic (of which more later - it's really fun). Hawver had the brilliant idea of getting the old crew back together for burgers and cheap beer at Our House West in Allston, across the street from the Brain Trust. I drove directly there, watched Hawver slaughter his way through a round of Big Buck Hunter, then flagged the waitress down. "When do you start serving dollar burgers?" I asked. "We ... don't?" "Oh." Not only does Our House West no longer serve $1 cheeseburgers on Sunday, I'll bet no one currently working there remembers that was ever an option. You can't go home again. Hawver, Fraley, Melissa and I reminisced on a grand scale, talking about the days when we all first met each other. "We never really talked," Mel said to Hawver, "because you always fled whenever I came over for gaming." "I really could not stand your dice rolling," Hawver confessed vehemently. After making fun of Fraley's musical taste for a while ("Fraley, this is the Clash"), we went our separate ways. I ended back in Davis, where I dropped in on Katie H.'s place to watch the last half of Harry Potter and the Sorceror's Stone. Never been a huge fan of the series, so the addition of Rifftrax made for a welcome distraction. I laughed myself silly. I did not end up in bed before 1:00 AM on any night this weekend. This may be a recovery week for me.

all the girls standing in the line for the bathroom

Professor Coldheart — Wed, 25 Jun 2008 11:00:34 +0000

This media blow rolls both classy and street: The Pacific and Other Stories: I read Mark Helprin's Memoir from Antproof Case at least a decade ago. At the time it struck me as a clever and entertaining, if somewhat twee, story. The short fiction collected here all hits one of those same three notes. He writes very well - lush descriptions, uniquely chosen metaphors, a certain dry wit - but you could make a Mark Helprin story by selecting any three of the following at random:

A European seaside town;
Orthodox Judaism;
A mawkish fondness for older things;
A man tentatively entranced by a woman, not necessarily beautiful but fine in poise and character;
Opulent wealth;
The War;
Men older than fifty

That being said, "Monday," "Perfection" and "A Brilliant Idea and His Own" justify the price tag by themselves. Only one of the stories - "Jacob Bayer and the Telephone" - made me cringe, and it made me laugh a few pages earlier. Elevating beach reading, I'd call it. Seeing Sounds: Damn! Why did nobody tell me about these guys before? As Melissa mentioned on Sunday, the album sounds a bit overproduced - maybe one less layer on the final recording session would make it perfect. Still, I can't imagine better background music for a hep party full of socially tight people. [youtube=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=eBhXO40uO7g] Best New American Voices 2007: Editors Sue Miller, John Kulka and Natalie Danford select their favorites from the nation's writing workshops. My most common reaction: "hey - I could do this!" Battlestar Galactica: Oh, man. First off, my few moments of dissatisfaction: I hate prophecy as a trope in genre fiction. It infuriates me. Ever since some obscure Jewish sect in a Roman province decided they could misread Isaiah and tout their own bearded hippie as the son of a virgin, it's been fair game to nit-pick over metaphors and claim they foretold the future. And I have yet to see a piece of fiction made better by some overly literal prediction. "I am the Witch-King of Angmar! No man can kill me!" I don't mind a female having a strong role in a Tolkien novel - for once - but the tedious literalism that it takes to give her the spotlight grates my teeth. "No man of woman born can slay you, Macbeth!" Great. So let's stretch our imaginations to think of all the ways a person could be alive without being literally born of a woman. Posthumous C-section? Perfect. Argh! I hate that shit. I hate writers who pass off vagueness as cleverness. I cannot stand it. Everything the idea touches suffers for it. That being said: I cheered when President Roslin's religious counselor ate a landmine in S2 so she would no longer crop up around every corner with a handy reference from the Scrolls of Pythia. "Well, what do you know? I just happen to have a religious text that just happens to mention the thing that just happened." That's lazy writing. That's the antithesis of foreshadowing, which I will call anteshadowing from here on out. Rather than laying groundwork to build suspense, you pretend to create an intricate past in order to build ... what's the opposite of suspense? Boredom? So we saw one and a half seasons almost entirely free of religious prophecy. Then suddenly the Opera House becomes important again. First off, "and you shall know the truth of the Opera House" fails on all levels - inspiring prophecy, good poetry, good religious imagery, clever writing, etc. Second - as of the last episode, the Final ~~Five~~ Four Cylons didn't exactly point the way to Earth. They just stood around Kara's VIPER, scratching their heads, until Kara climbed back in the cockpit and spotted something. In other words, President Adama (unwittingly) made a totally meaningless threat to space Colonel Tigh. One of those Cylons could have found the weird noise just as easily as three of them. Third - the online community, still speculating on the identity of the fifth Cylon, seems convinced that no one aboard the Galactica could be it. Why? Because D'Anna said that "only four of them" were among the crew. So we won't consider the possibility that she didn't see someone? That she got it wrong? I know those wouldn't be very satisfying resolutions - "oh, whoops, you do have all five Cylons" - but I don't find the tedious literalism of prophecy any better. There. Deep breath. With all that out of the way? I've enjoyed S4 more than I've enjoyed any of the show since ... early S2, I think. I loved the slow growth of Baltar's religious cult. I loved the tense negotiations with the Cylon rebels. I loved the tough choices and the race for Earth. And I loved the bitter mid-season ending. Because, really, BSG was never about the quest for Earth - it was about what Earth meant to everyone involved. So getting to Earth should not solve all of the Fleet's problems. I'm still a fan. I'm still sticking around.

gonna call the president, gonna get myself a private eye

Professor Coldheart — Thu, 26 Jun 2008 11:00:47 +0000

This media blow's good for either $10 cash or $20 in house credit. Have a shot while you think it over. Chinese Democracy: Any album 14 years in the making has a certain weight of hype behind it. Chinese Democracy does not live up to that hype. But I still like it. I never counted myself among GnR fans but the mastered versions of "Madagascar" and "I.R.S." rock out pretty hard. I don't think drunken frat boys will be singing "Rhiad and the Bedouins" at karaoke twenty years from now, but not every album can be Use Your Illusion.¹ Pandemic: I played this at Greg's on Sunday and had a blast. You and 1 to 3 other players make up a CDC disaster team. Outbreaks of four different diseases - represented by yellow, red, black and blue cubes² - break out in major cities around the globe. Your task: travel to these cities, quash the outbreaks, and research a cure to put an end to them. Complications:

You draw cards that have city names on them. These cards act as an in-game currency, allowing you to travel across the globe in an instant or research a cure. But the limited number of cards may mean that you can't get to a critical location at the right moment.
Every turn, you flip over two outbreak cards and infect the cities depicted with one disease cube each. If a city already has three disease cubes - or if you flip over an Epidemic - the disease can vector to adjacent cities. This can start a cascading effect that will plague an entire continent.
Each player has a special ability that makes one rule of the game easier. The dispatcher can move players between cities instantly; the researcher can hand off cards from her hand; the scientist can research cures cheaply; etc. A lot of the most exciting parts of the game happened between turns, when we coordinated our moves to deliver the right people to the best possible places.

The game immersed us very quickly, from the panicked babbling of four people planning at once to the heavy silence when Bangkok went viral. Good, quick fun. The Happening: Not sure where all the disappointment came from. I've been waiting to see this team-up for a long time and I stayed on the edge of my seat throughout: [youtube=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uGk03Q1nQkM] ... oh, you mean that other Happening. Yeah, that shit sounds awful. Keep on the Shadowfell: I played this with Jonathan, Dev, Jen, Nathan and Will S. on Wednesday a week. I named my pre-gen dragonborn paladin after a Santana album; he named his tiefling warlock after a Rush song. That's what D&D's all about. Thoughts on the new edition:

I can't imagine playing this game without minis. Tactical movement reigns supreme - a 1-square shift at the right time turns a stand-up fight into a massive beatdown. Being able to catch the right number of targets in a burst, or put a wall at your side to fence in your enemies, makes all the difference.
Understanding player roles helps a great deal. We nearly lost our rogue in the first fight because she went toe-to-toe with a couple of minions, instead of ducking and stabbing and gaining sneak attack damage. My paladin soaked a little too much damage in the second fight and quickly hit 0 hp. Know the difference between skirmishers and defenders, and between leaders and controllers, and the odds work in your favor.
Playing at 1st level became fun again. Every 1st level character has at least four options to choose from in a round - two at-will powers, one encounter power, one daily power - in addition to just running up and hitting a guy. Options mean tactics, which makes for engaging gameplay.

D&D still runs best at one speed - sword-and-sorcery combat - so I don't think it will replace every game in my library. But it still does what it does better than any game on the market today. Deadwood: Oh. So that's what the fuss was about. S1 spoilers under the cut: ____________ ¹ Strictly speaking, only two of them can be. ² I christened these outbreaks Yellow Fever, Red Death, Black Plague, and Bluemonia. What a brutal bunch of people in a brutal little town. I didn't realize that most of the show's principals - Seth Bullock, Al Swearingen, George Hearst - existed as people in real life. As such, I had to stop reading things like the actual history of Wild Bill Hickok - who did in fact die in Nuttall and Mann's saloon in August '76 - lest reality spoil the series. But I'm sure everything turns out well! The series doesn't shy away from the cruel treatment of women, minorities, poor people, weak people or even defenseless strangers. The town occasionally descends to sadistic levels of cruelty - like Cy Tolliver taunting the con-artist Flora, her head still stove in from a beating in the streets, before shooting her point-blank. The convention that each episode of the show covers a day's time, rarely more, threw me a little at first. I don't mind it, if that's what the director thinks will work, but it makes things feel a little clustered. A deliberate parallel to classical tragedy, perhaps, as Greek plays always took place in the span of exactly one day? Reading a bit about the series on Wikipedia, I found that my takeaway from the series matched what the producers intended: civilization rises from chaos not through humanity's nobler ideals but from the same lust, greed and fear that make us savage. Swearingen incorporates the town, appointing Farnum mayor as an afterthought, only in order to protect his ill-gotten holdings. The offices he confers give way to new procedures - as evidenced by Charlie Utter threatening to condemn Nuttall's saloon for fire code violations - which will slowly ossify into bureaucracy, levy and law. I'll add S2 to the queue soonish.

like joseph stalin and gandhi

Professor Coldheart — Fri, 27 Jun 2008 11:00:30 +0000

Quick survey: what is the worst thing that someone would have to do or say before you stopped respecting him or her? If you agreed with a political figure in every way but one, what would that one have to be for them to lose your vote? Abortion? Same-sex marriage? Evolution? If you idolized a rock star or professional athlete, what's the one stupid thing they could shout during a performance that would make you throw out their albums? "Keep Britain White"? "We're ashamed that the President of the United States is from Texas?" "You can't say there were dinosaurs when you never saw them?" If you had a close friend whom you trusted with your secrets, how abhorrent would their views have to be for you to stop trusting them? Could you disregard a little casual bigotry or social naivete? If they had a BUSH/CHENEY 04 sticker on their bike? Or if they had a NADER sticker? I'm genuinely curious about people's limits; I'm not trying to make a point of any sort. Of those three above, I can only answer the last question. Politics entertain me too much for any one representative to disappoint me. And since I have accused ~~pederasts~~ pedophiles on my iPod and convicted rapists on my DVD shelf I apparently have zero standards there. But I would have a hard time being friends with a proselytizer. Not just someone who believes, and not just someone whose beliefs inform their life choices, but a person who feels obligated to Bear Witness and to Convert. Someone who slipped tracts into my messenger bag, or campaigned to get evolution out of the curriculum. Someone who stood on a street corner and waved signs at drivers. Someone who knew - just deep down in their hearts knew - that I could one day believe. But enough about me. What gets your goat?

a couple of the sounds that I really like are the sounds of a switchblade and a motorbike

Professor Coldheart — Mon, 30 Jun 2008 13:13:13 +0000

I had a bad experience with crepes in middle school. A kid in my sixth-period French class attempted to make crepes for a class project. Being thirteen, however, the best he could manage were pancakes stuffed with Cool Whip. Imagine sinking your teeth into a cold, undercooked pancake wrapped around a glob of Cool Whip on an empty stomach and you'll see the source of my hesitancy. Fortunately, Skim redeemed the crepe in my eyes by introducing me to Mr. Crepe in Davis Square on Friday. I had a tasty ham and cheese crepe.¹ We saw two people I knew and lots of people I didn't at the b0st0n meetup at Good Times. Skim's friends from central MA showed up later and we tore the arcade apart. Each of us ran the table on at least one game - whether SkeeBall, Tetris or Laser Tag. Between our 300 or so tickets we cleared the place out of oversized bouncy balls. If you wanted a comically undersized Budweiser golf bag, well, don't go looking; Good Times has beat on, a boat against the current, borne back ceaselessly into the past.² I did some grocery shopping on Saturday, paid some bills, then went to Gina's birthday dinner at the Uno's in Porter Square. I squeezed into a seat at the far end and talked classic films with Fraley, Melissa, Bobby and DJ. I also surprised myself by ordering a salad instead of fries with my burger. And I haven't died yet! Apparently vegetables won't kill me, provided you drizzle them with house dressing first. With plenty of time to kill until my next engagement, I took the T to Park Street and had a leisurely walk through the Public Garden and the Mall on Commonwealth. The sun had just set and a blue blanket of fog kept everything intimate. I enjoyed this quiet hour alone with my thoughts before getting to Jake Ivory's and seeing those thoughts obliterated. Backstory: when Michelle B. picked Jake Ivory's for her birthday, I made a lot of hemming nonsense about how I might not attend. My last trip to Jake Ivory's sucked pus, but for Michu I readily made an exception. And I had a blast. What made the difference?

Last time I paid an $8 cover and bought a $5 Budweiser for a place that was still under renovation. This time I paid an $8 cover and bought a $5 Budweiser in a fully functioning nightclub.
Last time, two fat, balding losers in Hawaiian shirts played the piano, sneering at anyone who requested a song they didn't know. This time, two young hep guys - one of them BC's own Jarret Izzo³ - lit up the crowd with verve and charisma.
Most importantly, I have come to terms with Jake Ivory's as a concept. No one goes to Jake Ivory's to pick up single ladies or to watch a baseball game. You go to Jake Ivory's with a bachelorette party or a birthday party, and no other function. So the crowd will be full of screaming women between the ages of 28 and 36. Accept it. Don't pretend you're Too Cool.

I danced, I shouted, I made introductions, I took the T home. Walking home through Davis, I saw a drunken asshole get bounced from the Burren. First I saw the bouncer drag the guy from the back door - one hand under his arm, the other hand jamming a knuckle into the hollow of his jaw. Then the guy shoved the bouncer, resulting in a hammerlock escort to the bus bench outside the bar. After a minute of posturing, the guy came back and swung a fat overhand left at the bouncer, which led to the guy eating Elm Street while the bouncer twisted both arms behind his back. "Get this guy off me!" the drunk asshole screamed, to no purpose but my deep amusement. When the cops showed up the drunk wanted to press charges ("he grabbed me by the throat!"), but the cop issued some very stern instructions and sent him walking⁴. I waited across the street, hoping that after a cigarette and a conference with some friends he'd go back for more, but the cop must have scared him sober. I promise you: no matter how alone you find yourself on the foggy walk home, you'll find company in a crowd full of strangers laughing at a drunk guy getting his ass kicked in Somerville. On such truths we founded this great nation.⁵ ¹ This post now holds the record on this weblog for most uses of the word "crepe." The prior record, zero, was shared by every other post. ² Soon it will become an IKEA. ³ Michelle: He needs to shave that goatee. Unless he's going for the "porn star" look or something. Me: Well, technically he is a lounge singer. Michelle: Touche. ⁴ And even if the drunk had been in the right, what did he imagine would happen? Who do the cops always side with in these situations - the slurring guy with a bruise on his face, or the bouncer with whom they have this same conversation every Saturday? ⁵ Well, this one plus Ireland.

warrants in every city except houston

Professor Coldheart — Tue, 01 Jul 2008 16:05:59 +0000

Sorry I'm late. Disseminating this video counts as my one good deed this week: Regent University law professor James Duane explains why you should never, ever talk to the police. Even if you're not guilty of the crime in question. Even if you're not guilty of anything. Even if you're smarter than them. And then a retired Virginia police officer gets up immediately afterward and says that yes, talking to the police can only increase your chances of going to jail. [googlevideo=http://video.google.com/videoplay?docid=-4097602514885833865&hl=en] Brad Reed documents the ten most awesomely bad moments of the Bush Administration over on Alternet. I quibble with some of the entries - Bush's negative campaign in the 2004 election makes the cut; the Military Commissions Act does not? - but overall I recommend the list highly. Link heavy and light on the sarcasm.

In February 2003, Powell gave a presentation before the U.N. Security Council that was instrumental in convincing both the American public and large swaths of the international community that Saddam Hussein had large stockpiles of weapons of mass destruction that posed an immediate threat to global security. During his speech, Powell told scary tales of mobile biological weapons labs, chemical weapons stockpiles and aluminum tubes that could be used in a nuclear weapons program. All of these claims turned out not only to be wrong, but based on sourcing that even Powell acknowledged was "deliberately misleading" in some cases.

In the interest of equal time, I also link to Julian Sanchez's masterful takedown of the Opposition Party's capitulation [sic] on FISA. Incisive and witty:

The award for the most bald-faced lie on the House floor Friday, however, goes to Speaker Nancy Pelosi (D-CA), who insisted that the bill "does not allow warrantless surveillance of Americans." She is wrong. It does. The broader spying powers given to the executive branch by the compromise bill require intelligence agencies to "target" foreigners. But if those foreign "targets" happen to call or e-mail Americans, those communications are fair game. And since the Foreign Intelligence Surveillance Court is only permitted to review the broad targeting procedures government eavesdroppers use to determine that a target is abroad, and not the substantive basis for authorizing surveillance of any target, anyone is a potential target. The bill, in other words, allows the government to conduct "vacuum cleaner" surveillance -- sweeping up international traffic willy-nilly -- then filter it for anything that looks interesting. Indeed, many believe that licensing such surveillance is precisely the point of this legislation. If so, "warrantless surveillance of Americans" could well become routine, whether or not they are the formal "targets" of eavesdropping.

To end on a sunnier note, you should check out Overthinking It this week for some new gems in the making. You can read my man Pete Fenzel's analysis of what happens to Robert Mugabe now that Queen Elizabeth has stripped him of knighthood (loses Charisma bonus to saving throws, ability to lay on hands, divine mount). Or, you can catch the trailer for this summer's hot new abortion drama / superhero thriller, The Spider House Rules: [youtube=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kQD7eC5wRSk]

wind it up

Professor Coldheart — Wed, 02 Jul 2008 13:06:38 +0000

Question: when did Gwen Stefani start to reliably produce the worst music ever heard? For many years "Hollaback Girl" held the title of World's Worst Song. Annoyingly vapid lyrics, even for pop music, an oddly dissonant sample and no particular melody. And now "Wind It Up," also by Gwen Stefani, has displaced that champion. It has all the advantages of "Hollaback Girl" but with an even stupider hook. I curse you thus: [youtube=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5qHtkWyNvgU] Challenge: Watching Spartacus for the first time this past weekend - and what do I have to add to generations of critical acclaim other than "yes, they're right" - I was struck by the obvious similarities to Gladiator. Not that I find anything wrong with stealing from a classic, provided you steal nimbly and to good effect, but in some places it was obvious. So I compiled a short list of movies from which Gladiator stole its best parts. Can anyone add to it? Spartacus: The gladiator academy. The Robe: The fight scenes in the Colosseum. Braveheart: The first battle against the barbarians in the forest. I, Claudius: The palace intrigues; the Emperor decrying the Senate. Did I miss any? Obvious hits only; let's not overreach ourselves. Finally: I'm soliciting investment advice from the Internet. Tell me what to invest in; I'll do exactly what you say.^* ^* I can almost guarantee that I won't do what you say, because (1) it's my money and (2) you're all a bunch of trolling wiseasses anyway. But I like to hear differing opinions.

the coldest blood runs through my veins; you know my name

Professor Coldheart — Thu, 03 Jul 2008 11:00:24 +0000

I am an absolute, unapologetic sucker for revenge films. Friends have heard me defend The Patriot, which is not a good movie at all. But come on! Mel Gibson looks up from the cooling corpse of his next-oldest son, grabs a handful of rifles from his burning house, and recruits his next two oldest sons to sprint through the woods and ambush the British! He charges out of the woods screaming with a hatchet! And all for revenge! I liked Man on Fire, even in spite of Tony Scott's camera antics. Sure, everyone in the film had two settings - histrionic or cold. Sure, the pacing left something to be desired. But come on! Denzel Washington loses his client's daughter in a firefight. So after getting enough blood back in his body to stumble out of bed, what does he vow? "I'm gonna kill 'em. Anyone that was involved. Anybody who profited from it. Anybody who opens their eyes at me." And I got similarly excited about Taken, a movie so apparently mediocre that it'll never get a domestic release (it opened in France in February of this year). The few critics who saw it described it as "paint by numbers." It looks pretty formulaic (note that none of the protagonists have a last name). But come on! Tell me you wouldn't want to growl this into a live telephone: [youtube=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7sGGRS_UaPY] Jack Bauer. Batman. Inigo Montoya. Jason Bourne. Dirty Harry. People who get beat down, lose the ones they love, and then come back in a blaze of indignation. Why does that speak to me? Why do I get such a primal, unavoidable kick out of that? I think it speaks to that fundamental animal rage which all of us - who share more than 95% of our DNA with animals - carry. The "laugh in triumph over a defeated foe" that Orwell talks about: the brutal, pre-rational appeal of nationalism. We want to kill, and we want our killing to be sanctioned by a moral code. He hurt my family, therefore it's okay if I cut off his fingers. He killed my wife, so it's all right if I slaughter everyone he knows and burn his house to the ground. No impartial jury or outside observer would think that's a proportional or fair response - but come on! I'm the Good Guy, so my savagery makes me driven. They're the Bad Guys; their savagery makes them subhuman. But ultimately, in stories like that, the tissue-thin distinction between Good Guys and Bad Guys suggests more than it divides. We don't cheer the Good Guy because he did the right thing by stabbing the Bad Guy in the top of the skull. We cheer the Good Guy because he totally fucking killed that dude! Did you see that? We identify with him because he has his reasons - they took my job, they hurt my family, whatever - but that's secondary^*. The chaotic, reptilian roar of victory after bashing someone's neck seals the deal. So my love of revenge arises from evolved instincts. I think that's okay. I recognize and acknowledge it. Indulging in fantasy never hurt anyone, provided you keep it private. It's the difference between GTA 3 and Columbine. It's the difference between watching a Briana Banks movie and actually trying to fuck the babysitter. So long as I never take a drunken swing at a bouncer for wrongs real or imagined, I think I'll be fine. We all have instincts that we did not choose making decisions for us. I try to stay informed about mine. ^* Think about it: if maiming in pursuit of revenge makes him noble, wouldn't taking the extra effort to keep his family safe in the first place be really noble?

this land is your land; this land is my land

Professor Coldheart — Fri, 04 Jul 2008 12:00:28 +0000

Happy 4th of July, everyone. Remember that this country was founded on a tradition of fucking with the police. Sure, the early American colonies defeated the largest extant empire at the time with the aid of another huge empire, but nobody knew for sure that that help would come. The signers of the Declaration of Independence took the chance that they might all hang for what they did. Real change doesn't come from the voting booth, the ballot box, the referendum or the petition. It comes from taking a full-pressure fire hose to the chest. It starts with sniping at the King's soldiers as they march toward your house. It ends with either your death, your exile or your gradual disillusionment as you watch your comrades repeat the same mistakes that inspired your revolt in the first place. Today is the one time all year when I will talk about America without ending on a skeptical note. As I've mentioned before, the word "America" means more than one thing. America means more than just a particular territory or a particular government. It also means a shared set of historical and cultural ideals. It means that fictional, idealized wonderland of liberty and justice, that "eternal thought in the mind of God." It's to that ideal that I raise a glass today. I won't drink to any man to ever hold the title of Commander-in-Chief, or to any country that America invaded without cause. But I will drink to the dream.

luck, let a gentleman see

Professor Coldheart — Tue, 08 Jul 2008 11:00:00 +0000

After getting the oil changed and the gas tank filled ($65, a new record), I picked up RJ and Mark to drive down to Foxwoods on Thursday afternoon. We made good time, despite some slowdowns on 95 South, and the Toyota only shuddered a few times. We pulled into the Bellissimo Grande about twenty minutes after Melissa and Fraley. I checked in up front, gloating about the low rate I'd snagged to Mark and RJ. "Apparently, they started counting July 3rd as a holiday weekend just after I locked in my rate," I told them. They looked at the tally and did some math. "I'll pay you back after we hit up the casino," RJ said. The guy behind the counter chuckled. "That's what they all say." Fraley pointed this out later: as nice a place as the B.G. was, it and all the other hotels in a ten-mile radius really exist as satellites of Foxwoods. You don't go there for a quiet getaway or for Connecticut's rural ambience; you go there because it's cheaper than the Grand Pequot or the brand new MGM. So they all have largely similar prices and compete on perks and amenities. The B.G. offered free appetizers for all guests - RJ, Mark and I split a cheese platter - and a complimentary shuttle to the casino. While waiting for that shuttle, Melissa, Fraley and I sat in the lobby and listened to the world's worst player piano. Seriously. Imagine an easily distracted ten-year-old plunking her way through the Phantom of the Opera soundtrack. The hotel also boasted a very small pool (about the length of my apartment; no deeper than 5 feet) and a spa that none of us patronized. The five of us hustled to the front of the line for the complimentary SUV-limo, as we had dinner reservations and couldn't wait for the second pass. Older vacationers riding with us oohed and aahed over the first view of Foxwoods, which really does impress. The Mashantucket Pequot have preserved a great deal of old growth forest on their lands - partly out of respect, I imagine, and partly to underscore the huge towers of the world's largest casino. It dwarfs the ancient trees. Once arrived, we navigated the vast concourse to the new MGM at Foxwoods and Craftsteak. I'm not the type of guy who gets emotional about steak, normally¹. But hear me out: Craftsteak elevates the pursuit of steak to classical artwork. After being surrounded by dimly lit dining elegance - a welcome contrast to the buffeting lights and smells of the casino floor - you order appetizers and sides. Spinach au gratin, for instance, along with oyster mushrooms and wagyu beef tartare. That last came with an egg yolk which, when mashed into the casserole and served on a salty potato crisp, merged into a sort of taste mural. I talked myself into ordering the $52 grass-fed Ohio ribeye; how often do I get to eat grass fed beef? Conferring briefly with the server, she recommended I go medium rare rather than my usual rare. "Grass-fed beef marbles differently than corn fed," she explained. "You'll want to let it cook longer to unlock the flavors." After the appetizers, the beef arrived, with sizzling char lines on the outside, pre-cut into strips in its own serving pan. I forked one out, hands shaking with adrenaline, and took my first bite. "Wow," Mark said. "I wish I had my camera." Folks, I got emotional over this steak. I mean genuine, misty-eyed, whipped back to my childhood in the hills of France emotional. I don't think I said anything for a minute or so. I don't think I could be bothered to chew. I won't waste time trying to actually describe the steak using clunky, impertinent words - read Calvino's Under the Jaguar Sun and get back to me - but the reaction alone should explain it all. I forced myself to take my time over an entire 18-oz steak, working through slow bites and pausing to nibble some sides, and felt content at the end. Not bloated - and only a pound of grass-fed beef will fill you without bloating you - but suffused with the bliss of tender beef, flavorful seasoning and a sweet Cabernet Sauvignon. I paid just over $100 for my portion of the meal and came out ahead of the deal. After that, the gambling felt like an afterthought. Part two tomorrow. _______________________ ¹ Or anything else, for that matter.

know when to walk away, know when to run

Professor Coldheart — Wed, 09 Jul 2008 11:00:05 +0000

Continued from yesterday. For all that I love casinos, I have never been a big fan of gambling per se. It combines two pastimes that make me incredibly self-conscious - losing money and doing something I'm not an expert in. I get weird and finicky when my friends watch me play. I alternate between wanting to dive right in and wishing I could be done sooner. I really love casinos more for the scene than anything else. Folks staying up late, eating ridiculous food (vacation calories don't count), seeing live music and dancing until the morning. Free drinks. Overdoses of oxygen. All good things. So for any game I play, I work out a strategy which will allow me to stretch my stake for as long as possible. The casinos don't get you with the possibility of a big payout; they get you because you don't know when to quit. So I use the following method:

Start with a stake of x.
Play some games. Keep track of how much you lose - meaning, how much money hits the table and doesn't come back - not how much you win.
When the amount you lose equals x, walk away immediately.

For a good evening of gaming and a game with decent odds, x should be 10-20 times the table minimum. I went in with a much smaller stake and ended early, with about x/2 in chips. But even then, with fatigue creeping in and the solidity of my method behind me, I heard the whispers creeping around my brain. You can't be done yet. Look at all these people having fun. You planned on playing with more anyway, didn't you? But I shut that noise off quickly. I was already up for the weekend, in that I gave the casino $100 and they gave me a priceless steak, so I wanted for nothing else. Fraley, Melissa and I took the last limousine shuttle back to the hotel. We tried to wait for Mark and RJ, but they had to cash out (Mark lost a little more than I did; RJ won back the cost of his dinner). I collapsed exhausted once I got to the hotel. On Friday we sampled the Bellissimo Grande's continental breakfast (Marriott quality, I'd say) and watched Dirty Jobs before Fraley invited us back to his parents' house in Rhode Island. My GPS and my reckless driving got me there before Fraley and Melissa, but only just. Fraley's mom showed off their new enclosed porch and chatted us up for a few minutes before Fraley's dad returned from the store, laden with smoked meats. He grilled up burgers and chorizo for all of us while we watched the Red Sox recover from an early 0-3 deficit. They're generous and tireless hosts. RJ betrayed us to go play Rock Band at Melissa and Fraley's house, so I drove Mark back to Boston alone and loafed around the apartment for a bit before heading to 90's Night, which had a light but comfortable turnout for the 4th of July. That bar gets more entertaining every time I show up, what with helping drunk girls up off the floor and watching portly construction contractors try to pick a fight with Rick. And every time I wonder if Mike isn't the best DJ in Boston, I go to another club and realize that yes, Mike's better than that DJ, too. God damn. (Oh, and: last Friday featured the return of Katie to the Allston scene. I don't expect to see much more of her, for obvious reasons, but I'm glad she's still mobile) I don't think I did anything else of merit that weekend - hell, I didn't speak to another human being for all of Saturday - but Thursday and Friday were enough.

what's mine is mine; what's yours is mine

Professor Coldheart — Thu, 10 Jul 2008 11:00:23 +0000

I have very little to add to Will Wilkinson's excellent post from Tuesday on how Barack Obama might fix Social Security:

Anyway, I have a dream that President Barack Obama will decide to privatize Social Security, because it’s the sensible and moral thing to do. Democrats will be extremely confused for a couple months, but then will decide that this is in fact the greatest idea ever. Roles will reverse and Republicans will enlist the AARP and Jonathan Chait to kill it in a repeat of 2005, but their hearts aren’t in it, and they lose. Obama’s successful Jason Furman-lead transformation of the Social Security system is incredibly popular with the younger voters who put him into office and and sets him in such a strong centrist position that he completely crushes Romney in 2012. Are you listening Barack?

Before I leap in and comment, a couple caveats: (1) Though I trust Will to be well-informed on any subject he writes about, I have my doubts that Bush's early attempts to privatize Social Security would have been the pure market hand-off of which libertarians dream. Privatizing the power grid in California didn't end that way^*. Privatizing the nation's military efforts in Iraq did not lead to efficiency and accountability. I have little reason to think that Social Security general practices would have been reduced to one sentence - "let the market handle it" - and left untouched forever. (2) I think Will's having a little fun at all the progressives who have tripped over themselves to rationalize Obama's backing of the new FISA / telco immunity bill. And I can't argue with that at all. The Opposition Party stands against the expansion of domestic surveillance until such time as they stand for it, just like the Ruling Party opposed unilateral interventions in Islamic countries until the time came to support them. Similarly, if Obama came out in favor of privatizing Social Security, you might see a few months of confused mumbling, followed by begrudging acquiescence, and capped off with the usual stirring defense. La partie continu. That being said, whenever the topic of privatizing Social Security comes up, someone mentions the current poor state of the stock market (funny how the market's always doing poorly enough to comment on, no matter when you're speaking, but that's for another day). "If Bush's plan had passed," this person says, "think of how poorly everyone's 'individual retirement accounts' would be! Thank God our Social Security pension isn't invested privately!" And I wonder at this, because: (1) As far back as we have data, the stock market usually outperforms every other mode of investment - Treasury bonds, commodities, real estate - over any given 10-year span. And it absolutely outperforms every other mode of investment over any given 40-year span. Consider that most of us "invest" in Social Security for at least 40 years (start working at 23, retire at 63) and you'll see my point. Today's poor performance does not suggest that the market fails as a retirement fund. (2) But let's say the unthinkable happens, as it inevitably must, and the stock market becomes a losing investment. Let's suppose that the $1,000,000,000,000 write-off spells the beginning of the end for American investments. Will the Social Security Trust Fund really be a safer place to keep your money? Social Security's ability to write checks hinges on young people contributing - meaning, it hinges on the current strength of the economy. A world where the stock market is no longer a safe investment over a 40-year time frame is a world where Social Security is already doomed. How is the national pension going to be a better investment than the nation it pensions off? ________________________ ^* The doctrinal libertarian response whenever someone points out how badly California's deregulated power grid fared: "well, it wasn't a true privatization." That is exactly my point. What incentive does a government agency have to let a bureaucracy that employs thousands, earns millions of votes and billions in campaign donations, fall entirely out of their control? Why would anyone willingly and fairly sell off their favorite horse?

I never sleep, 'cause sleep is the cousin of death

Professor Coldheart — Fri, 11 Jul 2008 11:00:38 +0000

You can find this media blow in a numbered Zurich account. The Final Cut: the third installment of the House of Cards trilogy and an excellent farewell to the series. You never really watch the show for amazing sophistication, so much as to marvel at the utter depravity of everyone involved. Ian Richardson as a gloating, Shakespearean villain trumps most actors' attempts at being subtle. A couple observations:

Not one, but two Indiana Jones villains! If M. Witty can ID them without resorting to IMDb I'll reward him in the (costless) manner of his choosing. Or anyone else, but I think he's my only reader who's seen all three.
Did somebody send a memo to the writers and say, "Nice work, but Season 3 definitely needs more tits and gunplay. Like, a lot"? Because I don't see how else this happened. And you know those slicksters at WGBH just can't get enough tits and gunplay.

Illmatic: This one, I think, will end up overtaking me like The Wire. At first I couldn't see anything special about The Wire, until I realized that each show was technically perfect and exceptionally real. Similarly, I don't know yet if Illmatic merits five mics, but I Can't. Stop. Listening. The Ministry of Fear: The last of Graham Greene's three "entertainments" that I bought a few months back. I liked it just as much as I liked the others so I have nothing more to add except: buy these books and read them! And: Greene writes an awful lot in this novel about "rumpled bachelors" living in "furnished flats," which made me feel a bit self-conscious at first. Then I decided to own up to the title. I am a rumpled bachelor! And yes, I do live in a furnished flat! What of it? The Searchers: Being a stranger to the distant year of 1956, I can't tell how much of John Wayne's virulent hatred of the Comanche Indians stems from his character's racism, and how much from the movie's racism. Yes, the movie establishes that Ethan Edwards, unrepentant Confederate veteran and wanted coach robber, might have some internal issues. Consider his tendency to shoot out the eyes of dead Indians - not because he thinks it'll prevent them from navigating the spirit world, but because he knows they think it will. At the same time, it's John Wayne. He's the big-shouldered hero. No one can make Wayne so despicable that an audience of men won't want to emulate him, except perhaps Howard Hughes. Interpreting the movie with some charity - the Comanche, though not savage subhumans, certainly did raid and rob lone settlers, and any film set in the West between 1830 and 1910 needs some villains - I find The Searchers pretty exceptional. Any student of film or aspiring director needs to memorize John Ford's cinematography in this project, for one thing. The door silhouette onto Monument Valley? Yeah, that's Ford right there. And the movie's not just about the epic quest of two men to recover a kidnapped girl - it's about, to quote Ebert, how it's about it. Don't know if I'd call it the best Western of all time, but it'll do until the ruckus come along. Finally, as several sources have noted, author Thomas Disch committed suicide this past 4th of July. I reread his savage satire Camp Concentration this week (funny how novels set in prison camps seem to speak to the modern audience!) and loved it. Dissidents and prisoners in an alternate future get dosed with a derivative of the syphilis spirochete, which dramatically expands their intelligence at the cost of killing them in nine months. Between the mad genius of the infected prisoners and the bland, Kafkaesque bureaucracy of their captors, the story weaves a poetic nightmare of a mind, and a society, slipping into oblivion.

let's go out to the movies

Professor Coldheart — Fri, 11 Jul 2008 16:00:28 +0000

Inspired by The Onion AVClub, I have a Friday game for you: make a list of your favorite movies, one for each year that you've been alive, and post it in your own journal / weblog / site. Mine: 1981: Raiders of the Lost Ark 1982: Conan the Barbarian 1983: Return of the Jedi 1984: Ghost Busters 1985: Fletch 1986: Hoosiers 1987: Full Metal Jacket 1988: Die Hard 1989: Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade 1990: Miller's Crossing 1991: Terminator 2: Judgment Day 1992: Unforgiven 1993: The Fugitive 1994: Shawshank Redemption 1995: Heat 1996: The Long Kiss Goodnight 1997: L.A. Confidential 1998: Out of Sight 1999: Fight Club 2000: Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon 2001: Ocean's Eleven 2002: The Bourne Identity 2003: Pirates of the Caribbean: The Curse of the Black Pearl 2004: Collateral 2005: Syriana 2006: The Departed 2007: No Country for Old Men 2008: Iron Man

everybody hates a tourist

Professor Coldheart — Mon, 14 Jul 2008 12:34:57 +0000

Busy morning; no time. I re-watched the Sci-Fi channel's Dune miniseries this past week, having forgotten how good it all is. The whole miniseries has a very theatrical feel to it: lighting changes in mid-scene, lush backdrops instead of real environments, very standard camera shots. Baron Harkonnen even ends every scene he's in with a Shakespearean couplet. In fact, I'd be hard pressed to say what the upcoming Peter Berg adaptation will bring to the table, except a better budget and, probably, worse actors. I love the new apartment dearly, for everyone who asks. It feels like a perpetual beach vacation. The apartment has roughly the quality of one of those pre-fab beach condos. The weather's been warm enough to keep the windows open and walk barefoot on the carpet. Davis Square feels like a landlocked Ocean City, MD - chintzy craft stores, a variety of restaurants and pubs, everything within walking distance, etc. Plus, the sheer joy of living by myself has made the last month - it's only been a month! - feel like a vacation. The other day I discovered a few ants in the apartment. Not a lot, only six or seven maybe. They clustered around a scrap of food that had slipped off the table from the night before. I wiped it up with one of those Chlorox disinfecting wipes (to kill the ants and the smell all at once). I suppose I should be concerned but I can't quite manage. If ants have to exist anywhere in my apartment, I would rather find them somewhere they should be (on the floor near food) then somewhere they shouldn't (in the cupboards, in my pillowcase, pouring out of the shower, etc). Packed weekend; updates later.

and may your first child be a masculine child

Professor Coldheart — Tue, 15 Jul 2008 11:00:22 +0000

My very good friends Bobby and Claire got married by my friend Christine this past Saturday at the Tower Hill Botanical Garden in distant Boylston, MA. I snagged a last-minute invite to this exclusive party, so I dusted off my nicest suit and carpooled out with Bob and Mia. Highlights:

"Marriage," Christine began. "Marriage is what brings us together today. Marriage, that blessed arrangement, that dream within a dream ..." I had been privy to this secret for about a year and shared Christine's delight that everyone got it within a sentence or two.
IB Musician Adam Brooks heralded Bobby down the aisle to the Indiana Jones theme and heralded the married couple out to the Ghostbusters theme.
Bobby's voice grew a little hoarse as he read his vows, and a small plane passing overhead made it impossible to hear him. "Louder!" someone yelled from the back. "This is probably the first time in my life when I'm not projecting," Bobby sighed.
Open bar!
Bobby's gift to the wedding party: three-foot high foam puppets of each of them. The similarity frightened me in every instance.
Claire's dad gave an entertaining and moving speech, to be sure, but Bobby's high school buddy Frank stole the show. "Claire, you look more stunning than the day I met you," he said during the toast. "Which was yesterday, so ..."
Open bar!
Blake tried to drag me on to the dance floor prematurely (I'll go when I'm good and ready, thank you). He grabbed me by the hands before he realized what he was doing. "Don't break my wrists," he said. "I can't!" "No, you totally could." "No, I can't do jiu-jitsu on the day of my friend's wedding. It's a Sicilian tradition."
Appetizers included saucy meatballs with little pretzel sticks in them and an extensive cheese tray.
I did get up to dance eventually, in a variety of vogues, vamps and dance-offs with everyone in attendance. Embarrassing pictures may surface. At one point, however, the entire IB contingent swarmed the floor to scream along with "Living On A Prayer." The rest of us kept our distance, out of respect.
Open bar!

Congrats to the happy couple.

I can has utility

Professor Coldheart — Wed, 16 Jul 2008 11:00:20 +0000

At the request of Alex and Meghan, re: last week's post on Social Security, I have decided to lay out some important economic principles in a format you may recognize and understand. Join me for today's lecture in lolcatnomics. SUPPLY AND DEMAND Nothing in life comes for free. Everything worth having costs money or the sweat of your brow. And even if Stephen Hawking discovered instant psychic cold fusion tomorrow, enabling every human being to turn anything into anything else with a thought, time would still limit our desires. The theory of supply and demand models the intersection of wants, resources and what we can willingly pay. You learn supply and demand in Econ 101; it's fairly simple. There are years worth of theories and details that complicate the basics of supply and demand further (demand elasticity, menu costs, etc). But nothing you learn later on invalidates this basic principle. If we both want the same dish of food, we must come to some accord. Your two takeaways from this: (1) Nothing Comes Free. When someone talks about "universal health care," read that as "subsidized health care." When a retailer promises "free shipping," that means they pay for the shipping instead of you - and they've probably jacked up the sale price as a result. Everything costs something. (2) You Pay One Way Or You Pay Another. When President Nixon put caps on the price of oil in the 70s, gas lines formed as a result. When drivers could no longer outbid each other using money, they started to outbid each other using time - time spent waiting in line. You see similar results today with concert tickets or the iPhone. MARGINAL UTILITY Unlimited wants, limited resources, like I said. So, when we get something, we use it to fulfill our most important want first. Every additional unit of that good fulfills a less important want. If you only had 1 gallon of water per day, you would probably use it to fulfill thirst (or you'd die). The next gallon of water can be used for hygiene; the next for cooking nutritious food, and so on. This means that each additional unit of a good has diminishing marginal utility. This idea stumped economists for a while. In Adam Smith's time, theorists called it the "diamond / water paradox": why does water, which we need for life, cost so much less than diamonds, which we use for jewelry? For a time, Smith and other economists used the labor theory of value to answer this question: the idea that the value of a good was a function of the labor required to create it. However, this fails once different people start valuing the same thing differently. I don't care if you made that Subaru Brat by hand or on an assembly line; I don't want to buy it. (And the answer isn't "scarcity," either - not everything scarce is valuable) Rather, the marginal utility of a good - its "next best use" - determines what I willingly give up for it. If I am a hungry kitteh who values nothing but Food and Sleep, I will continue eating Food until the next mouthful will no longer satisfy me. Then, I will fall Asleep. Humans have somewhat more complex value systems, but the idea stands. Your two takeaways from this: (1) The Labor Theory of Value Is Dumb. I still find people who subscribe to this notion, and not just in colleges. Only a few months ago I passed a car parked on the streets of Cambridge with a bumper sticker reading "LABOR IS THE SOURCE OF ALL VALUE." Crazies, I know. (2) Extra Isn't Always Better. At least 80% of Massachusetts' high school students graduate within 4 years, per the most recent data I could find. Getting the graduation rate from 70 to 80% must have yielded some impressive benefits. Would getting it from 80 to 90% yield the same? And what would that cost, vs. the cost the Commonwealth paid to get from 70 to 80%? ALL COSTS ARE OPPORTUNITY COSTS We tend to think of cost, price and value in terms of dollars - paper currency, bank statements, the financial bottom line. But dollars, as I've mentioned before, act as a symbol for other goods. When I spend $20 on something, I'm not giving up that $20 - I'm giving up everything else that I could have spent that $20 on. Economists call this an opportunity cost - I give up the opportunity to use the good I trade for something else. A hungry mutt can use his freedom for a lot of things - chasing trucks, harassing kittens, exploring the upstairs, going to his food dish. He should only get stuck in a cat door if he thinks something really tasty lies on the other side. He exchanges his freedom - meaning, his ability to chase trucks, harass kittens, explore the upstairs, etc - for something more awesome than all of those things. To talk about this in human terms, say we're bartering between my sack of oranges and your stock of handmade shoes. I will only give up an orange if the next best use (see: marginal utility, above) to which I could put a pair of shoes beats the next best use to which I could put an orange. However, I have a lot of oranges - a whole sack of them. I have already eaten oranges and made orange juice and planted orange seeds for the future. I will be giving up relatively few orange opportunities if I trade you a couple, and I'll be opening up an exciting new future of shoe opportunities if I get a pair of shoes. Your two takeaways from this one: (1) It's Not Just About The Dollars. A real cost is what you give up in order to get something. If you have an opportunity in your life that you can't measure in dollars - a free concert ticket, a potential new roommate, the birth of a new child - think about what you would be giving up in order to get that thing. (2) Time Limits All Options. As I said above, even if the human race discovered instant psychic cold fusion tomorrow, we would still lack for the time to do everything we might want to do. Time always conspires to shrink our opportunities, even if money remains plentiful. Even if what we choose to do today costs us nothing - someone offers me Red Sox tickets and a ride to the park and buys me beer - I still pay an opportunity cost of time I might have spent doing other things. COMPARATIVE ADVANTAGE Despite being an early proponent of the labor theory of value that I talked about earlier, David Ricardo produced one work of unquestionable genius as an economist: the theory of comparative advantage. Comparative advantage explains why trade grows wealth more than any other activity. If I'm better at catching mice and you're better at guarding against intruders, we'll have a happier household if I do most of the mouse-catching and you do most of the sleeping in front of the door. That's common sense. But let's say you're better than me at both mouse-catching and guard duty. We'll still be better off if you focus on guarding while I scamper along the baseboards. Why? Because every minute you spend hunting is a minute you could spend making the house safer (opportunity costs; see above). You could try to take on both, and do neither of them well, or you could specialize in one and let me take the other. That's a big enough deal that I want to restate it: you can be better than me at everything that matters and trading with me will still improve your lot. Your two takeaways from this one: (1) Trade Enriches Both Parties. What makes freer markets wealthier than stricter ones is the exchange of goods and services. It's not the act of producing or stockpiling goods that make a person or a state rich - it's the act of trading them. Trade makes sure that goods get into the hands of the person who values them most. (2) Lou Dobbs Is The Stupidest Man On Television. Joe Morgan may be dumber, but it's close. Every time the U.S. trades with another country - whether it's labor, in the form of outsourcing; goods, in the form of imports; or capital, in the form of Chinese people buying American companies - Lou Dobbs flips out. Keep this as a steady rule: anything that Lou Dobbs gets mad at will put wealth in American pockets. CAPITAL MAKES THE DIFFERENCE Finally, what makes poor countries poor and rich countries rich has little to do with natural resources or the sheer numbers of the labor pool. Bangladesh has plenty of arable land, and China's population dwarfs that of neighboring Hong Kong. Rather, capital makes the difference - a mental investment in either machinery or technique that allows work to be done more efficiently. A few examples of world-changing capital off the top of my head: the telegraph, the railroad, crop rotation, the scientific method, the computer, the automobile, assembly line processes, washing your hands with soap, the printing press, sewers, domesticated fire, latitude and longitude ... and I could keep going. Think of capital not just as factories and machines, but any discovery that reduces wasted time. Capital requires savings - either mine or someone else's. If I want to build a roof over my head, I have to take time out from hunting boar or eating the boar that I've hunted. That time represents a cost (see opportunity costs, above), in that I could be spending that time at leisure or in getting the food I need. In civilized society, I don't need to save up all the money necessary to buy a house - I can borrow someone else's savings. But somebody has to have saved up resources at some point in order for capital to grow. Savings requires security. If I think I have a low chance of surviving the week, I'm not putting money toward retirement. Countries wracked with violence, corruption and sickness, like sub-Saharan Africa, never have much in the way of savings. As a result, they never have much in the way of capital, and thus will never grow far past a subsistence level. Sure, a dictator can seize other peoples' meager savings (as Mugabe did in Zimbabwe, or Chavez did in Venezuela), but that sort of trick only works once. Getting these countries out of the cycle of destruction will probably require the creation of institutions that keep people secure: honest police, reliable banks, clean and well-lit roads, etc. Leave a kitteh to its own devices and it can only wreck your house. Give a kitteh the Internet and the world trembles. Your two takeaways from this last one: (1) Capital Makes The Difference. Economists rarely succeed at picking stock market winners, because economics and business are two different disciplines. You wouldn't ask a physicist to build a bridge. But if you want a general idea of how a company, a region or a state will grow, take a look at the actions and policies that affect the growth of savings and, therefore, capital. How does borrowing compare against saving? Are plants, factories or processes being designed that will create future output? How long will it take to start turning a profit, and what costs will they have to pay - in other words, what opportunities will they have to forgo - before getting there? (2) Every Investment May Fail. Consider time the universal currency. Investing it in satisfying your immediate needs pays off. Investing it in leisure time also works, too. But investing it in capital - whether a hut on your desert island, a stake in the East India Trading Company, or the mortgage of your house - always has risks. You're forgoing present consumption and immediate labor for a future pay-off. The future's weird and uncertain, though. Even if you calculated everything correctly, something may change very soon - a tsunami, a new Rajah, a change in new housing builds - that you could not have anticipated. You can trace most legislation since the Code of Hammurabi to someone losing returns on capital. # # # You could learn all of the above in a good Introduction to Economics class. But not everyone takes Econ 101, not everyone who takes it remembers it, and not everyone who remembers it understands the practical implications. If kittens falling out of ceiling vents or staring bug-eyed at you helps cement these basic principles in your head, then I see nothing wrong with them.

pattycake, pattycake, I'm the baker's man

Professor Coldheart — Thu, 17 Jul 2008 11:00:28 +0000

Answer the questions in this post and I will reward you with spices from Araby, silks from Cathay. * * * I did more than just witness a wedding this past Saturday, of course. I hit up the Union Square Farmer's Market for old time's sake, buying fresh basil and haggling over a ciabatta loaf. I hadn't intended to buy anything else, but when the butcher pointed out that only grass-fed beef went into her hot dogs I instantly bought a pack. At home, I grilled up some chicken and sandwiched it between the toasted ciabatta, along with the basil, some mozzarella and some tomato slices. I think the chicken pushed it over the edge, as the entire concoction kept threatening to disintegrate in my hands. But I still enjoyed it. The next morning, per Mia's recommendation, I toasted some ciabatta slices in the oven with mozzarella, basil and diced tomatoes for a homemade pizza. Just as delicious and much less messy. So I have ciabatta, basil, tomatoes and grass-fed beef hot dogs in my fridge (mozzarella's gone). And some grapes. What can I do with these ingredients? * * * Non-Bostonians, pay attention: the Red Line, one of the main branches of Boston's subway (the "T"), starts at Park Street near the Boston Common. It goes north into Cambridge, passing through MIT, Harvard and Tufts before ending at the Alewife T stop. You see a lot of homeless people at the Park Street, Central Square and Harvard T stops, but significantly fewer at Porter or Kendall/MIT and almost none in Davis. Then you see a bunch of panhandlers at Alewife again, which always strikes me odd because you can't really walk around Alewife. It's one of those well-paved strip malls, designed to funnel cars into Dunkin Donuts and CVSs. When James Howard Kunstler talks about places not worth caring about, he means Alewife^*. Non-Bostonians: I have brought you up to speed. Everyone: why do homeless people congregate at those T stops and not others? It costs the same amount of money to reach any of those stops. Harvard and Central get a lot of foot traffic, but Alewife gets almost none - the panhandlers there walk from car to car at the Route 2 interchange. Harvard has lots of students, but so does the Kendall/MIT stop. And if you want to rationalize about soft-hearted liberals at Harvard and their generosity to the homeless, let me stop you now: I have never once seen even the flakiest Cambridge Spartacist drop a dime in a beggar's cup. Boston may slant left, but it's the coldest left I've ever seen. I want to know why homeless and transients favor certain neighborhoods over others. This would make an excellent project for a grad student, unless the student discovers that panhandling pays better than grad school and is less demeaning. * * * Finally, I've seen a couple different car washes offering the following promotion in the last month: Ask How You Can Wash Your Car for $1 A Day. I presume this sign advertises some unlimited wash program - $30 a month, let's say. I've seen this offer at several different chains all across Cambridge, Somerville and Watertown, so more than one franchise pushes it. However, every time I stop and check the prices a little further, I see that you can get a quality car wash - wax, undercarriage rinse, the works - for about $15. So this $30/month plan only pays off if you wash your car more frequently than once every two weeks - in other words, for neurotics only. Granted, you should not come to me for car wash advice - the rust stains on my hood promoted my car from Sturdy Traveler to out-and-out Beater about a year ago. But does this make sense to anyone else? Should you wash your car more than once every two weeks - more often than you fill its gas tank? If not, what gives? * * * Spices and silks, people. Tick tock. _______________________ ^* You can reach Government Center, which Kunstler calls out in the linked video, on the Green Line.

you either die the hero or you live long enough to see yourself become the villain

Professor Coldheart — Mon, 21 Jul 2008 11:00:41 +0000

The Dark Knight: This is not a fun movie. This is not a campy romp through colorful villains, exotic plots and spherical bombs with sparkling fuses. This is not a thinly veiled commercial for a hot new line of action figures. This is not a toy. The Dark Knight is no more a comic book movie than The Brothers Karamazov is a whodunit. This is a good thing; this is the best possible thing. What we have instead is a dark meditation on the nature of Civilization and the Outcast - a story as old as Beowulf but better told here - coupled with horror movie tension, heartwrenching melodrama and nail-biting action. Let's hit those points one at a time: Civilization and the Outcast: The social order creates a lot of laws and customs that keep people safe. These laws, however, also shield crafty manipulators who prey on the weak - the politician who profits off graft, the mobster who cannot be compelled to incriminate himself, etc. Superhero stories arose from the fantasy of some sort of Nietszchean Overman - a man bigger than the social order - who could act outside the law and bring these assholes to justice. The superhero cannot be of society and still protect it as well as he does. That's why he wears a mask. The problem, as expounded by Miller in The Dark Knight Returns and Moore in The Killing Joke: if we admit we're playing outside the rules, then what limits us? Why should this masked man who believes he's above the law follow any limits at all? What happens when he meets a man who genuinely has no limits? And what does it say of the social order that we not only idolize, but seem to need, these sorts of outcasts? The Joker presents Batman with that rare and perfect dilemma. He cannot be reasoned with, intimidated or threatened with death. It requires exceptional effort to even outthink him - the man is a twisted genius. The only plausible response is to beat him to death with your bare hands, and that's the one thing the Batman will not do. So how does Civilization deal with the Outcast - especially when it's grown so accustomed to another Outcast doing its dirty work? Most action movies lay a thin veneer of philosophy over a slapdash of unconnected setpieces. The Dark Knight, on the other hand, starts with its philosophy. The abstract concepts of Reason, Chaos and Law put on colorful masks and duke it out with bare fists. Horror Movie Tension: This is, as I said, not a fun movie. Once it becomes clear that the Joker's capable of the craziest and most fatal things, you never sit comfortable once he's on screen. This is, sadly, Heath Ledger's finest performance - a complete disappearance into an alchemical compound of rage, caprice and vulgarity. And Nolan builds the tension whenever it becomes clear that the Joker is plotting something, working like an absolute master. Heartwrenching Melodrama: The essence of the superhero story, of course, is that it allows authors to explore the subtle choices that define civilized life - between career and love, between freedom and security, between nostalgia and ambition - on a grand and gaudy scale. Simply put a big, colorful villain on screen with his hand on a detonator and force the hero to choose. The movie throws our heroes - Batman, Gordon, Dent, Dawes - through a series of choices in this vein. I thought, at first, that this movie could have saved about 20 minutes by excising one subplot about a disgruntled Wayne Enterprises employee - does it really advance the storyline? could the final climax be reached in no other way? - but only later did I realize what it does. It's comic relief. For that I'm grateful, because otherwise this movie would just chew you up. Nail-Biting Action: Once again, the fight scenes are shot very dimly and with jarring cuts. Okay: that's not great. Everything else is. The car chases, the death-defying escapes, the ridiculous stunts. It's not all dark meditations on the soul and sanity; it's also good summer movie spectacle. Final Thoughts: Todd Alcott stole all the good points I wanted to make, such that my sophomoric little spiel on Civilization and the Outcast above is my attempt at carving out a different niche. His two big points, which I'll echo here:

Yes, Batman's a little gravelly. But you have to make a conscious effort to remind yourself that Captain James Gordon is played by Gary friggin' Oldman, of all people. You know, the guy who played Beethoven? Dracula? Sid Vicious? Holy hell, what an amazing talent. Better than Johnny Depp, for my money.
The Dark Knight should serve to remind directors and producers that the comic book movie doesn't have to be shallow, formulaic and predictable. Justifying a summer movie as "mindless fun" doesn't fly anymore. You can have drama, tension, redemptive moments and character growth. The Dark Knight may not be as good as The Godfather II (a comparison Alcott heard often enough to call it "silly"), but it marks the same watershed moment: it shows that a movie is capable of transcending its stereotypes. A genre which is capable of this, to quote Raymond Chandler, is not by definition incapable of anything.

Recommended without qualification. See it soonest. Spoilers in the comments.

groovy, groovy, jazzy, funky

Professor Coldheart — Tue, 22 Jul 2008 13:24:59 +0000

Having talked about The Dark Knight at length, I will now talk about all the trailers I saw before The Dark Knight. The Spirit: Holy hell, this looks like the worst movie ever. It takes a real piece of work like Frank Miller to look at the 40-year history of Will Eisner's most celebrated character and say, "You know what this guy's all about? He's all about the fuckin'. That's what he's all about." So we have some mediocre actors jumping in front of green screens, a guy I've never heard of murmuring the kind of dialogue that Frank Miller finds sexy, and Samuel L. Jackson screaming and waving machine guns, made up like Boy George in full kabuki regalia. Who would want to watch this garbage? Body of Lies: How mediocre does a movie directed by Ridley Scott, and starring Leonardo diCaprio and Russell Crowe, have to look to turn me off? This mediocre. Ho hum, spy betrayed by his masters, starts pointing guns at people. Wake me up when we hit 2002, would you? Bolt: Wow. I got really excited when I thought this movie was about a superpowered dog, and then promptly lost all interest when I realized it was a Homeward Bound knock-off. Who makes that choice? Who, when presented with two possible stories - one about a dog with a supersonic bark and unnatural strength and the kickass adventures it has; and one about a dog, a cat and a hamster traveling across the country - decides that the one that's been told two thousand times will put more asses in seats? A Hollywood producer, of course. The Day The Earth Stood Still: Looks far better than any remake of The Day The Earth Stood Still starring Keanu Reeves has a right to. The trailer suggests that the latter half of the movie should kick the audience's ass; I make no promises to anything else. The original 50s movie dripped with ham-water preaching (well, sure, I feel like a jackass for shooting the compound that cured all diseases out of your hands, but you could have let us know what it was a few minutes earlier). I hope the remake retains the sentiment and heightens the tension while letting up on the moralizing. Watchmen: I see that the "visionary" director of 300 has decided to use a graphic novel as a storyboard again, which sort of puts the lie to the adjective "visionary." This made sense for 300, as crisp, glossy CGI trumps Frank Miller's jagged chicken-scratch any day of the week. But considering that Watchmen was already one of the best illustrated graphic novels in the history of the medium, what will a movie add? Instead of reading a panel where Ozymandias hits an assassin with a bronze pillar, now we'll see him actually pick it up and swing. We also get to see actors who don't sound like the people we imagined when we first read the book deliver abbreviated versions of the dialogue we loved. Don't get me wrong; I'll probably see it anyway. Terminator: Salvation: I have no feelings either way regarding this movie. I fell out of love with the Terminator franchise around T3 (I thought the director made a few daring choices and a lot of staid ones). Christian Bale, okay. Whatever. Does nothing for me.

my heart is like an open highway

Professor Coldheart — Wed, 23 Jul 2008 11:00:54 +0000

If you already have a list of potential Christmas presents for me, note down the following: An Unbreakable Umbrella: The security entourage of the President of the Philippines carries these. The Unbreakable Umbrella can support the weight of a full-grown man and acts as a fully functioning umbrella. It will pass through any metal detector or casual inspection. It will also wreck the shit of any person you hit with it. Price: $180 [youtube=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bO8G5zsQohg] Five-In-One Emergency Tool: Saw this in SkyMall while flying to Baltimore this past weekend. SkyMall regularly targets weird product niches, like "things to help you break out of a trapped car," this being the latest in that line. This keychain conceals a spring loaded stainless steel pin that can supposedly shatter auto glass - just the thing if you drive into a lake or flip over your car or if you get bored with opening the door. Sick puppy that I am, I see a concealed metal pin that can break a windshield and I wonder what else it can do. Some drunk asshole starts shoving you around, pull this out of your pocket and hide it in your hand. Warn him to back off. Then, should he fail to heed you, thwack him with the business end in the temple. If this doesn't terrify his friends, or if you prefer a simpler approach, use the 140 db emergency alarm to scare them off. And if the cops show up, what can they do? I hit him with this simple keychain, officer; I dunno what happened next!^* Price: $23. Either An Asus EEE 7" Laptop Or An iPod Touch: If you love me enough to break the $200 price ceiling - an arbitrary limit, really - I would not mind having a very tiny computer to take around with me. The Asus EEE does everything I need a laptop to do - surf the web and open .doc files - and it offers the street cred of running Linux. However, for the same dollars, you could get an iPod Touch with 4x the storage space and a glossier display. But no keyboard. Ultimate usability on one hand, ultimate portability on the other. Decisions, decisions. Price: $400. Becoming Batman: The Possibility of a Superhero: Do I even need to describe this one?

Possessing no supernatural powers, Batman is the most realistic of all the superheroes. His feats are achieved through rigorous training and mental discipline, and with the aid of fantastic gadgets. Drawing on his training as a neuroscientist, kinesiologist, and martial artist, E. Paul Zehr explores the question: could a mortal ever become Batman? Zehr discusses the physical and skill training necessary to maintain bad-guy-fighting readiness while relating the science underlying this process, from strength conditioning to the cognitive changes a person would endure in undertaking such a regimen. In probing what a real-life Batman could achieve, Zehr considers the level of punishment a consummately fit and trained person could handle, how hard and fast such a person could punch and kick and the number of adversaries that individual could dispatch, what it would be like to fight while wearing a batsuit, and the amount of food one would have to consume each day to maintain vigilance as Gotham City's guardian.

Price: $18 ____________ ^* Periscope Depth does not advocate the use of this product in felony assault.

if I had a million dollars

Professor Coldheart — Wed, 23 Jul 2008 18:28:44 +0000

A random sampling of The Joy of Tech tells me it's not very funny, but this comic specifically made me laugh aloud: (Also: sorry for getting a Barenaked Ladies song stuck in your head. I don't normally forgive that behavior in others, and I understand if you don't forgive me)

am I coming through? am I coming through?

Professor Coldheart — Thu, 24 Jul 2008 11:00:16 +0000

Though you have to scan in to enter the fitness center near my office, you can walk right out the back with no trouble. The back door communicates directly to my office, so I always slip out that way. A big sign on the door reads Caution Emergency Exit Alarm Will Sound, but it never has. The sign fails at its ruse. Of course, one of these days the fire code will catch up with us and the fitness center will have to turn the emergency exit alarm back on. Then, for about nine weeks, the alarm will go off at least three times a day as everyone used to slipping out the back learns that the alarm actually works now. I wonder about the easiest way to prevent these mishaps when the day comes. My thought: a sign, handwritten in Sharpie, taped to the door which reads: The Emergency Exit Alarm Actually Works Now. Don't Open This Door Or You'll Set It Off. A handwritten sign looks different enough that it draws the eye. And you can't miss big Sharpie block lettering. My follow-up thought: rather than activate the alarm, why not just put up that sign? If you want people to stop using that door, you can turn on the alarm and post the sign warning people, or you can just post the sign. An incentive to create an effect is an incentive to create the appearance of an effect, after all. Sure, an actual alarm would make me safer, but if the sign makes me think the alarm works, then the sign makes me think I'm safer. And really, thinking I'm safer is almost as good as actually being safer. Almost. I think about these things when a TSA goon in a short-sleeved dress shirt rifles through my toiletries kit, shaking my bottle of contact lens solution as if that proves it's not a bomb.

all of her lovers, they talk of her notes and the flowers that they never sent

Professor Coldheart — Fri, 25 Jul 2008 11:00:01 +0000

Overstuffed media blow. The Heart is a Lonely Hunter: I unwittingly joined the Oprah Book Club by picking up this one up used. A fantastically nuanced portrait of the immense loneliness a person can feel even in the heart of civilization. The fact that McCullers wrote this at age 23 will astound me, and probably bother me, for weeks. Nothing else to add to 3 generations of critical acclaim for this book. Dress to Kill: Marie learned, to her dismay, that I'd never seen Eddie Izzard do stand-up, so she sat me down to watch it this past Wednesday. It takes a little bit to ramp up but then it takes off at a lightning clip. I prefer Izzard at his smallest - the tiny nuances, like the Pilgrims saying "Pardon me" to the Indians, or the way he can do an entire 5-minute routine in French - rather than his biggest: the crazy noises and the wacky faces and the flailing about. Anyhow: I liked it. Soon I Will Be Invincible: Borrowed this off my dad's bookshelf when I visited Baltimore. I picture the novel's protagonist, supervillain Dr. Impossible, as Stephen Colbert for two reasons. One, because he voiced a character named "Professor Impossible" on the Venture Bros. and the association stuck. Second, because he really fits the type: that naturalistic blend of arrogance and self-pity. I wanted more of him and less of his counterpoint, a new recruit for the world's premier superhero team. The novel also teeters weirdly in tone between blissful embrace of its silly, comic book roots and self-conscious disdain for them. Save for those points, the novel will move and entertain you very easily. Psychedelic Furs Greatest Hits: Picked this up for $9 in Newbury Comics. Not a sleeper on here. I don't know what about New Wave touches the right chords in my brain, but I love it so much. Love In The Ruins: Walker Percy's smug Catholicism aside, Love In The Ruins paints an entertaining picture of the 60s run rampant. Cars have largely been abandoned, free love gets tested and measured in clinics, hopelessly abstract leftists feud with intransigent conservative Knotheads. In front of all this sits Dr. Tom More, whose pocket encephalograph - which he calls a lapsometer - can not only diagnose spiritual illness but correct it with a dose of radioactive sodium. Comical chaos ensues. A fun read, but, knowing now just how seriously Percy takes his religion I probably don't need to read another.

yeah, flipmode; flipmode the greatest

Professor Coldheart — Mon, 28 Jul 2008 12:58:49 +0000

I visited the Isabella Stewart Gardner museum for the first time this Sunday, taking Rachel V. as a birthday present. My impressions: the first floor felt a little cluttered, though the courtyard looked pristine. The second and third floors looked stately and impressive. The curators have labeled almost none of the pieces, leaving the audience to guess at what they mean (Lindsay, you'd have a blast playing "docent for a day" here). Saturday morning, I squeezed in a workout at the BSC in Davis with Marie. I finished my routine earlier than she did, so I decided to sauna before I showered off. The balls-out naked man doing push-ups on the floor of the sauna gave me pause at first - it's a pretty small room; I couldn't exactly step over him - but I finagled my way in. The dude then leaned over the radiator, breathing in hot dry air in ragged, panting gulps, before toddling off to a shower. Still, better than the Central Square BSC any day. Later I did some paperwork and watched Vertigo. I had kept myself free of half a century worth of spoilers through some miracle, so everything after the first hour caught me completely by surprise. The movie deserves all its critical acclaim: the Hermann score, the weird cinematography and the two leads cooperate to induce a dreamlike hypnosis over the audience. You believe that Stewart and Novak are the only two people in the city, or even on the planet. I also had some drinks with Serpico and Rachel V. in celebration of their birthday at the classy B-Sides Lounge in Cambridge. They pour a tasty Manhattan. I alternated between socializing - giving Dave S. advice on how to pick up girls, a position I never thought I'd find myself in - and watching the UFC fights on TV. "Why are they fighting?" Rachel asked. "Is it over a girl? Is it a land dispute?" "Yes, it's land," I told her. "We're watching the Ninth Circuit Court of Appeals." On Friday, not only did I hit up 90s Night (again), but I stopped by Melanie T's party downtown. She has a place on Boylston St. behind the State House with a stupefyingly gorgeous view. Probably the best view in Boston - you can see from the Zakim Bridge to Southie from the roof deck. I snacked and I chatted up coworkers. The consensus on marriage: expensive! Enter with caution.

nat turner with the sickle, pitchfork and machete

Professor Coldheart — Tue, 29 Jul 2008 12:39:30 +0000

Could someone with more street cred than I explain the appeal of Lil' Wayne? He has the most mediocre flow of any mainstream rapper I've heard in months, combined with the voice of the pimple-faced teenager from The Simpsons. Compress Lil' John by 80% and hit him in the face with a plugged-in iron and you get Lil' Wayne. For instance, find below one of his "hot" new releases, "Lollipop."[youtube=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JIG1Vr0h_aE]No flow. No rhymes. Not even very good production values. On the other end of the spectrum, why did nobody tell me about Immortal Technique? Damn. Mix the literate stylings of Mos Def with the raw attitude of Method Man and Immortal Technique comes pouring out. Listen to him name drop Zyklon-B, the Knights Templars and the star called "Wormwood" from the Book of Revelations in "The Point of No Return":[youtube=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Igt-jW4e8ts] Finally, I think I may have discovered the worst thing on YouTube. So, as much as I love the Notorious B.I.G. and the gangsta style, his song "Gimme Da Loot" has always made me really uncomfortable. Listen to the lyrics and you hear a different Biggie than you might be used to: an insecure murderer hopped up on meth. Consider:

Man, listen all this walking is hurting my feet But money, look! Sweet! (where?) In the Isuzu jeep! Man, I throw him in the Beem, you grab the fucking cream and if he start to scream - bam, bam - have a nice dream! Hold up, he got a fucking bitch in the car Fur coats and diamonds, she thinks she a superstar. Ooh Biggie, let me jack her, I kick her in the back Hit her with the gat / Yo chill, Shorty, let me do that

You really have to listen to it to get the sense of disgust in the "fur coats and diamonds" line. How dare she think she's better than the streets! Look at her, dressing up and wearing nice things. Ha, ha. We'll show her. Anyhow, yeah, not my favorite. As offensive as that song sounds, could it possibly get any worse? Yes. That song could get worse with two white boys in ski masks and Enyce jerseys lip syncing it:[youtube=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=waBdx1mgUaA]That is how that song could get worse.

president gas is up for president

Professor Coldheart — Wed, 30 Jul 2008 11:00:25 +0000

Time to talk politics. First, hitting up the Opposition Party, Radley Balko has a few questions for Barack Obama:

In your autobiography, you admit to using marijuana and cocaine in high school and college. Yet you largely support the federal drug war — a change from several years ago when you said you'd be open to decriminalizing marijuana. Would Barack Obama be where he is today if he had been arrested in college for using drugs? Doesn't the fact that you and our current president (who has all but admitted to prior drug use) have risen to such high stature suggest that the worst thing about illicit drugs is not the drugs themselves, but what the government will do to you if you're caught?

He also has some questions on farm subsidies and ethanol, but I like that question best. Next, picking on the Ruling Party candidate, John McCain has changed another of his long held political beliefs, this one on cigarette taxes:

McCain’s war against the tobacco companies – and this former POW does believe the metaphor is appropriate – stands as a self-acknowledged failure. In 1997, McCain was the moving force behind legislation to expand government powers to regulate tobacco and to levy a tax on cigarettes of more than a dollar per pack. In 1998, the legislation failed, but McCain helped to broker the industry’s $338 billion settlement with state legislators. McCain developed an antipathy to tobacco lobbyists. He once threw lobbyist Charlie Black out of his Senate office because Black worked for Phillip Morris at that time. (Black now works for McCain as a strategist.) McCain now opposes sin taxes on cigarettes. He said he worries that Congress would put the additional money into a general revenue pool. "Does anyone here have confidence in Congress?" he asked the crowd. Moderator Paula Zahn was skeptical. Might McCain change his mind if researchers proved that raisng the tobacco tax would help lower smoking rates?

Finally, I have to credit Patri for pointing this out: the Congressional Effect Fund, an equity fund that only buys long on the days Congress sits in session and looks for interest-bearing securities otherwise. Their reasoning: the market reacts spasmodically to Congressional pronouncements - e.g., Congress declares higher fuel standards for cars; car company stocks fall - so you'll do better to invest when Congress goes on vacation. I wouldn't sink my retirement fund into it just yet. The graph looks convincing, sure, but any fool with a degree in Finance can fair a curve with 40 years of past results. However, I respect the logic behind it, so I might pitch a couple bucks their way.

can it be the casanova speech therapy that heavily puts the flavor right where it should be?

Professor Coldheart — Thu, 31 Jul 2008 11:26:28 +0000

"Ever sift sand through a screen?" she asked. The tangential slash of her question shocked his mind into a higher awareness. - Frank Herbert, Dune I had about four minutes to go, three blocks from my front door, when the girl in the blue T-shirt and worn clipboard spotted me. "Hi?" she asked, dropping her last conversation like a hot roll. "Do you have five minutes to save the Earth?" "Have they paid you yet?" I asked, continuing to walk. The rehearsed smile vanished. "What? Yeah." "Make sure they pay you. I know too many people who worked for them all summer and didn't get paid." The effort of pitching my voice and speaking over my shoulder while I continue to walk tightens my throat. If she says anything else I don't hear it. It's an open secret that the same vaguely left political organization, wearing the hat of either Greenpeace, the Sierra Club or MassPIRG, hires students in Boston at dismal wages every summer. They stand them on busy street corners with clipboards and pens and ask them to get donations. No cash, no checks; only credit cards or bank account numbers will do. Income streams, not splashes; that's what save the environment. It's such a well-known feature of the Boston landscape that copycats have sprung up, scamming people out of a few dollars in order to "end racism". The students get paid on commission. Most quit early. The ones who do rarely get their checks. When I see a Greenpeace / Sierra Club / MassPIRG solicitor asking for my time, I keep walking and shout that question over my shoulder. "Have they paid you yet?" No student should have to spend all summer sweating in Boston's asphalt oven without at least getting what they're owed. They could cut lawns and see more money. I was a poor student in Boston once; I sympathize. Here's the dirty secret, though: even if GP/SC/MaPR didn't cheat these kids out of a measly $12 an hour, I'd still ask that question. I'm a malcontent like that. I like finding the line or trick or reaction that shakes them out of the routine. Managers drill routines into these poor kids' heads - "if they say they can't afford it, say this; if they want to give you cash, say this" - and the most successful ones stick to those routines. I like breaking them out of the patter and forcing them to think on their feet. And I want to keep at it. I want to find the one thing to say to a Scientologist, handing out fliers for a "free psychological evaluation," that'll get him to question what he's doing. I want the one question that'll make a defender of the Iraq Civil War sit back and re-evaluate. I look for the pithy remark, the turn of phrase, the unexpected insight. Forget debating; forget yelling. Give me the unorthodox strategy and the left-handed attack. Per Deirdre McCloskey (though apparently Boudreaux paraphrases her), no one was ever convinced by raw data of a proposition that he did not already hold true. It's never the brute fact that changes our minds. It's the image. It's the new perspective. It's the weird new angle. It's the sea of faces on the Washington Mall, or the lone man in front of the tank treads, or the Vietnamese general putting a gun to the prisoner's head. Ditch the old arguments. Reframe the debate.

I guess that everything is better wherever you are

Professor Coldheart — Thu, 31 Jul 2008 17:36:34 +0000

The war on fat has just crossed a major red line. The Los Angeles City Council has passed an ordinance prohibiting construction of new fast-food restaurants in a 32-square-mile area inhabited by 500,000 low-income people.
We're not talking anymore about preaching diet and exercise, disclosing calorie counts, or restricting sodas in schools. We're talking about banning the sale of food to adults. Treating French fries like cigarettes or liquor. I didn't think this would happen in the United States anytime soon. I was wrong.
The mayor hasn't yet signed the ordinance, but he probably will, since it passed unanimously. It doesn't affect existing restaurants, and initially it will impose only a one-year moratorium. But that period is likely to be extended to two years or more, and the prohibition's sponsor hopes to make it permanent.

Slate, July 31 2008

Tell me I'm being an extremist. Tell me I'm fighting a futile battle. Tell me I'm missing some finer point that justifies banning this harmless life choice but not your pet cause. I've heard it before. Just please stop telling me that I'm fucking crazy.

-perich.livejournal.com, Feb 1 2008

a man in my shoes runs the light

Professor Coldheart — Fri, 01 Aug 2008 12:57:05 +0000

Vivid dreams of marriage and work last night. If it weren't a Friday I'd be worried. # # # Went out to lunch with a client on Wednesday and consumed my month's quota of cheese. Tequenos and queso a la plancha as appetizers; chorizo quesadilla for the entree. I felt irregularly massed for the rest of the afternoon. # # # The Red Sox decision to trade a guy who beat up his coworkers sure has attracted a lot of debate! # # # I put some serious thought into applying for work as a bouncer yesterday. I could make some extra cash, meet some interesting people. Plus - and this has bothered me for a while - for all my vaunted self-defense training, another human being has never taken a swing at me in anger. I don't think Palahniuk's Fight Club glistens with pearls of wisdom, but not knowing everything about yourself until you get in a fight holds true. Especially if you teach other people how to fight once a week. Then I remembered I don't have any free time, and the kind of drunken assholes I'd have to associate with, and the whim passed me by. # # # Consider the following investment portfolio:

75% in VEU (Vanguard's All World Except US ETF - an international index fund);
20% in VDE (Vanguard's Energy Index Fund);
5% in SPDR Barclays Capital TIPS ETF (an inflation-indexed bond fund)

After much deliberation, I will probably buy those this weekend. Don't you run out and buy them all up just to drive the prices higher, you twenty or so people who read this.

at midnight, all the agents and the superhuman crew go out and round up everyone who knows more than they do

Professor Coldheart — Sun, 03 Aug 2008 11:00:20 +0000

I have rather low hopes for Watchmen. Here's why: "Ground floor, coming up." If you read the original graphic novel, you realize that fully half of David Gibbons' panels take advantage of word play in Alan Moore's script. Or perhaps vice versa. Look for double meanings while the cops sweep Blake's apartment in Chapter 1. Or the intercut between the Dreiberg/Juspeczyk fight scene and the Dr. Manhattan interview in Chapter 3. It would get a little tired after a while if Moore and Gibbons couldn't pull it off - but pull it off they have. How that translates to the big screen I have no clue. If Zach Snyder, "visionary director of 300," intends to use the graphic novel as a storyboard, will he intercut back and forth between disparate scenes as well? Because that may work in a comic book, but I can almost promise it will fail on the big screen. "There is good and there is evil, and even in the face of Armageddon I will not compromise." I worry that the director will try to make one of the cast into a hero, and that would ruin the story. The whole god-damned point of Watchmen is that our classical conceptions of The Hero are childish fantasies. Living in a world with people who wear masks, or walk through walls, would drive people insane. I fear particularly that Rohrshach might come out the hero, because he has that edgy cool narration and he skulks on rooftops and he fights people with his bare hands. Sure, he's an archconservative, but adolescent power fantasies are always archconservative - the dream that the world would be better if only the right people died. That's why neocons got all wet and rubbery for the latest Batman movie. (Entirely different from the reasons I got wet and rubbery for the latest Batman movie, of course) But even if the director rightly kills Rohrshach off in the climax - not in heroic sacrifice, mind you, but being put out of his misery like a rabid dog - Snyder still might try to make someone else the big hero. Night Owl, maybe. Miss Jupiter. And I suppose you could still tell a story with most of the same cast that has a happy ending and it'd merely look mediocre. But why call it Watchmen, then? "Once more: I engineered a monster, cloned its brain from a human psychic, sent it to New York and killed half the city." Finally, there's the ending to deal with. Simply put, the ending to Watchmen can only work in a comic book. It cannot work in any other medium. You have to get slowly drawn into a world where people run around in costumes - and if you ever saw any of that awful Stan Lee reality show, Who Wants To Be A Superhero, you know how ridiculous human beings look in neon spandex - and where the world regularly gets endangered. Only then does the notion of (1) cloning a (2) giant alien from (3) the brain of a psychic and (4) teleporting it to New York where (5) its death throes will kill three million make any sort of sense. If one link in that chain fails, the entire ending fails. Watchmen pulls it off. Don't ask me how. Even the characters in the story can't quite believe it - Night Owl has the hardest time - because of the sheer absurdity involved. But it works, because it's the "are you insane?" meaning of absurd, not the "ha ha, giggle giggle" meaning of absurd. I don't think the average filmgoer will buy it. I think Ozymandias revealing his plan to Night Owl and Rohrshach will be greeted with confused murmurs, derisive chuckles and outright "Say WHAAT?"s in most theaters. And I don't say this because I think people are "dumb." But Ozymandias' plan - that is to say, the actual plot of Watchmen - is a very complex piece of genre work that requires a lot of buy-in from a willing audience. A book reader surrenders his credence to a book, but a movie watcher has to have it coerced out of him (which is another difference between books and movies, now that I think of it). # # # Add to all of the above the fact that I don't expect much out of any of the cast - except perhaps Billy Crudup as Dr. Manhattan - and that it's the "visionary director of 300" behind the helm, and that the whole beauty of Watchmen was the immense, global complexity that Moore and Gibbons created, which you can't exactly tell in two and a half hours ... and, well, yeah. I worry that the best we'll get is something that fuels a year's worth of parody - what did 300 leave to the world other than "This! Is! SPARTAAA!"? - and a few columns in the Entertainment section wondering if Iron Man and The Dark Knight were flukes. That's all.

the way you love me is frightening

Professor Coldheart — Tue, 05 Aug 2008 11:00:18 +0000

On Friday, I brought Marie up to speed on the joy of Road House. "Do places like this exist in the real world?" she asked. "Yes," I told her. I tried to access Vanguard's website on Saturday, but discovered that:

You need a separate account for retirement planning and for individual investing. I can see an argument for that, but you figure Vanguard would at least put some links up indicating that. I spent 15 minutes poring over my 401(k) page before realizing that there was no way to just put dollars into other funds.
Customer service doesn't come in on Saturdays.
All of their FAQ links point back to the home page. Convenient!

So Vanguard lost my business. I tried Sharebuilder next, but it took each page about 90 seconds to load, which strained my already bruised patience. I get easily frustrated with poor website layout. Grace came over and we had some beers to celebrate her passing the Massachusetts Eye Doctor Legal exam. She can now legally prescribe eyes, as opposed to selling them out of the back of her van. On Sunday, I auditioned for Gorefest - always a fun time, and I expect big things of Bobby as a director. Then I picked up some provisions for Serpico, Auston and Katie when they came over to game (the World's Smartest Man jumped inside Serpico's head; it was fun). After that, I grilled up some greasy organic hot dogs and watched The Bank Job, which is a greasy organic hot dog of a movie: made with an eye toward healthier filling, but still fun and tasty where it counts. It rained a lot.

street lights, people

Professor Coldheart — Wed, 06 Aug 2008 12:48:10 +0000

Reading the news makes you stupid:

The study, released this week in the journal Obesity, suggests that by the year 2030, nearly every American will be overweight or obese. Currently, figures from the U.S. Centers for Disease Control and Prevention put the prevalence of obesity in adults at about 66 percent. But lead study author Dr. Youfa Wang of the Johns Hopkins Bloomberg School of Public Health in Baltimore says that if current overweight and obesity trends continue, 86 percent of Americans could be overweight or obese by the year 2030. Even more troubling, the authors note, "By 2048, all American adults would become overweight or obese."

If you ever wonder whether someone does Real Science or Play Science, look for words like all, none, always, never in their press releases. I suppose it must be exciting, living in a world where scientitians can predict with confidence what the American social order will be like in 40 years. I know I sure couldn't. I would imagine that most Americans living 40 years ago - meaning, the summer of 1968 - would not have predicted that a black man would have a serious shot at upsetting a three-term U.S. Senator for the Presidency. I don't think anyone in the pre-Apollo 11 era could have predicted the cellular phone, the desktop computer, the iPod, the hybrid car, Viagra or DVDs. I doubt anyone contemporary to Vietnam could have predicted Watergate, the Iranian hostage crisis, the dismantling of the Berlin Wall, the Oklahoma City bombing, the Whitewater hearings, the razing of the World Trade Center or the Colts leaving Baltimore. But that guy! Man, that guy has it figured out! I present a short list of things that could end the obesity "epidemic" any time in the next 40 years:

Congress cuts back on or repeals sugar and corn subsidies, damming the flood of high fructose corn syrup down America's gaping gullet;
Gas prices decline to the point that Americans can indulge in the luxury of "eating local" - that's right, eating local does not reduce your carbon footprint - thus consuming more leafy greens.
A scandal on par with Enron shakes the Coca-Cola corporation, savaging the cola products market.
A mutated pox wipes out swaths of genetically engineered corn across the U.S.
Dow Chemical discovers an easily reproduced substitute for sodium, the most common food preservative.
An outbreak of Mad Cow disease scares America off of beef for 3 to 5 years.
All the currently "obese" people die off.
Nuclear holocaust? Alien invasion? The Second Coming? Really, anything.

Anyone who tells you with confidence what will happen forty years from now has just lied to you. Treat them as you would any other liar. Edit: As several folks reminded me, you can easily guarantee all of America will be obese in 2048 by simply changing the definition of obesity.

ten thousand years ago, crawling on the floor

Professor Coldheart — Thu, 07 Aug 2008 12:45:48 +0000

Three anecdotes:

Driving to work the other day, I saw a car at the light ahead of me with the license plate TLW 862. I thought nothing of it.
Driving to work the other day, I saw a car at the light ahead of me with the license plate JEP 401. "Hey," I thought, "those are my initials! And that's my birthday! Why, the odds of that happening by chance are ... over one in seventeen million! That's too improbable to have happened by chance! That license plate must have been made just for me."
While trying to reconcile the inescapable fact of the human race's evolutionary origins, creationists have been known to say, "The probability of the chance formation of a hypothetical functional ‘simple’ cell, given all the ingredients, is acknowledged to be worse than 1 in 10^⁵⁷⁸⁰⁰." That's too improbable to have happened by chance! Therefore, the Universe must have been made just for me.

The difference between #1 and #2 illustrates the error shared by #2 and #3. I owe the license plate analogy to Richard Feynman, who wasn't talking about evolution at the time. However, he did make a point about resisting the temptation to let the "specialness" of the data bias your conclusions. Just because the data means something personally important to you does not let you reason backward to a theory that would neatly justify it. If I see a license plate that's a random jumble of letters and numbers, I make no associations. If I see a license plate that's a random jumble of letters and numbers that remind me of my name and birthday, I recognize that. My mind forms an association. The data now has special significance to me. If I live in a uniquely paranoid world, I might presume that license plate was made just for me. Perhaps someone infiltrated the license plate printing press. If I live on a planet that's a sea of unthinking protoplasm, I don't assign it any significance¹. But if I live on a planet that's teeming with decision-making vertebrates, of which I happen to be one, I assign it a great deal of significance. My mind forms an association. The data now has a special importance to me. If I live in a uniquely paranoid world, I might presume that the world was made just for me. Perhaps someone lives in the clouds and makes elephants out of clay. I could spend days talking about the problems with the creationist argument that the cell, or DNA, or the brain, have "too much complexity to have evolved by chance."² But the chief problem comes from a skipped premise. The syllogism goes as follows:

The odds of the human species evolving by chance are one in a squillion.³
...
Therefore, God made us.

Seriously, that's it. What's the second premise? "One in a squillion's just too big to ever happen?" Says who? If we can conceive the number "one in a squillion" - if we can do the operations to write it down on paper, and it's not an ~~irrational~~ imaginary number like the square root of -1 - then who's to say the universe can't contain it? This illustrates the logical fallacy of petitio principii, also known as "assuming to be true the conclusion that you're trying to prove" or "begging the question." Creationists presume a specialness to the datum of human existence, then reason backward from there. In so doing, they skip a premise, in the hopes that once the numbers get too big to think about we'll just stop paying attention. But logic doesn't work that way. Neither does the universe. Creationists don't have a monopoly on this error. I just have the most fun pointing theirs out. _____________ ¹ Hell, I don't assign anything any significance - I'm just a prokaryote! ² Briefly: biologists don't assert that "humans evolved by chance," because the forces of natural selection, sexual selection, genetic drift, etc. are not "chance," in fact they follow some pretty orderly principles, maybe you'd like to read about them sometime in a 9th-grade textbook; also, it's ridiculous to speak of the state of the world as a one-in-a-squillion outcome, as that supposes that the universe is a die with a squillion other faces, or a test that's been run a squillion other times, which I have no problem asserting but doesn't come from the Intelligent Design handbook; also, what is "too much" complexity?; also, humans did not spring onto the scene as full homo sapiens, but rather descended from an enormous daisy chain of species, many of which have odds - using ridiculous creationist logic - of much less than one in a squillion of showing up; also, you're stupid. ³ I have never heard the same number quoted on any two creationist websites, unless they reference each other. I know it's a bullshit number anyway - they just start multiplying things like the number of proteins in a DNA strand until they get an impressively large number and then stare at it slack-jawed - but I'd like it to at least be consistent bullshit. Could you rubes get your act together? Have a conference call or something.

let me put you in the picture, let me show you what I mean

Professor Coldheart — Fri, 08 Aug 2008 11:00:26 +0000

Make some recommendations, Internet. First: can anyone suggest an online photo storage site other than Flickr? As I approach my 200th photo stored, Flickr keeps pestering me to upgrade to Flickr Pro. Can anyone suggest a photo storage website that is free and will let me store more than 200 photos? (I had a post on the spike touting the virtues of Flickr, too. Irony!) Second: I'm thinking about getting a subcompact (or "ultracompact") digital camera. I have my eye on the Canon PowerShot SD1100 IS; it has the features I want and a slim profile. The PowerShot SD850 IS also looks good. I only have two requirements - small enough to fit in my shirt pocket and not Sony. After that, if I can get something with decent battery life and minimal shot delay I'm happy. I eagerly await your expert advice.

a living study in demonology

Professor Coldheart — Mon, 11 Aug 2008 13:57:52 +0000

Hey sports fans. I finally checked out Mike's in Davis Square, which has just tucked its chin over the "dive bar" hurdle but not quite cleared it. Big meatball subs dripping with mozzarella and imported beer in plastic cups. You could call Mike's, if I may steal the most common line in an in-flight magazine ever, a "study in contrasts." I ended up here because I hadn't eaten that evening (Thursday), and because I wanted to see the tail end of the Ravens squeaking by the Patriots in the pre-season opener. Kyle Boller surprised me by not disintegrating into his coordinate goo, but instead launching bomb after bomb to Derrick Mason for mad points. And our second-string D sacked the Patriots' QB (not Tom Brady) six times and pulled three picks out of the air as well. In other news, Brett Favre consented to his own perpetual embarrassment by coming out of retirement to play for the ~~Packers Vikings Buccaneers~~ New York Jetropolitans. People speculate whether he should have stayed out this season, or whether this will be his final season. I say: screw that noise. I hope he has four more seasons. Let him piddle his relevancy away with a series of demeaning second- and third-string roles for increasingly worse teams, until one morning he finds himself fighting for the backup job in Cleveland with Brady Quinn. The 21st Century needs a new Vinnie Testaverde - a homeless parasite of a man, wandering from stadium to stadium, delivering mediocre performances until his name becomes a punchline. (Sorry; the man just tires me) Last bit of sports news: I watched UFC 87: Seek and Destroy in good company on Saturday night - RJ, Brett, Will S. and Mike L. All of the fights entertained us a great deal - even the 0:12 second knockout between two Ultimate Fighter also-rans. Some highlights:

Cheick Kongo. Expect him to be a competitive heavyweight name in some later fights. He's a big, tough dude who moves like a Ferrari.
Demian Maia. A skilled jiu-jitsu practitioner, he took down the ugly Jason MacDonald with a very proficient rear choke. Reach advantage rarely helps inside the grapple.
Condom Depot. One of the fighters had CONDOM DEPOT sprayed across the ass of his trunks, in an unfortunately suggestive sponsorship deal.
Light Flo Day. Boston's own Kenny Florian took down Minnesota's own Roger Huerta in a fantastic lightweight fight that went all three rounds. Florian has a pretty amazing arsenal - he kicks, punches and grapples remarkably well. He mentioned his soon-to-open martial arts school in Boston once, when Joe "Bro"gan cornered him after the fight; the ringside commentators mentioned it two or three times.
Brock Lesnar. That man is one blown knee away from a bouncing gig in Orange County.

he's a complicated man, and no one understands him but his woman

Professor Coldheart — Mon, 11 Aug 2008 15:28:47 +0000

[caption id="" align="aligncenter" width="297" caption="Bernie Mac
1957 - 2008
HE OUT THIS MOTHERFUCKER"][/caption]

He said, "Bern, why do black folks use the word 'motherfucker?'" Let me break it down, what the word "motherfucker" actually means. "Motherfucker" is a word that black folks have been using for years. It's about expression. Don't be ashamed of the word "mother-fucker." Because "mother-fucker" is a noun: It describes a person, place or thing. When you're listening to one of our conversations you might here the word 'motherfucker' about 32 times. Don't be afraid of the word motherfucker. If you're out there this afternoon and you see like 3 or 4 brothers talking, you might hear a conversation and it goes like this: 'You seen that motherfucker Bobby? That motherfucker owes me $35 motherfuckin' dollars! He told me he gonna pay my motherfuckin' money last motherfuckin' week. I aint seen this motherfucker yet. I called the motherfucker four motherfuckin' times, but the motherfucker won't call me back. I called his motherfuckin' momma the other motherfuckin' day; she gonna play like the motherfucker wasn't there. I started to cuss her motherfuckin' ass out, but I don't want no motherfuckin' trouble. But I'll tell ya one motherfuckin' thang: the next time I see this motherfucker, and he don't have my motherfuckin' money, I'm gonna bust his motherfuckin' head! And I'm OUT this motherfucker!

One of my favorite comedians of the last six years - clever, expressive, talented and apparently a joy to work with. Also, we lost Isaac Hayes this past weekend. He should be remembered as much for his excellent work as 'Chef' on South Park as for his pioneering work in the soul and R&B genre. Between Mac and Hayes, we woke up to a significantly squarer world on Monday morning.

I'm super-super-strong

Professor Coldheart — Tue, 12 Aug 2008 12:57:56 +0000

I got to see Superhoney at Johnny D's on Friday, a rare treat. The crowd took a while to fill out but eventually took over the dance floor. They covered every inch of that cramped Johnny D's stage and played all my favorites. Sunday my friends Blake and Jenny got married down in Mashpee, which took a while to reach. RJ and I worried as we drove through black spatting storm clouds, but the weather cleared up quickly by the time we hit the Cape. And nothing beats the seashore right after the rain for a wedding. Blake and Jenny looked as unselfconsciously giddy as any couple I've ever seen. It proved, to my satisfaction, that you can have a formal wedding without having a stiff wedding. Everyone walks in a line and stands to the side and dresses really nice, but the officiant leads the congregation in a rousing chorus of "So Say We All" to bless the union. You're wearing a bridesmaid's dress; that doesn't mean you can't giggle. Photos of me dancing may surface. I deny all of them pre-emptively.

nothing else would fit right or seem so directly applied

Professor Coldheart — Wed, 13 Aug 2008 11:00:40 +0000

Important Question: How do guys in suspenders go to the bathroom? Needless Backstory: I lost the only belt I own in the confusion of tech run for the upcoming production of Sister Mary Ignatius Explains It All For You and The Actor's Nightmare at the Arsenal Center for the Arts in Watertown. I typically only own one belt, which I wear until it disintegrates. At that point I buy another one. The current item - wide, black, leather - I bought at a Marshall's in the fall of 2001 if memory serves. I own a pair of suspenders from that one time I dressed up as Malcolm Reynolds for Halloween^*. Fishing them out of my closet yesterday morning, I figured them out in about thirty seconds and hoisted up my pants^**. I wore them over a dark blue shirt so they don't stand out too vividly. Just a neat little accent. So I spent a great deal of yesterday discovering suspenders, and I think I like them. Sure, you have to spend a great deal of time adjusting them between sitting and standing, lest they hang too loose (while sitting) or jack your pants up to Milhouse-level heights (while standing). But the vertical line of the suspenders draws attention to my shoulders, which I've always considered one of my stronger features. I look like a serious man engaged in serious business, as opposed to a blogger doing community theater who just lost the one belt he owns. But is there an easier way to step up to a urinal other than unhooking both suspenders and just letting them hang over your shoulders? It worked fine this time, but I wonder about future attempts. ___________ ^* I never said I hate Joss Whedon. I said I don't love him, a distinction which many online geeks miss. ^** Holding on to a pair of suspenders for nearly three years justifies every packrat instinct my friends tell me to abandon.

less than zero, less than zero

Professor Coldheart — Thu, 14 Aug 2008 11:00:53 +0000

I have tried to hold off on political posts of late until I have recent news stories that make both presumptive nominees look dumb. Starting with the Ruling Party: MarketWatch asks what qualifications a green Navy pilot and mediocre senator has to be President.

His campaign finance law failed to significantly reduce the role of money in politics. He failed to get a big tobacco bill through the Senate. He's failed to change the way Congress spends money; his bill to give the president a line-item veto was declared unconstitutional, and the system of pork and earmarks continues unabated. He failed to reform the immigration system. Every senator who runs for president misses votes back in Washington, so it's no surprise that McCain and all the others who ran in the primaries have missed a lot of votes in the past year. But between the beginning of 2005 and mid-2007, no senator missed more roll-call votes than McCain did, except Tim Johnson, who was recovering from a near-fatal brain aneurysm. McCain says he doesn't understand the economy. He's demonstrated that he doesn't understand the workings of Social Security, or the political history of the Middle East. He doesn't know who our enemies are. He says he wants to reduce global warming, but then proposes ideas that would stimulate -- not reduce -- demand for fossil fuels.

Seriously - what successes does McCain have to his name? Other than McCain-Feingold, whose limits on campaign finance he has now successfully evaded. Backstroking to the Opposition Party's side of the pool, I found this frankly baffling story in the news yesterday: Barack Obama wants to end income taxes on seniors who make less than $50,000.

The Obama campaign says the idea would give tax cuts averaging about $1,400 to 7 million seniors who are battling inflation with mostly fixed incomes. The campaign also says the plan would relieve millions of older people from having to file complicated tax returns. [...] Some of Obama's allies in Washington think he's onto a bad idea. "Most low- and moderate-income seniors already owe no income tax. Among seniors with incomes below $50,000 who do owe income tax, a significant number have modest incomes because they are retired but possess substantial assets," said Robert Greenstein, who heads the Center on Budget and Policy Priorities, a liberal think tank. "Given all the problems and needs the nation faces, targeting relief to this group isn't a priority." The Tax Policy Center, a think tank run jointly by the Brookings Institution and the Urban Institute, gave the idea bad grades in a recent study of the two presidential candidates' tax plans. Seniors already get preferential treatment in the tax code. They can claim an additional standard deduction and only a portion of their Social Security benefits are taxed. Many don't pay payroll taxes because their income is from investments rather than wages.

Most of the bad economics that I waste my time railing against, you could call Good Ideas Executed Poorly. Take the minimum wage, for instance. Raising the minimum wage does not help the people it purports to help. But at least it comes from a halfway reasonable premise. You want to help poor people, you raise the amount they get paid. It is, at least, goal-oriented thinking. But cutting taxes on seniors to zero? What could that be other than pure pandering for the elderly vote? The median net worth for a U.S. citizen over 65 is $174,400. That's almost four times the median net worth of any 35-year-olds reading this, and eighty-two times the median net worth of most of you (25-34 age bracket). Seniors collect more benefits from the combined trough of Medicare, Medicaid and Social Security than any other demographic. Seniors are one of the few classes in the U.S. who get more in state and federal money than they pay in. It is not possible to sincerely believe that a 66-year-old woman making $48,000 a year needs further government bailouts and have that belief be informed by reality. No real data supports that. If that is your opinion, your opinion is wrong^*. Holy hell - bailing out seniors who earn per capita GDP? Who comes up with that? I'm in my cave if you need me. ____________ ^* Show of hands - how many of you live on one of America's coasts and make less than $48,000 a year? Do you pay for your own prescriptions? Is that $48,000 a salary or the result of investments? Congratulations - you're proof that seniors are fine.

I'm a leader at last, this a don you with

Professor Coldheart — Fri, 15 Aug 2008 12:57:44 +0000

Clayton Bigsby: Hey, niggers! Turn that jungle music down! Woogie boogie, nigger! Woogie boogie! Hip-Hop Fan: Did he just call us niggers?... AWESOME!
- Chappelle's Show

"Ol' Dirty Bastard, 'Gimme My Money,'" I asked, covering the mic with one hand. DJ Paul, who runs the karaoke at Asgard on Wednesdays, has the most extensive selection of any karaoke-jockey I've ever seen. I rarely have to check the book anymore; I just ask him for a song. I've been going there for well over a year at this point. Paul shrugged. "I don't have it. What's your backup?" Ten seconds later, the loop from Sugar Hill Gang's "Apache," stretched and down-pitched, blasted over the speakers. "I hope all of you like Nas," I told the crowd (largely friends), "because that's what I'm fuckin' doing." I pounded the shot of Canadian Club I'd just purchased and took off.

Now let's get it all in perspective, For all y'all enjoyment, a song you can step with Y'all appointed me to bring rap justice But this ain't 5-0, y'all know it's Nas, yo ...

I struggled a bit with the last drops of whiskey for the first verse but picked up some horsepower. Even folks who didn't recognize the song - or know it as well as I did, wandering into the crowd with my back to the screen - bobbed their heads in time. At about this point (and here I rely on other witnesses), a guy in his 20s walking by the Asgard's open window stopped and stared open-mouthed. He had a knee-length T-shirt and a Celtics cap with a flat brim and the sticker still on it. Leaning through the window, he stopped his girlfriend with a hand on her elbow and pointed.

They shootin'! Aw, I made you look You a slave to a page in my rhyme book Gettin' big money, playboy, your time's up Where them gangstas? Where them dimes at?

By the time the final verse rolled around, I'd loosened up fully and fit into the flow. I still hadn't turned my head three feet to the right and seen the conversation transpiring just outside the bar, of course; that might have thrown me a bit. "Made You Look" ends with Nas freestyling after the track shuts off, which the karaoke prompter doesn't always transcribe. So you have to really know it and really sell it in order to cap the song well.

And I like a little sassiness, a lotta class Mami reach in your bag, pass the fifth I'm a leader at last, this a don you with My nines'll spit, niggas lose consciousness

The audience applauded, I handed the mic back. The whiskey swam in my head with an earlier Guinness, giving everything the arm's length distance of a plausible dream. That was the end of it, I thought. The young guy with the baggy shirt had now leaned halfway through the window and beckoned DJ Paul and I over. Confused, I followed. "Yo, that was tight, man," he said, clasping my hand and snapping off it. "That shit was all right. But I hear that coming out the windows, you got me wound up. Now I've got to get on that mic." "All right, man," I said. "Go for it." I'm used to people making exorbitant promises on karaoke night; you expect that sort of thing. What I didn't expect was for the man to lope in through the front of the bar ten seconds later and make his way right to the back. "Yo, rewind that," he said. "Gimme that same track again." And this complete stranger proceeded to rap two tracks of his own devising off the top of his head while a dazed Cambridge audience - composed entirely of white people and Filipinos, I should add - watched and applauded. "I just wrote this one a couple days ago," he said, between sets. "Still working it out." Having absolutely ripped it, he returned the mic to DJ Paul - and to thunderous cheers - and headed out. "Which one of you's taller?" Paul asked of the two of us. "How tall are you?" the rapper - whose name we'd since learned was Blacklight - shouted across the bar. "Six five and a bit," I said. "Six four," he said, with a shrug. "So you won that contest, at least," Paul said. Looking back on the whole thing, I would think the whole thing was a dream if I didn't have twenty close friends as witnesses. The whole affair had that shifting vagueness conferred by a pleasant buzz to begin with. But the situation on its face - some stranger off the street says I'm rapping all right, but comes in and takes the mic for two tracks of his own, and the DJ says it's okay because I'm taller than he is - barely seemed real. I got into economics because I love situations where two strangers can meet and trade and both walk away profiting. He got to work the mic in front of a crowd and show up a stranger. And I was considered worthy enough to be rapped against by a hungry pro at the game. A win on both sides. I'm still not sure I believe it happened.

nobody gonna take my car

Professor Coldheart — Mon, 18 Aug 2008 13:08:11 +0000

Oh, man. Friday saw the official debut of Flat Earth Theatre's Night of Christopher Durang One Acts. A large and loud audience rewarded our efforts with laughs in all the right places. The newly minted Smithneys came to see it, along with Katie H. and Lisa B. from jiu-jitsu. I got flowers. Afterward I dragged Skim, Rick and newcomer Viv and her boy from the theater to 90s Night. We met Belladonna, Perotti and Kate there, as well as LJ regulars two_stabs and damn it, sorry, forgot the other gentleman's name. Oh, well. A remarkably beer-heavy and drama-free evening (aside from Perotti knocking a full beer glass out of Kate's hand and down her pants) followed. Since Michael Phelps brought tall skinny dudes back in style, I added some swimming to my workout on Saturday. I had forgot how fun it feels to immerse yourself in a body of water and let something denser than air support your weight. I had also forgot how hard swimming is, especially after a full workout. After as many laps as I could manage, I dried off in the sauna, took my time showering and had Burger King for lunch. After another Flat Earth Theater performance that evening, I stopped in at Pete F's birthday party at Tavern on the Square. I met folks I'd known in name only from IB, like Hannah F. and Jason C., and bought Pete at least one drink. The conversation turned to the Olympics, given its ubiquitous coverage. We agreed that the biathlon was a weirder event than the pentathlon - the pentathlon at least measures a broad cross-section, whereas the biathlon was apparently picked out of a hat full of slips. Normally I'd crash at this point in the evening, but the niacin megadose I'd taken before Pete's party carried me through to Katie Proulx's final show at ImprovBoston. I had an excellent conversation with Michelle McN., debated the merits of Chinese Democracy with Marc Hirsh and shared pizza with Bobby S. In the wee hours, Will cranked the volume in the main theater and started a dance party while Clash of the Titans played in the background. Holy hell, that movie looks weird. After the matinee performance on Sunday, Melissa and Fraley invited me over for Rock Band. I spent a few minutes designing a custom guitar player who looked just like me for their band, Style Merchants, and then proceeded to crap out on drums. And vocals. So we took a break for nachos and beer and Olympic boxing before diving back in. My thoughts:

Train Kept A-Rollin': "The song just started; how can I already have a guitar solo? Oh, well. Probably the last one."
Highway Star: "These lyrics are pretty insipid."
The Hand That Feeds: "Do you even need three people to play this song, or just one person playing three times?"
Maps: "Finally, a drum track easy enough for me to play."
Gimme Shelter: "Raaaaaaape ... MURRRR-daaaaaa ...."

how many times can this be repeated before you believe that I do believe it?

Professor Coldheart — Tue, 19 Aug 2008 11:00:55 +0000

Massachusetts held a sales tax holiday for the fifth year in a row this past weekend. I hope I don't lose standing in your eyes, but I went a little crazy:

Can of keyboard duster spray: $8.99
The Mote in God's Eye: $7.99
The Knight: $7.99
Vitamin World Melatonin (5mg): $11.49
Total Splurging: $36.46

I don't quite know how I feel about sales tax holidays. On the one hand, the notion of "stimulating consumer spending" offends me, as it should offend anyone who's not absolutely illiterate on the subject of economics. "Men are not clay," as Bastiat observed. Presuming that every household in the U.S. keeps a budget, then a sales tax holiday would only encourage spending in late August and depress spending for the rest of the month. Presuming that no household in the U.S. keeps a budget, then a sales tax holiday will merely encourage consumer debt as everyone rushes out to buy a 26" HDTV. My prediction: why not both? On the other hand, I'm not such a curmudgeon (yet) as to turn down a chance to keep some money. I see nothing wrong with profiting from a local government's dumb ideas. Get access to the HOV lane by driving a "low emissions" Escalade? Hell yeah! Cash in on a light rail boondoggle in Arizona? Why not! And I only hate Ted Stevens, one of the most pork-snuffling Senators in the history of our country, because he's not representing my state. If I lived in Alaska, I'd love the son of a bitch. On the other hand, I can find almost everything I want to buy on Amazon.com. Books, DVDs, consumer electronics - all of it. And (it should go without saying) for cheaper than I could ever hope to get it in a store. If I buy from the brick-and-mortar in this century, I do it because I need it today or couldn't get a cheaper deal for waiting. Or because I keep forgetting to go online by the time I get home; either-or. I suppose I should end this with a witty observation and a pithy conclusion about the nature of sales tax holidays. But I have neither. I don't know what to make of them. They happen, like so much of what the Commonwealth of Massachusetts does, behind my back and without my input.

if I ruled the world, I'd free all my sons

Professor Coldheart — Wed, 20 Aug 2008 11:00:49 +0000

This media blow breaks in over all TV channels to broadcast its demands: Dr. Horrible's Sing-Along Blog: I would have reviewed this sooner, but I couldn't watch it for more than 5 minutes without getting bored and doing something else. None of the people involved can sing very well, Fillion perhaps worst of all. Whedon, for reasons obscure to me, ditches his strongest suit - creative storylines - for a paint-by-numbers tale of Love conflicting with Goals, and which will win? Blah. There's good stuff there, don't get me wrong. Whedon has great comic instincts - like when Captain Hammer "saves" the love interest by throwing her into a pile of garbage. That was hilarious. A great throw-away (no pun intended) gag. Now don't dwell on it for the next two minutes. Sorry for not being more impressed by Whedon's amateur efforts, Internet, but I know people who produce things just as clever without the benefit of Neil Patrick Harris. Persepolis: Brilliantly realized. A better picture of growing up female in Iran - especially Iran during the 1979 Revolution - would be hard to find. Scotland, PA: Cute and quirky but not much else; a stocking stuffer of a movie. A lot of the plot, particularly the last ten minutes, feels like the author had a checklist of Macbeth tropes to hit rather than a story to tell^*. But it's certainly funny. Downtown Owl: Ten minutes after the bar closes and the bouncers usher everyone out, an entertaining drunk bums a cigarette off you. He begins to launch into this colorful story about people you've never met but who sound fascinating. The story's not going anywhere but it's a funny slice-of-life. Suddenly, a black-and-white rolls up, sirens howling, and two cops spring out and force the drunk into the backseat. They take off without a word. Downtown Owl is a similar experience. This feels like the kind of novel I could have written four years ago - and in fact, it begins very similarly to a failed draft somewhere on my hard drive^**. As such, I can't quite hate this book, like so many people hate Chuck Klosterman, but I have a hard time respecting it. Klosterman's got a gift for inventive description and the witty turn of phrase, but I don't know if you can build a novel on those strengths alone. He dances between "clever" and "too clever" and lands on unsteady footing. As far as novels go in the Man vs. Nature genre - and by "Nature" I mean cruel, capricious fate, although weather plays a part here - Downtown Owl gets nothing wrong, though it doesn't exactly cut a new trail. You will laugh more than you did at Slaughterhouse-Five or The Stranger, but won't end up any wiser or feeling much different. It's all naturalist and absurdist portraits of small-town life, until suddenly there's a shocker of a climax, and then no denouement whatsoever. ____________ ^* Also: Macbeth, Macbeth, Macbeth, Macbeth, Macbeth, Macbeth, Macbeth, Macbeth, Macbeth, Macbeth, Macbeth, Macbeth. ^** I don't mean this to be as dismissive as it sounds. Klosterman has been on the New York Times Bestseller list and I have not; clearly he's doing something right.

1, 2, 3, 4 monsters walking 'cross the floor

Professor Coldheart — Thu, 21 Aug 2008 13:01:43 +0000

No matter what sort of day you're having, this will pick you up: Entertainment Weekly's 25 Classic Sesame Street Visits: Crazy

Richard Pryor reciting the alphabet. He seems like he's inches away from tossing a "fuckin'" in after every other word, but he never does.
Patrick Stewart, decked out in doublet and pantaloons like Hamlet, musing, "A B or not a B?"

Awesome

Feist singing about counting to 4
Johnny Cash warning Big Bird to "not take your ones to town"
Andrea Bocelli putting Elmo to sleep with "Time To Say Goodnight"

Crazy Awesome

REM singing "Furry Happy Monsters"
Tito goddamned Puente, that's who
Robert de Niro showing Elmo the basics of method acting. Elmo: Is that all Mr. DeNiro can imagine being? DeNiro: Well, no, Elmo. I can imagine I'm a New York City taxi driver, or an out-of-shape boxer, or a cabbage. Elmo: Do the cabbage! Do the cabbage!

Just Plain Disturbing

LL Cool J rapping about adding. James, this is Sesame Street, all right? Please stop fucking the camera with your eyes.

In other news, I think someone tried to scam me yesterday. I got a call on my cell at work from a Comcast representative, claiming that I owed them $268. "If you'd like to pay that down now," he said, "we'd be happy to take your credit card information or a check number by phone." I thought for a moment. While I have gone in debt to Comquack in the past - many times - it always works out this way:

Comcast sends me a notice in the mail that I owe them X hundred dollars in three days or they're shutting off my service
Three days later, Comcast shuts off my service

I'd never received a phone call from a collections agent before. Frankly, I didn't see the point: they could "repo" my cable at any time by simply stopping the signal. Maybe they thought I was still the account holder at my old address, and my roommate had forgot to pay the bill. That could be it. "I just sent the check yesterday," I told the guy. Which was true - a check for a fraction of this so-called $268, but that's not important. "Oh, excellent," the guy said. "I'll just put a note in your file here that a check has been sent." Later that evening, in front of my computer and my files, I called Comcast's customer service to check on my balance. "We show a balance of $61," the helpful lady said. "And do you show any other accounts of mine open?" "No, sir." "Hmm. Thank you." I'm a naturally suspicious sort, as a rule. When I won the Ayn Rand Institute's essay contest on The Fountainhead, I got a call a few days later from ARI congratulating me. Since they were sending me a check in excess of $600, they needed my Social Security Number for tax purposes. I told whoever it was and then hung up, worrying that I might just have given out personal info to a scammer. I did the sensible thing, of course: not tell anyone anything about it until my parents got my high school's monthly newsletter, saw a little blurb about their son winning $10,000, and came to the public library where I worked with a bemused look of shock on their faces. "Did you ...?" the conversation began. So I hope that, even if I did owe Comquack $200 or more, I'd have the presence of mind not to give credit card info to a stranger who called me first. I hope.

I'm as ill as the convict that kills for phone time

Professor Coldheart — Fri, 22 Aug 2008 13:00:22 +0000

An update on my various plans for the year: Fifty Books: I passed the halfway mark on my fifty books in a year schedule in late May. If I keep my current pace I can knock out another 17 by the middle of December, which would make one calendar year. Investment: I went with Sharebuilder after they got their act together; the low fees turned me on. I now have $x riding on a combination of overseas exchanges, energy industries and inflation-adjusted bonds. My goal now: to ignore anything these ETFs do for the next six months. Being an investor is like being a casino: you make money on the long-run percentages, not on hustling everyone you meet. I avoid the temptation to cut and run by not knowing how my investment is doing. Writing: Comes and goes. I don't know much about writing, but I know this for sure: you're not a writer until you're writing when it feels bad. If you spend a night, or several nights, in front of a largely blank screen, grimacing at every sentence you type, then you're a writer. Any jackass can write when they feel creative or clever, just like anyone can work out if they wake up in the morning with a lot of energy. (I'm not saying that writing is all misery. Misery is a necessary, but not sufficient, condition) In concrete terms: at about 73,000 words of what will shape up to be a 100,000 word novel. I hit a zone this past Wednesday that should carry me for a while until I need to start making decisions again. Performing: I like acting more than improv, I've realized. People tell me I'm funny and smart and full of good ideas and I say yes, thank you, but none of those traits make you good at improv. Being good at improv - from what little I know on the subject - requires energy and a willingness to throw oneself into the new. I have neither and hate both. I like having a 'bit': a little piece of business or a quirk that I can use to develop a character. I like polishing a scene until I've ground it down to a stone. I like practicing different aspects of a character until I find the voice and posture I love. Those are acting skills, not improv skills, and realizing it has made me happier. Also, improv's about trust, and my chronic inability to trust anyone I share a stage with doesn't help. Cash: Rules everything around me.

whoa black betty, bam-a-lam

Professor Coldheart — Fri, 22 Aug 2008 20:53:43 +0000

You know what we haven't had in a while? An entry in the Worst Writing of the Year competition. Fortunately, here are some terrible metaphors regarding the election, courtesy of the Associated Press:

The secret holding, Barack Obama on Friday readied announcement by text message of his vice presidential running mate from a list suddenly spiced by a dark horse from Texas.

(1) The Secret Holding is actually the fourth novel in Melanie Rawn's fantasy romance series, after The Empire of Touching, Stroking in the Darkness and Nailed By A Wyrm Knight. Either that, or I have no idea what the hell that means. (2):

CUT TO: Barack Obama's campaign headquarters. In a dimly lit room, SENATOR OBAMA hunches over a table. We hear paper rustling, but can't see what's going on. Senator Obama's CAMPAIGN MANAGER enters. Manager: How's that list coming, Senator? Obama turns, strips of paper hanging from his mouth. He finishes chewing before he speaks. Obama: Pretty good. Manager: Have you picked a candidate for Vice-President yet? Obama: Not yet. Obama scoops up another forkful of paper and crams it into his mouth. The tension drags out while Obama chews, deep in thought. The secret holds. Obama: You know what would make all this paper go down easier? A little spice. Manager: Good idea. I'll send out for some pepper. Obama: No. Manager: Old Bay? Obama: No. (dramatic pause) Get me ... some horse. Manager: Senator? Obama: Nothing spices up a list like some horse. Grind up some horse and sprinkle it on my list. Then maybe I can pick a VP. Manager: All ... right ... Manager exits. Obama (shouting over his shoulder): And make sure it's dark!

Journalism, folks.

just how deep do you believe?

Professor Coldheart — Mon, 25 Aug 2008 13:29:31 +0000

Oh, man. This weekend:

Had probably the best Sister Mary Ignatius / Actor's Nightmare show of the run on Friday. RJ, Rachel V. and Jason came to see it. We repaired to Casa de Pedro afterward, which despite unforgivably slow service cooked up a quality meal. Jason talked smack about the Dresden Dolls.
Chorizo quesadilla still marching down my gullet, I hit up Jake Ivory's for Laura D's birthday. Though Jarret & Co. apparently played none of our songs, we still danced and had a good time. I have started to realize that Boston girls can handle themselves in bars. Just because a guy with spiked tips, a popped collar and the stench of AXE keeps pitching his mediocre line at them, I don't need to offer to punch him in the throat. "No, it's cool." "You sure? Because I totally will."
After some logistical planning that never would have worked in the age before cell phones and dashboard GPS, a few of us ended up at Lauren K's house afterward. George G. brought over a bottle of terrible yellow wine which I wisely declined. Then I drove home. Landing time: 4:00 AM.
Saturday afternoon, I met Sarah H. at the Wine Gallery in Brookline for a free beer tasting. We sampled a variety of microbrews. One local brewery made a creme brulee stout that tasted sweet but went down a little hard. I definitely could not drink a 22 oz bottle in one sitting, anymore than you could eat 22 ounces of creme brulee in one sitting. However, I would definitely serve it at a party. Bring out a tray full of creme brulee shots for people to nurse while they talked of urbane things.
Sarah H. gave me some guff when we ended our walking tour of Brookline with a trip to 7-11 so I could buy another niacin megadose. But that shit works! After the final Sister Mary Ignatius / Actor's Nightmare show, I slammed a bottle of that and felt fast and loose all night. I hit up coworker Fred's going away party at Rattlesnake first. In a rare fit of extroversion I bought a round of kamikazes for my manager's team, which Fred had been on, and we did a shot for our client.
At 11:00 or so I sped to Davis Square to catch the latter half of Jason H's going away party. I spent most of the night playing Rock Band, rotating between vocals, guitar and drums. I not only managed "The Hand That Feeds" on mic for the first time ever, but sang my way through "Gimme Shelter" on Hard, too. The secret: a lot of beer. Jason kicked us out at about 2:00, but not before loading me up with excess beer from his fridge. So: party at my place. Landing Time: 2:30 AM.
Sunday I had my first Gorefest rehearsal. Already I can tell this cast will be a joy to work with: everyone has energy and a great sense of humor, the script packs plenty of surprises, and Bobby's a tremendously creative director. Once we brainstorm some of the technical hurdles (e.g., "should the diarrhea cannon hit both of them, or just Liz?"), this show will fall all the way off the hook.
After reading at home and napping, I hit up the Nerds On Sports Pizza Party - for which read "Will, RJ and I" - at Newtowne Grille in Porter. We waited 35 minutes for our pizza, which gave us plenty of time to talk about work. "Google owns me," I mentioned at one point. "Between GMail, Google Calendar, Google Docs, Google as a search engine and, of course, Google as part of my job." "Technically, Google's paying for this pizza," Will pointed out.
Once Marie C. arrived back in Davis from Logan Airport and got settled, I bought her a beer and caught up with her trip home. I also returned two books I'd borrowed from her and lent her Japrisot's A Very Long Engagement in return. Without the aid of a niacin megadose, I passed out around 11:30 PM.

all I care about is love

Professor Coldheart — Tue, 26 Aug 2008 11:00:56 +0000

I could move to Chicago very easily. Apparently, Internet Inc. will move experienced people out there with very little argument. I could spend what I pay now for housing and get a spot in a nicer neighborhood. Chicago's subway looks more extensive than Boston's; I could get rid of the car. Two of my best friends in the world - Mariateresa and Hawver - already live in the city. I think I'd do all right there. I'm not bored with Boston yet, though. Not quite. But I can feel it at the edges. Hawver once said that only thirty real people live in Boston; the rest are smoke and mirrors. I think I've met twenty-six of them and I keep seeing them at the same bars. It might be time to broaden my horizons. Nobody panic; I'm not moving yet. Check in with me in nine months, though. Because something's got to change - either me or the city or the world I live in - or I don't know what I'll do.

and so you'd better do what you are told; you better listen to the radio

Professor Coldheart — Wed, 27 Aug 2008 11:00:17 +0000

Hey, friends: recommend me some of the following:

Podcasts. Anything entertaining or informative.
Books. Scope out my progress on my 50 books in a year for an idea of where my tastes lie. But I'll try a pretty wide range of genres.
Television series available on DVD. I don't need cable now that I have Netflix. On the few nights that I eat dinner at home, a single TV episode on a DVD covers just enough time to entertain me without totally jeopardizing my evening. Past favorites include Deadwood (S1), The Shield (S1-4), It's Always Sunny in Philadelphia (S1-2), Arrested Development (S1-3), Venture Bros (S1-2), Hustle (S1), House of Cards (S1-3), the greatest show which the medium of television has yet to produce, Veronica Mars (S1) and 30 Rock (S1-2).
Musics. I used to go through new artists pretty heavily by burning them to CD and listening while I drove in. Now I take the train and read, more's the pity. So recommend me some groups to discover. Recent additions that I liked a lot include the Psychedelic Furs, Nas, N.E.R.D., the Allman Brothers, Arcade Fire and Tiesto. Find a common thread in that; Pandora hasn't.

jeux sans frontieres

Professor Coldheart — Thu, 28 Aug 2008 11:00:18 +0000

M: I tend to be confused by double negatives unless they're in Russian? Professor: but Russian double-negatives make perfect sense to you M: Russian grammar demands them Professor: hehe M: truly Professor: that sounds like a line from a Kruschev speech M: It probably is Professor: "Russian grammar demands double negatives! Output will be increased five-fold by next year!" M: HA Professor: "We will not leave you unburied!" # # # Professor: also: what didn't you like about The Mote in God's Eye? L: um, i read it five years ago, I thought the aliens were stupid and the plot just read like someone writing an after-the-fact choose-your-own adventure book Professor: ha Professor: I thought the aliens were the most interesting part of the book by leaps and bounds - far more so than the characters L: well, I will agree with that Professor: (who would've been okay in 50s sci-fi, passable in 60s, no excuse in 70s) L: but yeah L: asimov's characters are more developed # # # J: this is you: J: http://stuffwhitepeoplelike.com/2008/08/18/107-self-aware-hip-hop-references/ Professor: scooped (kinda) Professor: http://periscopedepth.wordpress.com/2008/04/18/white-people-do-the-humpty-hump-just-watch-me-do-the-humpty-hump/ J: but see J: I know all those songs Professor: and you're white! Professor: QED J: but I never know the ones you're quoting Professor: 60% of the songs I listed are about, or heavily reference, gang violence Professor: I am a white person who knows no one in a gang Professor: (so, I imagine, are you) Professor: so you know songs that could only be sung ironically by white people

cropped-chesterfield_banner.jpg

Professor Coldheart — Thu, 28 Aug 2008 14:47:04 +0000

http://periscopedepth.files.wordpress.com/2008/08/cropped-chesterfield_banner.jpg

bush-at-the-olympics-8908-2.jpg

Professor Coldheart — Thu, 28 Aug 2008 14:52:24 +0000

http://periscopedepth.files.wordpress.com/2008/08/bush-at-the-olympics-8908-2.jpg

cropped-bush-81508.jpg

Professor Coldheart — Thu, 28 Aug 2008 14:54:11 +0000

http://periscopedepth.files.wordpress.com/2008/08/cropped-bush-81508.jpg

mccain-obama-1508.jpg

Professor Coldheart — Thu, 28 Aug 2008 14:56:04 +0000

http://periscopedepth.files.wordpress.com/2008/08/mccain-obama-1508.jpg

cropped-mccain-obama-15081.jpg

Professor Coldheart — Thu, 28 Aug 2008 14:59:03 +0000

http://periscopedepth.files.wordpress.com/2008/08/cropped-mccain-obama-15081.jpg

and you may tell yourself: this is not my beautiful house!

Professor Coldheart — Fri, 29 Aug 2008 11:00:16 +0000

Dear Yahoo! News, These were your "top stories" on Tuesday, August 26th. These were your "top stories" on Wednesday, August 27th. And these were your "top stories" on Thursday, August 28th. In that time, Russia has formally recognized the sovereignty of the breakaway Georgian rebels. Major League Baseball has adopted instant replay for close home run calls. A Sudanese plane was hijacked. Dr Dre's son was found dead in bed (no apparent foul play). A tropical storm passed through the Gulf of Mexico. You know. Trivial shit like that. There are not five equally compelling stories to tell about the DNC every day. I would submit there's not even one compelling story at the DNC - everyone in America has known that Barack Obama will lead the Democratic ticket for months now - but I'm a bit of a cynic. So I allow the need to post an occasional story. But not five "top stories" per day. Every day. Get your act together, Yahoo, or I'm telling Carl Icahn to fire your CEO. He'll do it, too. He's waiting on my call, I promise. Respectfully, Professor Coldheart

this door is always open

Professor Coldheart — Tue, 02 Sep 2008 14:43:12 +0000

Celebrate the triumph of labor over capital with an early September media blow. The Mote in God's Eye: Decent ~~60s~~ 70s science fiction. As I mentioned, Niven and Pournelle write the aliens with depth and character, but give the mold plenty of time to cool before pressing out another human. We have the Noble But Conflicted starship captain¹, the Young Girl Who Wants To Prove Herself (but is Really just Looking For A Man), the Greedy and Unscrupulous Merchant, etc. One of the characters, I want to say the engineer, has a thick Scottish brogue, and the authors drown his dialogue with plenty of "dinnae"s and "ken"s so you never forget it². If it weren't for the hard but readable science and the fascinating story of human contact, I couldn't recommend this book at all. Bringing Up Baby: Sarah H. introduced me to this one on Friday, which I'd somehow never seen. Borders on being a hint too zany for my taste - it's all madcap, no throughline, and the romantic twist at the end comes out of nowhere - but for a wit that dry and sharp I'll take it. Given that writers were capable of this in the 30s there's no excuse for such dullness in dialogue today. The Knight: on one level, this is a fairly standard fantasy novel. Teenage boy from Earth finds himself in the land of fairy tales, gets knighted by a faerie queen and is sent on a quest to find a sword and slay a dragon. But Gene Wolfe never lets tropes be, and before long the reader has to re-examine everything he comes across. Is this our protagonist's first time in the fantasy world? If not, why doesn't he remember prior visits? If it is, why do certain people seem to know him already? Why does he draw power from the sea, and fall in love with a creature to whom he might be a god? Why does he alternate between stubborn notions of honor and casual brutality? And what's with the giant dog and the castle in the clouds and the invisible ogre? It's a bizarre and engrossing little read. I picked up the sequel, The Wizard - really, the second half of an incomplete story - two days after finishing this one. Recommended very strongly. Nueve Reinas (Nine Queens): A con movie for con movie fans, courtesy of Marie. Watch enough heist movies and you start anticipating the twists that Mamet made famous - the double-cross, the scheme within a scheme, the overarching game in which everyone's a player. Nine Queens pays you the compliment of presuming you'll recognize those scenes and addressing them early on. The protagonists suspect their partners just as much as you do. Add to this intricate heist story some genuine and complex characters, and the fantastic locale of Buenos Aires, and you get one hell of a clever flick. ____________ ¹ Really, a thousand years in the future and we still have Ensigns? And Barons? I'll have to ask my friends in the Navy how many traditions they have from more than ten centuries in the past, as soon as they get done their triumphal parade, in a gold-plated chariot led by a team of pure Persian stallions, with a slave standing behind them holding a crown of laurels over their head and whispering in their ear. Or I won't, maybe. ² I cannot forgive this sin. Seriously. If you can't find a way to communicate an accent without making the words unreadable, stop writing.

I'd rather be with your friends, mate, 'cause they are much fitter

Professor Coldheart — Wed, 03 Sep 2008 11:00:43 +0000

I will now write the only post that I will ever devote to the news of Sarah Palin being announced as McCain's VP pick¹. Ready? Here we go: Never having voted in an election bigger than club treasurer, I turn to my more mature and responsible friends to ask: has a candidate's Vice President pick ever made a difference in how you voted? Have you ever been on the fence about someone but their VP choice pushed you one way or the other? Or has a VP pick ever astounded you so much that you've immediately switched sides? I'm not asking this Socratically or as a trick or as a prelude to a lecture². I have near to zero insight into the voting process, so I don't know how much a VP makes a difference. Whether the answer is "yes" or "no," please don't get defensive. I just want to know how you make your decisions. I am genuinely and sincerely curious. And remember, this is for posterity. So be honest. ____________ ¹ This promise subject to change, of course, if Sarah Palin starts dating Lindsay Lohan or something equally bizarre. If she goes on just being a VP candidate I have nothing more to say about her. ² In other words, "not the ways in which I always ask questions."

if the hate doesn't make you want to die, try harder

Professor Coldheart — Thu, 04 Sep 2008 11:00:48 +0000

I'm reprinting this op-ed from my birthplace's paper of record on why the War on Drugs is destroying this country without further comment:

Imagine you're Cheye Calvo, the white mayor of Berwyn Heights, an affluent part of Prince George's County. Coming home one night in late July, you find on your front porch a large package that, unbeknownst to you, happens to contain a lot of marijuana. As it turns out, your spouse is the victim of a drug-smuggling scheme that targets innocent customers in the UPS system. You bring the box inside; moments later, the SWAT officers standing by break in and shoot your two beautiful Labradors. As the dogs lie there bleeding to death, you're held in the same room, handcuffed for hours. Nearly a month later, you have yet to receive an apology. Because of who he is, the nation knows what happened to Mr. Calvo a few weeks ago. Here's what most Americans don't know: There are perhaps 40,000 such raids each year, according to a Cato Institute report, "Overkill: The Rise of Paramilitary Police Raids in America." Now try to imagine that instead of a middle-class white man in the Maryland suburbs, you're a young Latino boy in Modesto, Calif. Shortly before dawn, in early September 2000, a SWAT team forces its way into your house. Thirty seconds later, although you comply with police orders to lie face down on the floor, you are dead from a shotgun blast to the back. The officer responsible is later cleared of wrongdoing in what is concluded an accidental shooting - though it was not the first time his weapon had "accidentally" discharged during a raid. Alberto Sepulveda had just begun the seventh grade. Or say you're 57 and getting ready for work in May 2003. A battering ram breaks down your door shortly after 6 a.m., and a flash grenade is tossed inside. You're coughing, you can't breathe, while the police search for a stash of drugs and guns they'll never find because it isn't there. Alberta Spruill, a church volunteer and city worker in Harlem, died of a heart attack on the way to the hospital. Or you're a fierce 92-year-old Atlanta woman, frightened by the sounds of someone prying off the burglar bars that cover your door but determined to protect your home. The door is broken down; you fire one shot at the intruders before being shot at 39 times, handcuffed and left to die while the police (who have broken down the wrong door) realize their mistake and plant drugs in your basement. Two of the cops responsible for Kathryn Johnston's death pleaded guilty to manslaughter last year; a third was recently convicted of lying in the cover-up. Many lives are lost, and many more are ruined, by these paramilitary operations in the ever-widening circles of survivors and families of those killed. You're in extra danger if you happen to be poor or a person of color. No-knock warrants may be justified in unusual circumstances. But unreasonable, routine no-knock raids must be stopped. Police should do their homework beforehand, show restraint and use the minimum amount of force necessary in a situation. They must take extraordinary care not to enter the wrong house when conducting a raid. Most important, they need to be held accountable to the communities they serve. The fact is, raids like the one on Mayor Calvo's home violate every precept of American liberty that is held up as integral to our "free" society. We can no longer allow our supposedly democratic government to terrorize communities across the country with the very tactics that are publicly decried when used by defense contractors and our own military in Iraq. Unfortunately, racism in political structures and security forces still dictates who matters and who doesn't - and for the most part, violence against those who don't is tolerated. Because the vast majority of these raids are against poor people of color, we hear very little about them. That's what makes the Berwyn Heights case so potentially important: It is opening a window into the realities lived every day by innocent victims and survivors of the ineffective and destructive "war on drugs." Let's remember this case, keep this window open, and use it to address the misguided (at best), unjust and indisputably failed drug war policies that are destroying the fabric of our society.

you can try to fix my broken wings; you can know all the words to the songs I sing

Professor Coldheart — Fri, 05 Sep 2008 12:41:44 +0000

Busy week so far. After having a knee ground into my tibia, getting my hair pulled and taking a shot to the kidneys in jiu-jitsu last night, the only thing that really hurts this morning is my wrist. And I don't know from what. Probably arnis work. I stopped by a barbecue hosted by one of Sarah H's friends afterward, changing shirts first. After one PBR, a hot dog and a burger, I made the mistake of mentioning "harlequin babies" in front of a laptop. Or rather, a curious person who gets weepy when drunk, and a laptop. Do not Google the term 'harlequin babies'. I don't mean this in the sense people normally mean it. When people say, "The 'Star Wars Christmas Special' is unforgivably awful," they're not trying to keep you from seeing it. They're building up their geek cred by talking about having been in the shit. Same thing with "2 girls 1 cup" and the like. When I say do not Google the term 'harlequin babies', there's no implied "... unless you want to see something really gross" or "... unless you have a strong stomach." You don't need to guess at the enthymeme. When I say don't I mean don't. After Gorefest rehearsal on Wednesday, during which Matt C. roundly cursed at the ocean as an unhappy husband might make comments he knew his wife would overhear, I stopped in at Asgard for weekly karaoke. Dana J., Robert W. and I, without corresponding ahead of time, created a theme of "the saddest songs imaginable." I told Dana J. that I'd have to go sadder after he treated us to Coldplay's "The Scientist." "The only song I can imagine sadder than that," he replied, "would be Johnny Cash's cover of Hurt." How well he knows me, as that's the song I'd already entered. I ended the song towering over Kevin Q., offering him my "empire of dirt" with an accusing finger. "Now I'll never sleep again," he remarked. Success! This was my second time at Asgard that week, as S. had gathered folks for good-bye drinks on Tuesday. She didn't know that Tuesday is trivia night at Asgard, so I introduced myself to her friends as "that asshole," as I always am when bar trivia's on the line. She was shocked, shocked!, that her team's name, "The Drunken Poodles," was not the most ridiculous team name in attendance that night. We staged a competitive showing on the Fill-In-The-Blanks section before I had to leave. Monday I rehearsed music with Steve G., Gorefest composer, and Liz C., with whom I have a duet. He gave us a tour of the unfinished skeleton of his house's new wing, pointing out the master bedroom, the open-air bathroom behind it, his wife's designing studio, his future music room, etc. "So this is what it's like to have money," I said, staring in envy at the bedroom larger than my apartment. "This is what it's like to have had money," Steve corrected. "And to not have kids." "This just makes me want to play The Sims," Liz commented. At some point in the above I slept.

oh, how I burn for you

Professor Coldheart — Mon, 08 Sep 2008 12:54:39 +0000

This weekend's theme: overheating. I caught up with Grace on Friday, taking her to Redbones for Somerville's best barbecue. She ate about three-quarters of her pulled pork sandwich, thwacking me on the head whenever I stopped paying attention to her anecdotes ("ow, Indian wedding, right") and making fun of my beer selection back home. She's a real charmer, that one. "You're a doctor now," I reminded her. "You need to learn to play golf and start making bad investments in real estate." Saturday I got up early and met Greg to take the train from Davis to BC. Our conversation proceeded in fits and starts, weighed down by the overcast sky, until the subject turned to BC's endowment. Then we were off and running. As the B Line passed the service garage next to Evergreen Cemetary we became entrepreneurs. "That's the only building between 2000 Comm Ave [the future site of BC's newest dorm] and the rest of campus," I said. "Let's buy it and turn it into a pizza joint." "We might have some trouble getting it up to code," Greg observed. "It being a former gas station, next to a cemetery." "So we spend a few weekends bleaching it." Aaron and Serpico had arrived early to stake out a corner parking spot in the BC parking garage, and Casey O' and James F. arrived shortly thereafter with some emergency Blue Ribbon. The weather held together long enough for us to have grilled, so Aaron regaled us with stories of his mother's secret barbecue recipe while we chowed on spicy sausage and chicken wings. And plenty of cornbread. A convivial glow spread over my face, aided by the Miller Lite, and I grinned from ear to ear. BC then did their level best to tarnish that glow, losing embarrassingly to the rambling wrecks from Georgia Tech. They matched Georgia Tech turnover for turnover, but failed to complete and fell apart entirely in the second half. "Is that Crane's third interception?" Casey O' asked at one point of BC's beleaguered quarterback. "No, that's his second interception," I corrected. "You're thinking of the fumble from earlier." To the field: "Way to go, Ichabod!" The promised downpours never materialized, so I walked to Cleveland Circle with a useless poncho and the beginnings of a sunburn. Fortunately, back in Davis, Marie had some leftover homemade ice cream and some Dexter. I watched some Season 2 episodes with her, guest starring British stunner Jaime Murray, at which point I had to introduce Marie to Hustle (also starring Murray). Yay media. I tried to go swimming at the BSC on Sunday morning, but did not take into account the aquarobics class taking up the open end of the pool. Rather than sit on the deck with my toes in the water and wait for an open lane, I showered and waited for the sauna to heat up. It never quite did, to my disappointment, so I got back in the car to drive home. Turning from Mt. Auburn St to Brattle St, I noticed that my Check Engine light had gone on. I decided to ignore it - as I usually do - until wisps of white smoke started to trickle from my hood. Pulling over in the suburbs of Cambridge, I popped the hood and watched the engine tick from the heat. Smoke hissed from the coolant line along the engine's perimeter. A man walking his dog and a Cambridge cop both asked if I needed help; I shrugged and they moved along. Running the heat on full blast to vent the engine, per Marie's suggestion, I slowly idled home. Back in Davis, I did laundry, ate lunch, and refilled my engine's suspiciously low coolant reserves. I found a radio station that streamed the Ravens game online and listened while folding T-shirts. Joe Flacco had an auspicious debut, controlling the ball and letting the legendary Ravens D tear up Cincinnati. A win over the Bengals isn't quite a litmus test, but it's a good way to start the season. I got word that Jonathon Katz would be doing a set at ImprovBoston that evening, so I went down early to make sure I got in. He followed a typical amateur improv troupe - you know the kind, two funny people and six mediocre cold cuts - and two stand-up acts that diverged wildly in quality. Katz's set was hysterical: his deadpan delivery and veteran sense of pacing sold every bit he used. He's wasted on Squigglevision.

and the days go by, like a strand in the wind in the web that is my own

Professor Coldheart — Tue, 09 Sep 2008 11:00:44 +0000

I've clearly underestimated this Twilight thing. When Meghan and Melissa started talking excitedly about it a few months ago - especially in light of the (then) upcoming climax to the novel, which a few folks disliked, and the upcoming movie - I remembered being completely confused. I have an 'in' to nerd circles. Multiple 'in's! Why hadn't I heard of this book? Okay, ancient vampires and teenage girls, blah blah. When I started seeing the title and the author pop up elsewhere, I figured I finally understood it. Okay, it's young adult vampire romance. Like Anita Blake for the pre-college set. Got it. Fits in a neat little niche now. Then I started seeing stacks of these books at Borders. Then I started seeing them on the T. Then Katie H's mom started reading it. Then I saw the receptionist at work reading it. Clearly I'm in over my head here. # # # People talk about how hard writing is all the time. And I suppose good writing, a really focused craft, has its challenges. But I want to remind people of how easy writing can be. James Patterson has averaged a novel a year since 1992 and he's a millionaire many times over. Danielle Steel has remained on the New York Times Bestseller list for the last seven years. Daniel Brown sold 60,500,000 copies of the most mediocre book imaginable. Two hick ministers slapped some plain vanilla names on a literal interpretation of the least literal book of the New Testament and sold 60,000,000 copies as well. Probably to many of the same people! And don't even get me started on Tom Clancy. If you want to write the next Anita Blake or Harry Potter or Twilight series, it's not hard. I will outline a four-step plan for you.

Watch a lot of soap operas. At least one hour every weekday. You can't go wrong with Days of Our Lives, although GH is still pretty good.
Play a weekly role-playing game. The game doesn't matter, the setting doesn't matter. Preferably not D&D, unless you want to write a steamy tale of supply-chain management, but I'm not picky.
Wait. The ideas will start coming to you eventually. Just let your brain percolate.
Now write 1,000 words a day, four days a week. That's trivial. I'm giving you a three-day weekend here. If you type with any kind of speed, you can bang out a thousand words in less than an hour. But you cannot slack in this pace for any reason. If you're stuck for ideas, keep writing. If you know that the current vein sounds trite and cliched, keep writing. If you're writing on the bus because you don't have any other time, and you realize that the last six hundred words you've written are a completely tangential aside, inspired by your palpable dislike for the bus driver's snooty accent - in other words, you've written him in as a throwaway character for your protagonist to silently judge and then forget - keep writing. If you're high on your own cocktail of off-label Xanax, Benadryl and avian flu, keep writing.

What these "bad" writers have figured out is that the worst published novel is better than the best unpublished novel. There's an audience for everything except the disorganized shit you've never bothered to write down. You might have a head full of brilliant ideas and the best insight into human behavior since Proust got high with Chandler, but until you submit a manuscript you're a crank and an amateur. Clive Cussler, the Big Mac of American literature, has more street cred than you do, you damned poseur, and I hope the nurse who admits you to the retirement home has one of his paperbacks sticking out of her purse just to remind you. Go read Nick Mamatas, talking about how you have to be sufficiently weird to be a genuinely great writer - I mean the kind of balls-out, confesses everything, random trains of thought nutjob who you shudder at sharing a bus with. Go read John Scalzi, when he talks about how 'working on a novel' is secret code for doing nothing useful. He and Mamatas have the same point, in different language: there's a world of difference between having a life and writing a novel. And go read Stephanie Meyer. Because as hackneyed as her vampire / werewolf soap opera might be, anyone who sells 50,000,000 novels knows something you don't.

got to be careful, can't let the evil of the money trap you

Professor Coldheart — Wed, 10 Sep 2008 11:00:47 +0000

0640: I drag myself out of bed and scrape together some work clothes. Today would be a good day to get some swimming in before work. 0705: Idling outside Porter Square, the temperature gauge on my car begins to rapidly climb to red again. Sighing, I review the service stations I know of near my office. I can't think of a closer one than the Toyota dealership. 0730: I leave the car with service advisor Ashok, giving him my contact info and letting him know what happened (white smoke on Sunday, rapid overheating, added antifreeze but no good). He promises to call me. I walk the few blocks back to my office, noting VIP Auto, a service station even closer to where I work. 1020: My cell phone vibrates in my pocket during the weekly status call. I gently lay my hand over it to still the vibration; it gets a bit quieter. Nobody notices, or at least no one calls me on it. 1116: Man, that meeting went long. I give Ashok a call back. He wants to replace the radiator, the thermostat and the temperature switch, all for a mere four figures. Choking a little, I quiz him on the circumstances to make sure he's not bullshitting me. "I only noticed this failure on Sunday," I told him. "Is this the sort of thing that'd be likely to fail suddenly, or could it have taken a while?" Keeping him talking, I quickly Google "toyota camry radiator" and find out what it costs wholesale. 1140: I get some lunch to help me think straight. Casa de Pedro caters a free lunch for the occupants of our building. I get some salty beef and grilled chicken and think awhile. 1225: I walk into the Toyota dealership and ask Ashok for a copy of the work order. I look at the tech's hastily scribbled notes. "Can I get a copy of this?" I ask. "We'll spell it out before you sign the work order." "No, I mean, can I get a photocopy of this?" "Sure, sure. I'll have them list it all out for you." "No, I ... never mind." I pull a sheet of legal paper out of my bag and begin to jot things down. Chastised, Ashok vanishes and returns with a photocopy of the tech's notes, which I pocket. "Okay," I said. "I'll just take the car with me now." 1302: I roll into VIP Auto. It's a slow day, so all the techs are hanging around the service counter. "Jim?" I ask. "Hi, it's Professor Coldheart. We spoke on the phone." "Yeah, with the Camry?" "Right. I got a quote from the dealership on replacing a radiator, which is why I'm here." Jim chuckled. "Let's take a look." 1550: Jim calls me. Final verdict: 50% of what the dealership asked, including a transmission flush. # # # I've probably read the words "what would you do if you knew you could not fail?" a dozen times in my life, but I didn't decide to start living them until very recently. And this is what comes of it. I know taking my car to a service station instead of a dealership is fairly picayune. But I used to be the kind of person who would easily get browbeaten into paying for the dealer's extras - just because my car was there already - and then grumble about it later. More on this later. # # # Update: I go to VIP to pick the car up this afternoon. "Can you get the tech who worked on it?" I ask as I'm paying. "I'd like to pop the hood and see what he did." Sure enough, the tech comes out and points to the new radiator and new hoses. I drive the car around a few blocks just to make sure the temp climbs to a reasonable level (it does). Then, gritting my teeth, I park it in the VIP lot again. "The Check Engine light's still on," I tell them. The tech blinks once, then interrupts a conversation between two other employees to toss a reader at one of them. "Could you have them reset his Check Engine light?" he asks. In a Season 2 episode of The Office, Pam orders two beers while at a bar with coworkers. She takes a sip of one as she turns away from the bar, frowns, and makes like she's going to keep walking. Then she pauses, deliberately setting herself, and turns back. "I'm sorry," she tells the bartender. "I ordered a Sam Adams Light." For the first time in years, I'm conscious of how deeply I've ingrained the "don't make a fuss / don't start a scene / don't be an asshole" mantra. It manifests from lingering issues with self-confidence, I suspect. And there's no place I feel less confident than at a service garage. I know so little about cars and the stakes are so high - thousands of dollars, sometimes. Hell with it. I'm tired of swallowing all that venom.

I hear more than I'd like to

Professor Coldheart — Thu, 11 Sep 2008 12:51:33 +0000

The great thing about absolute tragedies, on the scale of the one we suffered seven years ago today, is that they validate whatever story you're telling at the time. Take Hurricane Katrina. Katrina proved to the social conservatives that only a strict culture of law and order would prevent people from rioting in a power vacuum. It proved to the liberals that the federal government would not go out of its way to help the poor unless prodded. It proved to the libertarians that private responders could address an emergency far quicker than FEMA. Everybody can claim a success. If another terrorist attack struck U.S. soil, on the scale of the razing of the World Trade Center, think of the discussions that would bloom. Liberals could claim that America's adventures overseas radicalized a previously lukewarm segment of the Muslim population: in other words, America needs to stop what it's doing. Conservatives could claim that talk of drawing down troop levels had emboldened terrorists: in other words, America's not doing enough. And then pundits on both sides would snarl at each other, in one of those great debates that's only interesting because neither side uses the same definitions, and the louder side would win. The louder side always wins. Democracy is not a war of ideas; it's a war of volume. Civil rights were always a good idea, but they didn't happen until people started marching. Any event that both sides can claim as validation invalidates both sides. Any tragedy that lends meaning to two opposing narratives has no meaning. It's the inkblot that we project our fantasies on. Political "philosophies" (such as they are) are cobbled together with glue and twine over generations of contradiction. Trying to shoehorn four thousand deaths into one philosophy or another makes no sense. We can't make the real world conform to our theories; we must do the opposite. September 11, 2001 doesn't mean that America needs to be stronger or America needs to use its strength less or that Muslims are crazy or that Americans are crazier. It means our grip on life always gives when we least expect it. You can't pick a convenient time, place or manner in which to die. So quit lying to everyone, stop wasting time, and experience. And for the devil's sake, get off the Internet. Update: McCain, Obama put politics aside to mark Sept. 11 (AP) If you find that headline hilarious, we can talk politics.

dear catastrophe waitress

Professor Coldheart — Fri, 12 Sep 2008 13:06:07 +0000

Here's Ricky Jay, probably the world's premier card manipulator, fucking with your mind. Take that, objective reality! [youtube=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UWvRorX0KhQ] Watching Ricky Jay proves a little theory of Penny Arcade's - that the stupidity you see on the Internet has nothing to do with the stupidity of the authors, but everything to do with the Internet itself. Watch this video, for instance, where Ricky Jay shuffles 4 queens into a deck of cards and then pops them back out again: [youtube=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JNUepjt6QmI] Now read the comments:

he just like every other manipulator. they just keep repeating slipshots and shotguns and then do mcdonald's aces. its cliche. and its tiring and stupid. make ur own godamn material and stop making money off what everyone already does.

This isn't some illiterate teenager. This is a guy who's had some education - he knows cards and card tricks - and he still sounds like a jackass. And on top of that, he's wrong. Jay closes with MacDonald's Aces, but before separating them from the deck, as is traditional, he does two entirely different forces. That's a lot of things; "cliche" not among them.

quit holding out and draw another breath

Professor Coldheart — Mon, 15 Sep 2008 12:44:50 +0000

A meaty media blow for your Monday morning mainline: Mad Men: I finally caught up on S2 this weekend. I've long maintained that a good show's second or third seasons should be better than their first. Now that the writers have established all of the characters, they get to take them out of the box and really play with them. Only Betsy Draper remains a real mystery, and I think she'll start to get her time in the sun again. I've also come to appreciate the show's technical artistry more - the skillful transitions, via image and sound, from one scene to the next. Probably the best show on regular cable. Guards, Guards: Okay, at your weary insistence I gave Terry Pratchett another go. And it was worth it. Where Color of Magic was a middling picaresque, Guards, Guards has a tightly-paced plot that snaps right along. Where Color satirized other fantasy novels, Guards satirizes the roman noir, politics, religion, markets, etc. And where Color was dull as two ditches, Guards summoned a few dry chuckles. So congratulations, Internet: you got this one right. Burn Notice: Also up to speed on this gem again. While Mad Men may be the best show on television, Burn Notice is definitely the most fun. After a rocky start, the second season has started to purr like a well-maintained engine. Watch these with popcorn and beer. The Wild Bunch: Seen this before, of course, but not for years, and never on the big screen. I remembered how violent it was - you never forget Ernest Borgnine using a Mexican prostitute as a human shield - but I'd forgot how artfully it was arranged. Even in the most climactic shootouts or chases you always have a sense of where every character fits in relation to the others. The pacing in the action scenes keeps the tension taut for as long as possible - until everyone busts out laughing, one of the few recurring motifs of the picture. And the acting! Just one example out of a dozen: William Holden has to put down one of the gang after he gets too wounded to ride. He looks around the surviving members uneasily, knowing that morale couldn't sink lower than right now. Borgnine chimes in with one of the most remembered lines from the movie: "I think the boys are right. I'd like to say a few words for the dear, dead departed. And maybe a few hymns'd be in order. Followed by a church supper. With a choir!" That line itself is great. But, immediately after saying it, Borgnine shoots Holden a look, as if to say, "I actually would prefer that we had time to bury him, you know." Holden looks back, saying (without saying it), "So would I, but we really do need to move on." Borgnine's silent response: "Right; you're holding on to your command by a thread as is." Seriously. Rent the movie, watch that scene, and tell me: (1) that's not what they're implying and (2) if any screenwriter working in Hollywood today would try the same thing without writing a bunch of tin-eared dialogue and fucking it up. Smiley's People: The last book of le Carre's great trilogy, though you could honestly skip from Tinker, Tailor, Soldier, Spy direct to this one and not miss anything. A more active book than most of le Carre's, Smiley hustles from one mystery to another like a less artificial Poirot. It's a deadly and tense chase between him and his last nemesis, the Russian spymaster Karla^*. Probably the last book of le Carre's you need to read, as after this the purple nature of his prose starts to overwhelm the tightness of his plots. _____________ ^* I may be the only equally obsessive fan of both John le Carre and Burn Notice, but did anyone else spot that both Michael Westen and George Smiley's arch-nemesis have the same name?

go straight to hell, boy

Professor Coldheart — Tue, 16 Sep 2008 13:13:20 +0000

Don't hold your breath waiting for a post about ~~Monday's~~ ~~this week's~~ the most recent market collapse. I've stopped reading newspapers. On Friday I went to the Harvard Film Archive for the first time. A neat little theater, but I wonder if the students staffing it are all there. The guy behind the counter mistook one patron's $20 for a $10, forcing him to double-check the cash drawer and the number of tickets sold to rectify the mistake. When Marie asked where the restroom was, the guy taking tickets told her "the men's room is at the top of the stairs." They blinked at each other for five seconds before the guy realized his mistake. I saw The Wild Bunch (q.v.). On Saturday, after laundry and grocery shopping, I drove to Paul's dojo in Natick to help judge the graduating class of instructors in their oral exam. Student instructors must teach two jiu jitsu techniques - one that they've prepared, one that's sprung on them 60 seconds ahead of time. Each of the senseis has a 20-point scorecard, of which only 1 point is devoted to "accurate technique." Everything else is presentation: engaging the audience's attention, making sure everyone can see and understand what you're doing, selling the impact of the technique, etc. 17 is a passing grade. LJ's own Katie H. did very well, at least on my scorecard. Nick will reveal the grades this week. We choreographed some dancing for Gorefest on Sunday. No spoilers, but expect things to be significantly crazy. I had my quarterly check-in with Rachel V. on Monday night, sprinting past Michelle, Vickie, Lisa C. and Erik outside J.P. Licks on the way. "This is my first time running into people in Davis," Michelle said, hugging me with vigor. It reminded me why I moved to Davis as well. The pool at the Watertown BSC got taken over by aquarobics on Tuesday morning. The lap swimmers had to go three to a lane. Then I got all the way upstairs to the office door, only to realize I'd left my wallet in my car. Also, I kind of parked like an asshole this morning. Definitely a rude job of parking, not in keeping with my ideation of my self. Sorry for leaving my ego hanging out, world.

I'm all lost in the supermarket

Professor Coldheart — Wed, 17 Sep 2008 12:34:50 +0000

You people show an inordinate interest in the food I eat, so here's an update: Salad: I discovered the $3.50 bag of salad at Shaw's and fell in love. $3.50 gets me at least three meals' worth of salads, making it cheaper than any salad I could buy at a restaurant. And the bag begins expiring the second I open it, meaning time pressure compels me to eat all of it over the next 3-4 days. Mix it up with a little Thousand Islands Light and you've got a complement to any meal. I read that the ideal proportion of plants:everything else on your plate should be 75:25, which I haven't hit yet. I can usually go about 50:50. Easy stages, Sherif Ali. Protein Powder: A good commuter's breakfast. Just mix a scoop full into a tall glass of milk and drink while contemplating your morning. Sometimes I forget to drink it, if I'm hurrying out the door, so I fall on my backup ... Craisins + Cereal: Mix a cup of dry cereal with a double handful of craisins. Low carbs and good for you. South Beach Meals: Not that I need to lose weight, but the South Beach Diet frozen entrees work great for lunch in the office. They're ~~low~~ ~~moderate~~ not as high sodium as other frozen meals, and they've got plenty of protein. I recommend the single-serving pizza. Small, Big, Small: I've found that eating a small breakfast, a big (but healthy) lunch, and a reasonably sized dinner carries me through the day pretty well. You never want to load up on food right before bed, as it'll just glom onto your stomach while you're inactive. Go into lunch a little hungry, and eat a variety of healthy foods to build up a store of energy for the rest of the day. Right now, I seem to have a pattern that works. Now I just have to stick to it. Once I keep at it for a few months at a time, it'll become habit. And since there's no force in the world more powerful than habit, I'll be in good shape.

I said he ain't here, but he sure went past

Professor Coldheart — Thu, 18 Sep 2008 12:42:46 +0000

So, more than three months into the Davis Square experiment, how do I like living alone? I love it. I love living close enough to the train that I can take the T to work three days a week. And it gets me around on weekends, too. I love living within walking distance of most of my friends. I love a bathroom, kitchen and living area that stay just as clean as I want them to. I love all the bars and restaurants that lie stumbling distance from my front doorstep. More than anything else, though, I love the absolute sense of privacy. I'm an introvert and I always will be. When I'm done with work or my other obligations, I need a quiet corner where I can shut everyone else out. I like the world I live in, but I need to keep it at arm's length. The only things I need to overcome now: my tendency to hoard things I don't need. My shelves overflow with books I've read once; my storage locker in the basement contains an air-conditioner my apartment doesn't need and several leftover cardboard boxes. I need to be talked or tricked into getting rid of things. With that out of my way, I'll be in good shape.

no man born with a living soul can work for the clampdown

Professor Coldheart — Fri, 19 Sep 2008 11:00:04 +0000

I hope not to become one of those assholes who reads one book and then starts quoting it incessantly, insisting it totally transformed his life. But expect me to start dropping gems from Tim Ferriss's The Four Hour Work Week more often. Ferris builds his book around one of those theses that's so radical it seems obvious: true wealth is measured not in your income or capital, but in how much time you can spend doing what you love. Right now, the human race sits at the richest point in its history - even this past week hasn't taken it all away - and yet we still search for ways to create more work rather than less. Ferriss proposes that instead of waiting 40 years to retire, you structure your life so you can enjoy your retirement plans all the time. He breaks it down into four remarkably detailed steps: Definition: Decide what you really want to do with your life. Find ways to avoid pessimism and fear. Stop considering money the sole benchmark of satisfaction. Elimination: Cut out or streamline the least efficient parts of your work week. Find the 20% of your effort that generates 80% of your results and get rid of everything else. Automation: Find a new source of income doing something that interests you. Automate and outsource as much of it as you can. Continue streamlining and minimizing until you can handle a week's worth of work with four hours of phone calls. Liberation: Take advantage of global connectivity to conduct your business anywhere on the planet. Avoid vacation packages targeted at consumers; immerse yourself in a foreign environment instead and really live. This is not the book that says "cut back on lattes and save the difference in your 401(k)." Saving's important, but it's not the way out of the rat race. This is not the book that says "start your own business to achieve financial independence." You can spend 40 hours a week in your home office just as easily as in a corporate office. This isn't the book that says "quit your job and live off your parents while playing video games"; putting your income stream in someone else's hands will never set you free. This is the book that says "start working from home, forward your phone calls to a Skype account, fly to Berlin, rent a decent apartment, and start exploring. Everything you want to do with your life is within your reach right now." I won't bore you with the details of what I'm doing with this book. But anyone who's listened to me talk for more than 45 minutes at a stretch knows that I fear losing time more than anything else. This book has given me the tools to start taking it back.

information vegetable, animal and mineral

Professor Coldheart — Mon, 22 Sep 2008 11:00:23 +0000

On Friday, I stopped myself as I emerged from the shower, mid-toweling, to wonder just what I was singing to myself. Then I realized: the Frogs' chorus from Aristophanes The Frogs, set to the opening theme of HALO. Some days I wonder if I'm crazy enough to make it as a writer; Friday was not one of them. # # # I straddled the fence on whether or not to buy a Canon Powershot SD1100 for a while. I have decided not to, for at least one month, partly because I want to train myself to use a camera more. I've owned a digital camera for years now, and my cell phone can take pictures, but I still rarely use either. So I want to get myself into the habit of snapping and uploading interesting pics to supplement these posts. Expect more images in the weeks to come. Also, partly because I have no money this month. # # # An unexpected raincloud broke over Cambridge on Sunday night. As I came out of the Davis Square T stop, I bumped into a small crowd of people huddled under the stone overhang. A disheveled man with a neck beard ranted about "the Milky Way, and all these stars, all just spitting on it ... fuck you, motherfuckers ..." Nobody looked at him. You think that guy saw those first spattering rain drops and started rubbing his hands with glee? Maybe he busted out some classic material - stuff he'd been saving for a captive audience, like the Everett drunk tank or folks waiting to cross at a light. Must've made that man's week. # # # I've stayed pretty true to my pledge not to read the news, so expect no posts on the subject of the Bush administration's nationalization of the banking industry. I want to keep my blood pressure low. If you really want to read what I think, then you can just look at any post I've written on the subject of economics for the last, oh, I don't know, EVER. (Incidentally, apologizing to Ron Paul for calling him "crazy" would be big of you right now. "Sure, Ron. The Federal Reserve's a massive conspiracy designed to devalue American currency and keep big banks afloat. They've got dictatorial powers. Okaaaaaay, big guy.") (By way of example: sorry, Ron)

she never been to texas, never heard of king kong

Professor Coldheart — Tue, 23 Sep 2008 13:20:31 +0000

On Friday Mariateresa, one of my dearest friends in the world, had a 5-hour stopover in Boston en route to Paris (her final stop being Trieste). I picked her up at Logan and drove her down to Faneuil Hall, where we had lunch at an outdoor cafe. "I haven't had lobster in so long," she cooed. Yes, it is possible to coo with a mouthful of lobster; MT can pull it off. Finding myself with an early evening, I rescued Marie C. from her office and drove her back to Davis Square. We ate Chipotle and watched the last few episodes of Hustle S1. Let me again express my amazement at this Swiss watch of a show - how it consistently and precisely pulls off things that the average movie can't get right half the time. Saturday I got up early, threw my BC Superfan Alumnus tee on over a long-sleeved shirt, and joined Greg W on the subway. When we changed over at Park St, a person of indeterminate gender sat down across from us. If female, she looked an awful lot like Meat Loaf; if male, he couldn't quite pull off the Sesame Street T-shirt he wore. This person rode until about the Warren St. stop on the B Line, then got off. Saturday was perfect grilling weather and Casey had acquired some choice franks and burgers, courtesy of Hilltop. We lounged about on the lawn just outside the Robsham parking garage, drank beer before noon, and talked about BC's recruiting prospects. "I'm excited about Emory Blake," Serpico volunteered. "Emory Blake?" I asked. "Didn't he write a series of moderately successful pulp novels in the 30s? Like The Spider or Air Aces?" The BC game turned into a nailbiter when quarterback Chris Crane failed to capitalize on UCF's ineptitude. When he wasn't throwing balls into the stands - seriously, two consecutive goal-line passes never even broke the plane of the end zone - he was tossing picks left and right. We developed a sudden but lasting fandom for Montel Harris and backup QB Dominique Davis. The final score, 34-7, does not indicate how close the game was after the first half. Later that evening, I met Michelle, Victoria and Grace at the Burren for a quick drink. Michelle's been a big booster for her goddaughter's soccer games, apparently, and Grace has started working out again. Or trying to. Meanwhile, if Vickie does anything other than work 90-hour shifts at Fenway, I haven't heard about it.

let_me_do_the_talking.jpg

Professor Coldheart — Tue, 23 Sep 2008 19:33:58 +0000

http://periscopedepth.files.wordpress.com/2008/09/let_me_do_the_talking.jpg

save_your_eyes.jpg

Professor Coldheart — Tue, 23 Sep 2008 19:34:49 +0000

http://periscopedepth.files.wordpress.com/2008/09/save_your_eyes.jpg

let_me_do_the_talking1.jpg

Professor Coldheart — Tue, 23 Sep 2008 19:35:50 +0000

http://periscopedepth.files.wordpress.com/2008/09/let_me_do_the_talking1.jpg

save_your_eyes1.jpg

Professor Coldheart — Tue, 23 Sep 2008 19:36:34 +0000

http://periscopedepth.files.wordpress.com/2008/09/save_your_eyes1.jpg

cropped-save_your_eyes2.jpg

Professor Coldheart — Tue, 23 Sep 2008 19:37:11 +0000

http://periscopedepth.files.wordpress.com/2008/09/cropped-save_your_eyes2.jpg

diamonds from sierra leone

Professor Coldheart — Wed, 24 Sep 2008 13:40:24 +0000

Dear Hollywood, Please get uncut diamonds right just once. I know you want to portray a secret world of rich people above the law, who use easily portable assets to hide their wealth. And, for some reason, negotiable bearer bonds aren't as sexy as they once were. And that's fine. But please, just once, I would like you to get uncut diamonds right. Uncut diamonds do not sparkle. They do not glisten under a penlight gripped in the teeth of our sweaty hero. They do not look anything at all like regular diamonds. They look, to the untrained eye, like rocks. Diamonds are Forever got this wrong. Blood Diamond got this wrong. Even Out of Sight got this wrong, which offends me even more because George Clooney has this terrific line to Steve Zahn in the first act of the movie, about how uncut diamonds look just like rocks, and yet at the end of the movie, OH LOOK, SHINIES. The only form of entertainment media I've ever seen get this right was an episode of Pointman, a forgettable UPN action-drama starring Jack Scalia. Seriously, Hollywood. When Jack Scalia is your moral compass, something has fallen horribly awry. # # # I've started taking melatonin as a cold cure. Now before you roll your eyes and start dialing Poison Control, read the rest of this: when you have a cold, you need healthy sleep more than anything else. So about an hour before bedtime these past two nights, I've taken 5 mg of melatonin to coax me into easier and deeper sleep. I've taken stuff that makes me drowsy before: Benadryl, NyQuil, massive amounts of alcohol. But melatonin doesn't make it harder to focus so much as it creates a general heaviness. Your limbs react just a little more slowly to your commands, and you just prefer to sit rather than stand or move. Imagine being put under by the world's slowest hypnotist. It's worked fine for me so far: I've slept the night through without sitting bolt upright to hack out phlegm (as I did on Sunday). If anything, I've slept too efficiently. I find myself slowly waking at 6:00 AM or so, and have to force myself to sleep another hour. At that point I re-enter REM sleep and I'm groggy when the alarm clock goes off. A friend of mine from the public library I used to work at in Maryland would call this a "fat cat problem" and shake her head unsympathetically.

you'll never guess the things that I do; I've had the devil 'round for tea

Professor Coldheart — Thu, 25 Sep 2008 13:02:33 +0000

Those of you who either know my schedule or recognize the pattern of my updates might wonder why I haven't told you what I did on Sunday yet. The answer: I'm waiting for video evidence. Two of my current steps in the hopeless battle against time:

Haggling. If I want to step outside the usual paycheck-to-paycheck grind, I need to start rejecting the first price offered to me. This doesn't work with chain stores - whose employees don't have leeway to negotiate, and don't care enough about the store's bottom line to try - but works somewhat with small stores. I've been trying in small doses over the past few days. Saving money isn't the issue here: it's getting in the habit of saying, "No, I want it for less," and not feeling like an asshole.
Swimming. I took some days off for the cold / allergies I've just now overcome, but I hit the pool again this morning with a vengeance. Doing the half-assed breaststroke that I do for sixteen to twenty lengths does a number on my shoulders and chest. I see more and more people in the pool every morning - experienced swimmers, usually, with caps and goggles and impressive form. Every now and then I feel silly, in my board shorts and bare eyes and leisurely pace. Why am I taking up a perfectly valuable lane? But I kick that thought aside earlier every day. Everyone exercises for their own reason, and I have mine. I could probably swim faster or more efficiently if I tried, but it's not worth my effort to try. That's not what I'm after. I slip into the heated pool an hour before anyone expects me at work, push off the wall, glide my hands quietly just beneath the surface of the water, and I think, Fuck you, time; I'm winning.

when the law break in, how're you gonna go?

Professor Coldheart — Fri, 26 Sep 2008 11:00:23 +0000

September 25, 2008: Lawmakers ~~reach~~ nearly reach deal on $700,000,000,000 bailout^* [caption id="" align="alignright" width="149" caption="Sadly, we lost Mr. Tambor in the L.A. Water Riots of 2012."][/caption]By the time that bright, cold day in April rolled around, I'd been dealing for the monthly Mount Weather Blackjack Game for half a year. I'd been introduced to Mount Weather - the secret FEMA facility in which most of the Bush administration had been hiding - in September '13. I saved Henry Paulson from a roving mob of battery scavengers while vagabonding through Cincinnati. This was unintentional; in the dark, I mistook him for Arrested Development's Jeffrey Tambor. The guards waved me through the access gate - wearing remaindered TSA uniforms from the summer of '11 with the silver skulls on the epaulets - and I swiped my access card outside the express elevator. A ninety second ride conveyed me to the sub-basement, and from there a quick walk to the Rumpus Room. The gang was there already. "Hey, gang," I said. "Let's get started." Two hours later, I was sorting my massive stack of chips while Bush tried to talk Bernanke out of buying in for the fifth time. I didn't know why these guys insisted on playing blackjack, rather than stud poker or hold'em or any game that they had a chance of winning. Maybe the Clinton years had given them an inferiority complex - always on the outside, looking in - and they felt a constant need to stake their luck against The House. I always returned all their money at the night's end, anyway. They were still using '09 greenbacks, which wouldn't buy me a stick of gum on the outside. "Why do you guys always play blackjack?" I finally asked. "Bobby gave us the idea," Bush said, indicating former AIG chief executive Robert Willumstad with a jerk of his head. "We had that Kevin Spacey movie 21 on the DVD and we thought we'd try our luck at counting cards." "Really? You've been counting cards this whole time?" Bernanke nodded. "It's a four-deck shoe, so we worked it out that ..." I shook my head to cut him off. "I always deal out of a seven-deck shoe." The room fell silent. [caption id="" align="alignleft" width="150" caption="Definitely counting cards"][/caption]"So you thought I had more high cards left in the deck," I explained, pouring myself a drink, "than I actually did. So you started bidding more aggressively, because high cards are good for the player. But then you started losing hands - because you were wrong about the future composition of the deck. And then you did that stupid Martingale thing where you double your bet after each loss, which only got you farther into hock. "And besides," I continued, "successful card counting is usually done in teams. It doesn't work if you're all counting cards against each other. Because then one player's success is another player's failure." Henry Paulson scratched his head. "This is the same way you got in trouble with mortgage securities," I told Herb Allison, former CEO of Fannie Mae. "You thought that there were more high housing prices in the future. You were wrong about the future composition of the deck. And because you were already investing in mortgage securities on credit, you had to keep raising your bets in order to make up your losses. "And the rest of you ..." - here I turned to the former CEOs of Merrill, Goldman, Lehman, Bear Stearns and Washington Mutual - "... all had to keep him in the game. Because if he folded, then all of those bad cards - meaning, all of those toxic mortgage debts - would start coming to your hands. And the process would repeat." "Not for me," Willumstad of AIG said. "No," I agreed. "But you wrote credit default swaps - insurance contracts on those bad bonds. These contracts only paid off in the event that the holder went bankrupt. And when lenders started going bankrupt left and right, you owed more money than you could pay." "It could have been a catastrophe!", Paulson exclaimed. "Think about it - trillions of dollars of wealth, vanishing overnight. All because of some greedy bankers ..." "Don't go blaming us for this!" said Richard Fuld, former CEO and chairman of Lehman. "We wouldn't have bought so heavily into these mortgage securities if Moody's hadn't rated them AAA - as safe as government bonds!" "Like this is our fault!" shrieked Ray McDaniel, former CEO of Moody's. "Those brokers bundled junk mortgages together into a single package that looked like a safe investment. If they hadn't been after those thousand-dollar commissions ..." Angelo Mozilo, former CEO of Countrywide Financial, made a jerk-off motion with his leathery hands. "Puh-lease. What, am I gonna be the guy who turns down some poor schmoe from getting a home? When he can just go to a competitor down the street and get the same no-income, no-assets, adjustable-rate loan? Let the FHA investigate me for discriminatin' against blacks and Hispanics and what-not ..." The shouting rose to a general din. "Guys, guys," I yelled, "no single one of you takes the blame." "Exactly!" Paulson squealed. "Because I solved it." "None of you take the blame," I continued, ignoring him, "because the problem isn't personal. It's institutional. Suffering never comes from a few people conspiring to do evil; it comes from a million people with no incentive to do good. [caption id="" align="alignright" width="171" caption="Everyone's entitled to their piece"][/caption]"Consumers had no incentive to be honest about their loan applications - not with loans available that didn't even require you to state income. Lenders had no incentive to be honest with the consumers - not with the new lowered standards for credit. Brokers had no incentive to investigate the loans that they bought from lenders and bundled into tradable securities - not with the heavy demand from investors. And investors had no incentive to question the riskiness of the securities they bought - not with the generous rate of return they were seeing." As I spoke, I dealt cards from the deck to everyone still sitting at the table, punctuating each sentence with a face-up card. "No one had an incentive to look," I concluded, still dealing. "Everyone was looking the other way. And that's when the train hit." I dealt a final card to James Cayne, ex-CEO of Bear Stearns: the grinning Joker. "Did I leave that in the deck again?" Bush asked, peering over Cayne's shoulder. "Shoot. Always forget that one." "The Professor's right," Paulson said, sidling up behind me and clapping me on the shoulder. "It's silly to talk about who's to blame. That's all in the past. Especially since I solved the credit crisis with that massive bailout." "We solved it," Bernanke insisted. "And a fat lot of thanks we got for it, too." "Have you seen what it's like upstairs?" I asked. "People are burning dollar bills to heat their homes. Typhoid's sweeping through the Midwest. I have yet to meet someone who's traveled more than ten miles from their home in the last year. You didn't solve shit." "Obviously, it's a time of hardship for the nation," Bush admitted. "After the 2008 election ..." "Don't blame this on him," I interrupted, referring to Bush's successor. "This is only partly his fault. You're the ones who gave the Secretary of the Treasury absolute power - power that couldn't be questioned in court - to control the economy. Given the idiot he appointed, this is only common sense. "You started this when you spent seven hundred billion dollars - more than the budgets of the Departments of Defense, Education and Health & Human Services combined - to buy up bad mortgages. You sank seven hundred billion dollars into investments that would never pay off. Where would you get that $700,000,000,000 from?" "New Treasury bonds," Bernanke offered. "But who would buy them? Treasury bonds are supposed to be a riskless return, but you just sank seven hundred billion in the same shit that crippled Stearns, Lehman, Merrill, Goldman and Fannie Mae. So since those debts are never going to pay off, the only way to honor those bonds is by printing worthless paper. [caption id="" align="alignleft" width="175" caption="2008 Greenbacks - Collect Them All!"][/caption]"Why do you think mothers stuff their children's jackets with dollar bills? Why do you think customers at bars buy their drinks six at a time, before the price goes up at the end of the evening? How is it I can make a living gathering five dollar bills off the street, stitching them into a wallet, and selling the wallet for more than the currency it's made of?" They didn't get it, of course. They never got it. "Inflation," I said, trying not to scream. "Inflation on a level that's making Mugabe laugh at us all the way from the Hague. Inflation that bankrupted everyone on a fixed income - including the huge generation of Baby Boomers. Inflation that penalized savers and rewarded borrowers, turning America into a nation where everyone was in debt to everyone else. Consumers borrowed from corporations, corporations borrowed from banks, banks borrowed from the Treasury, and the Treasury just kept printing money to oblige. "You returned America to serfdom. Nice work, guys." My voice had grown hoarse from lecturing, so I took a sip of my drink. A muffled pounding slowly filtered into the room from seven stories above. "What's that?" Paulson asked. "Oh," I said. "I might have forgot to lock the door behind me. Sorry." "It's all right," Bernanke said. "The guards will protect us." "I don't think so. I paid them off on the way down here. As stocked as you've kept your bunker, there's one thing you can't provide them." "Porn!" Bush said, striking his palm with his open fist. "Curse our fundamentalism!" "But who is it?" Paulson asked. "Who could want to hurt us?" "Well, that's the thing of it," I said, palming the smoke bomb I'd hidden behind my belt buckle. "Remember how I said Treasury bonds used to be a riskless investment? The kind of investment that was typically only bought by large institutions looking for absolutely safe places to store money? Like pension funds? Like the New Jersey local of the Brotherhood of Maintenance of Way Employees' pension fund?" "Oh, hell," Bush swore, fumbling for his cyanide capsule. "It's the Teamsters!" "Wait!" Paulson yelled, sweating and grabbing at the deck of cards scattered across the table. "What do the rest of us do?" "I don't know," I said, dropping the smoke bomb. "Bail out?" ______________ ^* I've had this post on the spike since Tuesday; I'll miss the news cycle if I wait any longer. We all know the bill's going to pass.

I am me, the universe and you

Professor Coldheart — Mon, 29 Sep 2008 11:00:18 +0000

This media blow got rained on this weekend: In Bruges: A little too bleak to be really dark, a little too pat to be really funny. But still perfectly entertaining. All of us have spent some point in our lives holed up in some jerkwater town during shitty weather waiting to hear some bad news. My Bruges, per this metric, is Lexington, MA, and no, you don't get to hear that story. Colin Farrell and Brendan Gleeson play two Irish hitmen, holed up in Belgium after a hit gone wrong, comparing philosophies on life and hope. And don't worry - some interesting stuff happens, too. This movie will make you guffaw in surprise at least twice and wince with your hand near your mouth at least once. Paul Newman: The fucking man, that's who. Boston News Net: This past Saturday's show was hilarious. The material's pretty sharp, but the delivery's what sells it: everyone in the cast has great wit and timing. They're holding an election party on the night of the Presidential vote; I may stop in and drink with them. Road to Perdition: I actually started watching this before hearing the news on Saturday, but I just finished it last night. A really solidly crafted film in every respect - beautifully shot, beautifully scored, beautifully acted. I don't understand why this movie never took off in popularity. For my money, it should have been the next Shawshank. The Ole Miss Presidential Debate: I have been doing a fairly good job of quarantining myself from election media, so Friday was the first time I'd heard Obama or McCain speak extemporaneously (should I put that last word in scare quotes? I've decided not to; the thought occurred to me). (1) If politics, in a democracy, is the art of getting strangers to support something that cannot possibly benefit them, then Barack Obama is a very good politician.^* John McCain isn't, by Friday's appearance and by his own admission: very few people like him or want to work with him. So Barack Obama can peddle shit with a glossier finish than John McCain can; this surprises no one. But that's not what this, or any, election is about. (2) Frankly, I'm reassured to know that Obama has no problem - and I mean none - invading former allies at the drop of a hat. Seriously, snap your fingers and airplanes start flying. You think he blurts out "Nuke London" if you startle him out of a sound sleep? (3) People worry about John McCain dying early and leaving Sarah Palin as Commander-in-Chief. Relax. If Death pays McCain a visit in the Oval Office, McCain will defend himself with the venom sac in his left cheek. _____________ ^* Getting strangers to support something that will benefit them just makes you a good broker. Selling that plan to everyone else? That makes you a politician. "Really, guys, corn subsidies are ... um ... good for the environment!"

I wear chains that excite the Feds

Professor Coldheart — Tue, 30 Sep 2008 13:01:56 +0000

Melissa and Fraley had folks over on Friday to watch the Presidential debates for a bit. The magical scorecards from CNN entertained us for a bit, though I didn't see the point of them. "Obama's up 12 to 8," Auston would say, tallying the four-faceted scorecards each panelist had. "12 of what to 8 of what?" I asked. We tried muting the debate and pretending that the candidates were arguing about Kingdom of the Crystal Skull ("I have never been a fan of that Shia LeBoeuf vine-swinging scene, and my record is clear on that"), but that didn't help much. So we put in Idiocracy instead, which is still funny. On Saturday, I started some laundry, then invited some folks over for gaming. We had an action-packed session, demolishing the Zakim Bridge and a historic house in Salem in the process. Unfortunately, my laundry was still damp by the time we finished, so I had to drive to the Highland Ave laundromat in the pouring rain and buy $10 in quarters. "You doing laundry here?" the guy asked. "Yes," I said. Then I took my double handful of quarters, got back in my car (right outside their window), and drove home. That's probably the most evil thing I've done in a long while. I fought the temptation to stay in on a rainy night and it paid off, as I had a hell of a time at Boston News Net on Saturday evening. I shot the nonsense with Jackie and Jen D., who were working the theater bar that evening, while waiting for the BNN cast to filter out. Once they finished striking their tech-heavy set, I joined them for a quick drink at The Field around the corner. Confidential sources had told me that Vickie and Michelle B. were hosting a girls' slumber party at their house, a mere two blocks from my front door. I decided I had an obligation to crash it, so I showed up a little after midnight. "Ladies," I told them, "I just wanted to offer my services in case any of you need something brought down from a high shelf. Or perhaps any stuck jars that need opening." They gave me a beer, which was my original goal. Wheels within wheels, my friends. Sunday was pretty straightforward: I had Gorefest rehearsal, stopped by Marie's to drop off her leftover Magner's, then got a grilled cheese from Deli-icious. I got a call back from the apartment manager, after having left a (non-urgent) message on Saturday night. "Is the window still leaking?" he asked. "Not currently," I said. "Just when it rains." "Okay," he said. "Is it bad?" "Not too bad. It's bound to get worse, y'know?" "Right," he said. "You can put, like, a towel or a bucket under it." "I have." "Right. Well, someone will come by to look at it once the rain lets up." "Okay," I said.

why you at the bar if you ain't poppin' the bottles?

Professor Coldheart — Wed, 01 Oct 2008 11:00:25 +0000

Updates: Writing: I'm 6000 to 10,000 words away from finishing my second novel manuscript. I started on January 1st and will (hopefully) finish before Halloween. Considering I haven't been as religious about my schedule - twice a week, 1800 words a night - as I could have been, I feel all right. My plan at this point: incorporate the feedback from my alpha readers (you know if you're one of them), farm it out to a larger crop of beta readers to evaluate as a complete manuscript, then find an agent. Ulp. Football: on Monday I rallied Fraley and Melissa to come watch the Ravens with me at a nearby sports bar. The fact that the Joshua Tree in Davis Square gets 2.5 stars on Yelp says more of Yelp's user base than the bar itself - it works just fine as a sports bar. An older gentleman in dusty Redskins gear spotted my Joe Flacco jersey and sidled over. "How is he?" he asked, of the Ravens' rookie starter. "He's the best we've had in years," I said. "You want a drink?" "No thanks; I'm good." He shook his head. "You want a better drink?" Am I doing this wrong? "No, I'm all right for now." He shifted his weight and looked into the distance, sort of a stealth eye-roll. "You want to bet a drink?" "Oh! On the game." If this meticulously updated weblog in which I talk about gaming and how great it is to live alone gave you the impression that I'm cool, let me clear that up now. I am not cool. I do not get the street or its inhabitants. I can neither hustle nor flow. I am King Square of Flatland. "If it were anyone other than Ravens / Steelers, I'd take you up on it," I told him. "Not tonight, though. It's going to be a bloodbath." And it was: an OT squeaker laden with personal fouls and brutal tackles. Andre Frazier (for Pittsburgh) had to be carted off the field in traction on the opening punt - and the Steelers were the kicking team. Two Steelers players ended their seasons on Monday, including the very promising rookie Rashard Mendenhall (c/o a Ray Lewis hit, naturally). Flacco played a better game than Roflsberger, but the Steelers are hard to beat at home. Still, I'm proud of my Ravens.

I've got a blanket in the back seat on my mind and a little place that sits beneath the sky

Professor Coldheart — Thu, 02 Oct 2008 13:18:33 +0000

I spent 40 minutes agonizing over shoes in Payless on Tuesday - not because of choice paralysis or anything that sexy, but because I saw nothing I liked. Is that the Payless business model? To flood shelves with plastic crap so as to steer people toward the few high-end shoes? If so, bravo. I bought a pair of sneakers then went next door to Target to get some dressier shoes. Not only did I almost instantly find a comfortable pair of brown leather business-casual shoes that I liked, but I found a superior pair of sneakers for less than I paid at Payless. So, back to Payless to make a return, then back once more to Target. After jiu-jitsu that evening, Michelle and Vickie invited me over to watch Burn Notice. Michelle only recently introduced Victoria to the most fun show on TV, so reliving that joyful discovery made my night. Michelle hustled in, out of breath and excited, about forty minutes before I left. "Sorry I'm late," she panted. "Burning a CD. Hi. Ooh, Burn Notice!" I caught up with Catherine over drinks at the Enormous Room on Wednesday. I really like the lounge's layout - it feels like the most exclusive loft party ever - but I do wish the DJ would keep it down. You can't have a conversation if they're playing their Clash/James Brown remixes at ear-splitting volume. Still, I managed to follow along as Catherine briefed me on law school, preppie high schools in Wellesley and the Brian Herbert Dune novels. I do not regret missing out on any of those.

I'm taking a greyhound on the hudson river line

Professor Coldheart — Fri, 03 Oct 2008 11:00:54 +0000

Out of town for the weekend. If you find yourself in need of my insight or presence, try the following:

Think of something you like or believe to be true.
Imagine me saying, "That's not exactly [correct / precise / as good as you think / indicative of the genre / healthy for you]."
Sigh and tousle my imaginary hair.

it drops deep, like the words in my breath

Professor Coldheart — Mon, 06 Oct 2008 13:13:51 +0000

I got to South Station early on Friday, so I tried to talk my way on to an earlier Bolt Bus than I had reservations for. No luck, sadly, so I waited until 3:00 to load my bags and pick a seat near the middle. The gentleman next to me pulled some thick headphones out of his beat-up hoodie, opened up a bash window, and proceeded to code for a few hours. I cracked my copy of Four Hour Work Week and did some brainstorming. Eventually I slept. I visit New York once every five years on average, so I get a new string of impressions on every visit. This time: lots of hair salons. Poorly lit streets (we came in through the Bronx), followed by a wall of lights. Downtown Boston, at its absolute most crowded - New Years' Eve, the Marathon - packs as deep a crowd as downtown Manhattan does on an average Friday. Tourists in Boston are a recognizable feature - the sandy-haired mom and the dad with thick glasses, wearing their daughter's college on their sweatshirts, looking at a map and at a street and back again. In New York they're everywhere. I should know; I was one of them. I beat my hostess to her house by a few hours, so I killed some time at Trinity Pub on East 86th. Our bartender, Gavin, a round-headed Scot with an easy smile, poured for us and kept conversation with the regulars going. We talked financial news, a hotter commodity in New York than in the rest of the world, and agreed that while things were bad, there were worse places in the world to be than America. Trinity probably doesn't get a lot of female customers, so the arrival of handsome Russian expatriate Seraphima drew quite a bit of talk. She mentioned her South American friend - "blonde, successful, independent, great sense of humor. I'm trying to set her up." "She sounds great," I said, "why is she still single?" Gavin engaged her in conversation, and soon our corner of the bar was talking animatedly about media saturation and politics. Eventually the last bar's vodka and this bar's glass of white caught up with her and she went home to her husband. Christine arrived half an hour later, just as I'd started in on my last pint. I chugged about two-thirds of it, she finished the rest. "Our kind of girl!" Gavin remarked. "Would you believe this is the one I let get away?" I said. She spirited me to the car, where Tim and his friend Alex waited. They'd caught the butt end of the traffic I saw on the Cross Bronx and were ready to park and eat. We got beer and appetizers at a little place around the corner from Christine's. We ended up back at Trinity, where we were greeted as regulars, before stopping in at Brandy's Piano Bar just next door. They crowd them in tight at Brandy's, sidebeam to sidebeam, to hear a sweaty guy with curly hair belt out showtunes and classic rock. We listened to him sing for a while before the crowd grew a bit much - the girls weeping openly at "Moon River" sort of killed the ambiance. Christine dropped me back at her place while Tim and Alex continued on their pub crawl (the notional point of their NYC visit). We caught up on life and history while she unfolded the futon for me to crash on. She's taking some acting classes and feuding with the cable company, but loves the city she lives in. Considering the adventures I stumbled into in just a few hours I hardly blame her. To be continued.

man he made to serve him wittily, in the tangle of his mind

Professor Coldheart — Tue, 07 Oct 2008 15:56:10 +0000

I got up early on Saturday and took the 6 to Grand Central, then the underground shuttle to Times Square. I had just cleared the stairs at the top of the subway when a man in a bright orange jacket pressed a tour bus flier on me. Maybe I had the tourist look - eyes widened, taking in the scenery instead of focusing forward. I walked with a lowered gaze whenever I saw a bus hawker for the rest of the morning and never got bothered again. So I can pass for a local if need be. Of course, maybe he was just playing the odds; I'd bet that fully half the people emerging from the Times Square subway station on a Saturday are tourists. [caption id="" align="alignright" width="170" caption="How could you say no to this face?"][/caption]Exploring randomly, I came across a poster for A Man For All Seasons. Intrigued, I found the ticket office for the Roundabout Theatre and waited a few minutes until it opened. The box manager told me he had one rush ticket left for $21; I snatched it on impulse. Sell me a Robert Bolt play and you'll find an eager buyer; sell me a Robert Bolt play at a discount and I'm already yours. Then I took the subway to the Village (F train, off at West 4th) and met Alexandra for brunch at Little Owl Cafe. Late as I was, we still got there before the doors opened, so we had our choice of seats. Alex proceeded to pepper me with personal questions over a hearty stack of wheat pancakes. The cafe slowly filled up around us with all the stereotypes of Greenwich - preppie moms with oversized strollers, charming gay couples, etc. "So you think Nathan Fillion's not attractive?" she pressed. "I think he's dead average," I clarified. "Exact center of the bell curve." "Do you think you're above average in looks?" "I think so, yeah." "So you think you're better looking than Nathan Fillion?" She seemed shocked. I had to think for a moment. "I think I'll be better looking than he is when I reach that age." In Washington Square we saw a slew of dogwalkers and a bunch of nattily dressed hep types. "Probably a protest," Alex said. I picked up a page of sheet music that a young woman handed me, imagining it to be the words to L'Internationale. It was actually the words to "The Dach Song," a song about the glories of dachshunds. Which made perfect sense, given that it was Dachshund Day in the village. In Union Square, in the space of nine seconds and sixty feet, I saw:

A woman doing tarot card readings;
A guy being photographed for the Internet (really, no better way to describe it. young man in a business suit, posing on a bench and staring with a comically dramatic pose. amateur light reflection off a foil-covered screen);
Two street preachers screaming prayers at the top of their lungs, one in English and one in Spanish. "Come to Jesus if you want to be saved!" the younger one would yell, before his friend translated.
A variety of T-shirts being hawked by Native Americans, including "Of Course You Can Trust The Government" and "The Original Homeland Security." I was tempted.
Lots and lots of produce.

Alex abandoned me on 42nd Street, in time to catch my show. "You're really tall," she said. A Man For All Seasons: an excellent show. Call me a heretic, but I like Frank Langella's Sir Thomas More over Paul Scofield's. Scofield's a phenomenal actor, and I never felt that his performance lacked anything, but it wasn't until seeing Langella that I realized how dry Scofield is. So very dry and British. Langella's More bursts with passion: sly wit with his friends, a soliciting tenderness with his family, and a growing anger at the irrationality of his enemies. Also phenomenal: Zach Grenier (you'll recognize him from 24, Fight Club, Deadwood or maybe Zodiac) as Thomas Cromwell, the King's secretary. If I had one criticism it'd be that everyone had trouble with their British accents for the first 10 minutes they had onstage. If I had two: the theater was very cold. And Saturday wasn't over yet! More still to come.

and the world don't stop every time that you call

Professor Coldheart — Wed, 08 Oct 2008 13:33:30 +0000

Christine insisted on showing off Central Park on Saturday afternoon. We scrambled over glacial rocks, wandered past the closed gates of the Central Park Zoo, and took pictures of the New York skyline. I find it easy to forget that New York isn't just a tourist destination, like Disney World or the Taj Mahal. Actual human beings live there and go to work there every day. We then made plans to meet up with her boy Tim, his friend Alex and Internet friend Meg at Gyu Kaku for Japanese in-table barbecue. Christine and I walked the several city blocks, passing the Apple Store first. "It's not even a real building," she said, "just a giant glass cube!" We talked about writing and improv to pass the time. Gyu Kaku: one of those places where they serve the meat raw and you grill it in the center of the table. Meg joined us not long after we'd started, sharing a bottle of sake with us. Once our remarkably obsequious server brought out all of our plates, we set to shoveling food down our faces and took turns monitoring the grill. Meg proved a sport and joined a pub crawl with four strangers. Our first real stop: the Pig & Whistle, just up the block. I bought the table a round (except Alex, who vanished as soon as we got in, but only so he could immediately get to the bar and buy himself a drink). The conversation fell to high school, then to college, then, inevitably, to karaoke. "We need to find a place to do karaoke," Christine insisted, and Tim and his iPhone obliged. Top Tunes Karaoke doesn't charge a cover, but they do make you pay $2 for each song request so perhaps it evens out. We got there while the crowd was still fairly small so we had little competition for the first couple hours. Christine sang "Hey Big Spender" and "Bust A Move"; Meg covered Weezer and ... something else (I forget). I reached not too deep into my back pocket to pull out karaoke staples "Hard to Handle" and "Wicked Game." Strangers loved us. Our meandering route north took us across the on-ramp to the Queensboro Bridge. Christine, Alex and Tim dashed across and, after a few more rows of cars, Meg and I sprinted after them. Alex stepped out into traffic to, apparently, try to stop cars for us. "Alex!" I yelled, high on adrenaline and Guinness. "Move!" He wasn't, despite cars approaching at speed, so I grabbed him by the elbow and brought him onto the curb with us. Of course, at a full sprint I had momentum with me, so I ended up dragging him into a low concrete post. "Ow," he said. In his defense, he was doing what he thought he needed to do to help us cross a busy street; in my defense, he was inarticulately drunk. Call it how you will. I made my apologies, figured that nearly braining a guy meant I'd had enough for the night, and left the party to keep on crawlin'. Meg walked the 20 blocks to 94th street with me, and we chatted about how hard it was to find work or new friends in a big city like New York. I believed it. Back at Christine's apartment, I spent about twenty exhausted minutes trying to unlock her door before realizing I already had. I took out my contacts, dropping one in the process and not finding it until I heard it fall off my pant leg while crossing the kitchen floor. Then I passed out on the futon in the living room. At some point during all this, on wet Manhattan streets, Tim asked and Christine said yes. Two different alarms got me up at 6:00 AM, and I dragged myself to the 96th and Lexington station. The walk from 2nd to 8th showed me an eerie, dimly lit side of Manhattan: 34th Street on an overcast Sunday morning. I got to my bus with plenty of time to spare, curled up on my seat, and started putting some miles between myself and the city. Sunday recaps, and possibly pics, tomorrow.

gimme two minutes on the decks to freak out

Professor Coldheart — Thu, 09 Oct 2008 13:14:12 +0000

Truck stop discovery on the route back from NYC: disposable DVDs. Seriously. You buy the DVD for $4 and it only plays for a couple of days. Then it becomes useless and you throw it out! I don't quite know how to feel about it. I went from South Station immediately to Central Square for some Gorefest rehearsal, apologizing to the cast for smelling like "bus depot." While half the cast rehearsed music, Paul D., Robert W., Bryce and I followed Claire down the road to Goodwill for some costumes. I found some suitable shirts for my character and Paul found a zip-up track jacket that worked perfectly for his character. "There's a bit of a hole in it," observed some random stranger. "They've got another one that's good, though." And he pulled an identical zip-up track jacket from deeper in the rack. Paul and Robert put them on as soon as we left the store and marched down the street with their hips out. Pics forthcoming. I rested at home for a few hours before limping out to Steve G's place in Arlington to record the demo tracks for the Gorefest CD. Despite my heavy exhaustion I felt in good voice - the songs lie comfortably in my range and I projected with energy. Steve only had to go to the Pitch Corrector, the menu option that makes Britney's flat warbles sound like magic, three or five times. I consider that a success.

the paranoid were right

Professor Coldheart — Thu, 09 Oct 2008 17:04:13 +0000

White House mulls nationalizing banks

News that the Bush administration is considering taking part ownership in a number of U.S. banks helped restore a relative calm over global financial markets Thursday. The aim of such a move would be to thaw the lending freeze that threatens to push the world’s economy into recession. It comes after rampant fear about the global economy sent investors scurrying on Tuesday for safety in U.S. government securities despite an orchestrated round of rate cuts by the world’s central banks. Investors also were hoping that selling, which gave the Dow its sixth straight day of losses, was overdone. Wall Street began the day higher, but then slid after declines in some blue chip names like General Motors Corp. weighed on the markets. [...] The Federal Reserve on Wednesday cut its target for the benchmark rate on overnight loans between banks to 1.5 percent. The cut from 2 percent took the rate to its lowest level in more than four years. In an unprecedented coordinated move, central banks in England, China, Canada, Sweden and Switzerland and the European Central Bank also cut rates after a series of high-stakes phone calls over several days between Fed Chairman Ben Bernanke and his counterparts.

it's up to you, new york

Professor Coldheart — Fri, 10 Oct 2008 13:11:40 +0000

Gavin came over from Glasgow many years ago and started working in New York. The bar seemed fairly quiet when I first got there, though it picked up later in the evening. "Always slow on the Jewish holidays," he commented. "I don't get it."

Even at 9:20 AM on a Saturday Times Square was packed.

New York lends itself to good photography - a lot of natural vertical lines, framing empty space or distant landmarks. Even a hack like me can't screw it up too bad.

The remains of my wheat pancakes from Little Owl Cafe. "You should have taken a picture before you ate them," Alexandra helpfully suggested.

The calliope at Dachshund Day in Washington Square. I took no pictures of dachshunds, sadly. Dachshunds in sailor suits, dachshunds dressed as pirates, dachshunds in angels wings. All unphotographed.

A pair of manic street preachers in Union Square. One would scream prayers at us in English; the other would translate in Spanish.

The view from Central Park West.

Christine outside Apple's glass brick.

And yours truly.

in the streets I'm well known like the number man

Professor Coldheart — Mon, 13 Oct 2008 13:26:10 +0000

I went out drinking with coworkers on Friday - George, A.A., Z. and a handful of others. The notion of enjoying myself with the people I work with, especially outside the context of the office, still hasn't settled in my brain yet. We watched the Phillies knock one out against the Dodgers, then stuck around for a bit of the Sox game. A bearded guy played acoustic guitar during commercial breaks; George got his business card. I needed a night of dancing to take the edge off the week, so I called an all-play at the Common Ground and a small crew answered: Mike P., Flannery and some friends of theirs. As it turned out, BC alumna Meghan W. and Marie C. also had a crew of their own present; a massive dance party quickly ensued. The BC kids were largely CCE vets, as well as one or two current CCE members. It's odd thinking of myself as some dimly known figure from the ancient days, which I am to anyone who cares. It's also odd that people born in 1986 can drink without legal hindrance, as some of those kids clearly were. Saturday began the first in my series of constant rehearsals this week, as we all showed up at ImprovBoston to warble through some songs and run the show once. Don S., the show's typical director, poked his head in on several occasions to watch key songs and scenes. I spent about an hour afterward sifting through used clothes at the Garment District and the Davis Sq. Goodwill in search of a Halloween costume, with no luck. I may end up buying an old coat and a few cans of spray paint. Jodi texted me an emergency request for carbs and Red Sox, so we rendezvoused at Joshua Tree. We eventually lost patience with the game night crowd - "Standing Room Townie," you might call it - and shifted to Orleans, where we caught up through the 9th inning with her friends Jeff and Armando. Jodi wolfed down most of a plate of chicken rigatoni, in preparation for her half-marathon on Sunday, but wouldn't finish her Guinness. She did not get to join the Clean Glass Club. Did you know that the Hong Kong in Harvard Sq hosts more than just an unpredictable stand-up night on Sundays? That the upstairs turns into a trashy college-kid rave, complete with Top 40 songs, glow sticks and $4 Budweiser, on Saturday nights? Neither did I! What have I been doing all this time? I gave Jeff and Armando a ride there, then stuck around to dance with them and some of their friends for a bit. A shirtless guy in tuxedo pants waved an inflatable sledgehammer on stage while Harvard girls twirled neon bracelets and Limbo'd under pool noodles. At some point I lost patience and wandered back to my car. I had been keeping myself up with the use of 5-Hour Energy Shots on Friday and Saturday night, since following beers with niacin megadoses can't be that bad for you. As a result, I started to crash pretty hard on Sunday afternoon, around hour five of the Gorefest dance rehearsal. Skipping breakfast probably didn't help. Or dinner the night before. Or eating that fudgy cupcake filled with peanut butter, but come on! Fudgy cupcake! Filled with peanut butter! The entertaining conclusion: I missed the Davis Square stop on the subway ride home and had to turn around at Alewife and passed out for thirty brief minutes when I dragged my ass back to my apartment. Regaining consciousness, I somehow heated up a pizza in the oven without setting the building on fire and ate it, along with some garlic toast and cottage cheese, at a reasonable dinnertime hour. The nap and the dinner combined to give me a second wind around 11:30 PM, just about the time I wanted to go to bed. I think I have some normal weekends on the calendar for November. Maybe later.

let the bodies hit the floor

Professor Coldheart — Tue, 14 Oct 2008 11:00:08 +0000

The Wizard: The conclusion of Gene Wolfe's The Wizard Knight series, his oddly revisionist fantasy epic from 2005. Having read the series to completion, I see a lot more of traits I'd just started to recognize in Wolfe's earlier writing. Such as: long conversations on ethics that prove more interesting than the swordplay. Recognizable fantasy tropes repurposed and made fantastic once again. Epic quests that keep getting spun off into side quests. Fluid re-imaginings of the nature of fatherhood, motherhood and family as a whole. If you like any sort of fantasy fiction, I give this my strongest recommendation. This Film Is Not Yet Rated: A savage takedown of the mysterious MPAA Ratings Board. Indie director Kirby Dick interviews actors and directors whose films have skirted the edge of NC-17 - Kevin Smith, Matt Stone, Atom Egoyan, Maria Bello, Kimberly Peirce. He makes the case that sex will earn an NC-17 faster than violence, female sexuality faster than male sexuality, and "aberrant" sexuality faster still. And if you're that rare skeptic who says, "I see your point, but I'd need side-by-side clips of Natasha Lyonne and Kevin Spacey masturbating as proof," relax - you're covered. Dick learns that the MPAA will not make the names of either the Ratings Board or their Appeals Board public, for fear of undue "pressure" being exerted on them - a fear that the Supreme Court has somehow lived with for more than two centuries, but hey. So he hires a private investigator to surveil the MPAA compound and do some basic detective work, coming up with a rough but reliable list of names. Almost none of them have children under the age of 18 (the ostensible purpose of MPAA ratings). Many of them have extensive studio connections themselves. And the Appeals Board - whose meetings cannot be recorded, whose members cannot be named and whose precedents you are not allowed to cite while appealing - comprises the largest theater chains in the country. The movie makes a very one-sided case, as most documentaries do, but I can't really see what's being omitted. There's a lot of cheerleading for indie films, and one unwitting guffaw when someone suggests that a government ratings board would at least be more "transparent." But I can't imagine a better critique made more artfully than this cynical, hilarious little film.

when the city's asleep, I hear a heartbeat

Professor Coldheart — Wed, 15 Oct 2008 11:00:13 +0000

God damn, I love autumn in Boston. # # # The recent closure of our noble little experiment in free markets - if you could call it that - tucked into my finances in odd ways. My 401(k)'s largely intact: an index fund seasoned with a few bonds for stability. But the "smart" portfolio I bought into in August? Foreign index funds, energy funds and TIPS? I took a 25% cut there. I could have spent that money on two XBox 360s and got more out of it. Knowing economics does not make you any smarter at finance, any more than knowing physics qualifies you to build a bridge. The disciplines share some cousins but don't speak with each other at Thanksgiving. Case in point: the U.S. government's plan to nationalize nine of the largest banks in the country caused the stock market to rebound on Monday and Tuesday of this week. Giving the government more power over credit cannot encourage growth; knowing this, I would have expected markets to tank. I should have been thinking as a day-trader, though, realizing that bad money still counts as money. I also did not realize the extent of the credit crisis, figuring that it would stop at our borders. Overseas investors would stop holding dollars to back their currencies. I did not realize that the rest of the world had bought so heavily into American supremacy that this was a largely empty threat. A sinking tide threatens all boats, etc. So my genius plan of going big overseas did not help. Oh, well. # # # I've started editing the novel. If you see me hunched over a plastic binder, scratching at a thick manuscript with red pen, that's what I'm doing. Feel free to ask me how it's going, but don't ask to see (yet). I'm weird like that.

done, done and I'm on to the next one

Professor Coldheart — Thu, 16 Oct 2008 11:00:38 +0000

I remember a lot of afternoons spent in 3rd grade writing letters to people I didn't know. Pen pals once. A mission in Africa or India another time. I don't recall much of the content of these letters. I just know that Mrs. Hogan would give us a topic to write on and some important points to hit. Make sure you sign the letter in cursive. That sort of thing. I mention this only because Internet Inc. apparently gave some 3rd grade class a bunch of clocks recently so they could learn how to tell time. Plastic, analog clocks with movable arrow hands so kids can set them and learn about quarter past and half past. I didn't know this until I walked into the break room today and saw a handful of letters on construction paper, looseleaf and other material you never see outside of an elementary school. Children drew pictures of Big Ben, or of wristwatches, or of digital clocks with red slashes through them (purge the heretical devices!). THANK YOU FOR THE CLOCK, seemed to be the general theme. We stood around, sifting through the letters, laughing at (without really mocking) the diction and handwriting of our unknown beneficiaries. You're probably thinking that the moral of this story is that some office full of my 1987 counterparts stood around and mocked my handwriting back in the day. Don't be silly. They didn't even have the Internet in 1987. # # # I haven't gone full-on hypermiling yet, but I have started to pay more attention to the way I drive. I do most of my driving in the city and suburbs, so I never have to go more than 30-40 MPH, and usually much slower. The rules of thumb I follow:

never let the engine needle get more than one or two ticks above 2000 RPM.
Take my foot off the gas when I know I'm going to have to stop or turn ahead.

The result: every driver in Cambridge now hates me. Hates me with a passion. They ride my bumper, edge into the next lane as if to pass me, or occasionally flick their brights at me. They pull alongside me, glaring with that rage unique to drivers, shocked to find I'm not an old man or an Asian woman. I'm not driving any slower than I ever did - I'm just accelerating slower. But that makes all the difference.

if every word I said could make you laugh I'd talk forever

Professor Coldheart — Fri, 17 Oct 2008 11:00:27 +0000

So I was sitting in my cubicle today, and I realized, ever since I started watching Mad Men, every single episode has been better than the episode before it. So that means that every single episode that I see, that's the best episode of Mad Men ever. What about the last episode? Was the last episode the best episode of Mad Men ever? Yeah. Wow, that's messed up. (if you don't get the reference) # # # For those strangers on the Internet who obsessively follow my eating habits: I now have a salad with lunch every weekday. # # # During one of these weekdays, I ate lunch in the breakroom with my coworkers. A Full House rerun came on the TV and none of us had the wherewithal to change it. This was the Season 2 Episode "I'm There For You, Babe." It starts with the Tanner family parading into Jesse Katsopolis' bedroom, carrying presents and cake. "Happy birthday, Jesse!" they yell. "Wow," he says, looking at the cake. "Twenty-six years old." This hit me in a way that no episode of Full House should have. Uncle Jesse was 26? Cool Uncle Jesse? The guy with the motorcycle and the leather jacket and the rock band and the hair? Uncle Jesse was a year younger than me? Something didn't seem right. When I first saw Full House - about two decades ago - I thought of Jesse and Joey as the cool grownups. And then adolescence hit, my interests changed, and I started actually growing up. But I never thought to check my progress against the adult role models of my generation. Clearly an oversight. So I sat down and made an unflinching comparison of my life, one year ago, against that of a TV sitcom character. How'd I do? Jesse Katsopolis vs. Professor Coldheart On Their Respective Twenty-Sixth Birthdays (Jesse Katsopolis: April 14, 1989; Professor Coldheart: April 1, 2007) Employment Jesse: He and Joey run their own advertising firm, JJ Creative Services, but evidence suggests business is slow. Professor: Customer service, but hey - steady income. Advantage: Professor. Girlfriend Jesse: Becky Donaldson, a/k/a Lori Loughlin, Danny's co-host on 'Wake Up San Francisco' Professor: Christine. Advantage: Tie. Hobbies, Extracurriculars Jesse: Lead vocals and guitar for Jesse and the Rippers, a modestly successful Beach Boys cover band. Professor: Occasional performer at ImprovBoston; jiu-jitsu instructor; amateur novelist. Advantage: Tie. Living Situation Jesse: Sleeping in the attic of his dead sister's husband. The show suggests that Jesse got a lot of play (at least in the first season), but I can't see how this would work. "Hey, why don't we go back to my place? We'll have to tiptoe past the nine-year-old's bedroom, but ..." Professor: Living in a 3BR in Allston, MA. Advantage: Professor. Education Jesse: Dropped out of high school. Professor: Graduated Boston College with honors. Advantage: Professor. Hair Jesse: Phenomenal. Professor: Good but not great. Advantage: Jesse. Catchphrase Jesse: "Have mercy!" Professor: "That's not the dumbest thing I've ever heard per se, but ..." Advantage: Jesse. Final Score Jesse: 2 Professor: 3 Tie: 2 Winner: Professor by a nose! Whew. Near thing, that.

nobody's right 'till somebody's wrong

Professor Coldheart — Mon, 20 Oct 2008 11:00:56 +0000

My weekend started properly at about 11:00 AM on Friday. I looked up from some proofing to find the Chief Operations Officer grinning at my desk. "I owe you a game," I said. "Yes, you do. Are you free?" "I'm free right now," I said, so we went to the break room to play our long overdue Round 2 of the annual Internet Inc. Pool Tournament. I will shock no one by saying that I lost to my manager's director's boss and last year's champion. I shocked myself, however, by making a run of it. I took my time and thought about the shots I had to make, rather than winging my way through it, and completed several shots I wouldn't have thought in my range. Of course, the difference between a good player and a skilled amateur comes from grace under pressure. The COO made several shots when it counted; I missed several shots that I needed to make. Still, a slightly firmer touch on my last pocket shot and I'd have pulled off the upset of the century. Afterwards, my team and several neighbors went out drinking at Green Briar in Brighton. The daily specials advertised nachos, chicken parm pizza, and "cool 80s with Taint." After trying our hardest to parse this last one, we caved and asked the waitress. "It's an 80s cover band," she explained. "Called Taint." "And it's in reference to ..." "Exactly what you think it is." Mike G. from work had some folks over to his place in Brighton Center. I played a round of Beirut, then hung out on the porch with the smokers, learning that some otherwise cool folks have a remarkably deep love of Wings. As in, Paul McCartney's leavings. I ended the night at Common Ground, where a small crowd surfaced for Kim's birthday - Greg W. and Beth, Melissa, Katie H., RJ, Drew, Dan S. and Serpico - but somehow Marie and I were the only ones who danced. Why pay a $4 cover to to drink in a place that's too loud to have a conversation? I don't get it. I introduced Marie and Matthew and we all rocked the dance floor until 1:30 or so. Saturday belonged to Gorefest set-building. The girls proved remarkably handy with power tools - Monica running the jigsaw to cut out several sheets of Masonite, Liz C. scampering under the risers to drill and bolt them together. I supplied brute force and dumb weight as needed. The stage itself looks phenomenal if you haven't seen it already. Get your Gorefest tickets soon - we've already sold 300 seats over our 10-night run. We will sell out every show before the first one opens. I will tell you until you believe me. Fighting off a cold and debating my choice the whole way, I took the train to Boston College to watch the anticipated BC/VTech game. BC's football team, in the finest tradition of BC superfans, showed up 10 minutes late to the game, allowing VTech a commanding lead in the first quarter. Then they turned on the heat, relying on sloppy play by Tyrod Taylor to carry the Eagles to victory. I go to these games to socialize as much as to cheer, of course. I enjoyed catching up with Joe C., fighting the good fight against juvenile offenders in New Jersey (he flashed his DA badge for us on request). J Lee made the trip out from Worcester and showed up already stammering drunk, asking me three times where in Somerville I lived ("Davis Square? That's the most happening square in Somerville"). And I met Lauren, a/k/a Toast, a CCE alumna and BC grad, class of 2008. It's weird, meeting people who graduated in May of this year and realizing I occupy, in their chronology, the place that people like Ryan Howe occupy in mine. I'm an old, old man.

don't touch that dial; we're in denial

Professor Coldheart — Tue, 21 Oct 2008 11:00:41 +0000

In a dream this past Thursday, I accompanied some crooks on some complicated robbery in this compound up in the mountains. Law enforcement showed up, including the President in a VTOL jet. I had a rifle handy, so I took a shot at the President - not out of any particular dislike of Geena Davis, mind you, but because I thought it would make a good distraction. The bullet creased the side of her head; she glared at me, said something I couldn't make out, and took off from the cockpit in her jetpack. I pegged her in the foot with a second shot - a pretty phenomenal shot, really, as I had to lead it by a few yards, given the distance and altitude - and she spiraled out and crashed. The biggest hassle in the days that followed wasn't going on the run for murdering the President. Rather, it was turning on CNN or MSNBC and watching talking heads dissect the details of my life for clues as to my troubled past. I watched Rachel Maddow pick apart my Netflix queue with a criminology "expert" and felt awkwardly angry. # # # Pulled something just beneath my glute at jiu-jitsu. I grow old. Liz B. suggested that it might be my "uber-hammy," or the biceps femoris. It's fine now, but bothered me sorely this weekend. Every time I pat myself on the back for teaching jiu-jitsu, I strain something in my shoulder. Sure, I've stuck with something for 8 years that most people quit in 3 months. I would not work out regularly were it not for jiu-jitsu: the gym bores me. But throwing people around, even on the supremely cushioned mats we use^*, takes a toll on the heartiest athletes. At the brown belt level, I regularly see people nursing wrist sprains, neck trouble or aching backs. I lay all this out not in a search for pity or applause, but because I genuinely don't get it. I know that I'm going to end most classes limping and sore, and not in the way that power yoga or 45 minutes of spin gets you sore. I have yet to break anything other than my nose or an errant finger in class, but the law of averages has its eye on me. But I keep showing up anyway. # # # Woke up on Saturday with a mild cold - sore throat, small congestion. I didn't really feel the worst of it until Gorefest set-building on Sunday, when I tried to hoist a light up into the rafters of the theater and had to stop on the ladder to rest. My cure: take one ibuprofen (500mg), one melatonin (5mg) and one multivitamin every night before going to sleep. So far it's helped me sleep and kept my symptoms livable. Sorry if I pass this cold along on to anyone else, especially anyone who has to sing in 10 shows over the next 14 days^**. # # # I saw the most intelligent baby I'd ever seen on the Red Line on Monday morning. Most babies regard the world around them with shifting, glazed eyes. This one looked at each person around her with preternatural focus. She didn't make any random noises or flail without purpose. She sat there calmly, making and holding eye contact with every other rider in her periphery, unstrapping her velcro shoes with quiet deftness. She was, quite possibly, the world's most perfect baby. ____________ ^* Most jiu-jitsu studios use the thickest gym mats you can buy and even those don't help. They change an accelerated fall from a height of six feet from crippling to survivable. The academy I train at uses a modestly sized mat, layered on top of ten inches of alternating foam and plywood. It springs under impact. Without that I would have found an excuse to quit years ago. ^** Buy your Gorefest tickets now!

why wait? there's a world outside

Professor Coldheart — Thu, 23 Oct 2008 12:59:57 +0000

Took a sick day yesterday; sorry to leave you hanging. Reached that part of tech week (note: buy your Gorefest tickets today!) where everything in my life but the play starts to gradually disintegrate. I need one or two good nights' sleep to fight off the cold but I haven't managed them yet. Dishes now sit in my sink for days on end before I wash them. I'm running low on bread, salad and other lunch necessities. And my fifty books in a year plan has fallen on hard times. I fell into The Sims for a brief but addicted period in college. I made artificial people live artificial lives and screamed in frustration when they got stuck on their way out of the apartment ("no, you start breakfast, you fix the toilet, and ... it ... grr!"). Eventually I realized the sick irony in spending hours alone in my bedroom, lit only by my laptop screen, struggling to give computer characters rich, fulfilling lives. So I quit. One of the things that stuck with me, however, were the little persona scores each Sim had. Each Sim had eight gauges that measured their needs - Hunger, Energy, Social, Room (the quality of the space they currently occupied), Bladder, etc. Walk from your gorgeous living room to your cramped, dirty bathroom and watch your Room gauge plummet. Hunger and Energy steadily diminish over time, until you have to eat or sleep to replenish them. Different Sims deplete at different rates - your introvert can top off his Social tank for days after one good conversation, but might lose interest in the TV in seconds. I live alone in a modest studio in Davis Square. Anything in my life that I fail to maintain - groceries, cleaning, exercise, stimulating conversation - simply will not get done. I might loaf around for a while and avoid the little routines that will satisfy me in the long run. But then I remember my Sims, crying and poking the walls in confusion, and I get to work. I make my bed every morning and I picture my Room gauge going up. I cook a tasty and varied meal, rather than grabbing chips and soda, and watch little green pluses stack up next to the Hunger tank. This private imagery came back to me recently because of this TED talk about video games breaking the barrier between virtuality and reality. I interpret life through video game cues. I visualize green gauges and happy sound effects, and that inspires me to get things done. I don't know that making my bed because it "fills up my Room gauge" is any different than making my bed because "I can hear my mom nagging me." They're both outside stimuli that speak to a pre-rational level. It's just that I can get expansion packs for mine.

and they showed me a world where I could be so dependable

Professor Coldheart — Fri, 24 Oct 2008 11:00:05 +0000

Here's why I don't do well at political talk. I read a pretty interesting article on how America can fix its health care system (c/o hugh_mannity). It brings up a lot of interesting points - Americans spend more per year than any other industrialized country on health care, but American life expectancy and infant mortality are abysmal, blah blah. Some interesting suggestions surface; I nod at some, shrug at others. Then I get to this one:

Americans tend to work longer hours than people in other rich countries. Europeans, for example, work 300-350 fewer hours each year on average. Laws guarantee them sufficient time off, including a minimum of four weeks of paid vacation a year, and shorter weekly working hours. This leaves them more time to select foods carefully, eat more slowly—and, as a result, eat less—while exercising and sleeping more.

My first thought: "laws? Really? That's your first instinct - 'there oughta be a law'?" Taking for granted that working fewer hours per year would improve my health - which makes sense, though I haven't seen any studies - I have a remarkably simple solution: work fewer hours per year. I have already implemented this solution and my health, as a result, thrives. With my Economics background I could probably get a job at a major consulting firm if I wanted. I could follow the path that nearly a third of my peers have taken and enroll in law school. I could get on the management track and start supervising people. All of those paths would guarantee me a much higher paycheck. But I choose not to take them, because I like working 40 hours a week and no more. This mindset has baffled me for about a decade now: the incomplete syllogism of "something bothers me; ergo, it should be illegal." If something bothers you, quit doing it! I'm not talking about harmless things that other people do but which you can rationalize as "harmful," like gay marriage or smoking weed or teaching kids that evolution is a fraud. That's a whole other argument. Rather, I'm talking about behaviors that you have total control over, like the kind of food that you eat or how many hours you work. I don't want to imply that the law has no effect on health, mind you. The article I linked above talks about some changes to the law which would undoubtedly improve American health, like ending sugar subsidies. But even there I can feel my enthusiasm starting to wane. Why do I care about "American" health? America is a continent full of strangers. I have a hard time getting worked up about changes that don't affect the hundred-odd people I know personally and care about (my monkeysphere, if you will). Maybe that's just me, though.

I ran like a cheetah with thoughts of an assassin

Professor Coldheart — Mon, 27 Oct 2008 11:00:01 +0000

Observed in Target this past Thursday: a scruffy white guy in his late-20s with an oversized sweatshirt, depicting one of Snow White's dwarves giving a fist jab to the Grim Reaper, under the motto "COUSINS." I stared unabashedly at the guy until I recognized the dwarf as Sleepy, and then I was like, oh, yeah. I would have totally given him the cool nod, but it took me five minutes to make this connection. * * * Another Target observation: some commentators blame the current credit crisis on Alan Greenspan's loose monetary policies encouraging easy lending. Some blame it on Fannie Mae's decision to ease credit restrictions for home loans back in 1999. Both of these are correct, but I'd like to suggest an additional culprit: the fact that you don't have to sign for credit card purchases under $20 with most cards. When did that happen? I know I've been doing it for a couple of years now. I think it only happens at the larger chains - Shaw's Groceries, CVS, Target, etc - but it's started to expand. The cashier rung me up for $3.50 worth of generic wet-naps^*, and I swiped my card faster than it would have taken me to pull out four singles and get change. If I ever steal a credit card - and with your continued readership, it shouldn't become necessary, hint hint - I'm going to rack up a string of $19.99 purchases all across Boston. I figure I could get away with it for days before anyone noticed. And the useful things you could get for less than $20 would surprise you. * * * In last Friday's post about why I don't understand a mandatory 30-hour work week, a few misconceptions surfaced (over on LJ, not here). So, to clear those up:

Yes, of course, only rich people have the choice between time and money.^** Poor people - and I mean the genuinely poor, folks for whom the necessities are still touch and go - don't have this to worry about. People with existing financial obligations, like children or debt, don't have this choice to make. This is certainly true. And you know what? A law mandating that they can only work 30 hours per week would fuck them.
My blithe dismissal of the notion - "if you want more time, choose more time; if you want more money, choose more money" - isn't a Four Hour Work Week thing. I was that kind of an asshole long before I picked that book up; that much should be obvious.

^* Best way to wipe off fake blood, like the kind I'm covered with every night in Gorefest. Get your tickets today! ^** "Rich" by the standards of either the planet or history, meaning: anyone reading this right now.

double up or quit, double stake or spit

Professor Coldheart — Tue, 28 Oct 2008 11:00:03 +0000

A Fire Upon The Deep: Remarkable high-concept science fiction. In the far future, humanity has made it out of the Slow Zone near the galactic core and into the Beyond - where machines display intuition and FTL communication and travel become nearly effortless. Civilizations trade data in massive volumes, wage wars with death tolls in the billions and occasionally Transcend into Powers - supernatural entities that regard us as ants. When a human research station accidentally unlocks a malign Power in the High Beyond, it spreads throughout the galaxy like a computer virus. The only way to stop it may lie in the hands of two refugee children from the station, stranded in a medieval world populated by hive-mind wolves. Not only does the concept work (and that, like a tap-dancing ape, justifies the price of admission), but Vinge makes it shine. He constantly sets up parallels between the not-yet-spacefaring wolves and the hyper-networked civilization looking for them: questions about the limits of consciousness and the ethics of technology. Every character - even the children and the aliens, two groups that writers historically have trouble with - has a real viewpoint and legitimate depth. Overlay it all with a view of the future of the Internet that was prescient for its time. Recommended for all sci-fi fans. Smokin Aces: Some hot mess. Joe Carnahan wants to have it both ways - a Tarantino/Ritchie-style film full of gory gunplay and quirky cartoon characters, plus a somber meditation on the costs and effects of violence. It doesn't work. I don't care about half the characters that the film wants me to invest in - why should I care if she finds love or if he gets revenge or if they get out alive? The result is a leaden build-up to a few very exciting minutes, and then an even rougher let-down at the end. The Alchemist: The Secret, except it's a novel, except it predates The Secret by about twenty years, which proves that you can't lose money repackaging happy bromides if you have the right marketing. Don't get me wrong - "follow your passion" is an important message, and one that the human race needs to hear constantly. But shed the mysticism, please: the Universe will not help you buy a house or find a wife or retire on a yacht. The Universe only has four jobs, and they keep It pretty busy.

now muscle shoals has got the swampers

Professor Coldheart — Wed, 29 Oct 2008 11:00:58 +0000

Taking the train to work on Monday, I spotted a subway flyer for Bay State College, advertising programs in "Entertainment Management." I snagged a card as a reminder then looked it up when I got in front of a computer. Bay State does, in fact, offer a B.A. in managing a band. You can get a college degree in managing a band - historically, one of the few jobs you never needed a college degree for. I don't think you technically need to have a home to manage a band. You can sleep out of a car and eat every meal standing and still adequately represent a band's interests. You probably don't even need shoes with laces. Not more than one pair, anyway. Last week's post on how The Sims made me a cleaner human got me thinking more about mundane rituals. I used to be pretty bad about laundering towels, as former roommates Fraley and Hawver can testify. "Could you do something about that yellow towel?" Fraley would ask. "That filthy yellow towel of yours? I get out of the shower in the morning and that wall of steam hits it, unlocking this ... this odor of ..." And then he'd shake his head and gag, like a dog disagreeing with a golf ball it ate. That was five years and a few girls ago, so my habits have since improved:

Buy two towels.
Hang one in the bathroom.
When you do a load of regular laundry - every couple of weeks - drop the used towel in the bottom of the hamper.
Hang the fresh towel in the bathroom.
Repeat step #3 until death.

Simple rituals that transcend conscious thought. Automatic habits to banish the bad smells away. Do it without thinking, because you know it works.

first of all I want to thank my connect

Professor Coldheart — Thu, 30 Oct 2008 11:00:43 +0000

I can't give you investment advice, but I can tell you what things mean. The Dow Jones Industrial Average closed at 8990.96 yesterday. The last time it fell that low (prior to this month, of course) was June 2003. If the DJI means anything as an economic barometer, it means that the housing bubble collapse has destroyed 5 years worth of wealth: every citizen of the world could have taken half a decade off and we'd be no worse. Of course, that's not true, which leads me to wonder what's the use of the DJI. The Dow Jones Industrial Average - forgive me if you've heard this - is a price-weighted average of the stock prices of 30 of the largest industrial companies in the U.S. The companies which make up this list - including American Express, Exxon Mobil, McDonald's and Verizon; excluding Chase Bank, British Petroleum, Starbucks or Sprint - are selected by Dow Jones & Company. Dow Jones & Company also publishes The Wall Street Journal, one of the most widely read business periodicals in the world. What I'm getting at: the DJI is not an exhaustive list of American companies; service industries are highly underrepresented. It's not even an exhaustive list of American industries. The DJI is a list of businesses picked by a company that happens to have a particularly loud bullhorn. It has been a successful list. But there's more to America than industry. Gold became a currency because it had more use in exchange than it did in manufacture: people started trading it more than they were making it into jewelry (see Neal Stephenson's Quicksilver for more). Similarly, the DJI is used more as a barometer than as an investment tool. When people talk about "how the market is doing," they mean the Dow. A substantial minority track the Nasdaq or the S&P 500 in addition to the Dow, but most people look at one number. This bothers me because I don't like people making panicked decisions based on the behavior of 30 companies, none of which they invest in. I don't agree with Dean Baker at the American Prospect on every thing, but I find him a better thinker than either Paul Krugman or Thomas Friedman. For years he's been the voice crying out in the desert, declaiming reductionist investment thinking with a simple motto: the stock market is not the "home team." A surge in the DJIA could come from any number of things - inflation, a burst of good news, rosy economic forecasts, mob mentality, etc. The changes of the Dow represent the instinctive guesses of several hundred traders - hardly an accurate representation of the market as a whole. What with the current panic - and I don't know how else to describe week-over-week 1000-point swings in the DJI - Baker's been hitting this drum louder than ever. From September 30th:

On January 3, 2001 the NASDAQ jumped more than 14 percent. What was the basis of this euphoria? Alan Greenspan had lowered the federal funds rate by a full percentage point in a rare special meeting. Investors were convinced that this meant that the fed would prevent a recession. Two months later the economy began losing jobs and entered a recession. It didn't begin adding jobs again until the fall of 2003. The moral of this story is that financial markets should not be viewed as the embodiments of wisdom about the economy. The big actors in the financial markets are subjects to bouts of fear and panic just like the rest of us. In fact, they might even be more subject to irrational mood swings because they sit around talking to each other all day. The conventional wisdom in the media was that the economy would collapse in the absence of the bailout. I know of few, if any, economists who shared this view, even among those who supported the bailout. However, the disaster view undoubtedly permeated Wall Street just as the euphoria view permeated Wall Street in January of 2001. We cannot look at the markets as an independent gauge of the impact of Congress not passing the bailout. The stock markets are reflecting the conventional wisdom in the media, they do not provide an independent assessment of the economy.

So if a few panicking people on Wall Street shouldn't scare us, do we have anything to worry about? Sadly, yes. Fed cuts key rate by half-percent: "The funds rate has not been lower since 1958, when Dwight Eisenhower was president." White House to banks: stop hoarding money^*: "“What we’re trying to do is get banks to do what they are supposed to do, which is support the system that we have in America. And banks exist to lend money,” White House press secretary Dana Perino said. While there are limits to Washington’s power to affect banks’ behavior, the White House decided it was time to use its bully pulpit." Panicking brokers can hurt the stock market, and consequently the value of our investments, but little that they do can not be undone. The Dow was down to 8220 last week; it closed at 8990 yesterday; it could be back above 10,000 tomorrow. However, panicking bureaucrats wield power grossly disproportionate to their numbers. The damage they cause can put towns out of business and starve children. And Bernanke and Paulson aren't listening to the Midwesterners whose homes are being foreclosed; they're listening to their former colleagues at Goldman Sachs and Citigroup. I can't give you investment advice, but I can tell you what things mean. When a day trader panics, unloading half his portfolio based on what he heard in the men's room, you can safely ignore him. When the President panics, rushing a bill through Congress and then assuring everyone it'll take months to see improvement^**, bar the door. Call him a liar. Spit when you hear his name. And for the devil's sake, don't vote for any Presidential candidate who supported the bailout. ____________ ^* First it was "speculators" shorting banks, now it's "hoarders" stashing money. What's next - Freemasons poisoning the wells? Jews drinking the blood of Christian babies? What century is this? ^** Good thing they hurried, eh?

what horrors hide in blood-red tides like demons of the deep?

Professor Coldheart — Fri, 31 Oct 2008 13:45:06 +0000

Spotted on the walk to the train this morning: a street sweeper the size of a golf cart. Stickers on the back and sides proudly advertised its environmentally friendly bio-diesel engine. A city employee sat in the driver's seat, reading a Metro. The engine idled noisily. The cart continued to idle, not moving anywhere, as I passed it and then cleared its line of sight. Technology can make people greener, but it certainly can't make them smarter. # # # Let me walk you through a typical night of Gorefest (a few seats are still available for the 10:00 tonight, I've been told). 6:40: I arrive in Central Square and grab a fast, hot dinner. Usually Wendy's. 6:50: I reach the theater. Bobby and the crew test-fire the effect cannons in the stage - high-pressure air pumps connected to PVC piping. After some dry fires and a few runs with water, these pipes get filled with fake blood - among other things - for a few key effects. 7:05: After greeting other castmates and settling in, I rifle through the laundry bag for my costume. We have to do a full run of laundry every night to get the gore out of our costumes. A little Greased Lightning and a pre-wash gets out even the toughest stains. My shirt and jeans feel a little stiff, having been laundered seven times in ten days, but I probably have one of the more comfortable costumes. 7:20: Musical warm-up. We all assemble in front of Steve G. and the band, cloistered into a corner of the theater behind a shield of painter's plastic. He leads us through warm-ups to tune our voices, loosen our jaws and percolate our enunciation. It's also good silly fun, which helps. 7:30: "Place your props!", Bobby tells us. "I'm opening the house in two minutes." Other players scurry around, concealing severed limbs or disgusting puppets back- or under-stage. I don't have anything that demanding, but I do snake a length of plastic tubing down my shirt for a later effect. 7:55: The cast assembles in a tight circle in the green room, hands in the middle, for a final pre-show pep talk. "A lot of people didn't think we'd make it to Regionals," Paul D. observes. "Let's hustle out there, Squad Team. Let's give it our all." 8:05: Bobby delivers the pre-show speech to the audience - where the exits are, ImprovBoston's other shows and classes, check out the website, etc. - before kicking off Gorefest proper. The lights dim and Mike and Lindsay enter for the show's first number. 8:20: From here on out I have to speak indirectly to avoid spoilers. The stage divides into two halves - a ship's deck, with a high railing, and a ship's interior on the opposite side. While a scene wraps up on the "interior" side, I sneak onto the "deck," concealed by darkness and the railing. I remove the tube from my shirt and affix it to a pump near my feet. One of the effects crew checks the fixture for watertightness, then primes the pump. I remove the first of three gore packs from my pocket, fingering the gross plastic wad, and wait. The scene ends; the stage goes black; I stand and wait. 8:35: Lany and I wait in the green room, peeking through the door to the main theater. We have an entrance in 90 seconds. "I've got some friends on your side of the audience tonight," she says, pointing discreetly. "If you want to scare the crap out of them, go ahead." 8:45: The first on-stage surgery of the night. I don't have to do anything for this one except stand behind the patient and get covered in ancillary spatter. Oh, and sing. 8:55: I slip to the green room to grab my next two props - a blood-soaked book bound in glue and a damp handkerchief. I also grab a swig of water: this is my big duet. 9:15: My last scene on stage before the finale. I grab another gore pack and some rope and clamber onto the deck under cover of darkness. We've hit the stage with several torrents of blood and goop since my last time here, so the floor sticks to my hands and the soles of my shoes. I crouch in the dark and try to control my breathing. 9:30: Big finish! Lights, dancing, explosions! Audience cheers wildly. 9:32: I blurt out thanks and apologies to everyone who saw the show and got sprayed. Lany brings out a bucket of warm water and several rags; she, Bryce and I grab each puppet and prop from under the stage and give it a cursory wipedown. There's only so much we can do, as most of these puppets have steeped in blood, brains and vomit for the past hour and a half. Misch and Maile bob and weave around us, wiping the ocean clean of gore. 9:40: "Fire in the hole!" I cover my head as a pneumatic cannon goes off above me, spraying water with a loud PFTHUNK. Every cannon gets two to three test fires with water to clean the gunk out. 9:45: "Finish what you're doing!" Bobby yells. Most of the stage is still vaguely pink, but the ten o'clock audience has already packed the lobby. "We're done cleaning! Reset your props; we're opening the house." 9:46: I sprint backstage, shuck my bloodsoaked costume and jump into the backup. I rinse the worst of the blood off my face and hands. The mirror tells me I'm sunburnt from fake blood soaking into my pores; can't be helped. 10:08: Bobby gives the pre-show speech. The lights dim, the back door opens, and we do it all over again.

he's walking around like he's number one

Professor Coldheart — Mon, 03 Nov 2008 11:00:22 +0000

After the final Gorefest show on Friday, we disassembled the set. I sum it up in one sentence but it took a little over three hours of solid labor. Mopping up two weeks' worth of fake blood. Striking the backdrop (I punched a hole through the canvas on a dare). Detaching the stage into component pieces and stacking it in a corner. More mopping. Wiping blood off the walls and ceiling. Hauling plywood to the dumpster. Cleaning off the seats. More mopping. Bobby sent us home at 3:00. I gave Misch a lift to the party at Mike M's in Somerville, since she had to meet up with her travel companions for ImprovBoston's trip to Tokyo. The party was still going at 3:30, as Mike's parties tend to, so I chatted with Sasha, Dave S. and a coworker of Robert's dressed as Holly Golightly. I called it quits around 5:00, driving back to Davis to sit under a hot shower and let pink stuff stream out of my hair. I entertained brief fantasies of staying up until sunrise but passed out regardless. Dragged myself out of bed to meet the parents at the Marriott near MIT on Saturday, 10:45 or so. We walked around Cambridge and the MIT campus, passing the MIT Football team warming up for their big game. They warm up to a mixtape of various 80s hits, including "Don't Stop Believin'." No joke. The shaggy hair must make me look courteous, because several folks asked me for directions that afternoon - the last, a woman in her 40s in Clemson garb on the B Line. "Boston College," she addressed me as, pointing to my sweatshirt, "which stop would I get off at for Mary Ann's?" I told her (Chestnut Hill Ave; walk down the hill; make a left) and she relayed the information to peers of similar outfits and age. What half a dozen Clemson alumna/parents would be doing at Mary Ann's except trolling for 18-year-olds, I couldn't tell you. My parents met most of the BC tailgating regulars outside the parking garage, where Casey hustled over some kielbasa. Talk turned to Brady Smith, an alumnus of my high school and a BC football player until very recently. "What did Brady Smith get suspended for?" I asked Casey. "A touch of the rape." "Right." BC played some heartbreaking ball on Saturday, dangling hope in our faces in a 27-21 loss to the Clemson Tigers. Defense and special teams played their hearts out - several key interceptions, a blocked punt run back for a touchdown - but the offense once again failed to deliver. I am frankly tired of Chris Crane's shitty excuse for passing. We lingered for hot dogs and burgers after the game, then I got my parents home.

you want stylin', you know it's time again

Professor Coldheart — Tue, 04 Nov 2008 11:00:39 +0000

A coworker came by my desk waving a sheet of paper. "We're doing betting squares for the game this weekend. You want in?" "No thanks," I said. "Come on. Only five bucks!" "Thanks anyway; I've got better things to spend my five bucks on." "Like what?" "I don't know ... lunch? Movie tickets? Beer?" "You won't miss the five bucks," he insisted. "And you get to play along with the other folks in the office." "Really, I'm just going to keep my money." "Don't you like football?" I stared at him funny. "I love football." "Then why don't you want to gamble on it?" "That question doesn't make any sense. There's more to football than gambling." "Like what?" I couldn't believe I was having this conversation, but he looked serious. "Like watching the game? Cheering on your team? Wearing the team colors? Following team news? You know, all that?" "Sure, sure, that's cool, and I'm sure it makes a difference. But gambling's what makes it a sport, instead of just something silly." "You're not going to put me on the defensive. I can be a perfectly good football fan without gambling, and that's that. Give me one good reason why I should bet on a football game." "Because everyone else is doing it!" Another coworker, older and somewhat smarter, wandered by during this conversation; I shot him a pleading look while I answered the first guy's riposte. "That's not a valid argument and I think you know it." "The reason why you should gamble on football games," interjected the older coworker, "is because it sends a message." I'd never heard an answer so bizarre, so I was at a loss for words. He took this as a sign to continue. "The players in the game on Sunday know what the Vegas line is. They know that they're six-point underdogs. That's bound to discourage them. However, if there's a lot of betting, Vegas will raise the line to make it a closer bet. They'll do this to encourage more people to gamble. This will, in turn, encourage the players, since the game no longer looks like such a long shot. That'll make them play better, and make them more likely to win." "Exactly!", said the first coworker. He had never devoted that much thought to the question of Whether Or Not To Bet On Football. He'd been taught in sixth grade that betting was just Something All Good Football Fans Did. You weren't really a good football fan if you didn't bet. The notion of a football fan who didn't bet on football baffled him. "So you're saying," I said, gesturing with my hands as I struggled to line up concepts, "that if I bet on this Sunday's game ..." "Right." "... and if thousands of other people bet the same way I do ..." "Uh-huh." "... that'll encourage the bookies in Vegas to change the line ..." "Yup." "... which will encourage the players to play better ..." "You got it." "... which will hopefully make them win?" "That's it!" He beamed, proud of his tortured chain of reasoning. "That's the weirdest rationalization I've ever heard. Why wouldn't I just go to the game and cheer for the players directly? That's bound to have a greater effect on their playing than betting on them." "Well, sure, you can go to the game and cheer," the older coworker said dismissively. "But there's no reason you can't do that and place a bet." "Unless I want to keep my five bucks!" "Look," the first coworker interrupted, "don't you realize how lucky you are, living in a country where you can gamble on professional football? If you lived in the Soviet Union, or Saudi Arabia, or China, you wouldn't have that privilege. It's your right - hell, it's your duty to put five bucks down on this Sunday's game!" "Now you're being ridiculous," I said. "Don't you want our team to win?" "Of course I do." "Don't you like living in a city that has a championship team?" "I love it." "Then why won't you fill out this betting square?" I threw my hands up. "You're not making ounce one of sense here." "I give up," said the first coworker, snatching up the half-filled betting sheet and walking off. "I don't know how you can say you want our team to win if you're not willing to wager money on them." The older coworker smiled - one of those patronizing smiles that distances one from a louder party, while still trying to draw in the reluctant sale - and leaned in. "Look, it's not that much money. Is there any reason why you won't chip in five bucks? Play along with the rest of us?" "I'm not going to bet on this Sunday's game," I answered, "because I don't want to. It's my five bucks, to spend however I like, and I choose not to spend it on this. I won't want to spend it until I hear a sufficient argument for why I should. And so far, I have yet to hear anything that even sounds like an argument, much less a persuasive one." He shrugged sadly. "All right. I gave it my best. Sorry to bug you." "No problem; I have this conversation every four years or so." "See you at the tailgate this Sunday?" "You know it. I'll bring the ribs."

gunpowder, treason and plot

Professor Coldheart — Wed, 05 Nov 2008 11:00:29 +0000

Two things. First, I heard Fox News call it for Obama, with CNN and MSNBC following shortly, in the cabaret room at ImprovBoston last night. BostonNewsNet hosted a live election returns party, with a long string of sketches and comedian acts sprinkled between bits of breaking news. I had a couple beers and a cookie and chatted with various theater friends. Every time I made to leave - three times, at least - something interesting happened, or someone I hadn't seen in a while wandered in. When the announcement spread across the cabaret room's three TVs, applause broke out spontaneously; shockingly enough, a Cambridge crowd tends to swing Obamaward. I'd spoken in yesterday's post about the pre-rational appeal of picking sides and cheering for an abstract entity, and I got sucked into it with the rest of the room. The human brain evolved to respond strongly to us-vs-them impulses, and nowhere do you see that drawn more starkly than in election returns. Grown men weeped openly. Friends pounded me on the back. What I'm saying is: I may have clapped for a man I didn't vote for. Lest I come off too deconstructingly cynical, let me say sincerely: I was glad to be in a room packed with happy friends when I heard history being made. So last night was fun. (Also, BostonNewsNet's coverage was hilarious. TC, Kevin, Meghan, Bobby, Harry, Marcelo, Robert, everyone - beautifully done!) # # # Second: I haven't made a point of observing Guy Fawkes Day, November 5th, in years. Really, we Americans owe what little interest we have in a failed act of radical religious terrorism to Alan Moore. He forever linked Guy Fawkes with anarchism in my mind with V For Vendetta, a remarkable graphic novel that I discovered in college. My views on politics have changed since then (I can't say whether for better or worse), as has my fascination with the comic form. But when Guy Fawkes Day falls the day after one of the most interesting elections in U.S. history? I know of no reason that striking coincidence should ever be forgot. Reprinted from an earlier post (March 2006, LiveJournal), here's my take on the two most compelling themes of V for Vendetta. They're what inspired me the most, and what I think elevates the story from a comic book to a timeless graphic novel.

The message of V for Vendetta, the graphic novel, can be summed up in two lines. Both of these lines come from the book. One is unsettling; one is inspiring. 1. "Happiness is a prison, Evey." Part of what makes V such a fascinating character is that he might not be human. The story hints at superhuman alterations made to him at Larkhill, and the detectives surmise in Act One that he might be stronger or faster than a normal man. We never see his face. And he speaks and acts (and attacks) with such rehearsed precision that it's as if he knew every move in advance. But V's ultimate inhumanity - in every sense of the word - comes when he kidnaps Evey and forces her through a faux-Guantanamo, torturing her and trying to trick her into giving up. He reveals this all to her later, only to meet with her shock and disapproval. Yes, most of the oppressed citizens of London are living in misery. But she had a life in the real world with a man she loved. She was happy. "Happiness is a prison, Evey," V tells her. "Happiness is the most insidious prison of all." That line is, at the same time, absolutely psychopathic and absolutely true. To say that "happiness is a prison" demonstrates a fundamental detachment from the way humans perceive the world. However you define happiness - gut satisfaction, enlightened contentment, pure giddy joy - you'd have to be insane to say that the very idea is bad. Not just bad but a prison: a cage, a confinement, a restriction. Let's make that unstintingly clear. V is insane in every definition we're comfortable with. But he's nonetheless correct. Happiness is the last obstacle to an absolute devotion to liberty. And it makes sense if you think about it. Don't like your job? You could always quit tomorrow, sell everything you can't carry, pack the rest in a car and drive off into the sunset. But that kind of freedom is scary: it contains a wild number of risks. If total social order broke down tomorrow in the United States, that would also be a new, unparalleled freedom. It would also be a terrifying ordeal. Pure freedom, if such a thing is practical, may be too raw and terrible for humans. We all trade a little bit of our liberty in exchange for living comfortably with our neighbors. Every now and then, however, some misfit comes along and asks if perhaps we've traded too much. Our first answer is always, "No," because he's challenging our security. And we like to feel safe. V, in this role, represents the eternal misfit. He is violently unsatisfied with the fascist England of a postwar future; he would be just as unsatisfied with the United States under George W. Bush. Or under Andrew Jackson. Or under the Articles of Confederation. The movie shies away from going this far in its agenda. This, along with other touches, makes V a little more sympathetic. Personally, I missed it, though. I don't know if living the life of a Puritan guerrilla is a healthy pursuit of freedom. But I do know that no one's going to be challenged by the notion of revolting against black-uniformed fascists. Fascists are easy villains. It's the ones who tell you that Officer Friendly is your enemy - as V would - that get you thinking. 2. "It is the very last inch of us. But within that inch we are free." All law ultimately comes down to a man with a gun, pointed at you. All of it. Even the most trivial infraction - a speeding ticket, overdue taxes - will be corrected at gunpoint if you try and ignore it for too long. That being said, all law ultimately comes down to one choice: obey or perish. For most laws this isn't a hard choice at all. These are the laws we find moral anyway - don't kill, don't steal, don't vandalize. It's the fuzzier ones that make us criminals. Don't drive so fast. Don't smoke that. Don't get on the plane with that. Don't try and sit there if your skin's that color. We conform, of course. We go along, because it's that or our heads. If we break the law, we do it quietly, with soft whispers or when no one's looking. If no one went along, then there wouldn't be enough cops in the world to enforce the law. It's the threat of violence and the consent of our neighbors that keeps our heads down. And it's not so bad, anyway. Besides, if anyone reproves us later, we can always say we were forced to. Every now and then, though, we're reminded that there is a choice. We were reminded in Tienanmen Square, in East Berlin, in Johannesburg and in Alabama. There's always a choice. You can live in conformity or you can die with your integrity. The point of V's insane experiment with Evey is to remind her that there is a choice. No matter how many options are denied us, no matter how much of our property is seized, no matter how numerous our opponents, no matter how high the wall or how sturdy the bars, there is one last inch where they cannot trespass. There's one sacred possession that can never be taken, only given away. As soon as we give it, they have everything. As long as we don't, we are still free. Like the other message of V for Vendetta, this vision - the vision of a life without compromise - is also hard to swallow. But we must occasionally be reminded of the heroic, the ideal, the beautifully naive and the practically impossible. Without such stories our lives are, to borrow Hobbes, nasty, savage, brutish and short.

money on the dresser, drive a kompressor

Professor Coldheart — Thu, 06 Nov 2008 11:00:14 +0000

Quicksilver: The first ninth of Neal Stephenson's Baroque Cycle. The publishers broke out each super-tome into three moderate paperbacks - more convenient for the commuting bachelor like myself. If you like Neal Stephenson, or peppery revisionist histories of the founding of the modern banking system, or sinister tales of intrigue between rival mathematicians, this book - and this series - are for you. Stephenson's a big enough name in genre lit circles, however, that I think you already know by this point whether you should read him or not. So I won't waste any more words on him, other than: I liked it, I wish Stephenson had a more courageous editor, I intend to keep reading. Feed The Animals:

I'm like a person whose hands were kept numb, without sensation from the first moment of awareness - until one day the ability to feel is forced into them. [...] And I say, 'Look! I have no hands!' But the people all around me say, 'What are hands?' - Frank Herbert, Dune

Calling Girl Talk's Feed The Animals a 53-minute mash-up doesn't do justice to its rhythmic and creative complexity. I can't properly explain to you the narrative beauty of mixing "Let Me Clear My Throat" with "Rubberband Man" and "Come On Eileen." Or sampling together "Since U Been Gone," NIN's "Wish," The Zombies' "Time of the Season" and "2 Legit To Quit." Or ... hell. Every twenty seconds brings a new revelation. Every artist samples. What Gregg Gillis does demonstrates a breadth of cultural awareness that I've never seen before. It redefines the way you consider each of the songs he uses. It's frankly astonishing. Off The Books: The Underground Economy of the Urban Poor: Sudhir Venkatesh is the overwhelmed econ student in Freakonomics who descends into Chicago's ghettos and gets a first-hand look at the drug-trafficking life. Part of what he observes gets mentioned in that same book. Off The Books contains the rest. What always bothered me about Ehrenreich's Nickled and Dimed is that she thrust herself into the world of the urban poor without availing herself of the social network that keeps them alive. Of course no one can survive on the wages that people below the poverty line make. That's pure math. What she didn't get - and what Venkatesh documents, through extensive interviews and personal experience - is that there's an extensive web of favors, trades and deals that go on behind the scenes. It looks foreign to us, the privileged white observers, but it's the way that all markets worked for the first ten thousand years of civilization. You deal with the folks you trust. You hustle to get a little extra. You cling to the edge of starvation. This book's clearly targeted at academics - a more stylish editor could cut it down to half its length and shelve it next to Surowiecki's Wisdom of Crowds or Gladwell's latest bubblegum wad. But as a thorough documentation of the truly alien way that America's poor live, it's second to none. There's a shadow economy in American cities, comprised of people who can't go to the cops or deal with banks or even trust in contracts. Sometimes they trade legal goods illegally, like the man driving a gypsy cab, the mechanic repairing cars in an alley, or the woman selling soul food out of her own kitchen. Sometimes it's illegal goods or services, like the woman who turns a few tricks a month to feed her kids or the man who's a runner for the local crack dealers. It's fascinating, humbling and frightening on every level.

on the cover of the magazine, there's no question why I'm smiling

Professor Coldheart — Fri, 07 Nov 2008 11:00:22 +0000

Local software powerhouse Vecna Technologies has blitzed the Red Line with ads recently, looking for new developers. Most of these have really stood out - showing handsome people with eloquent pull quotes talking about the meaningful work they do. However, one that I spotted last week, and again last night, makes me laugh in derision:

Vec-na (Czech) Eternal (i.e., Built to Last)

Sure. You named your company after an obscure Czech adjective. Right. Not one of the most infamous recurring villains in Dungeons and Dragons' thirty year publishing history. Okay, fellas. (For nerds who've been out of the loop: Vecna got promoted from demigod to full on godhood in 4th Edition. Update the Satanic altar in your basement accordingly) # # # Karaoke on Wednesday had a rather small crowd - post-election fatigue plus cold drizzle kept people indoors. I saw a tiny house of regulars, plus a handful of new faces. A girl at the table in front of us sang some pop staple I can't recall, largely because her intoxicated friend kept keening at her. She made noises at the parts of the song during which normal humans might cheer, but not in the right volume or tone. It was a funereal wail. I know no other way to describe it. I dedicated my first song - "Jesus He Knows Me," by Genesis - to "the city of Cambridge, which went 87% for Obama last night." Nobody got what I was going for until I started swapping words out in the final chorus:

'Cause Obama knows me, and he knows I'm right I've been talking to Obama all my life Barack Obama knows me, and he knows I'm right Well he's been telling me everything's gonna be all right

It didn't help matters that the intoxicated friend from earlier stood up and tried to take the microphone from me. This was before I started singing about Obama, mind you: I had barely hit the first chorus before she latched on. "Jesus doesn't know you," she slurred. I extricated it from her grip as gently as possible (twist, don't yank) while DJ Paul escorted her away from the booth. Apparently she burst into tears in front of her friends sixty seconds later. I couldn't see; I was too busy being clever.

you think that this is just a kiss but I suggest you consider it a warning

Professor Coldheart — Mon, 10 Nov 2008 14:30:13 +0000

I've spoken before (primarily on Yelp) about the premium I pay to live in Boston, as opposed to cheaper cities like Austin or Chicago. This weekend I made the most of that. First off: Tasca after work on Friday with RJ, Sylvia, Joanna and Brian. Each of us picked three tapas off the menu; RJ wrote all our requests down, then re-wrote the list in numerical order. "My OCD's acting up again," he muttered. Our waiter was attentive and friendly, though he took his sweet time delivering the check. Next stop: meeting Terry for a drink at Miracle of Science. He was in town to shepherd a bunch of undergrads at IGEM. "They're still in that neophyte stage where they think failure is bad," he explained. "They don't realize that an experiment where seven steps out of nine fail is a smashing success." We talked about the perils of living in Allston (many, and time has not blunted them) and election fall-out. "All those four-color Obama posters?" Terry observed. "They looked really cool during the campaign - eye-catching, Mao-esque throwbacks. Once he actually becomes President, they're going to look really creepy." I ducked out after half an hour to hit the Middle East Upstairs and watch some live bands. I caught the tail end of the Daily Pravda - an energetic bunch of rockers with an early 70s Bowie sound to them. Apparently, if I'd shown up ten minutes earlier I actually would have heard them covering Ziggy Stardust. I formed the comparison before I learned that; I promise. Next set: Midatlantic, formerly known as the Bleedin Bleedins - an excellent change in band name from every perspective save SEO. I liked their gig a lot: think Killers, minus Duran Duran, plus U2. The lead singer looked like Rory Cochrane (Lucas from Empire Records) gone to seed. He strutted and pumped more than Matthew (see below), who struts with the best of 'em. I waited around the merch table toward the end of their set but nobody showed. Unwilling to complete my descent into hipster trash by stealing a local band's CD (shoving it into my Misfits hoodie, perhaps, or asking my Asian girlfriend to stick it in her duct-tape purse), I bum-rushed the stage and got the lead singer's attention while they wrapped up their mics. "I want to give you ten bucks and take a CD," I explained. He directed me to his girlfriend - which isn't unusual; "lead singer's girlfriend" occupies a space in the Indie Rock Band Org Chart somewhere above Manager and below Sound Guy - who took my money and gave me a disc. Last up: Provocateur, the band I came to see. They make a smooth, sensual electropop that you can't help but dance to - listening to them is like fucking in vinyl pants. Matthew struts and croons with the best of 'em (see above), and Stacia gets into it during the heavy parts. I jumped up, jumped up and got down.

and I don't know if you don't know your better half don't act right

Professor Coldheart — Tue, 11 Nov 2008 11:00:07 +0000

Saturday started off early with some tumultuous and epic gaming that ran until 4:15 PM. Afterward, Serpico and I took the Red Line to Park Street. Underground, we ran into Kate C., waiting for a train of her own to whisk her off to Carmina Burana. "Did you know Bruce Campbell's in town tonight?" she squealed. "Why didn't anyone tell me?" "You're dating Ryan," I reminded her. "I presumed you would have picked it up through osmosis." The Green Line and a short walk carried us to Boston College, where we found James F., Tom O' and Casey grilling in a light downpour. I ate a rather watery slice of homemade pizza until Casey finished a new batch of kielbasa. We took turns heaping derision on Greg W., who had elected to avoid the annual football game against BC's biggest rival because of a mild downpour. James raised Greg's voicemail on his cell. "The weather's fine," he yelled, as rain caused the greasy grill to spout flames into Tom's poncho. "You still have time to get here!" Serpico and I wandered to Shea Field, the "elite" tailgating section, to try and find some friends of ours. Entering Shea in the first place requires you to cut through a sea of humanity and get your ticket inspected; this keeps out the riff-raff who would otherwise take the slowest train in Boston to BC, drink in a cramped corner of the parking lot, and then leave without seeing a football game. Past the security guards, we entered a sucking mudhole of humanity. Rows of parked SUVs funneled fans into tiny, filthy corridors. Our shoes squelched as we trudged through a crowd of hundreds, craning our necks desperately for our friends. I can't imagine it'd be any better on a sunny day instead of a rainy evening: picture a crowd twice as dense with temperatures thirty degrees higher. We gave up after fifteen minutes and slogged back to campus. "I just bought these at the Saucony outlet," Serpico said of his shoes. We normally have a little breathing room in our excellent benches, a mere 15 rows back from the turf. But for the BC / Notre Dame game, every seat in the stadium sells and fills. We squeezed in asscheek to asscheek, surrounded by more out of town fans than usual. Tom did not slacken in his usual torrent of hatred, calling Charlie Weis a "fucking baby" about six minutes into the first quarter (for what, I can not recall). Serpico sporadically abused a lone Notre Dame fan six rows down from us, whose only crime (at the moment) was echoing the ref's "out of bounds" gesture after a particularly bad Chris Crane pass. "What is that?" Serpico asked. "Is that a thing you do? Do you travel to other people's stadiums and make gestures like that? Is that fun for you?" A pair of drunk Notre Dame fans got ejected for sitting in the wrong seats. Despite teetering ominously, staring at the events staff in a drunken glaze and waving what looked like a Marine Corps ID card around, the argument did not go their way. Other than those jackasses, I tried to save my abuse for the opposing team ("nice one, Clausen!"), rather than the opposing team's fans, who came all this way in the rain to see their team lose. I mostly succeeded. Mostly. "If you get us in a fight," I promised James, "I am not going to back you up. I'm throwing you all the way under that bus." Boston College beat Notre Dame, 17 to 0 - their sixth straight win over the Irish and the first blanking in ... years? Decades? Something like that. Even though the game ended in the last four minutes, I stayed until the final strains of "Hail Alma Mater," then followed Serpico to the Reservoir station. We took a weary train ride downtown, running into Michelle McN and her friends on the way.

you've been thunderstruck

Professor Coldheart — Wed, 12 Nov 2008 14:47:49 +0000

Sunday I got up early and drove to Target in Watertown, picking up some cheap binoculars. They came with a cord to go around my neck, a handy carrying case and a multi-tool that I'd attach to my keychain if I weren't sure to lose it the next time I went through Logan. I then made my way to Newton, soaking up fall sunlight, to rendezvous with Fraley, Melissa and Serpico. We made it down to Foxboro in a little over an hour and set up our space-efficient tailgate - some folding chairs, two camp tables, and Fraley's ultra-portable grill, Ol' Smoky. "She's got a sweet spot right in the center," he said, reaching under the grill with a long-necked lighter. "So you've got to make sure to JESUS." Smoky belched, his apple-red lid rattling with a gout of flame. First course: Shaw's pizza on tinfoil. The heat didn't distribute as evenly as we'd like (see "sweet spot" above), but I had no problem with a bit of black on my crust. Not everyone felt as daring, though, and even I had my reservations when I could still taste the char three quarters of football later. Speaking of: Mel and Fraley seemed astonished that this was my first game at Gillette Stadium. I marveled at the suburban bazaar that is Patriots Place: movie theaters, restaurants, Puma outlets, Victoria's Secret, Bath & Body Works ... a middle-class resort. Call me a bad libertarian, but I'm secretly glad that the casino bill this past spring failed, since there'd been some talk of Kraft backing a casino at or near Foxboro. In theory I'm in favor of putting another billion dollars a year in Robert Kraft's pocket; in practice, I oppose it. I hadn't sat in the upper deck of a football stadium since watching the Ravens tussle with the Steelers in Memorial Stadium eleven years ago, and they didn't optimize Memorial for football. My fears were out of place in Gillette, however - even in the 300s I could see the field with remarkable clarity. The binoculars I bought that morning still proved useful, as I spied out a number of close plays. The Patriots took an early lead and never relinquished it, thanks to competent ball-handling by Matt Cassel and the usual string of Belichick trick plays. The Patriots closed the first half with their infamous "slow knee" - waiting a few seconds to run down the clock before kneeling to stop the play. "Other teams hate that," Fraley observed. "There's this gentleman's agreement in the NFL - you kneel the ball right after the snap, we won't vault over the line and crush you." The mens' room at Foxboro during halftime is more orderly than I would have thought - guys file in and wait behind a particular stall, rather than queuing up thirty deep and dashing for the first one free. I got in and out quickly, trying not to quietly retch at the guys who brought open cups of beer into the stalls with them. Then I remembered I'd promised Fraley a beer, and could use one myself, so I found a wandering Coors guy. He was wrapping up a transaction with a middle-aged man and his younger woman. "Checkin' my ID," the man was complaining. "You didn't even look, did you? What year was I born?" "1963," the beer guy said. " '62!" the customer crowed. He took his beer while the woman handed over some bills. "Where's the change?" she asked. "I gave it to you," the beer guy said, indicating the folded bills he'd just passed over. "I mean the fifty cents." This is another gentleman's agreement surrounding football - if the price of beer or a dog comes out to some figure less than a whole dollar, the silver comprises part of the tip. You don't make a man carrying a twenty-pound tray of icy beer by his trapezius muscles in winter root around in his pocket for two quarters. "I don't have it," he said, turning to me. "Two," I asked, flashing a twenty. "You don't have it?" This had brought the ~~middle-aged~~ 46-year-old man back. "You not gonna give her that fifty cent?" "I don't have it. That'll be fifteen." That last was to me, obviously. "Honey, get his badge number. I'm'a write his ass up." I slipped back into my seat a minute into the third quarter as the Patriots slowly nursed their lead. "They remind me a lot of the 2000 Ravens," I observed to Fraley. "Slow offense built around ball control, big scoring opportunities from defense and special teams." "Now that the game's all but put away," Serpico observed, still worrying about his fantasy football team, "this'd be a great time for a Lee Evans touchdown ..." "Shut it! No one wants to hear that!" A late Buffalo touchdown (not by Lee Evans) didn't stop the Patriots from trouncing the Bills, 20-10. We joined the surging crowd in the long walk back to the parking fields, where we re-lit Ol' Smokey and cracked open some chorizo and burgers. We talked about the past and watched football fans lob sloppy passes and light off fireworks. My dad texted me Ravens scores, cheering over their 41-13 slaughter of the Texans. The gentleman in the pickup next to Fraley's car observed us, killing time and letting traffic thin out over a flaming grill. "That's the way to do it," he said. I knew what he meant.

it's not a habit, it's cool; I feel alive

Professor Coldheart — Thu, 13 Nov 2008 11:00:43 +0000

In part of a slow effort to improve my productivity, I cut myself off from as many political weblogs as possible over the last month or so. I refused to let myself get drawn into the minutiae that amateur pundits obsess over (OMG Palin's expensive wardrobe! WTF Obama socialism!), because I knew it would only make me angry. But I had a few minutes to kill on Monday morning so, in a moment of weakness, I revisited IOZ. Oh, sweet mother of Motown, that felt good. From Moving to Montana Soon:

If the election of Barack Obama makes America "socialist," then this blog makes me Tom fucking Clancy. I mean, here you have a dude who basically says he's going to tinker a little bit with the marginal tax rate and try to close some corporate loopholes (yeah, uh, bon chance, yo), but who otherwise promises to invade Syria and Afghanistan and Pakistan and Iran and the Moon and Kupier Belt, to expand the death penalty to include absentee fatherism, and to have the NSA eavesdrop on everyone in the universe. Ohmigod, America has been taken over by a dude who believes in American primacy and hegemony, who calls Israel our double-super-BFF-forever, who embraces a narrative of National Greatness that should give Canadian bagman David Frum the biggest only hard-on he's ever had. Are we really in for four years of the chest-puffing closet cases of the putative right trying to convince us that a Wilsonian is some kind of crypto-Leninist?

From Phallibertarians:

Male libertarians who denigrate the pervading social constraints on women and people of minority racial groups and people with less common sexual predilections--i.e., most male libertarians--do so because their ideology is grumpy and reactionary; it is forged of the same stuff as crybaby conservativism; its concerns with genuine liberty are purely tactical, and entirely personal. These scattershot beliefs, which consist principally of disliking taxes, regretting surveillance, and smoking weed hardly constitute a political identity at all. Sometimes they involve opposition to imperialism abroad; sometimes not. They're the reason libertarianism in general is routinely mocked as a kind of solipsism: it is! [...] Many, many self-identified libertarians are in fact bourgeois white men firmly ensconced in a patriarchal heteronormative social order that they fundamentally do not wish to change.

Holy hell, my hands are shaking. Someone keep me away from the devil in that needle because, after the two weeks leading up to this past election, this shit got me hooked again.

you'll never back up an inch ever; that's why you will not survive

Professor Coldheart — Fri, 14 Nov 2008 11:00:38 +0000

This is one of those introspective posts. I had the following thought about a week ago, probably while riding the train. Until recently I'd always regretted the things I had done more than regretting the things I hadn't - an inversion of the classic aphorism. I felt like an ass for talking to that girl (while drunk), or for making that joke (in front of my boss), or for going to the gym (while my finger was still broken). Sometimes I would relive the moment itself and actually wince in embarrassment that I should have felt at the time. I wondered why this was: why I never regretted missed opportunities, when everyone said that was the big downside of life. Then the other day it hit me. I never regret missed opportunities because I never think of the door as closed. So I should have gone out more in college? Probably. I'm not dead yet, though: I can go out more now. And I have. Maybe those hours I spent beating Fable in 2006 would have been better spent writing? Without question. So I'll just start writing now. And so on, and so forth. Anthony Robbins may carry water for a lot of quacks, but the core of his motivational philosophy remains absolutely true: it's never too late to start making changes. Deciding to make a positive change in your life is the first step to transforming yourself. Of course, sticking to that change are steps two through forty, so it's not magic. But you never really lose the power to change until you die. (If you haven't seen it already, I strongly recommend Anthony Robbins' TED talk from 2006, if only to watch him piece Al Gore at about 1/3 in) # # # I've talked a lot about Tim Ferriss' Four Hour Work Week over the last few months. I will probably talk about it more in the future. To convince you people that I haven't joined a cult, I want to stress a key point here: Tim Ferriss is a bit of an asshole. All great motivators are assholes. They have to be. A great motivator cannot let you sit where you are. You have a thousand excuses to keep doing things the way you're doing them; he has to tell you they're all bullshit. He has to get you uncomfortable. Change requires change; it's not something you can do from your armchair. Gandhi was an asshole ("stop buying British-made clothes? sure, Bupu"). Dr. Martin Luther King was an asshole ("I already gave $10 to the NAACP; you want me to take a fire hose to the face too?"). Anthony Robbins is an asshole - he tells an anecdote in Awaken The Giant Within about encouraging a chocolate addict at one of his seminars to go ahead! stuff your face! eat as much chocolate as you like! And he did for two days' straight, got miserable and never touched the stuff again. Tim Ferriss is no different. Here are a few of the ways that Tim Ferriss is an asshole:

He ends e-mails and requests with "Thank you in advance," which is a time-honored asshole move.
He spends a tremendous amount of time talking about himself and his own accomplishments. Take this video, for example, from the Do Lectures in Wales.
He insists that you stop reading the news. Okay, that one's not so bad, but he also insists that you stop reading non-fiction. He advises you to read nothing but fiction (to relax) and his book. If you want to learn about something - how to parasail in Guatemala, how to drop-ship merchandise - he suggests asking someone who's done it, rather than reading up. So, yes, Ferriss says with a straight face to stop reading all other non-fiction books except his own.
He won the Chinese National Kickboxing Championship in 1999 - on a string of technicalities that would make Bill Belichick wince. Since the weigh-in was the day before competition, he dehydrated down to 163 pounds, then hyper-hydrated back to 193. Since the rules forbade leaving the rope circle on the ground, he pushed every one of his opponents out of the ring until they were disqualified^*. And he makes no secret of how he won! It's right there in the book! It's an object lesson in thinking outside the box, I suppose.
And even though he points out several times in the book about how a desk-free, income-streaming lifestyle can be used to support a family, the Four Hour Work Week is inherently self-centered. There's no way around that. Consider: you're cutting yourself off from the 8:30-5:30 lifestyle that most people recognize. You spend a good portion of your year traveling the world, having adventures that your peers can't even conceive, much less experience. Even after you overcome all the doubts that keep you from taking risks, the people around you will constantly refresh those doubts (e.g., "you're quitting your job? really?"). So living this New Rich lifestyle requires you to ignore your peers. That can be a very bold, life-affirming move if it frees you from drudgery. But it also makes you an asshole.

A lot of Four Hour Work Week is not for me. I cannot see myself generating income from home-made products that I kludge together with iMovie and CafePress and sell at an 8x markup. Tim Ferriss does not have it all figured out for everybody. And, on top of all that, he's a bit of an asshole. But I've known for sixteen years that I was meant to be a writer. I've known since I left school that I would never find fulfillment - that passionate excitement that we touch too rarely - at a desk job. So anything that frees me from that by a few more degrees pays its own way. _____________ ^* Soul Calibur fans, take note: the Chinese are no more a fan of "RING OUT" than we are.

I'm on the straight line when the man comes around

Professor Coldheart — Mon, 17 Nov 2008 13:50:08 +0000

The Station Agent: Peter Dinklage plays the coolest motherfucker on screen for the last ... ten years? Twenty? And I mean that sincerely. Cooler than Danny Ocean, cooler than James Bond, cooler than anyone. I am not being sarcastic. I am not exaggerating for comic affect. I genuinely believe that, if you want to portray a cool cat on film, Peter Dinklage's character - Fin - in The Station Agent should be your model. The rationale: he portrays that supreme level of cool of a man who doesn't want anything from anybody. Everyone around him radiates so much neediness - Joe the coffee wagon guy; Olivia the divorced artist - that they look like cartoons in comparison. But Fin passes casually by. If he's lonely he doesn't show it; if he's uncertain he doesn't show it. Sinatra may be cool; Peter Dinklage possesses the Buddha nature. Seriously. Watch the scene where he meets Joe for the first time and orders a cup of coffee from him. That should be your staple for how cool guys ought to act on screen. Use it as a benchmark. King of the Vagabonds: Part 2 of 9 of the Baroque Cycle. Epic, hilarious, picaresque and touching all at the same time.

and now it's time for the breakdown

Professor Coldheart — Tue, 18 Nov 2008 11:00:14 +0000

My body's starting to disintegrate around me. Last week I caught my third cold in three months. This from a guy who used to go years between colds. This one has no sinus presence - just a steady, unproductive hacking from deep in the back of my throat. Last night the muscles of my neck actually hurt from coughing so much. (To save you a lot of time: I take a multi-vitamin every day, I exercise five days a week for no more than an hour each time, I wash my hands thoroughly every time I go to the bathroom, I get at least 6 hours of sleep every night and usually more, etc) Soreness takes longer to heal than it once did. Scrapes turn into scars rather than scabbing over and vanishing. My neck cracks, my back aches and my joints pop. I'm officially starting to get old. # # # I went bowling on Sunday for the first time in years, hitting up Lanes & Games in North Cambridge. They have a remarkably nice bar considering that they're a bowling alley on Route 2. Kristina C., Madeline, Matt and Chris came too, though Chris only watched. I bowled two sub-100 matches. On Monday the tendon running the length of my forearm ached all day (see above).

in the end, all you can hope for is the love you've felt to equal the pain you've gone through

Professor Coldheart — Wed, 19 Nov 2008 11:00:34 +0000

First off: I have a guest piece on the wildly popular OverthinkingIt.com today - "Quantifying Solace". What exactly is a "quantum" of solace? And, if the movie turns out successful, what other emotions can the Bond series micro-measure? (I know this is my second or third time mentioning it, but LJ went down yesterday) # # # While drifting off to sleep on Monday, I had the brief but terrifying urge to give World of Warcraft a try. Just for a few weeks. Just to see what it was like. I didn't bolt upright screaming, though perhaps I should have. # # # I thought Candid's enthusiasm over the public library last year was the geekiest thing he'd ever written (at the time). Then I joined the Cambridge Public Library this summer. Have you seen their website? Holy hell! You can browse their catalog of books online - not just Cambridge's, but Natick's, Framingham's, Lexington's, etc. And then, when you click on the book, they deliver it to any library you like. For free! And then you go and get it and take it home. For free! You don't even have to set foot in the library to renew it. And you can do this as many times as you goddamn want. I suppose the notion of a public library taking advantage of the Information Superhighway shouldn't shock me. But I used to work for a public library in high school. I'm accustomed to a certain way of doing things. This is one of those unexpected and amazing conveniences that turns people into lifelong customers. (Marketers trolling my weblog - and I know you're out there - write that down. That's the key to a good customer experience: unexpected, amazing convenience) # # # Penny Arcade had a justified laugh at Peter Molyneux when he suggested reviewers should play Fable 2 with people who don't play games. But, at the same time, I understand the distinction Molyneux hints at - between hardcore gamers and casual button mashers. I'm pretty sure I fall in the latter. Last night I hit three different stores in the Arsenal Mall^*, looking for a 20GB XBox 360. To bring the outsiders up to speed: Microsoft currently markets the 360 in three flavors: Arcade (practically useless; $200), Pro (60GB memory; $300) and Elite (ostentatious; $400). But only a few months back, they also marketed a 20GB version. Some stores still have one or two of these peeking around the corners, available on the cheap. Of the three shops I hit on Tuesday, however, I only found one. And even then I wasn't swayed. Instead I bought two games for the original XBox - Soul Calibur II and Full Spectrum Warrior: Ten Hammers. I got these for $10 total (not each). The music and electronics store that I bought them from had slashed every original XBox game's price by 50%, in a frenzy to get the old crap off the shelves. I do this sort of thing all the time: wait until a game drops to $20 or below before buying it. Waiting until the current generation console drops in price by 25-50%. I'm in no hurry to ride the state of the art curve. So even though I play video games all the time, I don't consider myself a "gamer" in the same sense that the PA staff, or the guy who narrates Zero Punctuation, are. It's a trivial distinction to people who never play video games at all, but I think it matters. # # # Okay, so we hit: posts on other blogs, World of Warcraft, the public library, and video games. Pretty good for a Wednesday. Every now and then I need to dash off a post like this to help my street cred. ^* Out of the four that were open at the time.

I know how hard you try; I see it in your eyes

Professor Coldheart — Thu, 20 Nov 2008 13:48:26 +0000

I saw this on my man Eric's site yesterday. Then the Queen of Awkward forwarded it to me as well and asked that I talk about it. So I will. But what is it? It's a selection of profile quotes from The Atlasphere, the world's largest dating site devoted primarily to Ayn Rand fans:

dpvabc, Edmonton, Canada My name is Daniel. I consider myself to be a born-again egoist and I have dedicated the rest of my life to self-improvement. People see me as a socially inept loner because I tend to avoid superficial conversation but actually I love talking to people who like to think (the problem being I don’t know very many). mxjohnxm, Greenville, South Carolina “One can’t love man without hating most of the creatures who pretend to bear his name.” Zak, Long Island, New York I am rational, integrated, and efficacious. So far, I’ve never met a person who lives up to the standard I hold for myself (except online). I take my relationships seriously. I am simply not attracted to many of the women in this world. I do not “hook-up” with girls. I only kiss those who deserve, and so far I have only encountered one who did. I would love to find someone I can learn something from; someone who challenges me to think; someone I can feel like I’ve won, rather than lowered myself to. lostpainting, Hagerstown, Maryland Please note: If you’re overweight, I won’t date you. If you believe in God, I won’t date you. If you vote for Democrats, I won’t date you.

(I love that final one; you wonder if lostpainting considers being overweight the same kind of moral failing as believing in God or voting Democrat. Svelte atheist Republicans have been advancing the torch of Reason through these Dark Ages; no one else) Anyhow, my thoughts:

As far as needy statements buffed to a sheen of confidence go, they're no worse than anything you'd find on Craigslist. Seriously. And some of the ones I didn't copy over are downright touching ("want to meet a serious woman who both challenges me intellectually and inspires me to noble things by her beauty"), if not likely to get anywhere. So, Rand fans are human too.

I've dated all over the ideological spectrum, and I can think of only one relationship that lasted longer than 4 weeks where we shared a knowledge and familiarity with Rand's writing and philosophy. Some of my more successful relationships came with ideological opposites. Hell, sometimes we don't even talk politics at all. It's a bit of a downer. I think that a shared political philosophy helps to strengthen a relationship, but sucks when selecting for a relationship. Dating sites tend to put photos higher on the page than manifestos, in case you hadn't noticed.

If the Atlasphere hasn't changed much from when it first debuted - '03, was it? '04? - then the male:female ratio still hovers over 20:1. Guys, I hate to sound crude, but now's not the time to be picky.

Anyhow, best of luck to everyone on the Atlasphere. May you all find your Kira / Dominique / Dagny / Rand-substitute someday.

no words; no talk; we'll go dreaming

Professor Coldheart — Fri, 21 Nov 2008 14:29:24 +0000

Taking the T home on Wednesday, a small posse of youths crowded onto an already packed train at Porter. "May I have your attention, everybody!" one of them declared. "Just keep your eyes on the black guy dancing!" One of his friends set a boom box down near the benches; the others cleared the aisle of pedestrians. I don't know how you get ten feet of running room on a Red Line train at rush hour, but they managed. Then, these kids unleashed some acrobatic breaking in a frighteningly confined space. They cartwheeled and somersaulted, their Adidas whipping within inches of passengers' faces. They flipped in mid-air, using the standing rails as handlebars. They dropped to the floor, spinning and hand-standing like ... I dunno, like tops with strong forearms. "Thank you!" they said at Davis, as I got off. "If you'd like to show your appreciation, you can leave your money with us." I hadn't seen anyone panhandle on the T since a sketchy incident on the way to Logan two and a quarter years ago, and never with such coordinated effort. I thought that sort of thing only flew in Manhattan. New Yorkers - how do displays like that usually fare? Do you ignore them coolly? Do tourists and a few sympathetic rubes chip in? I'm curious. # # # If you want a good cardio workout, forget running. Forget swimming. Grapple a man who has one hundred pounds on you and uses them better. Transitioning from mount to half mount to half guard to guard and back again will wring you out in five minutes or less. The only edge I had on the guy I practiced with last night was that I knew two things he hadn't seen. Possibly three. # # # Last night, I found the nightlife experience I've spent eight years searching for: Make It New at Middlesex on Mass Ave. Seriously, it's everything I want in a club scene: house music; low or no cover; people I like a lot but don't see every day; cheap beer; no yah-dudes or girls in shimmery towels and platform heels; and plenty of unexpected spectacle to fragment my attention. Like the circle of dudes breakin' in the corner. Just out of nowhere! A circle of people bobbed and weaved around a gap of floor, moving a little but not going crazy. Then one of them would step into the gap and walk the perimeter of the circle from the inside - getting everyone's attention? defining the space? catching up with the rhythm? Probably some combination of the three. This guy or girl (breaking is an equal opportunity art form) would then pop, contort, shake and twist in some amazing, unpredictable and entertaining fashion. # # # Boston's a city that will get on the floor and roll when the time is right, is the theme of this entry.

sephiroth!

Professor Coldheart — Mon, 24 Nov 2008 15:27:53 +0000

The lights went down on the Wang Theater and up on the crowded stage. A conductor with a shock of white hair and a black jacket with large silver buttons took the podium and tapped the orchestra to life. A screen behind the orchestra lit up, displaying the parallel lines of Pong. The orchestra led us through a medley of video game themes over the first twenty years of gaming history - Pong, Donkey Kong, Elevator Action, Burger Time, etc - while those same classics played nostalgically across the screen: the opening act of Video Games Live's debut in Boston. Then some asshole in red shoes showed up. I can not overstate how much of a douchebag Tommy Tallarico is. I humored him patiently for the first five minutes he showed up, until I realized that he intended to spend another five minutes talking up himself and his show. His ham-handed attempts to win over the crowd annoyed me further. "Some people think video games are just for kids," the forty-year old mocked, summoning a mighty "BOO" from the crowd in a way that Ric Flair would wince at. "Some people think video games cause violent behavior." ("Some people live in houses filled with strawmen," I murmured) Video Games Live is a gem. Its music appeals on several primal levels - from the nostalgia of childhood classics being played beautifully to the epic awe of today's million-dollar soundtracks. VGL uses entirely local musicians - the City Arts Orchestra on stage and the Brookline High Choir for vocals. They covered a broad sampling of games, from the Mario and Zelda series to releases as recent as the new World of Warcraft expansion. I'm glad Melissa made sure we went, and I'm glad Serpico, RJ and Katie H were there with me. I just need to stress how much Tommy Tallarico sucked. He served no purpose other than to leech energy out of the show. That might have actually been his role - stretching a 70 minute show to 2 hours with a lot of talk. I don't know why, though. They have more material than they played. I only hope that, as the show becomes more monetized, corporate pressure fills the time with more music and less of that jackass. (Seriously - playing your game's score with a professional orchestra while cut scenes flash in the background? It's a commercial people pay to see. Win-win!) I won't spoil all the show's little surprises, but I have to pass this one along: the winner of a Guitar Hero battle in the lobby before the show got called on stage in the second act. Tallarico handed him a Guitar Hero controller. "If you get over 200,000 points in 'Sweet Emotion' on Hard ..." he began. The kid shook his head, motioning upward with his thumb. "Expert?" Tallarico asked. The audience roared.^* I've been quieter at close football games than I was watching that guy blow through Guitar Hero. The live orchestra backing him made it an epic spectacle. Plus, the tension of competing against the game transformed the song from a rock staple to a pitched battle. Imagine if Joe Perry broke every finger on his left hand, then going to see Aerosmith's first live concert after they'd healed - will he pull it off? will he be as good as we hoped? That, plus lasers. After VGL, Katie H. gave me a ride to Central Square. I headed toward ImprovBoston, only to find Dana already walking down the block. "You heading to Phoenix Landing?" he asked. "Robert just texted me; he said the place is packed." We found ourselves jogging to get there, one of those unspoken decisions born of enthusiasm. You live a buttoned-down life during the week, so when the opportunity comes to shake it out and perform in front of friends and strangers, you don't want to waste a second in transit. And that's what we do when we dance. We threaded our way through the crowd to the foot of the stage. Dana immediately leaped onto the benches that surround the dance floor and began attracting attention. That's what he does. After a while I joined him. ____________ ^* This led to that classic exercise in futility, Changing The Settings In Guitar Hero. Anyone who's played GH or Rock band knows how frustrating it gets when you've almost started the song but want to change one thing - the number of players, the difficulty, etc. Now imagine doing that on a stage in front of two thousand people. "You have to back all the way out!", I yelled from the back of the balcony. "Main menu! Main menu!"

and they sit at the bar and put bread in my jar

Professor Coldheart — Tue, 25 Nov 2008 11:00:19 +0000

I missed the first stop of the jiu-jitsu pub crawl on Saturday night, but caught up with them at Clarke's, a corner pub behind Faneuil Hall. One of the other instructors had ordered several plates of appetizers; against my better judgment, I snagged a mozzarella stick while ordering a Miller Lite. "Two seventy-five," the bartender asked. I caught up with Megan K., one of the recent crop of new instructors, talking about the work/life balance. Folks who keep up with jiu-jitsu for four or more years - which includes every certified instructor at the Theodorou Academy, such as Megan and myself - probably already have the work/life balance figured out pretty well. You don't stick with something that will wake you up sore more mornings than not unless you know when to shut your computer off. I hope I sounded equally profound after a couple of beers. We trucked on to Red Sky, across the plaza and next to the Hard Rock. We tried to talk our way into squatting at some reserved tables until the assigned party showed up, but the server wasn't having it. So we clumped in the dim lounge like fingerprints under an IR lamp. Rita ordered a pizza for the group to share, and I ordered a Budweiser. "Four twenty-five," the bartender said. I talked to Cyril for a bit, learning that not only did he work in the same industry I do, but that we shared an alma mater. We talked about BC's bowl prospects and upcoming opponents, sharing a few anecdotes about games gone by. Apparently, BC used to park about 30% more cars on Shea Field than they do currently. Cyril told me why they don't anymore; I'll share the anecdote next time I see you. The party left Red Sky early to hit up Bell In Hand, making it in 10 minutes before the cover charge. They offer a free "Molson Coat Check" downstairs (did they give the bar the idea? or does Molson pick up the tab? I didn't think coat checks had a lot of overhead). I decided to keep my coat anyway, since we loitered near the frequently open front door. Nick, owner of the school and head instructor, showed up just as I ordered a Budweiser. "That'll be six fifty," I was told. Upstairs, a DJ spun Top 40 hits and college town favorites. Texas Tech got the paint sanded off them by Oklahoma, 65-21, while we drank and waited for the music to cycle up. Rita's fuzzy short-brimmed hat got passed around; everyone got a chance to try it on. I looked all right in it, but it was Phil - whose 16-year-old son is also in the advanced class - who should really be rocking the Kangol. My memory for faces is excellent; names, atrocious. I recall images vividly, whether I read them during a slow fever or lived them on a rainy weekend, but I always skip the details. In the corner of the Bell in Hand I spotted a girl with her collared boyfriend - blonde, cornflower eyes, striking. I knew instantly that I'd seen her somewhere before and that I had no idea where, or when, or how. Audience at ImprovBoston? Across a crowded pub in Cambridge? BC game? Twenty-four hours later I remembered: a work event over the summer with one of our sister media companies. I devote about sixty percent of this weblog to anecdotes which would only interest people who know me, and not even all of them. I do this because I measure my life by the details I recall and those details keep getting away from me. Already I've lived nearly six months in this apartment. I've worked nine months at this job. Gorefest is almost a month in the past; the Waste Land Comedy Hour, nearly a year. If I didn't document these things I wouldn't believe they happened. All I really want is to appear in more photos.

this ain't back in the day, but you don't hear me though

Professor Coldheart — Wed, 26 Nov 2008 16:29:57 +0000

I can think of few better ways to spend an autumn Sunday morning than rolling through the tony Brattle neighborhoods of Cambridge with my man Hawver, blasting Ready to Die in the Toyota's sturdy speakers. Especially if you're on your way to watch some football. Fraley and Melissa welcomed us into their home, grilling up blue cheese burgers and serving us beer. We sat down to watch one of the most brutal games of football I've ever seen - players dropping left and right, sloppy turnovers, helmetless brawls, etc. The Patriots dragged one out of the Dolphins but they took their time doing it. During commercials we jumped around to catch snippets of other games, like the Ravens/Eagles throwdown. JB yelled highlights at us, like Ed Reed's 108-yard touchdown return. "Is that a record?" Fraley asked. "Yes," I told him. "It breaks the previous record, held by ... Ed Reed." # # # Catching a flight to Baltimore this evening to visit the family. Wish me luck.

you don't know how lucky you are, boy

Professor Coldheart — Thu, 27 Nov 2008 15:01:01 +0000

Economics, particularly the Austrians, give us the notion of time preference - the amount by which a human prefers to get a certain good now rather than in the future. You have to pay someone a premium if you want them to wait for their payday. This is because the future, and our ability to enjoy it, is uncertain. Economists such as Irving Fisher and George Reisman say this is how interest rates arise. What this means for the non-nerds in the audience: you can put a high price on convenience and people will still pay. Is it worth an extra $30 a month to check e-mail in transit, rather than checking it before you leave one place and after you arrive at another place? Ask anyone who owns an iPhone. Take it back a step further - imagine living without a cell phone. Imagine living without the Internet - having to wait as long as an hour to find out the headlines, or having to pick up the phone and talk to a human to find out if your flight was on time. You can put almost any price on convenience and people will pay. And not only will people pay for convenience, but they'll stop thinking of it as convenience. It becomes necessity. That's because - taking it back to econ talk above - time is the ultimate resource. Saving money and effort are fun if you're thrifty; saving time is addictive. That's all I've got for you. Happy Thanksgiving.

do you, don't you want me to love you?

Professor Coldheart — Fri, 28 Nov 2008 16:30:37 +0000

This holiday season, warm your families and hearts with a hearty media blow. Quantum of Solace: As a follow-up to Casino Royale, exceptional; as a Bond film in its own right, merely rather good. More arty than any Bond film in recent memory - the intercutting between chase scenes and exotic locales gets a little dizzying. And I may not be the smartest man I know, but I should not have had as much trouble following the plot as I had. That said, the transition from laughable villains and plots to realistic threats refreshes me. Worth seeing in theaters. The 33 Strategies of War: From the author of The 48 Laws of Power comes, well, another book in the same vein. Where The 48 Laws taught broad lessons through specific anecdotes, The 33 Strategies starts from a more abstract point. Very few of the book's readers need help in conducting massive invasions; for us, war is a metaphor for control over scarce resources, rather than an actual practice. The 48 Laws are more practical; The 33 Strategies, more inspirational. Expect plenty of entertaining anecdotes about Lyndon Johnson and Salvador Dali. High Noon: It's certainly very good, and I understand why it's a classic of the genre. But if I compare it to Rio Bravo - the film that John Wayne and Howard Hawks supposedly made as a rebuttal to High Noon's anti-HUAC message - I have to give the Wayne film the prize. High Noon suffers from some shaky editing in the fight scenes and a distinctly dull music score. Those are minor foibles: the real-time tension and the use of outlaw Ben Miller as a MacGuffin are ahead of their time. Now The Hell Will Start: Herman Perry lies about his age to enlist in the Armed Services after Germany invades France. Service anywhere overseas would be hard for a young black man like him - the Army continued to resist racial integration, out of the (plausible) concern that whites would not tolerate serving with blacks. But Perry drew a uniquely grueling lot - clearing 270 miles of malarial Burmese jungle to build a road to China. Sent to the Ledo Stockade once for insubordination, he shot his commanding officer rather than be sent back. What followed was the greatest Allied manhunt of World War II. Perry fled into the jungle, living with the headhunting Naga tribes and scavenging supplies from GI convoys. His former comrades told tall tales of his prowess, calling him the Jungle King. He evaded several ambushes, appearing to dodge bullets as if by magic. All of it's true. The Monster of Florence: I made the mistake of starting this before bed - the true story of Italy's most notorious serial killer, a lunatic who shot and maimed seven necking couples in the hills of Florence between 1968 and 1985. The Italian police stumble over themselves in tracking him, imprisoning one suspect after another only to let them go when the killer strikes again. Innocent civilians are captured and lauded by press-hungry officials, railroaded through trials with bribed witnesses and complicit judges. The notes and trophies that il Mostro sends to the press are the stuff of nightmares. The story turns from Gothic to Kafkaesque at the halfway point, when author Douglas Preston moves to Florence and learns the story of the Monster from journalist Mario Spezi. Their investigation turns up forgotten clues, invalidates the official story and leads them to a face to face interview with a man very likely to be the killer. This also draws the ire of the officials who built their reputation on convicting the original scapegoat, who bring the full force of Italy's corrupt judicial system to bear on the writers. The Monster remains uncaught.

they say money don't make the man, but damn I'm making money

Professor Coldheart — Mon, 01 Dec 2008 11:05:54 +0000

Here's a lesson in marginal costs. If you buy business class seats rather than coach on AirTran, you will pay $100 to $200 more. However, if you upgrade at the moment you check in - whether online or at the airport - you'll only pay $50 more. An empty seat in business class earns the airline $0 once the jet takes off, so why not capture those marginal buyers? This is an example of price discrimination - charging different prices to buyers with different preferences. Someone who wants to guarantee a business class seat has to pay $300 or more; someone who's willing to gamble on a seat opening up the morning of can pay half that. And the profit margins must be tremendous. For that extra $50, I got:

Two gin and tonics;
My choice from an overstuffed snack basket (I took a bag of T.G.I. Friday's Chedder + Sour Cream potato crisps and some Milanos)
More than enough leg room

The nips of Tanqueray can't cost more than $3 apiece - probably less, through wholesaling and B-to-B pricing. Add to that $0.50 worth of soda and $2 worth of snacks, and that's $8.50 worth of food and drink. I can't imagine the inches of extra leg room would accommodate another row of seats, so they're not losing much in the way of additional passengers. Let's price the extra attention from air stewards at $1.50, just to make the numbers round. This makes $50 in revenue vs. $10 in costs, for a 400% ~~profit margin~~ return on investment. Not bad! I cannot stress enough how wonderful two gin and tonics make me feel. It's that warm acceptance of everything that crosses my path - a pleasant, liquid balance. Any less than that and I feel nothing; any more and I start rolling down the slope toward sloppiness. I suppose alcohol's power over me should frighten me more, but I felt too happy to mind. Tanqueray, a comfortable chair and low lighting - that's the life of the jet-setter.

my hometown

Professor Coldheart — Tue, 02 Dec 2008 17:17:10 +0000

Thanksgiving weekend, comparing and contrasting my experiences in Baltimore (where I grew up) and Boston (where I live): The TSA

Boston: Though I'd already put my jacket on the X-ray conveyor belt, the security goon asked me to strip out of my Ravens hoodie as well. Another goon rifled through my toiletries kit before putting it back on the X-ray for another scan.
Baltimore: Though I'd already put my shoes on the X-ray conveyor belt, the security goon asked me to remove my belt as well. Hoodie stayed on. Toiletries made it through unscathed.

Marriage

Baltimore: I'm officiating a wedding in rural Pennsylvania this June, at an outdoor amphitheater near Swarthmore College. "So what do you have planned for this all natural, non-denominational commitment ceremony?" the groom's older brother joked. "Because I'm definitely picturing Lord of the Rings. I want elf ears and crossbows out the wazoo."
Boston: That Sunday, I recounted the story to Melissa and Fraley, whose wedding I'll be officiating three weeks earlier. "That sounds cool," Mel said. "... wait, they were joking?"

Drinking, Dancing and Carrying On

Baltimore: I caught up with Liz, whom I hadn't seen in about nine years, on Friday night. We carpooled over to her friend Keith's rowhome in Highlandtown. After pregaming for a bit, we squeezed into Keith's car and hit up The Depot, a narrow little lounge on Charles Street. We had several rounds of cheap beer and a Jaeger shot that felt like a punch in the stomach, then spent most of the evening dancing to 80s pop on the industrial black floor.
Boston: Highlandtown reminds me a lot of Medford, or East Somerville just off of Pearl Street. And The Depot reminded me a lot of Toast in Union Square. In fact, I'll bet when Depot has their goth nights it looks exactly like Toast. At one point, Keith got up to stare curiously at an all-black painting hanging near the men's room. It turned out that the painting actually had several plastic roaches set just into its surface. Also, the artist was sitting right next to it, waiting for someone to notice so he could trap them in conversation. Keith shot us several plaintive looks. Tell me that couldn't happen at the Middle East on Mass Ave.

ashes now be still

Professor Coldheart — Wed, 03 Dec 2008 11:00:05 +0000

Friday's media blow wasn't enough? Then here's some more, ALL UP IN YOUR AREA: Good Omens: Lives up to the hype, quite possibly exceeding it. Pratchett and Gaiman writing together somehow smooth over the (trivial) quirks I have with both of them, creating a powerhouse of a novel. I almost never say a novel was too short, but another hundred pages distributed among the politics of the demonic / angelic hierarchy, or the Four Horsemen, or the lives of Them of Lower Tadfield, would not have gone to waste. I laughed out loud more than once.^* Transporter 3: Plausible in its ridiculousness, if that makes any sense. Only Jason Statham could pull this off, because he doesn't try too hard to be cool or funny. He has this tired, put-upon look on his unshaven mug the whole time. "Oh, there's an explosive bracelet strapped to my wrist. Great." The plot has holes wide enough to drive an Audi S8 through^**, but it moves at a pace such that you never mind. Worth renting, maybe. Me Talk Pretty One Day: Oh. So that's what all the fuss was about. The Incredible Hulk: Better than the 2003 Ang Lee version, though I'm not sure how. Even by superhero movie standards, the dialogue's remarkably stiff - I expected better of the author of Elektra and X-Men: The Last Stand. But the pacing's decent, the fight scenes are thrilling and Ed Norton clearly has some fun with his role. ____________ ^* Except at the one line I've seen quoted most frequently from this book, which turned me off it for so long because it's immensely trite. You know the one I mean. The "thousand sushi dinners cry out for vengeance" bit. That's the least funny sentence in the book and somehow every Gaiman or Pratchett fan thinks it's a howler worth putting in their .sig file. I got over it, but I needed a few quiet minutes. ^** Including one which invalidates the point of Statham's entire mission. I'll discuss it in comments if you like.

brother you are going down

Professor Coldheart — Thu, 04 Dec 2008 14:07:21 +0000

Name the last good movie that each of the following stars made:

Al Pacino
Nicole Kidman
Robert DeNiro
Keanu Reeves
Martin Lawrence
John Travolta
Annette Bening

I'll give my own answers later. Edit: Now is later! Al Pacino: Insomnia Nicole Kidman: The Others Robert deNiro: Ronin Keanu Reeves: Point Break Martin Lawrence: Bad Boys John Travolta: Hairspray Annette Bening: American Beauty

rappenin' is what's happenin'

Professor Coldheart — Fri, 05 Dec 2008 11:00:10 +0000

I'm abandoning political discussion for a while. Looking back over the tone of my political entries, you could charitably call them "condescending" and justifiably label them "assholish." If someone talked about the Ravens with half the venom that I devote to the Ruling Party, I'd spit on them. And lots of people like the Ruling Party. So I'm trying to soften up. But I need to get it out of my system. So in the future, if the Ruling Party raises the minimum wage or the Opposition Party subsidizes the auto industry, and you're dying to know what I think about it, and years of reading my impotent snarling hasn't given you a hint, then you can reference this post. If you're happy not hearing me talk about issues I don't vote on, then skip this. What I Believe: The Short Version

Ninety percent of what Paul Krugman or Thomas Friedman write is bullshit.
One hundred percent of what Lou Dobbs says is bullshit.
Anyone who wants to improve the lot of poor people or minorities in the U.S. whose first suggestion isn't "Decriminalize marijuana" doesn't know what they're talking about.
Not only is torture immoral, the fact that the U.S. reached a point where that was even up for debate is sickening.
Sending U.S. citizens tremendous distances at great expense to kill foreign citizens is wrong. Let's not even get into the debate over whether or not it's effective (at what?) or justified (by whom? to whom?). It's just bad.
Siccing federal agencies on giant corporations will not make giant corporations more honest.
Any legislation passed to prevent the "terror of the week" - whether it's shark attacks, school shootings, online sex predators, shoe bombers or hurricanes - is a bad idea.
Printing money doesn't make us richer.
Neither the Opposition Party nor the Ruling Party are uniquely dumb. They have particular flavors of ignorance depending on current voting blocs. If you're tired of your party's religious fundamentalism or weak-willed centrism, just wait twenty years.

The cheat sheet above should handle most of the news cycle for the next two to three years. What follows are some more abstract (read: boring) ramblings on broader political / ethical philosophy. I will probably make updates to the following as ideas come to me, so you may want to check back. Or ignore it and move on. What I Believe: The Long Version The Free Market: What Is It? In the past I've been accused of thinking that "the free market can solve everything." This isn't the case. The "free market" is a textbook abstraction, like the frictionless medium in which all physics problems take place. It presumes several things which almost never happen in real life - rational agents, perfect information, zero transaction costs, etc. All of these combined seriously dampen the predictive power of any econ model. So the real world's more complicated than a textbook. That doesn't mean the class taught us nothing. I believe that freer markets put more goods in the hands of people who value them more than tighter markets. I do not believe that coercion - whether in the form of robbery, or taxes, or regulations, or peer pressure - makes anyone better off but the coercer, and even that's questionable. To get specific, I believe that any law proposed to solve the excesses of corporate behavior rests, at some level, on awfully wishful thinking. The SEC can prevent the kind of trading that brought about the credit crisis because somehow SEC regulators are more honest than stockbrokers. Minimum wage laws will put more money into the hands of the working poor because state legislators know more about running a business than business owners do. Etc. Liberty and Politics Unless you're defending freedom for people whose company you cannot stand, you're not really defending freedom. What you're defending is privilege. Quoting from an earlier post:

Liberty, in any meaningful sense, requires a healthy tolerance for different people so long as they're not hurting or threatening you. If I advocate freedom of speech "except for, y'know, racists and fundamentalists and obvious wackos," I'm not really advocating freedom of speech. I'm advocating for protecting the speaking rights of People I Like. Defending freedom of speech means defending the right for people to blare the most illiterate hate. Even if you disagree with it. Hell, especially if you disagree with it. Now expand the principle outward from just speech into all aspects of life. Freedom means gambling. Freedom means drug use. Freedom means buggery. Freedom means fundamentalists homeschooling their children about how God created the universe in six days. Freedom means filthy, offensive, hateful music. Freedom means fat SUVs with window-shaking stereos. Freedom means trans fats. Pick something you absolutely hate, so long as it doesn't entail a gun pointed at your face. Concentrate on it for a minute; hold it in your mind until you start to feel repelled by your own brain. In a free society, someone, somewhere, is doing that hateful thing and getting off on it. [...] The human species isn’t programmed for universal tolerance. It’s programmed for an us-vs-them mentality. Identify and bond with the hundred or so members of your Monkeysphere; don’t trust anyone else. Tolerating harmless differences may make for a better society, but it doesn’t come naturally. Nobody loves everybody. I hesitated to call myself “libertarian” for years because of that term’s conflation with the Libertarian Party. I don’t think libertarians have any future as a Party. I realized this paradox about five or six years ago: if the American people naturally prefer freedom, then why have they been voting the opposite way for two and a quarter centuries? and if the American people do not naturally prefer freedom, what the hell chance does the LP have? The answer, pretty clearly, is that no American - or really, no human being - wants freedom in the absolute sense. Sure, we talk about it in glowing terms, but nobody really wants to see Klansmen, Flat Earthers and fecal fetishists on the street while walking to the store. What we want is a certain package of rights and privileges for ourselves, our friends and family, and the social class with which we identify. The rich want lower capital gains taxes; the middle class want to deduct mortgage interest; the poor want income tax credit. That’s why I don’t vote Libertarian - and of course, absenting them, why I don’t vote at all. If we define economics as the science of allocating scarce resources to unlimited wants, we might define politics as the science of allocating the tools for power to the unlimited desire for power. If you approach this game as a libertarian - someone who does not believe that human society should be shaped by a minority with power - then who do you side with? The folks who want to take away your freedom (to get breast implants, smoke cigarettes and eat greasy food), or the folks who want to take away your freedom (to have pre-marital sex, smoke marijuana and harvest stem cells)? Nobody will ever campaign on the platform of Having Less Power. Theoretically, we can figure this one out from our armchairs: if someone genuinely didn’t want power, they wouldn’t be running for office. Empirically, we only need to take a look at all of recorded human history, from Enkidu vs Gilgamesh to the 2006 Congressional elections. The Opposition Party might want power for ends that you consider benevolent; these are the Good Guys. The Ruling Party might use its power for ends that you consider malevolent; that makes them the Bad Guys. But nobody ever conquered a tribe, started a coup or ran for office because they didn’t want power at all.

Institutions I don't believe it's possible to ascribe a single aggregate "will" to a large body of people - such as all the members of a church, all the voters in a political party or all the employees and owners of a particular corporation. Arrow's Impossibility Theorem suggests there may not even be such a thing as a "collective will," and even if there is it's practically impossible to divine. So I don't put a lot of faith in statements that begin, "The American people don't want ..." or "General Motors has to ..." or "Muslims need to ..." or stuff like that. I do not have tremendous faith in the power of institutions^* to improve the lot of people outside their membership. The structure of an institution forces it to behave in a certain way: protecting its borders, acquiring more territory, reacting in ways that seem slow and often insane. You can't co-opt an institution to every task, just like you can't power your car with a whitewater river. So don't count on the Ruling Party to stop terrorism or solve the healthcare crisis. They're an institution. That's not what institutions do. I also part company with a lot of Rand-inspired libertarians in believing this, because I can no longer get up in arms when bad things happen to giant corporations. Yes, passing a law that prevents a Wal-Mart from opening in a city is stupid. It's a law that will make the city poorer. But Wal-Mart doesn't need me carrying water for them. They're a huge corporation that will very likely outlast my death. They would not take a second's pause if I died tomorrow. Wal-Mart is not a working man out of whose mouth the city fathers have stolen bread. It's a giant corporation. They'll be fine. (That being said, I'm very sympathetic to the laborers whom Wal-Mart would have hired, who now have to resort to lower paying jobs or no jobs at all. They're the ones who these well meaning laws screw over) Enough With The Negatives What do I actually believe, though? I really sincerely believe that you cannot stop trade. Kick vending machines off of school grounds and kids will sell candy out of their backpacks. Forbid short-selling of stock and people will invent complicated contracts with the same ultimate effects. Put a price ceiling on gas and buyers will still find ways to outbid each other for it. I believe this is true, and always will be, because trade benefits both parties involved. I have something you want more than I do; you have something I want more than you do. If these things change hands, we will both be happier than we were five seconds ago. Here I verge into the existential: I believe these powers of trade are one of the best ways to bridge the uncrossable gap between Self and Other. You can never really know the contents of another person's thoughts. Sometimes this is disappointing - we're all alone, even my best friends are strangers to me, etc. Sometimes this is delightful - it means the people in your life have infinite capacity to surprise you. Forging bonds with other people - as friends, as coworkers, as lovers - shortens this gulf but never fully crosses it. Trade, ideally, does the same thing. It creates mutual good feeling, since both parties walk away happier. It promotes a search for mutual compatibility - what do you have that I want? what can I give you to get it? It turns human beings from competitive animals - which we had been for our first ninety thousand years - to cooperative neighbors. A free exchange of goods, services and ideas will save the human race from poverty and destruction. Anything that gets in the way of that, I can't stand. ____________ ^* I define an "institution" as anything big enough to need a command-and-control structure. This includes political parties, corporations and churches. In other words, most of the human social order.

you came on your own, that's how you'll leave

Professor Coldheart — Mon, 08 Dec 2008 11:00:46 +0000

I scanned the crowded dance floor, cursed under my breath, then ducked to Misch's height. "Six o'clock!" I yelled over the bass. "What?" "Six o'clock! Your six o'clock!" She got the reference then, glancing at the creepy goateed man over her shoulder. Even if she didn't get it, she didn't object as I picked her up and put her on the bench that rings Phoenix Landing's floor, where several of our friends already danced. I got in front of her and danced as well. After several minutes of ineffectually trying to get her attention and hover near us, the guy wandered off. This is not the first time this has happened at this particular bar. Regardless, I had a good enough time. Marcelo had brought a crew out for his birthday - his friends Alex, Jane and Meghan, as well as IB regulars Kevin, Camilo, Misch, Blake and Blake's wife Jenny. I checked my coat this time to keep beer from getting spilled on it, but I still managed to tear out the stitching in a fairly new pair of sneakers. I don't think it's too much to ask that I buy a pair of shoes and they don't immediately start disintegrating. Saturday I bought a new pair of tight distressed hipster jeans, as my stock had diminished dangerously, then caught as much of the depressing Boston College loss to Virginia Tech as I could stand. The latter I watched at Tavern on the Square in Central, eating an overcooked chicken parm. Then, after lazing around the studio for a bit, I cleaned up and got on a downtown train. A coworker of mine scored an apartment in the Macallen Building through equal housing lottery. He threw a small Christmas party there on Saturday night. The super had closed the pool deck, shockingly enough, but we partied in the reception area, with the Missouri / Oklahoma game on the projection TV and a table full of appetizers. I talked with coworkers primarily, trying not to bitch too much about work and largely failing. The consensus seems to be that Internet Inc. will survive this recession - too many other companies need what we sell. The last time I got off the Red Line at Broadway I staggered two blocks to West 4th and A, to drink gin and smoke cloves in Hawver and Fraley's walk-up. We would then sic ourselves on the night - often to An Tua Nua, sometimes to Common Ground, but at least once to Phoenix Landing - and drink and dance with any of a number of passerby. Now the city puts up luxury condos outside the MBTA bus terminal - outside our old haunt at the Brain Trust, too - and Hawver and Fraley have both found brides. Everyone's getting classy all of a sudden. This city's older than I am by a few centuries, but it changes faster than I do.

one for the bar tab, two for the shine; let's go to your car and do another line

Professor Coldheart — Tue, 09 Dec 2008 16:23:05 +0000

I have experimented these past two Mondays. Monday a week I helped Dan out with some voice acting work for a project of his. He's converted an upstairs garret in his Somerville house into an impromptu sound studio. We knocked two pages out in three quick takes, with minimal adjustments for clipping out. Dan made me feel like a pro. On the walk home, I revisited a thought that people have put in my head several times over the last decade - that I've got a good voice for radio. I know voice acting requires more than just a deep, pleasing voice: you need to pull off a range. You need a portfolio of voices - a leather folder hiding in your diaphragm. But I could always start somewhere. Half of my friends work with Maura Tighe Casting or know someone who does. So I considered it for a bit. # # # Yesterday (also a Monday), I took my first class at Grub Street, a nonprofit writing center right next to Emerson. I braved the eye-freezing cold and a shuddering elevator to crowd into a small conference room with fourteen other students. I was one of three males in the room. Grub Street marketed the class as "Building a Writing Career," but the focus wandered a bit - from finding subjects to write about, to making time to write, to getting in touch with agents and editors (which I wanted to know more about). The instructor had a wide breadth of experience - writing poetry, writing freelance articles, putting together a book proposal - which made for an interesting but not deep discussion. I left feeling a little teased. Still, I'll definitely go back, and I'll probably even become a member. Chuck Palahniuk gave some writing advice about a year ago, one point of which was: use writing as an excuse to throw a party. A strong community can't write a book for you, but it can definitely help. I need to network and workshop. I need to learn how others do this thing I do. I need to start introducing myself as a writer. # # # Near the end of the seminar, inspired by a comment from the instructor, I wrote "WHAT IS THE SACRIFICE?" in my notebook. You have to give things up in order to write seriously. Nobody gets a perfect draft the first time around, and even if you do it still takes a while to get to 100,000 words, and even if you write four thousand words a day you still need your own space to write them in. And if none of the above is true - if you can sit in a coffeeshop all day, writing five thousand words of polished prose in six hours, and independent wealth provides for your livelihood - then I don't know what you're writing about, anyway. The world conspires to fill your days - a nine-to-five job, going out with your friends, raising a family, managing your finances, distracting yourself with media or games. The world doesn't require you to write. Nothing says you have to write. Thousands of talented, creative, passionate people have lived and died without a novel to their name. I do not have enough hours in the day to do everything creative I want. I want to act. I want to design games. I want to learn to sing better and start a rock band. I want to do voice-over gigs. I want to write. Some point soon I'm going to have to pick.

50 books: 2008

Professor Coldheart — Wed, 10 Dec 2008 11:00:45 +0000

I realized yesterday, to my embarrassment, that I had already completed my 50 books for 2008. So you get this year's review early! Best Science Fiction / Fantasy Nominees: World War Z, The Space Merchants, Guards! Guards!, Little Brother, Bridge of Birds, Virtual Unrealities, The Wizard Knight Winner: The Wizard Knight, Gene Wolfe. I keep struggling whenever I try to describe this book, because it's a Gene Wolfe novel and it's inherently weird. On the surface, it's a story so cliched it strains the teeth: boy vanishes from Earth and reappears in a fantasy world, falls in love with a fairy princess, and quests to find a magic sword and become a knight. But Wolfe makes clear early on that the world is more than it seems, raising question after question: is this the protagonist's first visit to this world of Mythgartr? If so, why do so many people seem to recognize him? If not, why can't he remember the other visits? And are we worshipping these magic creatures or are they worshipping us? Best Mystery / Crime / Espionage Nominees: This Gun For Hire, The Ministry of Fear, The Confidential Agent, Smiley's People Winner: Graham Greene. Greene wrote the first three of those books, so he's practically a shoe-in. His late-blooming Catholicism notwithstanding, Greene was a crackerjack at suspense and espionage. Those three, written in the tense years between World Wars I and II, are some of his very best. Best Literature Nominees: A Very Long Engagement, The Plot Against America, Franny and Zooey, The Heart is a Lonely Hunter, The Handmaid's Tale. Winner: TIE: A Very Long Engagement, Sebastien Japrisot and The Handmaid's Tale, Margaret Atwood. The Plot Against America is a triumph of vision; Franny and Zooey exceeds in style; and The Heart is a Lonely Hunter wins in characterization. But Japrisot's A Very Long Engagement wins at all three, and tells a fresh story besides. Atwood, on the other hand, makes a terrifying and unlikely future seem compelling, and inevitable, and banally real. I can't decide between them, so I won't. Best Non-Fiction Nominees: God's Secretaries, Palm Sunday, Mind Performance Hacks, Persepolis, The 4-Hour Work Week, The 33 Strategies of War, Now The Hell Will Start, The Monster of Florence, Me Talk Pretty One Day Winner: Mind Performance Hacks, Ron Hale-Evans. A close call between this and The 4-Hour Work Week. But if I go by which has had a more measurable impact on my behavior so far, Mind Performance Hacks wins by a tidy margin. Incorporating a mere 5 strategies out of this book will justify its price. Best Reread Nominees: The Killer Angels, A Confederacy of Dunces, Camp Concentration, A Fire Upon The Deep, Quicksilver Winner: A Confederacy of Dunces, John Kennedy Toole. I first read this book at age 12 or so, and thus most of its savage brilliance was lost on me. Reading it again was like discovering it anew. Biggest Surprise Nominees: Downtown Owl, Virtual Unrealities, The Pacific and Other Stories, Soon I Will Be Invincible, Love In The Ruins, Good Omens Winner: TIE: Love In The Ruins, Walker Percy, and Good Omens, Neil Gaiman and Terry Pratchett. I did not expect the explicitly Catholic Percy - or his explicitly Catholic novel - to win me over as strongly as they did. And I did not expect a Gaiman and Pratchett collaboration to avoid the worst of Gaiman's precociousness or Pratchett's cleverness-for-its-own-sake, and tell a complex and fun story besides. Biggest Disappointment Nominees: The Myth of the Rational Voter, Life of Pi, The Mote in God's Eye, The Alchemist, Off The Books Winner: The Alchemist, Paolo Coelho. All of these books disappointed me in some way. The Myth of the Rational Voter preached to the choir, and that too dryly, to keep my interest. Life of Pi told an entertaining string of anecdotes that dissolved into a lukewarm moral at the end. The Mote in God's Eye depicted a fascinating alien race and dull cardstock humans. And Off the Books was far denser than its fascinating thesis needed to be. But only The Alchemist was without redeeming value. Most Fun Nominees: King of the Vagabonds, Me Talk Pretty One Day, Bridge of Birds, Soon I Will Be Invincible, Good Omens, Guards! Guards! Winner: King of the Vagabonds. "Godspeed! What the fuck sort of thing is that to say to a galley slave?"

I love committing sins and my friends sell crack

Professor Coldheart — Thu, 11 Dec 2008 15:56:08 +0000

Last week, Leonard asked what form of art or culture I deliberately resist for whatever reason. Thinking about it, I had a hard time coming up with a lot of answers - except perhaps Japanese animation. But I could go on at length about games. I'm a gamer, but not a serious one. I get together an average of once a month to shoot dice, currently GMing a Mutants and Masterminds campaign. Sometimes I play more often, sometimes I wait longer stretches. But I game as a way to socialize and have fun with friends. I have a really hard time rolling dice with anyone I don't already call a friend, or at least a good acquaintance. I play video games, but I'm at least one generation behind the latest consoles. I never pay more than $25 for a video game if I can help it, meaning I usually wait until critical feedback and word of mouth have slashed a new release's price by 50% before buying. I have a thin, eclectic collection. I never play for more than 2 hours at a time. My tastes run pretty wide, but there are three types of games I've resisted getting into for years and very likely won't: massively multiplayer online rpgs (MMORPGS), live-action roleplaying (LARP) or online first-person shooters (like HALO, Counterstrike, Team Fortress, etc). I originally intended to give each of those a paragraph explaining why, but they all boil down to the same root cause: they all sound really cool except for the people I'd have to deal with. From a cooperative standpoint - guild play, "roleplay" servers - I hate the immersion break that comes from watching comrades bitch about "nerfing pallys for the n00bs." Or from standing on a damp lawn with a foam sword, listening to a pasty guy with a Systems Engineer beard rally the troops. I game for escape, not for status or an adrenaline rush. For me, immersion is critical. From a competitive viewpoint - PvP, FPS, etc - I know that I cannot devote the same time or money to the game that the Dew-addled twitchers playing it do. These players make up the majority; as such, I will always be behind the curve. That's not fun for me. I don't relish spending $15 a month to consistently lose. Here's the funny part: take that online gaming experience and remove all the other people, and you get a game like Morrowind or Half-Life. And I love those games. So once you eliminate the crucial variable I warm up like butter. Oddly, several good friends of mine, whom I also game with, play one or more of those games listed above. They clearly enjoy themselves, so it's not like they're weird or unnatural. It's just not for me.

who they attracting with that line, what's your name, what's your sign

Professor Coldheart — Fri, 12 Dec 2008 14:26:32 +0000

I feel sorry for this young man

He's only 9, but this pint-sized pickup artist already knows plenty about pleasing the ladies. So much, in fact, that Alec Greven's dating primer, "How to Talk to Girls" - which began as a handwritten, $3 pamphlet sold at his school book fair - hit the shelves nationwide last week. The fourth-grader from Castle Rock, Colo., advises Lothario wannabes to stop showing off, go easy on the compliments to avoid looking desperate - and be wary of "pretty girls." "It is easy to spot pretty girls because they have big earrings, fancy dresses and all the jewelry," he writes in Chapter Three.

... because, five years from now, he will not get nearly as much play as the world expects of him. This isn't astonishing. No teenage boy gets as much action as he thinks he's going to; it's a law of adolescence. But the global media juggernaut has set the bar for this boy so ridiculously high - fawning over his insights, marketing them as a book, and now adapting the book into a film - that his actual dating career can only come as a disappointment. This kid peaked at age nine. None of this is his fault, of course, just as the runaway success of Twilight isn't Stephanie Meyer's fault. This project simply happened to tickle some publisher's fancy. This publisher then leveraged her press contacts to make sure that the book got press coverage in all the major outlets. The media frenzy surrounding him isn't any more proof of his wisdom than it was of Joe the Plumber, or the Atkins diet. That being said, I wonder how this poor boy, who will have nothing but praise screamed at him for the most formative months of his youth, will react to the disappointment of adolescence. Will he leverage his wisdom into a career as a sleazy pick-up artist (like Roissy, whose blog I'd link to if it weren't filth)? Will he bitterly recount the glory days of his pre-teens until he becomes a walking joke? Or - hopefully - will he save what money he makes from this firestorm, turn it into a self-deprecating anecdote for cocktail chatter, and become a healthy, well-rounded human being? I certainly hope it's the latter. Because you can't always spot the pretty girls by the big earrings.

everybody in the party doing dope slingin'

Professor Coldheart — Mon, 15 Dec 2008 14:21:14 +0000

I throw myself into more opportunities now. Living alone and being an introvert, inertia would keep me bottled up unless I deliberately fought it. So I try to create new habits. Case in point: I brought a camera to Liz's surprise birthday party on Friday - a meticulously planned gathering in the ImprovBoston bar that had cupcakes, balloons and a surprise visit from Los Angeles. I don't much like my current camera - it's bulky, slow, unreliable and a bit of a battery hog. But I'll never get better at photography unless I snap a lot of photos. I'm gradually becoming better at that style called "Facebook candid" - holding the camera at about sternum height and firing gets me a two-button profile of most people. After a couple of miscues, the party migrated to the Independent in Union Square, where Mike M. had some folks gathered for his birthday. I floated between three and four drinks the entire evening - that comfortable level at which I lose self consciousness and become a social butterfly. TC - who was also celebrating his birthday - and his brother also showed up. God damn, this weekend had a lot of birthdays. Saturday I did laundry, revisited HALO 2, then cleaned myself up to catch a hilarious 10:00 show at ImprovBoston. They started the show with the input "Easter Bunny," leading to an awkward pause before Rachel R. stepped forward. "As a Jew, I never really celebrated Easter ..." "Bullshit," coughed Matt M. "Well, okay, we did the chocolate and the eggs and all that ..." Give some of Boston's best improvisers license to talk about growing up Jewish and you're in for a good time. Dana and I rounded up a crew to go to Phoenix Landing after the show: Paul D., Casey W. and her roommate Kristen, and Taylor. We were promised a larger IB crowd meeting us there, but aside from a friend of Maile's no one showed. We had a good time regardless - the crowd was smaller and seemed a bit more mature than the typical Friday night bunch. Still no shortage of sketchy guys, though: I had to fence Casey, Kristen and a late arriving Sara off from the usual Central Square crowd. Sunday I did nothing. Two nights of adventures are plenty.

hit the shore 'cause I'm faded; honeys in the street saying money, yo we made it

Professor Coldheart — Tue, 16 Dec 2008 16:15:15 +0000

Pascal's Wager is an argument for belief in the Christian God - not proof of its existence, but merely a contention to believe in it - that runs as follows:

[E]ven though the existence of God cannot be determined through reason, a person should "wager" as though God exists, because so living has potentially everything to gain, and certainly nothing to lose.

Game theorists might explain the wager using a chart like this:

God exists God does not exist

Wager for God Gain all Status quo

Wager against God Misery Status quo

Already we see one problem - if belief in the Christian God costs us nothing, it also means nothing. You can argue over what a belief in the Christian God requires: consumption of the Eucharist? regular attendance at Sunday Mass? faith alone? faith plus good works? In fact, millions have been arguing this for the last twenty centuries, and millions have died in the arguing. But it strikes me as common sense that belief must entail some behavior that non-believers aren't doing. There has to be some obvious difference between belief and non-belief. Otherwise, the term "belief" is meaningless. Okay, the apologist says: belief costs something. But that's a relatively minor pittance compared to the infinite reward of Heaven. A small price is worth paying if there's a chance of an infinite payoff. This bugged me for a while until last night, as I got off the shuttle from work. As usual, I was thinking about gaming. Consider: I have a die with six sides. You examine it to your satisfaction to prove that it's not weighted or tricked. If you like, we can substitute a die of your own, provided I get to examine it as well. I say, "Pay me $5 and I'll let you roll this die. I'll pay you whatever number comes up." You say, "That's a sucker bet." I say, "But! If you roll a 6, I'll let you re-roll and add the new number to the total. If you roll a 6 again, I'll let you roll again. I'll let you keep doing this as many times as a 6 comes up." You say, "Really? I dunno ..." I say, "Come on! A small price is worth paying if there's a chance of an infinite payoff!" So you fork over $5 and roll. Ten rolls later, I'm up at least $8, if not more.¹ Pascal's Wager has a lot of problems, but the biggest is: he never gives you the odds of each outcome. And you never trust a game where they don't post the odds. Let's say the Commonwealth of Massachusetts holds a special lottery where the prize is infinite money for life - the ultimate charge card. Should I pay $1 for a ticket? $10? $50,000? Depends on the odds of winning. The "infinite payoff" of Heaven sounds nice and all, but I don't know if the odds of the Christian God existing are one in a thousand, one in a trillion or one in ten. And that's a lot of hours to give up on Sunday if I guessed wrong. These are the things I think about on the bus. ____________ ¹ The average roll on a fair die with six sides is 3.5. The average roll on an exploding die with six sides - meaning, one that lets you re-roll and add on every time you get a six - is 4.2.

I've got a busted head and a broken jaw; I guess that everything is better wherever you are

Professor Coldheart — Wed, 17 Dec 2008 11:00:41 +0000

This media blow shoots first and takes no prisoners. Taken: I'm probably the least objective person to review this. As I mentioned earlier, revenge films speak to me on a cold, primal level. Taken offers no characterization to speak of and little in the way of clever dialogue. Its protagonist veers from "driven" to "probably insane" at about the 2/3 mark and never swerves back. There's no subplot and little humor - nothing but barbaric rage. But Liam Neeson hears his daughter get kidnapped while she's calling him from Paris, catches the next flight overseas, and promptly murders half of Paris to get her back. I should be disturbed by how much I enjoyed this. And I am. But I'm not. For sane human beings, I'd say: rent, don't buy. The Taking of Pelham One Two Three: You can watch movies on Hulu now. They tend toward older movies that nobody wants to see or newer movies that didn't do as well at the box office. You'll probably never see The Dark Knight on here, for instance. I watched The Taking of Pelham One Two Three on Sunday - a dated but well-paced caper flick. Robert Shaw, Martin Balsam and Hector Elizondo hijack a New York City subway car three hours before the evening rush. They give the city one hour to deliver one million dollars before they start killing passengers. Walter Matthau's the Transit detective in charge of negotiating with them. Will the city cave? If they do, how can they possibly get the money there in time? And how are four armed men going to get out of the New York City subway with every cop in the city surrounding them? A fun little action thriller. If you liked Die Hard you'd probably like this. Glengarry Glen Ross: Watching this movie for the fourth? fifth? time over dinner, I finally realized how little the story's about sales. While every Mamet film has an element of alpha male jockeying in it, Glengarry Glen Ross contains nothing but that. If Oliver Stone directed this movie, he would intercut every scene with wolves snarling at each other. It's pure and brutal. Consider Alec Baldwin's iconic scene early in the movie - a performance so captivating that I have a hard time imagining the original play without it. [youtube=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=y-AXTx4PcKI] "Put. That Coffee. Down." There's no conceivable reason to obey a command like that. Some stranger on the street approaches you and yells that at you, what do you do? He's crazy, right? And it's not like Alec Baldwin is Jack Lemmon's boss in this movie - the movie implies they work for the same organization, but that's it. We have a man in a suit who stares at people with this unflinching gaze and a painfully bold voice, and we have a slump-shouldered old man in ill fitting suspenders. The former tells the latter to stop pouring himself a cup of coffee. He does. That's absolute alpha male status jockeying right there. It's savage and depressing and you just can't stop watching it. I'm not saying it's admirable, but it's a part of the human condition. Also of note, Glengarry Glen Ross is one of the few Mamet films where the actors deliver the dialogue naturally. I think this has to do with Mamet writing the screenplay but not directing it. # # # People who know me well have noted that I'm very tense these past few days. No idea why.

and I saw my reflection in a snow-covered hill

Professor Coldheart — Thu, 18 Dec 2008 11:00:47 +0000

You have no idea how much time I spend convincing myself I'm not insane. People tell me I have a good memory because I surprise them with trivia. I don't have a good memory. I have a good sense for vivid and unusual details; they stick with me for decades. But so does everyone. I just talk about them more. For years I remembered this weird movie with Matthew Broderick saving chimps from a space program. I thought I had seen it when I was very young. But there was always the possibility that I'd dreamed it instead. Then some benevolent soul pointed me toward Project X and relief slapped me in the face. I didn't make it up. I'm not insane. MentalFloss last week posted twelve things you probably didn't know about A Christmas Story. I like the film, though I don't hold it in the reverential regard so many others do. But it's clever enough, so I scanned the list until I hit this one:

There are two little-talked about sequels. The first one was a 1988 made-for-TV movie, Ollie Hopnoodle’s Haven of Bliss. Jerry O’Connell played 14-year-old Ralphie, who is excited about his first job – a furniture mover. Of course, it ends up being awful, and it might make him miss the annual family vacation at Mr. Hopnoodle’s lakeside cabins.

And then I sat in stunned silence for a full five minutes, because I remember seeing that movie. Jerry O'Connell and his three friends spend the entire summer moving this refrigerator up four flights of stairs! His employer's this really fat guy! I didn't make it up or dream it while in a fever. I'm not insane! Every now and then my dad will wander the house, singing snatches of pop hits from the 50s or 60s. My mom will stare at him. "Don't you remember that one?" he'll say. " 'Run to Him'! Bobby Vee!" "I've never heard that song," Mom will say. " 'If you find another guy / that satisfies you more than I / do run to him ...' " "I think you're making that up." I always considered these moments a charming diversion in my childhood, or now a source of nostalgia. I never considered them a terrifying glimpse into my senile future.

not long is how long that this rhyme took me

Professor Coldheart — Fri, 19 Dec 2008 15:20:36 +0000

I lost every winter hat I own in twenty-four hours. The first one I left on the work shuttle; the second I left in a friend's car. So while I hope to get that second one back, I bought a new hat at Filene's Basement on Thursday. This is always A Process for me, as I have a remarkably big head and hate spending money, but I found a lambswool/acryllic cap that comes down over my ears. I tried it on this morning, in anticipation of the upcoming storm, and it fit perfectly. As I jogged down the stairs to the train, however, I heard something tap-tap-tapping on my head. The Davis Square station disintegrating around me? No - the tag on top of the cap, bouncing off my head as I ran. Should I cut it off with a pair of scissors, like I meant to this morning? Or should I leave it on and try and make it A Thing, like leaving the hologram sticker on a baseball cap? How would I fare as a trendsetter? # # # Maybe it's The Onion, maybe it's the continuing disintegration of American banking, but I've been thinking a lot about the Wu-Tang Clan lately. Turn the pages to 1993. Dre has just released The Chronic, but we're about a year away from Ready to Die and three away from All Eyez On Me. The rap scene is about to enter a long, derivative cycle of people imitating the success of Biggie and Tupac - spitting about obscene amounts of money, having sex with women and then never calling them, and about shooting cops. We're minutes away from the start of the East/West feud. Into this scene drop three cousins from Staten Island: the RZA, also called Prince Rakim; the GZA, sometimes called the Genius; and the Ol' Dirty Bastard. They assemble a crew of nine MCs, each of whom has enough talent in his own right to headline his own album. While everyone else is shooting in nightclubs or beach parties, they film their videos in abandoned warehouses and junkyards. They rap about mis-dubbed kung fu movies and Iron Man comics. They rap about nothing but their own lyrical superiority and the pain they'll inflict on competitors. And their flow is sick.

My style's illegal and death is the penalty What justifies the homicide, when he dies? In his own iniquity it's the Master of the Mantis Rapture coming at you We have an APB on an MC Killer Looks like the work of a Master Evidence indicates that's his stature is Merciless, like a terrorist hard to capture The flow changes like a chameleon Plays like a friend and stabs you like a dagger This technique attacks the immune system Disguised like a lie paralyzing the victim You scream as it enters your bloodstream Erupts your brain from the pain these thoughts contain Moving on a nigga with the speed of a centipede and injure any motherfuckin' contender

Consider: this is the crew that gave us Method Man, an MC respected enough to guest on both Ready to Die and 2Pacalypse Now at the height of the East/West feud. This is the crew that RZA built from nothing with little but Machiavellian maneuvering and a rigorous eye for the bottom line^*. This is the crew that made a celebrity out of O.D.B. This is a group that, by any reasonable standard, should not have succeeded. Their contracts were bizarre, with any member being allowed to record with any other label at any time. Their sound was so far from the mainstream it was practically alien. And the idea that nine incredibly talented MCs could collaborate without feuding or violence for so long is unheard of. But, for a while, it worked. Stories like this are what give me hope for hip-hop. ^* And steamrolling over internal dissent, if U-God is to be believed.

brooklin, shaolin, queensbridge down to long island

Professor Coldheart — Mon, 22 Dec 2008 18:49:38 +0000

I've had this anecdote in my back pocket for a bit, wondering what it meant. I'll tell it anyway. About a month ago I was working the heavy bag in the fitness center near my office. I try to go at a reasonable clip for the first set. Then I get some water and work elbows and knees for my second set. Third set I just pummel the bag until I can't keep my arms up. I vary this routine pretty regularly, depending on energy level and my cardio needs for the day. I do my first set and get some water. Coming back, I see a big guy who'd been jumping rope a few yards away at the bag. He's throwing a few practice punches at the bag without gloves on, in that way that people do. I think nothing of it. "When you throw a punch," he says, as I step back up to the bag, "you want to make sure you step into it." Realizing he's talking to me, I nod. I'm still catching my breath after the first set, so I couldn't say anything yet even if I wanted to. "Think of it like turning a corner," he says, pantomiming the motion slowly. "You mean like this?" I ask, and snap off a jab without really looking at. "Yeah!" he says. Then: "So you've seen this before?" "You know that jiu-jitsu school around the corner on Arlington Street?" "Yeah." "I teach there." His eyes widen; his hands go up; he stumbles backwards. "Whoa, hey." "No, no, it's cool!" I smile the most disarming smile I have. But the conversation has passed us by. # # # Any gym - any collection of guys being athletic - has a certain amount of implied status involved. Large corporate fitness centers avoid outright posturing: nobody calling anybody "shrimp" or "peewee" or any other 1950s-era insults. But you remain conscious of who's doing your workout better than you. I have never been the alpha male, except perhaps in the smallest and most trivial of social circles. I accept that. Running at the head of the pack eats up a lot of energy. When someone confronts me for purposes of status - crazy homeless people snarling obscenities in my face, aggressive drivers veering into my lane - I get baffled before I get defensive. What are you doing?, I wonder. Why waste your time on me? I'm no threat to you. I'm no threat to anybody. Maybe I should change that, though. When I told some stranger in the gym thanks, I actually do know how to throw a punch, I didn't mean to step up in defense of my status. But clearly that's what was going on. I've thought about this over in the months since it happened and concluded the following: if he'd meant it as purely charitable advice, mentioning my prior experience would have opened up the conversation ("oh, really? how long have you been studying there?", etc). Instead, the word "jiu-jitsu" shut it down. And I'm positive the guy didn't even mean it as a threat - the proverbial sand kicked at the beach, the elbow in the ribs while shouldering through a crowd. He just thought he knew something I didn't and that I'd be grateful for the lesson. That's the insidious nature of evolution, of course: we operate on instincts that carried us through the hunter-gatherer environment, but just make us assholes in civilized society. He didn't mean to be a jerk. I didn't interpret him as a jerk. But the defensive posture gave it away. So I guess I do have a limit that I will bounce back on when pressed. I don't consciously go out and troll the streets for status. But I will actively defend what little I have. # # # Plus, for all I know I might have been throwing shitty jabs that day.

cold-blooded

Professor Coldheart — Tue, 23 Dec 2008 15:30:28 +0000

It snowed a lot this weekend. Thursday we had the annual Yankee Swap at Internet, Inc. In our version (I don't know that these are the default rules), you draw a wrapped present from the pile and decide (before opening it) to keep it or trade with someone else. The action stayed pretty sedate until the latter rounds, when all the good gifts were in the open. As expected, more than half of the gifts contained alcohol or were alcohol-related (wine stoppers, glassware, etc). I had my eye on a bottle of Maker's Mark and had a late enough number to claim it, but I knew someone else would readily take it from me. So I took a set of Guinness glasses and coasters instead. I then lost that gift five minutes later in exchange for a Best Buy gift card, which I kept until the end. Friday was the actual Internet Inc. Christmas party at the Charles Hotel. Forgetting that dinner would be served at the party, I made myself some fish and rolls at home, then showed up fashionably late. Fortunately they'd just tucked in to the buffet when I arrived, so I got to lay a solid foundation of carbs before I started drinking. And let me assure you - I did a lot of drinking. When the VP of Marketing buys you a sambuca shot, you do not say no. After trudging home in a blizzard, I resolved to leave the house as few times as possible that weekend. I only did twice. Once to Christopher's on Saturday, to get a drink and watch the Ravens embarrass the Cowboys in their final game in Texas Stadium. Once to IB on Sunday to see the annual holiday show, a hilariously inappropriate send up of Santa, Christmas trees, Christmas songs and cookie dough. # # # Light on content today; sorry. I'm going to be in Baltimore through the weekend. You know how to reach me.

gel_insert

Professor Coldheart — Tue, 23 Dec 2008 16:58:20 +0000

kubotan

Professor Coldheart — Tue, 23 Dec 2008 16:58:37 +0000

bum rush the sound I made a year ago

Professor Coldheart — Wed, 24 Dec 2008 11:00:31 +0000

For folks traveling today, tomorrow or later: here are a list of items the TSA will confiscate from travelers. This list includes the following weapons of mass destruction:

Gel inserts in your shoes. (Tom: "Are you gellin'?" "I'm gellin' like a felon. No, literally, I have been arrested and am facing criminal charges.")
Snow globes. (Dad: "It's part of Obama's war on Christmas. You know he's secretly a Muslim and has been waiting for this chance to put his anti-Christian agenda into play. Professor: "Well, sure. He just takes the apparatus Bush put into place, and half the work's done for him already!" An exercise for the reader: which of us were joking?)
Kubotans. Confiscating a kubotan - a six-inch plastic stick that hangs from your keychain - illustrates the shallow mentality behind the whole TSA process. "Oh, these things could be used as weapons," some moron decides, after trolling a few websites and spending twelve seconds in thought. (1) Another thirty seconds of thought would have revealed the following: a kubotan is a six-inch plastic stick. 95% of the people who carry these things have no formal training and are no more a threat with it than without. The other five percent? The ones who have not only seen, but know, pressure points, joint locks, submission and escort techniques? They'll just find another six-inch plastic stick. Excuse me, sir, can I borrow that pen for a second? That's a nice pocket umbrella; mind if I take a look? Hey, can you pass me that stapler? I'd like a Lifesaver; could you hand me that roll? Got a light? Hell, taking off a metal watch and wrapping it around your knuckles would accomplish the same effect. (2) No one's going to rush the cockpit with a kubotan. The entire point of a kubotan is to enhance strikes and submission techniques, not to inflict instant, fatal injuries. It's not like a knife, where an untrained jackass swinging blindly is still a serious threat. I suppose you could kill someone with a kubotan if you jammed it up into their eye or struck them hard enough to collapse their trachea. But that's a million-to-one shot for all but the most fanatically trained users, and taking their keychain away won't help (see #1 above). My point: a kubotan is not a deadly weapon. Confiscating it is stupid. Then again, confiscating shampoo is stupid. Confiscating water is stupid. We're at the mercy of thugs and morons. Why even leave your home anymore?

yo ho, yo ho, a pirate's life for me

Professor Coldheart — Fri, 26 Dec 2008 15:39:48 +0000

Time to catalog the annual Christmas haul:

One Canon SD1100-IS digital camera;
2GB memory card for above;
Fallout 3, Gears of War 2 and Bioshock;
The Stress of Her Regard (Tim Powers)
Some Land's End polos and Ts
Band of Brothers on DVD

Mom got a pashmina and Neil Gaiman's American Gods; Dad got Amazon and iTunes gift cards (to complement his other gifts - a Kindle and an iPod Nano); and my brother got some UnderArmour and a Swiss Army Knife. A good haul, even in this wintry economic climate.

50 books: 2009

Professor Coldheart — Sat, 27 Dec 2008 11:00:58 +0000

I'm using this entry to track my "fifty books a year" project for 2009. Entries listed in CSV for later exporting. 1, The Tailor of Panama, John le Carre, December 25 2008 2, Boomsday, Christopher Buckley, December 26 2008 3, Anansi Boys, Neil Gaiman, December 26 2008 4, Button Button, Richard Matheson, January 2 2009 5, Strange Itineraries, Tim Powers, January 12 2009 6, Odalisque, Neal Stephenson, January 16 2009 7, To Say Nothing of the Dog, Connie Willis, January 30 2009 8, The Stress of Her Regard, Tim Powers, February 13 2009 9, Fast Food Nation, Eric Schlosser, February 26 2009 10, Declare (again), Tim Powers, March 6 2009 11, The Master and Margarita, Mikhail Bulgakov, March 10 2009 12, Kitchen Confidential, Anthony Bourdain, March 14 2009 13, Killing Pablo, Mark Bowden, March 15 2009 14, Emergency, Neil Strauss, March 16 2009 15, A Brief History of Time, Stephen Hawking, March 27 2009 16, Secret Agent: The True Story of the Covert War Against Hitler, David Stafford, April 4 2009 17, Xenos, Dan Abnett, April 11 2009 18, The Limits of Power, Andrew Bacevich, April 11 2009 19, The House of Sand and Fog, Andre Dubus III, April 17 2009 20, The Stars My Destination, Alfred Bester, April 17 2009 21, Accelerando, Charles Stross, April 20 2009 22, Your Religion is False, Joel Grus, April 28 2009 23, The Brief Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao, Junot Diaz, April 30 2009 24, As You Like It, William Shakespeare, May 1 2009 25, Jack and Jill, James Patterson, May 7 2009 26, Malleus, Dan Abnett, May 9 2009 27, The Surgeon, Tess Gerritsen, May 16 2009 28, Persuader, Lee Child, May 23 2009 29, Gang Leader for a Day, Sudhir Venkatesh, June 1 2009 30, Red Mars, Kim Stanley Robinson, June 23 2009 31, Slan, A.E. van Vogt, June 29 2009 32, Brave New World, Aldous Huxley, July 12 2009 33, No Second Chance, Harlan Coben, July 24 2009 34, Earth Abides, George Stewart, July 26 2009 35, Road Fever, Tim Cahill, July 27 2009 36, The Family, Jeff Sharlet, August 12 2009 37, Shutter Island, Dennis Lehane, August 19 2009 38, Paranoia, Joseph Finder, August 21 2009 39, No Country for Old Men, Cormac McCarthy, August 22 2009 40, The Confusion: Juncto, Neal Stephenson, September 15 2009 41, The Confusion: Bonanza, Neal Stephenson, September 15 2009 42, Perdido Street Station, China Mieville, October 2 2009 43, The Ophiuchi Hotline, John Varley, October 6 2009 44, Wanderer, Sterling Hayden, October 10 2009 45, The Dispossessed, Ursula K. LeGuin, October 14 2009 46, One Shot, Lee Child, October 20 2009 47, Nemesis: The Last Days of the American Empire, Chalmers Johnson, October 26 2009 48, Gone for Good, Harlen Coben, November 9 2009 49, The Hard Way, Lee Child, November 28 2009 50(1/2), How The Mind Works, Stephen Pinker, November 30 2009 50(1/2), This Immortal, Roger Zelazny, December 1 2009

christmas is for children

Professor Coldheart — Mon, 29 Dec 2008 14:47:52 +0000

Let's not overlook the most important gift I could ask for this season: the Ravens in the playoffs. Expect to see a lot more of the #5 jersey over the next few weeks. I'd say something clever in anticipation of the next playoff round, like, "I hope this year's Dolphins play like last year's Dolphins when the Ravens face them," but the Ravens were Miami's only victory last year. So ... um ... let's just have a good game, yeah? # # # I sat down on December 24th to talk wedding details with Matt and Lydia, who I will marry in June 2009 (not to be confused with John and Melissa, who I will marry in May). Man, there's a lot that goes into a wedding ceremony. How many readings, what kind of readings, who's going to read them. Will there be a song? Who's handling the vows? What's everyone wearing? All sorts of crazy nonsense. # # # The TSA riles me up every time I fly through Baltimore, and I've finally laid a finger on why: it's the "Simplifly" video that runs on constant loop while you stand in the security line. [youtube=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=V90LAqKyijw] The implied message - people who want to get where they're going on time disrupt the system; people who docilely comply with the latest bizarre directive are quiet heroes - bothers me. What are you doing to make the TSA's job easier? Does your packing style accommodate the Administration's needs? Are you a cooperative citizen? At about the 0:30 mark, a woman - the recurring villain in this video - sifts through sheaves of airline paperwork, looking for what the TSA demands of her this week (boarding pass, one form of ID). The scanner waits patiently for her to produce it, while the person in line behind her shoots her an, "Are you serious?" look. The nerve of these people! Not anticipating what they'll be told to do before they've been told. I've flown four times in the last forty days, as do many Americans around this season. No two trips through security were the same for me. For instance: despite being told repeatedly - through voice, sign and video - to put all liquids in a clear plastic bag for inspection, I never did. I only got stopped for it once: a thrower pulled my overnight bag out and rifled through my toiletries. If they can't keep their own restrictions straight, why should I?

I don't want to set the world on fire

Professor Coldheart — Tue, 30 Dec 2008 11:00:05 +0000

This holiday season, give the gift of a media blow. Philip Marlowe: Private Eye: One of the very earliest HBO original series, starring a young but still jowly Powers Boothe as Raymond Chandler's iconic private detective. The series adapts Chandler's short stories - not all of which involved Marlowe originally - and formats them as hour-long teleplays. The show suffers from the dated cinematography that afflicted every TV show in the mid-80s; it comes off a lot like Murder, She Wrote, if Jessica Fletcher hung out with heroin addicts and occasionally shook a broad if she got mouthy¹. But the dialogue's still pretty sharp: a good pastiche of Chandler and the intervening decades without sounding like self-parody. And Boothe has the attitude down. The Tailor of Panama: I don't have a lot of faith in anything le Carre wrote after Smiley's People. He fell in love with the ornateness of his own descriptions, leading to entire chapters that recounted about five minutes of action. But The Tailor of Panama not only revives le Carre's classic cynicism, it ramps up his sardonic eye at the absurdity of his former profession - espionage - and the politics that enable it. Harry Pendel has thrived in Panama for decades, cutting bespoke suits for three successive Presidents (including Noriega) and countless foreign parties interested in the Canal. He also has a secret - a secret which makes him vulnerable to British spy Andrew Osnard. Osnard quickly puts Pendel to use as a source for South American intel, and Pendel makes use of Osnard's resources in turn. Clever, tense and regularly surprising. One of the few le Carre novels I felt could have been longer. Tropic Thunder: Funny enough, but I felt it could have spent another 15 minutes in the oven. You worry a film like this will wear out its welcome early: a concept strong enough for an SNL sketch strung out to a 90-minute run time. But Stiller et al give the premise just enough room, while exploring a variety of other action movie tropes as well. The trailers that precede the movie left me rolling; Tom Cruise's cameo entertained me but didn't rock my world². Boomsday: Christopher Buckley once again takes a premise, gives it just enough room to stand on its own, and sets it loose on the bizarre world of Washington, D.C. This time around, it's Cassandra Devine - a smart, hip blogger who catches America's eye with the ahem modest proposal to solve the Social Security crisis by offering tax rebates to seniors who volunteer for euthanasia. She doesn't mean for anyone to take it seriously; merely to spark some debate. But then it catches the eye of Senator Randolph K. Jepperson, whose path she's crossed before and who's looking for an issue to make a name on for his Presidential bid. It also draws the fire of the Society for the Protection of Every Ribonucleic Molecule, the AARP, the Vatican and a dozen other D.C. factions too ludicrous to be fictional. Boomsday's pure farce, with nary a prescription for change (to say nothing of prescription drug coverage) in sight. But it's a diverting few hours. Burn After Reading: A Coen Brothers pot-boiler, in the original sense: something to keep the fire warm between projects. The Bros. don't seem to know whether they want a screwball comedy - Tilda Swinton's sleeping with George Clooney, while her husband John Malkovich writes his CIA memoirs, which he loses at the gym where Brad Pitt and Frances McDormand work, and then Clooney meets McDormand, etc. - or a black comedy, where (like office politics) the fighting is so vicious precisely because the stakes are so small. Despite the word "comedy" appearing in both, they are very different animals. Still: entertaining and worth a rental. I laughed several times. Anansi Boys: When Gaiman's being grand - writing sweeping paragraphs about the importance of Song and Story - I don't like him very much at all. But when he's writing about natural people dealing with supernatural things, like a nebbish discovering his father's a West African god and his brother has inherited dad's powers, then he shines. He invests the ordinary with magic and horror and suspense, and there he has few equals. Reading this, I couldn't help casting Hustle's Adrian Lester as Fat Charlie and LL Cool J as Spider. Trust me, it works. Fallout 3: Wow³. _______________ ¹ Now that I think about it, this would be awesome. ² Watching Tom Cruise in heavy prosthetics made me realize: Tom Cruise only has one setting, and that's Tom Cruise. That's all he ever plays. Cocky guy with a ready smile and occasional psychotic intensity. It's fun to watch - I'll never get tired of seeing it - but does that really speak to a lot of depth? Will we ever see Tom Cruise play a grieving, mousy widower? An emotionally repressed wage slave? A villain? ³ I mean, holy shit, wow.

for all the wisdom of a lifetime, no one can ever tell

Professor Coldheart — Wed, 31 Dec 2008 14:40:15 +0000

My friend TC celebrated his 39th birthday a few weeks back. He sent out an e-mail inviting folks to Rendezvous in Central Square for dinner and drinks. He ended the e-mail thus:

Also, I have decided that a drink needs to be created called a "Jack Benny" in honor of the comedian who had a running schtick of always claiming his age was 39. To the best of my knowledge this drink doesn't exist. Yet. When it does I shall be drinking it.

I fired back the following:

A "Jack Benny": classic Manhattan; use dry vermouth instead of sweet; use Rose's Lime Juice instead of bitters. I've just decided.

I gave it all of sixty seconds thought and some brief Googling to make sure I hadn't concocted a poison. But TC, sport that he is, tried it and reported it potable. I have not had the courage to try it yet myself. # # # Since I don't have any teenage daughters or college-age mistresses to shop for, I had no idea that a store called Forever 21 existed until I saw banners warning of an imminent opening in the Arsenal Mall. It's a latecomer to New England, I believe. Looking it up online, I found that yes, it's a retail clothing store that primarily targets young men and women. Few things disturb me as much as the idea of wanting to be twenty-one, forever. I know I shouldn't read too much into any store's name, but I couldn't help but recall a line from C.S. Lewis' The Last Battle:

She wasted all her school time wanting to be the age she is now, and she'll waste all the rest of her life trying to stay that age. Her whole idea is to race on to the silliest time of one's life as quick as she can and then stop there as long as she can.^*

# # # Monday night I met Lindsay and her gentleman caller Marc at Legal Seafoods in the Copley Mall. I showed up at the Legal in the Pru first, much to my confusion. "I didn't even know there was a second Legal in this mall," I told the two when I showed up, breathless, four minutes later. "Having two restaurants within a few hundred yards of each other seems a bit much." "And we have another one in Park Plaza," said our server, appearing at my elbow like a conjured devil. "Confuses people all the time. My name's Jeff; I'll be your server this evening." Lindsay had her first whole lobster, so the server gave her a crash course in how best to dissect one. "Find the way each joint wants to bend, and then bend it the opposite way," he instructed, a tip that appealed to the jiu-jitsu student in me. I had a baked scrod with buttery crumb topping over some rice pilaf. On the train ride home, I realized that, though I had filled out the tip on the credit card receipt correctly, I had written in the wrong total - inadvertently adding the line items and the total twice. We'll see if the restaurant charged me for the bill plus tip (a roughly 20% gratuity) or for the incorrectly doubled bill (a 100% gratuity) in ten days when the statement arrives. # # # Let me impart to you some advice my father gave me on New Year's Eve, 2002:

Remember, I met your mother at a New Year's Eve party in 1975. So ... be careful.

^* This leads to one of the more interesting criticisms of Lewis' theology that I've read - is Susan Pevensie being excluded from Heaven because of her sexual maturity? Personally, I could see an argument either way: either yes, Lewis is just that kind of frowning Puritan, or no, because trying to be eighteen for the rest of your life isn't a sign of sexual "maturity" per se. It's rather a moot point; read Gaiman's "The Problem of Susan" if you're interested.

in my dreams, I'm comets, ornate falling snow

Professor Coldheart — Thu, 01 Jan 2009 12:00:18 +0000

WordPress's post scheduling feature has been reliably fucking up lately. Let's see if this one sticks. # # # Hugh linked to an NOAA winter storm warning in advance of New Year's Eve's snow showers (emphasis mine):

SNOW IS EXPECTED TO BEGIN ACROSS MUCH OF EASTERN MASSACHUSETTS AS WELL AS RHODE ISLAND BETWEEN 7 AM AND 10 AM. SNOW WILL QUICKLY INCREASE IN INTENSITY AND FALL HEAVILY AT TIMES FROM LATE MORNING INTO THE AFTERNOON...WITH SNOWFALL RATES OF ONE TO PERHAPS TWO INCHES PER HOUR AND POSSIBLY THUNDER SNOW. VISIBILITIES WILL BE NEAR ZERO AT TIMES. SNOW IS EXPECTED TO BEGIN TAPERING OFF DURING THE EARLY EVENING HOURS. SNOWFALL ACCUMULATIONS IN THE WARNING AREA ARE EXPECTED TO RANGE FROM 5 TO 8 INCHES...WITH AMOUNTS POSSIBLY AS HIGH AS 10 INCHES ACROSS THE GREATER BOSTON AREA INTO NORTHEAST MASSACHUSETTS... DEPENDING ON EXACTLY WHERE THE HEAVY SNOW BANDS SET UP

Silly NOAA. There's only one heavy snow band that can bring the thunder: [youtube=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=X80Qjh9Yivs] # # # I had a dream on Tuesday night that I saw Kyle Andrews live at the Paradise in Allston. I didn't recognize him at first; I was just stepping indoors to see a rock show. There was a huge air hockey rink set up inside - big enough to play actual human hockey on. I clambered onto it and slid into the glass wall nearest the stage. Then he started playing "Tennessee Torture Dream" and I had to cover my face in excitement, because I love that song so fucking much^*. He was playing at about 3/4 the usual tempo so not everyone recognized it at first. Of course you were there. Everyone was there. # # # Happy New Year, everyone. A lot of folks devote their New Years' Day weblog posts to resolutions they will keep for a month and then fail at. Long time readers of this site know that I spend most of my year failing at resolutions (ask me about my "four hour work week"), so I'm already ahead of the curve!

_______________ ^* In true dream logic, he wasn't actually Kyle Andrews until he started playing this song.

don't mess with the professor

Professor Coldheart — Mon, 05 Jan 2009 12:00:00 +0000

I updated the "About" page (props to Marie for the link). # # # CVS occasionally spits out a coupon worth using, like five dollars off a purchase of $25 or more. Monday last week I decided to save myself a trip to Shaw's and do my grocery shopping at CVS. I pushed a full-size grocery cart down the pharmacy's narrow aisles, stocking up on bread and milk and some heat-and-eat entrees. Come Wednesday evening, when snow fell in showers and I had nothing to eat but peanut butter and jelly sandwiches or Tyson breaded cutlets, I no longer felt so clever. And I'd already had PB&J for lunch. Things grew so desperate that, by Thursday evening - New Year's Day - I was willing to hit up the Davis Square McDonald's for variety. Fortunately, it was closed, compelling me to trudge a few more blocks until I found that Mr. Crepe was open. # # # My friend Aaron, a professional bartender, took a look at the Jack Benny and promised to work on it. After a few test drives and some customer feedback, he came up with the following:

1/4oz Benedictine 1/2oz Lime Simple Syrup 1/2oz Dolan Dry Vermouth 1 3/4oz Old Overholt Rye Whiskey Stir No Garnish

Stop by Drink at Fort Point and let me know how it tastes. I'll be there myself soon. # # # With the crazy changes in weather lately, and more trips across the Charles than usual, I've spotted the weather lights atop the Hancock Tower a few times this past week. For non-Bostonians: the lit spire atop the Hancock lights up either red or blue, and either steady or flashing. There's a mnemonic that supposedly helps you remember what these lights mean:

Steady blue, clear view Flashing blue, clouds due Steady red, rain ahead Flashing red, snow instead.

The problem: this is one of those useless mnemonics where the worthwhile information isn't encoded in the rhymes. You can remember the rhyme scheme perfectly and still forget what the code means. I can never remember whether flashing blue means rain or clouds ("flashing blue, rain due?"). Homer Simpson gives us a similar example:

When the fire starts to burn, There's a lesson you must learn. Something something, then you'll see: You'll avoid catastrophe!

As such, I ignore the old rhyme and remember the following:

Blue is better than red Steady is better than flashing Flashing red in the summer means the Sox game is canceled

# # # Ed Reed! Pick six, baby!

she fills up every corner like she's born in black and white

Professor Coldheart — Tue, 06 Jan 2009 13:47:20 +0000

I ate on Saturday with a whole posse of ladies - Victoria, Rachel, Mia and Lynn W - at Johnny D's weekend jazz brunch. A balding man with a quiet electric guitar sat on stage, quietly threatening to turn his current jam into KT Tunstall's "Suddenly I See" but always backing down at the last moment. We talked about high school. The consensus: every small graduating class has the same thirty to forty guys in it - the beefy guy built like an oak door whose neck bulges a little over his collar; the gangly guy with a white man's Afro; the kid with a buzz cut and bad acne. Of those forty, twenty-eight will stay in the same town most of their lives and work in their dad's business (garages or restaurants in small towns; law firms and real estate brokers in prep school). But it's the same guys in every part of the country. I had been up since nine A.M., running and folding laundry, so what else should I do but go see Synecdoche, New York at the Somerville Theatre? My thoughts on the movie in a later media blow; for now, suffice to say that it slowed down the remainder of my afternoon. I noodled around the house, logging some hours on Fallout 3. I got up at 8:30 AM on Sunday and found myself pulling a rolling basket through Shaw's an hour later. I'd decided not to drive, the Porter Square Shaw's being a zoo on Sundays, but I would have had my choice of parking spots if I did. Stubborn to a fault, though, I overloaded on groceries and trundled home on foot in freezing winds. My last stop for the weekend: Will's birthday party at ImprovBoston. We packed out the bar and both theaters, with people I hadn't seen in months (Inman Square's own Matt W. among them) turning out to wish the man a happy 34th. DJ Greg Wymer spun a variety of pop hits and I danced until my heart hurt. I left earlier than some - quarter to midnight - but later than I intended. Pics forthcoming. The theme this weekend: waking up early. I never gave it much thought until this weekend, but I suppose I'm technically a morning person. I hate sleeping half the day away: there's so many fun or productive things I could be doing. Then again, I don't like going to bed early either - I'm missing out on what my friends are doing, or an opportunity to just sit and read. And even when I do lie down I have a hard time quieting my thoughts. I just love being awake. I love consciousness so fucking much. I suspect my longstanding, paranoid fear of death stems from this: what if I'm in the middle of a really interesting train of thought when I kick it? There's so much of the world to see and think about; what am I wasting time in bed for?

see, with a pen I'm extreme

Professor Coldheart — Wed, 07 Jan 2009 13:20:26 +0000

One of the signs that I'm getting older, aside from recurring aches if I sit too long in a weird position, heartburn from eating greasy foods, a vaguer recollection of events as recent as two years ago, seeing my peers get married and sire children, and of course my continual fear of death, is the fact that my scratches no longer heal. I get scraped up at jiu-jitsu pretty often. My most common source of injury is actually rugburn - we practice on mats stacked on top of six inches of foam rubber and covered with cheap shag carpeting. It's great to take falls on. The problem: any awkward tumbles or slap-outs lead to me abrading the skin on the back of my hand or the top of my foot. "Oh, it's nothing," I think. "It's not even bleeding." And then I look at it in the shower the next morning and it's scabbing over. The scab stays with me for a week or two, then flakes off to leave a sliver of pink flesh. A new scar. I have one on the back of my right hand from the tip of a wooden knife; that's maybe two years old at this point. I can see a new one slowly forming on the back of my left hand. I have no idea where that came from. I'm the anti-Wolverine. People who know me in real life wouldn't be surprised to hear that. # # # Poll inspired by yesterday's post: [polldaddy poll=1251999]

all the people we used to know, they're an illusion to me now

Professor Coldheart — Thu, 08 Jan 2009 12:00:23 +0000

I thought nothing of it when I saw the NSTAR truck parked over a glowing hole in the street on Mass Ave, with a cop directing traffic away from my block. And I thought little of it when the Hess station three blocks was closed and unlit, with ropes barring people from driving between the pumps. But I finally got it when I pulled up to my apartment and saw the entire building - thirty-six apartments, three stories and a basement - dark. And the building next door. Something had taken most of the power near Davis. I quickly uncovered every non-utility source of light in my studio - three tea candles, a book light and the Maglite I always keep within arm's length of my bed. This took ten minutes, after which I realized how little else I could do. Without wanting to open the fridge, dinner consisted of Ritz crackers and Keebler cookies. I read until my eyelids grew heavy, napped for thirty minutes or so, then read for a bit longer. That's about all you can do in an unpowered apartment. Resolving to make something of the evening, I set out for karaoke. The day's slushy rain had turned into a thin sheet of ice over every flat surface. I walked from the Central Square T station to Wendy's with a shuffling gait - my center of gravity four inches lower, my feet pointed like a duck's. Working my way through a Double Stack, I wondered if homo sapiens might have evolved this way if we grew up on icy tundras. I stayed at karaoke maybe ninety minutes, sang some Dylan and left after wishing folks a happy New Year. On the way back to Central I saw a dead man in a doorway. He didn't look too old, and he was dressed cleanly but in a way that suggested homelessness. Two Cambridge cops flanked him, neither of them making the moves that a first responder would make to help an unconscious man (i.e., keeping him conscious until the pie wagon arrived). One of them peeled Latex gloves off her hands as I passed. Taking a nap at 7:00 and spending a few hours in darkness threw my whole evening into a weird fugue. This week has an extra day to it, a four hour sojourn between Wednesday and Thursday. It's like a show with actors I recognize but a script I don't - I keep expecting something different. The cure here's to sleep it off, which, by the time you read this, will have already happened. This note comes to you perpendicular to time. Edit: woke up fine this morning, albeit sluggish. Disregard most of the above.

sit beside the breakfast table, think about your troubles

Professor Coldheart — Fri, 09 Jan 2009 14:56:22 +0000

The Arsenal Mall disintegrates slowly. Two of the larger but older stores - FYE and B.Dalton - are in the midst of a 50% off everything, clean out the store sale. Browsing through marked-down and ignored books, I could almost hear the regretful managers' conferences on January 5th - "it was a good holiday season, but not as good as we would have liked" - in the back of my mind. I don't know if the era of the small outlet store has come to a close, but I do know that a retailer's business model should hinge on providing something that Amazon can't. # # # I have this conversation every few weeks - mostly recently with Liz over a beer earlier this week. Here's the gist of it: I don't drink coffee. I've spent my mornings in places where coffee has been readily available to me for the last ten years - colleges, offices - but I've never started drinking it. I don't drink much caffeine as a rule: more than one Diet Coke in a day is excessive for me. Only recently have I started using that five-hour energy stuff, which contains about as much caffeine as a cup of coffee but not as much sugar. It's mostly niacin and B-12. Mostly. Having made a searching and fearless moral inventory, I suspect that my refusal to drink coffee comes from two pieces of art:

Heat. At some point I made a conscious choice to minimize the number of addictions I have to deal with. Contact lenses already make my life somewhat inconvenient. Add to that the battery of allergy meds I take between April and May and I feel like I'm dragging a hand truck behind me. I can't change that, but I can reduce the number of morning rituals I add on to it. Don't let yourself get attached to anything you are not willing to walk out on in 30 seconds flat if you feel the heat around the corner. ("That's the discipline." "That's pretty vacant.")
Memoir from Antproof Case. I first got turned on to Mark Helprin in high school, when my dad lent me Memoir after he'd finished reading it. It's a charming novel about the varied adventures of a man who's lived for most of the 20th century. He's robbed banks, had affairs with heiresses, befriended piano tuners and killed a couple of people. And he detests the smell of coffee.
[T]he former commandante took me aside years ago and told me that if I ever brought up the subject again or threatened cadets or instructors who drink coffee, I would be dismissed. I wouldn't have to drink coffee, he said, but I hadn't the right to prevent others from doing so. After all, this was Brazil, and who was I to prohibit the Brazilian navy from partaking of so innocent a pleasure as coffee drinking? "It isn't a pleasure," I snapped. "It's a sin. It's the devil's nectar. It's filthy and unhealthy and it enslaves half the world."
The protagonist holds to this belief partly out of sense - caffeine's an addictive, weird little drug - and partly out of idiosyncrasy. As a teenager, a tenuous mixture of sense and idiosyncrasy fit me right down to my socks. "Here's something I could do to be different," I thought, and from that point on I was lost.

24s7 0800-1000

Professor Coldheart — Mon, 12 Jan 2009 12:00:16 +0000

Melissa and Fraley invited me over to their place last night for the re-inauguration of a long dormant tradition: watching the Jack Bauer Power Hour, a/k/a 24. I don't know how many more of these recaps you'll see, as I don't own cable and may not always have time to catch each episode fresh. But I couldn't let the season premiere pass without comment. So: the following takes place between 8:00 AM and 10:00 AM. Viewer discretion is advised. Season 7 kicks off with a (hem) low-profile kidnapping on the streets of D.C. A familiar-looking engineer gets snatched out of his van at gunpoint. His daughter falls into the hands of ... terrorists? the police? DC's Child Protective Services? We then cut to a Senate hearing. Apparently CTU's been disbanded! That's a lot of government employees suddenly out of a job - did they get pensioned? Recycled into other agencies? Senator Red Foreman has former CTU agent Jack Bauer called on the carpet, discussing "brutality and torture." He asks Jack to produce some answers on ... Ibrahim Haddad. Ibrahim Haddad? Some guy they made up out of nowhere? Why couldn't they have used any of the people we've seen Jack torture in Seasons 1 through 6? (Fraley: "Like Paul Raines, Audrey's ex-husband? Jack fucked Paul's shit up pretty good ... oh, wait, he's dead. Hmm. Maybe that's why they don't have a lot of people to ask about") Bauer takes the opportunity to lecture Senator Foreman about the ends justifying the means. "The people who oppose us only care about results," Bauer says. So is Jack saying he's morally equivalent to America's enemies? That he's a terrorist too - but he's a terrorist in the employ of the American people? If so, um, bravo for realpolitik, but I question whether that fits with the image America wants to project. All of this is moot, as an FBI agent - Agent Renee - interrupts a televised Senate hearing to pick Jack's brain. "We'll reconvene tomorrow morning at the same time," Senator Foreman declares. "Twenty-four hours should be enough time for you to wrap this up, right?" Janeane Garofalo - this season's Chloe? - delivers some information to Agent Renee's boss. He's holding a briefing for his team within 10 minutes of Latham - the engineer from the top of the hour - being kidnapped. So we're to presume an EMT got on the scene of the accident, called in the vehicle's license plate, and that info was relayed up the chain to the FBI, where it just happened to cross the desk of someone who realized Latham's kidnapping had something to do with a bunch of recent tech heists, who called Agent Renee's boss, who sent Agent Renee to the Capitol to pick up Bauer and immediately put together a slideshow to brief his team? Within 10 minutes? Then again, Latham's being put to work within 10 minutes of his kidnapping. They must have immediately started torturing him in the van ride over, as he's bleeding pretty profusely. Especially around the fingernails. Ouch. Jack's brought up to speed on why the FBI needs him. There's a possible threat to the CIP firewall, which protects the nation's infrastructure: air traffic control, power grids, water treatment, etc. As a MacGuffin it's pretty interesting - it's techy enough to be exotic but plausible enough to be a real threat. I have no problem believing that the U.S. would put all its eggs in one infrastructural basket. "But why am I here?" Jack asks. Agent Renee shows him rather than tells him - a grainy surveillance photo of Tony Almeida! Convenient that they have one of him snarling. Jack expresses his doubts that Tony could actually be alive, but Agent Renee assures ~~the audience~~ Jack that we Jack never saw him actually die ~~on screen~~ in the building. "Did you see the clock count down without any beeps?" she asks. "Then no, he's not dead." Jack remains skeptical, since he was implicated in the assassination of President Palmer a scant three years ago thanks to similarly doctored images, but he goes along with it. President Taylor - first an ur-Obama, now an ur-Hillary? - still hasn't got over Sengala. She has got over her son being killed, though - which apparently happened off-camera? He was fine at the end of the mini-movie. She orders her Chief of Staff to convene the Joint Chiefs to embroil the U.S. in another overseas civil war. Tony makes the FAA's air-traffic control monitors - located in a windowless basement; they wonder why morale is low - to jump a bit. The controller immediately checks the logfiles and suspects the kernel. Do they do this every time the monitor jumps? Or only if the monitor jumps while the threat level is Orange? President Taylor sits down with the Joint Chiefs, whose membership seems consistent between this season and last. That's the same Commander who told President Palmer II that the Vickery could nuke Cafiristan at a moment's notice. He's on board with the President's plan to roll through Sengala. Everyone is, in fact, except ... Secretary Joe. Taylor dresses him down in front of the entire Cabinet, demanding he have a report ready when she walks back in the room. If Joe doesn't have a report ready when she calls the meeting, how likely is he to have one in 10 minutes? Hell, it takes a while to walk to the printer. The First Gentleman and some press bigshot debate American exceptionalism for all of 45 seconds. Then it's back to the conspiracy theories! The FG seems just as lost at his son's off-camera death as we are, and demands some answers. This is fair, of course. If my son committed suicide the first person I'd want to talk to is his girlfriend, although I wouldn't be asking her about money. "Was leaving the toilet seat up really that big a deal, Samantha? Really?" Jack's looking over the shoulder of Sarcastic Tech Agent, already stripped out of his tie. He spots something in two reports that an entire office full of FBI agents missed and comes to the conclusion that only one person - Gabriel Schector - could pull off a needed forgery. Renee's boss proposes bringing Schector in for questioning but Jack - who wavers pretty erratically between regretting his brutal past and leaping back into it - says that's not enough. The FBI agents supervising Jack engage in a pretty neat meta-commentary on Jack's character ("oh, is this how it starts? I say something you don't like, you tighten your jaw and slame me into a wall?"). If they bring up his drinking problems or the fact that he doesn't have as many Golden Globes as his dad, expect some dra-ma! Then Agent Renee asks to take Bauer along with. "This isn't CTU, it's FBI," her boss says (y'know, the FBI? the agency that doesn't break the law?). But he agrees to let Bauer ride on with the interrogation. Mistake number one. That's how it starts. One day you're an agency following strict procedure and due process, then you say, "Okay, just this once." Renee and Jack show up at Schechter's office (played by Tommy Flanagan, that scarred-up Irish character actor you see in every movie). Shockingly, showing up at a gray market fixer's office without a warrant yields few answers. So Renee strips Schechter's bodyguard of his gun and tosses it to Jack. Like a gentleman, Jack looks to Renee for permission before threatening Schechter (pen in the eye; that's new). She gets a taste of extra-judicial procedure and it puts a sparkle in her eye. Now she's hooked, you see. It doesn't much matter, though. Tony phones in a sniper, who puts two in Schechter's chest from across the street. Then he calls Jack to warn him off the case (really? do you know Jack? you think that'll work?). Finally, he puts into motion a plan he stole from Die Hard 2. End of first hour. The FAA bunker panics once they lose track of the plane, searching for every available means of contacting them - including, but not limited to, the cell phones of passengers on board. How does the FAA have the cell numbers of passengers on an airplane? That's a little disturbing. If you were flying on a commercial jet and you got a call from someone claiming to be the FAA, and claiming that terrorists were misdirecting the plane, what would you do? Also, the FAA only has 3 guys and a supervisor running the Eastern seaboard? Jack immediately begins trying to convince Renee the FBI has a mole. This is why no agency in the U.S. trusts Bauer - put him in a room with three people and he immediately starts trying to turn one of them and torture the other. Tony backs away from blanking 300 names at the last second. He could still be a good guy! Good-ish? I mean, erm, we didn't see him yank out Latham's fingernails. All this is moot, as sub-boss Emerson shows up to collect the MacGuffin from Tony. Whether or not Tony's the real villain, he is working with villains. You can tell by the music. President Taylor has a meet-and-greet with Prime Minister Mtobo of Sengala. There's been a lot of subtext about punishing people "outside the law" in these first two hours - first with Bauer, then with Mtobo. Mtobo promises to treat the General that the U.S. is helping him to depose fairly, then makes a very fierce gesture to one of his attaches as the President leaves. Taylor steps outside and gets a briefing from her Chief of Staff - apparently they matched Tony's voiceprint within minutes of his call to the FAA. Good thing they had his voiceprint on file, I guess. Bauer has been sequestered in an SUV. He steps out of it for a second and spots the shooter immediately - such are the power of his mythical hunches. He then talks Agent Renee into walking off a crime scene to go chase a guy down. CTU trained its agents to frame problems in terms of all-or-nothing dilemmas. Either I break this druglord out of prison or his brother releases toxins into Los Angeles's water supply. Either we chase this shooter down right now, without phoning into anyone at your office, or we surrender the day to Tony and his goons. Sub-boss Benson brings the module to another Shadowy Cabal (why can't these guys put lights in their office?). They're apparently working for Dubaku, who survived the landmine in the mini-movie and is back for revenge. We haven't seen him step around that console yet; maybe he's missing a leg. President Taylor gets a briefing from the FBI agent stationed at the White House - who's got a bit of a Dorchester accent, if my ears are not amiss. Impressed by the threat on the table, she orders some Disaster Preparedness Plans, asks for the National Guard to be stepped up, and ... raises the threat level? From what to what? Renee's boss calls her, wanting to know (for some odd reason) why she left an investigation with a subpoenaed Federal witness. She asks him to trust her in a low voice - always the sort of request that makes people trust you. He immediately asks Special Agent Garofalo to triangulate her whereabouts using her walkie talkie, nearby cell towers and some techno-magic. This is what Jack Bauer does to your organization! He sows seeds of discord! The FG grills Samantha, his son's ex, on the roof deck of her investment firm. She confesses to some mild securities fraud, which apparently isn't enough for him. Jack and Renee track the shooter to a dock - next to the East Potomac Golf Park? near the Jefferson Memorial? how many docks are there in DC? - where Jack immediately brutalizes him and uses him as a human shield. Jack and Renee board the ship, drop tangos like Goldeneye, and find an empty computer. Jack goes after Tony like a flying tiger and throws him up against a wall. Then, just when the interrogation's getting good, Renee's boss flies by in a helicopter (that was quick). He gives the two of them a look like he just caught them in the sack together, then flies off. And the clock is ticking.

to face unafraid the plans that we made

Professor Coldheart — Tue, 13 Jan 2009 14:07:09 +0000

I'm coping with winter. I rarely have to drive in the snow anymore, living in Davis Square as I do. But this past Saturday I had to give a friend a ride home while the white stuff was still falling. So I brushed off the few inches that had accumulated so far, backed over an ankle-high berm, and whushed cautiously up the snowy length of Mass Ave. The impending winter storm warning kept most drivers off the streets, so I made it through without incident. Weather had threatened to postpone the intermittent Mutants and Masterminds game, but I looked out the window on Sunday morning and decided folks could still make it over. "Only four inches or so," I said. "Eminently drivable." And of course I couldn't cloister myself indoors after insisting that people drive to visit me. Not when there's 24 to be watched, anyway. My car doesn't take well to cold weather. The doors tend to stick in the ice. The driver's side handle has always been particularly tricky, ever since I ripped it off trying to open my frozen car three years ago. I have to crank the defrost particularly high to get anything done. And if I bring any amount of snow into the car with me, or if the interior windows froze over in the night and thaw as I drive, the ambient moisture does something to the CD player. It skips or stops with no recourse. But I have to resist the tendency to turtle up, especially while living alone. And if I'm going to pay this much to insure my car, I might as well use it once in a while.

the revolution will not be televised

Professor Coldheart — Wed, 14 Jan 2009 13:51:28 +0000

I owe you a blow. A media blow, that is. Synecdoche, New York: Powerful but dense. Like all Charlie Kaufman films, the movie's less about what it's about - a depressed hypochondriac who gets a MacArthur grant and stages a play on the scale of an entire city - and more about what you're supposed to think of while it's about it. Kaufman films will regularly throw bizarre non sequiturs at you (think Being John Malkovich, think Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind), but they at least adhere to a narrative. The frequent jumps here took me so far out of the movie that I had a hard time getting immersed. And I get immersed in movies really, really easily. This is a shame, because the film's conceit - about the difference between watching your life and participating in it, and how the former necessarily brings you to the latter - is deep and powerful. I don't know that everything Kaufman throws in works in service to that theme, though. Like the cartoon we see a few times in Kaufman's home in the first third of the movie. Or Hope Davis as a therapist (though she's excellent in this role). My verdict: distracting, but not quite satisfying after a second chewing. Button, Button: Richard Matheson wrote some excellent short stories in the horror and magical realism genre. These are not they. Malcolm X: Probably Spike Lee's greatest joint. Lee covers the whole of Malcolm Little's life - being taken from his home, running wild on the streets of Boston and Harlem, finding the Nation of Islam in jail, becoming a controversial minister and then renouncing the Nation - with both candor and passion. He veers toward sententious lecturing at times but never strays there too long, investing the film with energy at its key moments. Who would have expected a film about Malcolm X to include an excellently choreographed swing dance number, for instance? And, of course, Denzel Washington is perfect in the titular role. Lee intends us to see the Nation of Islam for what it is: a source of hope for impoverished black men, but a divisive source of bigotry and corruption as well. We learn this about the Nation as Malcolm learns it - first experiencing it as inspiring, then becoming gradually disillusioned. Never having been in prison, in poverty or black, there's only so much that this movie can say to me. But it's still powerful. I watched the scene where Gaines and Malcolm sit down in the prison library to look up "black" and "white" in the dictionary: [youtube=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OIOf0DYzRNs] ... and I'm all like "Yeah, Sapir-Whorf hypothesis, WHAT." The problem: I've never seen this movie all the way through. The first time, it got late and I went to bed. The second time, I watched about as far as Malcolm's gradual disillusionment with the Nation of Islam. Then I paused the movie, going to sleep to watch more of it in the morning. The problem: I was watching it on Netflix's online queue, with the Microsoft Silverlight player. I lost it when my computer went to sleep. I couldn't load it again in the morning, as I'd used up all my online minutes for the month. And even if I hadn't, I couldn't fast-forward to the point I'd been watching, as the movie only lets you advance as far as it's buffered. So Netflix's "Watch Instantly" function is, for me, less convenient than having the actual DVD in hand. Strange Itineraries: Some excellent Tim Powers short stories. One thing I've noticed is that Powers writes an awful lot about marriages where the wife dies, off-camera, leaving the protagonist to soldier nobly on. The protagonists of The Anubis Gates, Last Call and Three Days to Never are widowers, and though I haven't read The Stress of Her Regard yet, the back cover suggests that's the case there, too. This is also the case in several of the short stories in this collection. In most other authors this would be a telling coincidence. Since it's Tim Powers, where dead people show up as ghosts about half the time, you wonder if it means something deeper.

swear allegiance to the flag, whatever flag they offer

Professor Coldheart — Thu, 15 Jan 2009 12:00:18 +0000

MSNBC confirms the death of Patrick McGoohan yesterday. I first discovered him as most people did, through the bizarre 60s sci-fi / espionage / magical realism British TV show, The Prisoner. McGoohan plays an unnamed secret agent - an apparent reference to a prior role, John Drake in "Danger Man," but not the same character - who resigns from the British secret service. He refuses to announce why he resigns. Unfortunately, the sensitive nature of his work means he has a head full of valuable intelligence. McGoohan is captured - it's never clear by whom - and taken to a cloistered seaside resort town called only "The Village." Surveillance cameras hang in every home and street corner. Everybody in the village wears a number instead of going by name. Number Two, whose identity changes every episode, supervises the Village. He/she uses enforcers, hypnosis, drugs, misdirection and a weirdly animate bubble named Rover to keep order. He/she has one recurring goal: to find out why McGoohan, a/k/a Number Six, resigned. The entire brief series is a variation on that one theme: what does the social order do with a man who simply will not cooperate? If the hierarchy or the aggregate want something out of you - a pledge of allegiance, an answer to a question, a willingness to get out of your bed and work eight hours a day - that you're not willing to give, will they leave you alone? Even if you're no threat to them? If not, what means will they use to get it? The episodes vary in quality and transparency, with the series finale, "Fall Out," being legendarily bizarre. But you can watch every episode of 'The Prisoner' online and judge for yourself. The first dozen are all straightforward, and gems besides. "Free For All," "Hammer into Anvil" and "A Change of Mind" are among my favorites. AMC's hosting these original episodes online because they just wrapped shooting a remake, starring James Cavielzel and Sir Ian McKellen (check out McKellen's blog; it's a great look into the production process and a joy to read). I've got high hopes for it. I've got high hopes for any work of art that promotes individualism for its own sake - sometimes stubborn, sometimes self-destructive, but private and certain and unshakable.

du, du hast, du hast mich

Professor Coldheart — Fri, 16 Jan 2009 14:33:47 +0000

I'm fortunate to have funny friends. Shows at ImprovBoston can be touch and go (it's a big theater; a lot of different groups perform there), but Three Hole Punch was one of the most entertaining shows I've ever seen. Any of the four cast members could help carry a show in her own right. But the four of them have worked together for years and the chemistry that results makes for crackerjack improv. It doesn't hurt that they're easy on the eyes, either. I forgot for a while what I enjoy second most about karaoke at Asgard - singing along with other people. Sitting in the audience having tied one or two on and just belting along to Smash Mouth or Boyz II Men or James Brown or who the hell ever. Singing with a bunch of other actors and singers in the audience used to give me performance anxiety. Still does, from time to time. But if I kick back and let myself relax, Wednesday night becomes the bridge that carries me through the week. Last night I found out that the green belts in jiu-jitsu box better than I do. Even the green belts with neck and shoulder issues that prevent them from taking the full range of falls. They block better, move better and throw better combinations. Boxing's not a tall man's sport - reach might seem like an advantage, but it just opens up a whole mess of target areas down the front of the body. Remind me never to get into a boxing match. Also I took an elbow to the forehead. This was later, though.

how young are you? how old am I? let's count the rings around my eyes

Professor Coldheart — Mon, 19 Jan 2009 12:00:06 +0000

I don't want to talk about it.^* What I will talk about, instead, is Battlestar Galactica's season 4.5 debut this past Friday. I will talk as circumspectly as possible, to avoid spoilers, but the ultra-sensitive may want to wait until Tuesday. BSG has always shined in characterization. This is an outstanding feat, given that BSG comes to us via the Sci-Fi Channel (the station that brought you ... um ... hang on ...). The characters and their interests seem so real that I find it jarring whenever the writers adopt a Capricism ("frak", octagonal paper, pyramid ball). The characters may do things for stupid reasons, but they rarely do them for jarring reasons. They're no stupider than the rest of us. Of course, you can throw all that out the window whenever prophecy rears its ugly head. But that's understandable. After all, prophecy is the dumbest literary device ever to enter fiction. In fantastic literature, prophecy comes in one of two flavors: retroactive or precognitive:

Retroactive prophecy looks backward and justifies the present. Hey, the sky's missing some constellations? Funny, there's an old prophecy that says that sort of thing might happen during a big war. Oh, you saw some snakes this morning? The Scrolls of Pythia mention that you might have seen snakes. I guess things are happening according to prophecy now, aren't they? Retroactive prophecy's dumb because it doesn't add anything. It takes zero effort on a writer's part to invent a prophecy, paint it over recent events Texas sharpshooter style, and then produce the resulting turd with a flourish. Ooh, ominous, right?
Precognitive prophecy looks forward and outlines the future. The creepy teenage girl muttered some nonsense rhyme - and now there are guys with blue hands coming after us! The Scrolls tell us that we have to park at this planet, then turn left - and look, a glowing on-ramp in space! Precognitive prophecy's dumb because it strips the protagonists of their role in the story. Either the future has been laid out, in which case the central questions of "what do the protagonists want?" and "what obstacles lie in their way?" no longer matter. Or the future is still undetermined, in which case why are you wasting our time with these paltry attempts at mysticism? Most stories never commit one way or the other, unfortunately, generally straddling a middle path until the events prophesied have come and gone. At that point, the precognitive prophecy becomes retroactive (see above).

It doesn't help matters much that none of the prophecies unearthed on BSG so far have been particularly ominous. Half the time, they foretell the most mundane shit imaginable. I remember some episodes in Season 2 where Roslyn and Boomer are literally consulting the Pythian Scrolls on whether to turn left or right at the top of a hill. The rest of the time, when they do get the plot moving, the results could just as easily have been achieved by accident. I remember one "prophecy" that came true when someone spotted a reddish star in the sky, and another that came true when the Final Four Cylons just happened to be standing in the same place at the same time. The Arrow of Apollo had a neat payoff, I thought; can't think of anything else. I bring all this up because I think the Season 4.5 premiere does right by discarding prophecy as quickly as possible. Several characters who have relied on prophecy in the past - both human and Cylon - see their visions turn to literal ash. A few very vivid scenes depict this - some overwrought, some subtle - and the Fleet stumbles for a while. Not only do I like the divorce from mysticism, personally, but I think it makes for a stronger story. The protagonists are once again active. They have agendas and obstacles. They're people, not pawns. As for some of the episode's plot twists and revelations: a couple of them were clearly done for shock value alone. That doesn't make them any less effective, but they don't indicate a strong writing craft. Still, no one behaved in a way that struck me as innately wrong. The revelation of the fifth Cylon at the end of the episode works for me, especially given the Fleet's habit of leaving important things several planets behind (see: Arrow of Apollo, above). Overall: I liked it well enough to give the rest of Season 4.5 my attention. Nice work so far, writers - now don't screw it up. _______________ ^* Okay, I'll say this much - Joe Flacco had a phenomenal rookie season, especially on a team that's never been known for its offense. Especially in the ultra-competitive AFC. He got to the conference playoffs, and then made the mistakes I would expect a rookie to make against the #1 defense in the league. I have nothing but pride for my Ravens and expect the Flacco/Harbaugh era to produce plenty of trophies in the future. That being said, it would have been fun to watch Terrell Suggs jack Kurt Warner, right?

as long as bridge joins stream and sky

Professor Coldheart — Tue, 20 Jan 2009 21:43:24 +0000

Slumdog Millionaire: Scarred giants. Rivers of filth. Beautiful princesses. Smiling beggar kings. Opulent tombs. Fabulous prizes. Skyscrapers over slums. Murder. Betrayal. Ambition. Poverty. Hope. True love. If this sounds like the first chapter of The Princess Bride (or Peter Falk's description of it, for those who've only seen the movie), that's no accident. Slumdog Millionaire tells an equally fantastic story of a poor boy who struggles against all odds to be reunited with the woman he loves. While The Princess Bride's setting is fantasy, however, Slumdog traverses the real-yet-alien world of Bombay over the last twenty years: the crowded slums, the stratified cities, the rural countryside and the burgeoning megalopolis. We see it all through Danny Boyle's chaotic eyes at a breathtaking pace. Possibly the best movie I'll see in 2009. Recommended without qualification. See it soonest. Ted Leo and the Pharmacists: I heard "Bridges, Squares" and "Me and Mia" on two separate mix CDs over the past few months and fell in love with the artist before I even knew his name. So now I need to find more. Thanks a lot, musically literate friends. Sneakers: My fourth or seventh time seeing this; I watched it over a few meals at home this past weekend. Holy hell, what an incredibly smart film. Though the technology used seems comically antiquated, Sneakers presents the concepts behind that technology - cryptography, and information theory as a whole - better than any movie I've seen since. I would rather watch Sneakers twice than a more modern techno-thriller (Sum of All Fears? Die Hard 4?) once. Add on top of that the sharp dialogue delivered by a roster of top names (Redford, Poitier, Kingsley, McCormack, Strathairn, etc). Add to that slackless pacing, generating incredible tension in a movie that only has two onscreen deaths and zero (?!?) exploding buildings. Add to that a series of complex and mature themes - the shifting balance of international power, the nature of trust, the loss of youthful idealism. Odalisque: I had just started to get a grasp on all the players that Neal Stephenson had introduced by this point when suddenly he swept them all off the board. Only then did I realize, weeping in frustration, that the first 900 pages of the Baroque Cycle were all prologue. The deaths of three British kings, the discoveries of Newton and Leibniz, the rising importance of Amsterdam? That's all backstory. Eliza lost touch with me in this novel, making more decisions because they advance the plot rather than because they're what her character would sensibly do. I realize that there weren't many ways a woman could advance in 17th century Europe, but she'd managed to avoid the most traditional and objectifying ones until now. Oh, well. At least she hasn't run crying into someone's arms yet. Don't know if I'll plunge into Parts 2 or 3 yet. Frost/Nixon: Very good. It's a Ron Howard film inspired by true events, so we never go more than a few minutes without being reminded of the Historical Importance of each passing moment. That being said, the performances are all great - Sheen as a glib performer in over his head, Langella as an unrepentant emperor at the peak of his decline. They originated these roles on stage, so it's no surprise they do well here.

pressure gonn' drop on you

Professor Coldheart — Wed, 21 Jan 2009 12:00:50 +0000

Go out of your way for your friends and it usually turns out to be worth your while. On Saturday, I drove to Bukowski Tavern - not a huge jaunt from my house, but farther than I might normally drive - to catch Heather C. on a rare trip to Boston. She spotted me before I saw her and swam through the crowd to catch me. I chatted her up for a bit before running into Dana J. and TC, whom I shared beer and hot dogs with while talking about the scene. I had soaked at Inman Oasis for half an hour before hand; loose muscles and craft IPAs inspired me to speak more than I usually might. Later that evening, Misch needed a ride back to Jamaica Plain after the trains stopped running. We talked art in the car ride home. "You seem to already be composing the review in your head when you see something," she said. And though I have a profound tendency to get immersed in whatever I'm seeing - a TV show, a movie, a good play - this is true. I think about what I view in critical language. I had done this earlier in the evening watching a sketch duo called Tango, who I suspect are about four months of work away from being the funniest sketch performers in Boston. Call me on it. And on Sunday, Fraley invited me to his place in Newton to watch the ball game. Snow was falling and more was expected, and the warm embrace of the couch tempted me. Or hell, my choice of sports bars within a few blocks of my front door. But I realized I'd rather watch the Ravens' triumphal victory - or regrettable loss - in the company of good friends and nourishing food. Fraley and Melissa have always been generous in providing both. I'm not much of an extrovert. But it's good to know that when I choose to step outside my shell I usually choose right.

hunger hurts, but starving works

Professor Coldheart — Thu, 22 Jan 2009 12:00:45 +0000

"GYAARRGH," I yelled. "How do they expect people to work under these conditions? It's stupid! This is insane!" A slice of Upper Crust pizza appeared in my hand - spinach, mozzarella, feta, garlic, no sauce. I ate it in about two bites. Then I ate another, slowly. "Huh," I mumbled through a full mouth. "Actually, this shouldn't be too hard. Let me just check some numbers and get back to you ..." Despite living with myself for nearly twenty-eight years, I still get amazed at how much little things affect my mood. Hunger's high on that list. If I'm really hungry, I start snapping instead of speaking. My face defaults into a frown rather than a neutral state. I judge everything put before me in the most critical terms possible. No one's moving fast enough or sitting quietly enough for my taste. This isn't shocking, of course. No one operates well when they're hungry, or tired, or itching all over. I bring it up, however, for two reasons:

I usually ignore the symptoms of hunger - up to a point. I don't like taking time out of my day to eat. Walking to the kitchen and spending ten minutes preparing a sandwich? To hell with that. You know how much work I could do in ten minutes? My body takes the hint and represses its hunger pangs, quietly leeching protein and glucose from backup stores (my arms, my brain, etc) until I become a feverish ghoul.
As a recovering hard rationalist, I still hold the output of my brain in very high regard. I'm fascinated by what comes out of my brain. I trust my brain. Up until the point where I can't, anyway. The problem: I'm just as certain of the judgments I make when I'm hungry as I am of the judgments I make when full. Hell, I'm usually more certain - once I skip one meal and the second comes late, it's all dire pronouncements from the ivory tower. When I'm hungry, the people around me are idiots. When I'm not hungry, the people around me are human beings with different agendas. If the judgments I make when I'm hungry are false, what makes the judgments I make when I'm not hungry true? What makes my full stomach the "correct" baseline, objectively speaking? I can't always trust what I'm thinking. For most people, that's a fact to acknowledge and plan around ("I should probably bring a snack, in case we don't eat for a while"). For me, that's deeply disturbing.

"I'm human after all" sounds like one of those realizations I should have come to as a teenager. Add that to "sometimes you hurt people, even with the best intentions" and "the audacity of your dreams is no guarantee of your success." One of these days I might actually grow up.

it's all in the game

Professor Coldheart — Fri, 23 Jan 2009 12:00:23 +0000

Thank you for your patience with those last two self-indulgent entries. Now we can have fun again. A few days ago, Leonard commented on an AVClub interview with Flight of the Conchords. Bret observed that "There aren't many TV shows that can go on tour." The ideas immediately began bubbling in the drug dens of our brains, Leonard's and mine. We brainstormed. We plunked out notes on a beat-up Steinway. We yelled at each other over coffee in Greenwich Village diners at 3AM. And finally, after about 45 minutes of effort, we uncovered a gem. Ladies, gentlemen, and eligible Tony voters, we give you: All In The Game: The Wire, Live On Stage! I'm Gonna Shoot Up Tonight (BUBS, Chorus) (sung to the tune of "Luck Be A Lady")

A slow violin intro. BUBS wanders down center into a spot. The cries of "Pandemic!" and "WMD!" fade into the background. BUBS They call you 'Mr. Brown.' You always treat me nice. I lie in my slum and I chat with you 'till my toes turn to ice. You're on the town with me. I'm flying like a kite. Who cares if my clothes or the scabs on my nose make me loo-o-k ... a fright? They tell me I'm an addict They say I might have AIIIIIIIIIDS! But tonight, you're all this poor ... boy ... neeeeeeds ... Lights up. The dealers have changed out of street clothes in the dark into tux and tails. They form a chorus line behind Bubs. BUBS I'm gonna shoot up tonight! I'm gonna shoot up tonight! I'm gonna ride that horse until I shit my trousers. I'm gonna shoot up tonight! The dancers surround Bubs, stripping him of his ratty jacket and pants and dressing him in a dinner jacket with silver sequins. BUBS I'm gonna shoot up my veins! I'll get so high, I might just go insane! I'm gonna shoot that rock and sleep for thirty hours. I'm gonna shoot up my veins! More dancers appear on either side of the stage - one twirling a ribbon, one twirling a baton. Bubs snatches the ribbon from one and pantomimes tying off his arm with it. He takes the baton from the other and simulates making an injection. BUBS You never call me "bum" or "junkie" Or "ghetto trash"! Or "worthless punk"! I call you up whenever my girl Kima gives me ten, Or when I catch a break from Mac or Bunk! Dancers swarm the stage behind Bubs, now resplendent in sequined jacket and tap shoes. The dancers do a "bubble dance" (a la Gypsy Rose Lee), but using large rocks instead of bubbles. BUBS Let's keep this party all night! I've Got a scam that's gonna do us right! My sister hates me and my son thinks I been murdered But I'm gonna shoot up ... Gonna get screwed up ... I'm gonna shoot up! TOOOO-NIIIIIIIIIIGHT!

It's All In The Game (STRINGER, AVON, WEE-BAY, SLIM CHARLES, DONUT, KENNARD, WALLACE, NAMOND) (sung to the tune of "Tradition" from Fiddler on the Roof)

ALL The game, the game! It’s all in… The game, the game! It’s all in…the game! STRINGER & AVON Who, every day, must handle every re-up, Worry ‘bout the po-po, keep our records clean? And who rolls around in Lincoln Navigators, Running a well-oiled machine? ALL The kingpin, the kingpin! The kingpin! The kingpin, the kingpin! It’s all in…the game! WEE-BAY & SLIM CHARLES Who must know the way to beat a lyin’ bitch, A punk-ass hood, a chickenhead? Who must ferret out and murder every snitch And fill some niggas up with lead? ALL The muscle, the muscle! The muscle! The muscle, the muscle! It’s all in…the game! DONUT & KENNARD At six I got my corner named; at ten I learned to shoot I hope I get a bump real soon; this job is shitty. ALL The runner, the runner! The runner! The runner, the runner! It’s all in…the game! WALLACE & NAMOND And who makes sure that no one can lighten up the take? And who will get a beatdown for each mistake they make? ALL The counter, the counter! The counter! The counter, the counter! It’s all in…the game!

McNulty! (RAWLS, MCNULTY) (sung to the tune of "Tomorrow" from Annie)

RAWLS You're such a cheap prick, McNulty! Can not stand the sight of you, McNulty! Why don't you die? You fuck up my life, McNulty! Talking to Burrell just makes me sulky. Wanna know why? MCNULTY (speaking) I don't know what ... RAWLS (singing over him) 'Cause you talked to that judge! 'Bout A- -von Barksdale! And re-opened these fi-i-les! Don't smi-i-le! These fi-i-les! MCNULTY (speaking) Look, I can explain ... RAWLS I'm shipping you out, McNulty! You'll be on this new task force, McNulty, With a thumb up your ass! And let me be clear, McNulty! The next time Burrell should say, 'McNulty' I'll fuck you with glass! MCNULTY (speaking) Oh, c'mon ... RAWLS Don't you open your ly- -ing I- -rish piehole! Or I'll fill it with shit! With shit! With shi-i-i-t! (crescendo) McNulty! McNulty! I hate you! McNulty! I'll fuck you, if it takes ten years! McNulty! McNulty! You ratfuck, McNulty! I'll fuck you, right in the ears!

West Baltimore (CARVER, HERC) (sung to the tune of "America" from West Side Story)

CARVER I like my time in West Baltimore Cleaning up crime in West Baltimore Wiping off grime in West Baltimore HERC Trying to rhyme in West Baltimore. CARVER Lots of drug dealers to take out! HERC We piss in bottles on stake outs. CARVER Daniels and Greggs do the job right! HERC I'm still in debt from that hot mic. CARVER We could get paid in West Baltimore. We could make grade in West Baltimore. We've got it made in West Baltimore. HERC I can't get laid in West Baltimore. CARVER We get the dope from our C.I.s. HERC Sure, if we pay them for cheap highs. CARVER I could make Sarge if I learn fast. HERC Just keep your nose up Burrell's ass! CARVER We could make friends in West Baltimore. HERC I get the bends from West Baltimore. CARVER We'll make amends in West Baltimore. HERC War never ends in West Baltimore! HERC AND CARVER La-la-la, la-la, West Baltimore! La-la-la, la-la, West Baltimore! La-la-la, la-la, West Baltimore! La-la-la, la-la, West Baltimore!

Marlo Stansfield (FREAMON, MCNULTY, DANIELS, RAWLS, AVON, STRINGER) (sung to the tune of "Oklahoma (Reprise)")

FREAMON There's someone droppin' bodies, but we can't say how MCNULTY We can't find corpses and we can't find clues DANIELS We'll never get a wire on 'em anyhow RAWLS It's all about numbers, Cap'n ... DANIELS Like that's news! ALL Like that's news! Like that's news! Homicide blues! AVON Lockin' down the corners, crackin' suckas' heads Shootin' up the projects 'till the streets turn red STRINGER Tellin' you: this nigga ain't about to peel Let me cut him in and we can make a deal AVON You ain't a soldier! This shit's hot! Go get Marlo or we gonna get got! MCNULTY Maaaaaaar-lo Stansfield! He's been dropping bodies in the West! Tell you what he'll do, if you cross his crew He will put two bullets in your chest! AVON Maaaaaaar-lo Stansfield! He's a hot young player in the game! STRINGER He's got Chris and Snoop waiting on the stoop So don't let them hear you say his name! FREAMON Check those boarded-up houses for sure! You'll find bodies and blood by the score! MCNULTY, FREAMON, AVON and STRINGER So when we saaaaaaay "Don't cross that nigga down the waaaaaay" You know we're really talking about Marlo Stansfield! Marlo Stansfield! Marlo! ALL Maaaaaaar-lo Stansfield! He's been dropping bodies in the West! Tell you what he'll do, if you cross his crew He will put two bullets in your chest! Maaaaaaar-lo Stansfield! He's a hot young player in the game! He's got Chris and Snoop waiting on the stoop So don't let them hear you say his name! Check those boarded-up houses for sure! You'll find bodies and blood by the score! So when we saaaaaaay "Don't cross that nigga down the waaaaaay" You know we're really talking about Marlo Stansfield! Marlo Stansfield! Marlo! M, A, R, L, O, Yo! Marlo Stansfield!

John Krasinski

Professor Coldheart — Mon, 26 Jan 2009 14:03:27 +0000

put down the horse, pick up the jack

Professor Coldheart — Mon, 26 Jan 2009 14:04:30 +0000

I finally saw Back By Popular Demand on Friday. I'd seen Jacey and Melissa H. do stunning musical improv in their half-hour format, but I didn't know how it would transfer to the 75-minute slot. The answer: effortlessly. The time just flew by. Hell, they probably could have done two hours. John S. was hilarious as absentminded host Connie Connors - think early 70s Dick Clark with a little more edge. And lots of love for the band. I tested my ability to summon a small posse afterward by trying to rally folks, impromptu, for a night at Phoenix Landing. I snagged Melissa L. and Maile S. on the first pass, with Dave S., Serpico, Dana J., Marcelo, Megan and Kevin H. showing up soon thereafter. We closed the place out, per usual, fending off the riff-raff and enjoying ourselves. [caption id="attachment_710" align="alignleft" width="96" caption="And now he\'s cut his hair short again, so the argument\'s lost."][/caption]Someone told me, unprompted, that I look like John Krasinski, which makes them the second person in Boston to say it. Other than me, that is. Even before I started growing my hair shaggy, I noticed a resemblance. He smiles the same way I do; it's uncanny. That same unguarded grin in the rare moments that breach cynicism. I seriously found it unnerving the first few times I saw it happen. Unfortunately, no one else sees the resemblance. Plus, there's only so many times I can say, "No, really, I look like that guy on The Office everyone thinks is cute" before it starts to sound conceited. ("Maybe if you smiled more often, people would pick up on it." "Eh, you're right - it's not worth it.")

there ain't no need for ya

Professor Coldheart — Tue, 27 Jan 2009 13:51:10 +0000

I have a real problem with pop songs that coast to success by sampling really, really good songs. The most recent example of this is M.I.A.'s breakout hit, "Paper Planes." The backing track comes from The Clash's classic ur-ragga of post-colonial blues, "Straight to Hell." Take one good song, a catchy hook ("all I wanna do is blam blam blam blam"), some mediocre lyrics and voila! Instant pop music! And not only are the lyrics fairly pedestrian, she repeats them twice. So the food's no good and the portions are too small. [youtube=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7sei-eEjy4g] M.I.A. I can excuse, however, because screaming hordes of teenagers don't instantly recognize "Straight to Hell." There's no law saying a sample has to be obscure, but I prefer it. It proves that people evaluate your song on its own merits, not by nostalgic transfer. By that standard, Kid Rock's 2008 dump, "All Summer Long," is pure garbage. [youtube=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=y-sQy4kwNlM] Yeah, that's a sign of true artistic talent right there. That's the hallmark of genuine aesthetic integrity - sampling two of the most popular rock songs of the 70s, songs that are practically encoded in the DNA of every American born since 1977, and snarling half-baked lyrics that sound like John Mellencamp's rejected first draft of "Jack and Diane." You think folks will like it? Really putting yourself out on a limb there, Kid Rock! You bold genius! You maverick auteur! The most egregious example I've ever seen of this comes from Mase and Bad Boy Records, circa 1997, with "Feels So Good":

Mase - New Music - More Music Videos

Never has the gulf between build-up ("ohmyGAWD, it's DJ Kool, this my jam!") and let down ("oh, shit, it's just Ma$e again") been so tragic. I don't object to artists sampling popular tracks for their songs. Kanye does it. Biggie and Tupac did it. Hell, "Good Times" wasn't exactly an obscure song when the Sugar Hill Gang looped the bass. But in the two examples listed above - and in countless other examples I'm sure you can think of - the sampling's so obviously mercenary. It's talented hacks riding the coattails of more popular songs. That shit's garbage, and I won't stand for it.

you didn't know what you were looking for until you heard the voices in your ear

Professor Coldheart — Wed, 28 Jan 2009 12:00:38 +0000

My school promotes students to black belt about once every ten months on average. We never do more than two or three at a time. At the last one, in March, I promoted to black belt, along with two other students. We were the last three students to join the program while it was still at Boston College - the end of an era. I remember a lot of weekend practices and nights at the dojo until 10:00 or later. I remember waking myself up at night worrying, and then calming myself back down again the following morning. Other than that I don't remember much, which is why I'm grateful for the photos. This past Saturday, I stood in the back, along with the twenty-odd other black belts still active in Sensei Nick's program. Two students knelt in the front - Rudy, the first student to join the program at its current home in Watertown; and Andy, who had started training 15 years ago but taken time off to recover from injuries. I didn't really feel "senior" to them; the distinction between them, as students, and myself as a sensei seemed artificial. It'd become irrelevant in two hours anyway. Black belt tests differ for every student. They're intensely personal and revealing challenges: imagine fighting a horde of ninjas to get to the church on your wedding day. So I can't really tell you what the test meant for Rudy and Andy. But I can say what the belt itself means, because it's a point I've heard Nick re-iterate at least ten times since I've started training. Getting a black belt (in our style) isn't a destination. It's a point on a greater journey. It's the undergraduate degree. Black belt doesn't mean you've learned everything: it means you've learned how to learn. Now you're ready to start seriously training as a martial artist - if you want to. Of course, that's what the black belt signifies to the school. What it signifies to the student is something else. Nick requires each student to write a paper the week before their test, explaining what getting a black belt means to them. I've read Rudy's and Andy's, and the other black belts have read the one I wrote. I'll let you read mine too, if you like. Just promote to black belt at our school and I'll e-mail you a copy.

get the cd from sam goody

Professor Coldheart — Thu, 29 Jan 2009 14:55:17 +0000

If I released a music player that stored two hundred songs, took up about as much space as a fat paperback book and used a proprietary format other than .mp3 or .aiif or .wav, how well do you think it would sell? Even if I only charged $15? Do you think it would compete with the iPod, or the iRiver, or the Zune, in any meaningful way? How about if I sold it ten years ago and charged $150? How would I do then? Humans are addicted to convenience. We not only love saving time and effort, but we quickly build a tolerance for labor-saving devices. Once we become accustomed to something being faster, easier or more accessible, going back to the old way becomes anathema. Ten years ago I could blow the market wide open with a portable music player that had 200 songs. But after eight years of mp3 players bringing us 1000+ songs in our pocket, that's no longer acceptable. (Econ nerds will recognize this as touching on time preference, one of my favorite subjects) All the above is prologue. The story: a week ago, I drove up to the ATM nearest my house and popped my card in for cash. After asking for $x and confirming, the machine told me it could not complete my transaction. It popped out a receipt ("YOU ARE NOT AN AUTHORIZED USER OF THIS CARD") and refused to give my card back. Frustrated, I sped off. I didn't panic; I'm not that sort of guy. But I immediately began rescheduling my next day or two. Instead of taking the T to work, I would have to drive tomorrow so I could visit the bank. I'd need to wait until 8:30 for the bank to open and actually speak to a teller to withdraw cash. On top of all this, I'd need to speak with another human being to find out what had happened with my ATM card. (Answer: a batch of cards had been compromised; they'd mailed the correction to an old address) Another story: a year and a half ago, my car got impounded by the police for failure to renew my registration. The next morning, I tried to call the DMV to find out what I needed to do to renew and save my car. Unfortunately, my cell phone - the only phone in my house - started conking out, as it was wont to do. Even with a full charge, it would spontaneously turn itself off and on without warning. When on hold for 40 minutes with the DMV, this doesn't help matters. I probably had better options but, in a moment of impulse, I ~~drove~~ took the bus to the nearest Cingular store to see if they could replace the obviously malfunctioning phone. They couldn't^*. So, bus back home, where I finally get my phone to start working - don't know how - and get instructions from the RMV. I take the subway to City Hall, where I pay my excess tickets; to the RMV, where I renew my registration; and the bus to Brighton, where I free my car from the tow lot. To recap: I lost one convenience - my ATM - and had to write a new plan for the next 24 hours. I lost two conveniences - my car and my cell phone - and wasted a few hours in fruitless wandering. What would happen if I lost three or more? Weeping? Looting? Gun in the mouth? Something to think on for the day. How many conveniences could you lose - and you don't get to pick which - before you lost your mind? (There was an excellent clip of Louis C.K. on Conan that circuited the Internet a few weeks ago speaking to this same effect. Sadly, NBC's taken it off YouTube and I can't find it on Hulu) ____________ ^* Of note, I've never found a Cingular store - or any cell phone store - to be of any use in anything but selling me more phones. They can't help you with account issues. They can't fix your phone's technical problems. They can't even replace defective merchandise. Hell, your average Best Buy employee may be a glorified middleman with the tech savvy of an irradiated rock, but if I bring him a computer he sold me that doesn't work, he'll give me a new one!

girls on film

Professor Coldheart — Fri, 30 Jan 2009 14:24:31 +0000

Between Saturday afternoon and Wednesday evening, I took 363 photos with my new camera. I've never had any formal training in photography, so any progress I make comes from trial and error. My new camera - a Canon Powershot SD1100, for those of you just joining us - is a lot smarter than I am. It makes certain adjustments automatically, it finds faces - or what it thinks are faces - when focusing, and it ups the length of exposure when I shut off the flash. Between the camera and iPhoto '08, it's ridiculously easy for me to turn out photos I'm proud of. Provided I take a lot of them. Trial and error's good for me. I either figure things out quickly or abandon them in impatience - more so the latter than the former since I left high school. But sticking at a process through a long and repeated series of screw-ups builds character. My current problem: figuring out the flash. I usually end up too close to my target for the flash to be worthwhile - the camera's autofocus throws light over the dust in the air, leading to grainy splotches all over the final image. So I turn off the flash. This works fine for stationary images, but for moving targets - like the black belt test I spent Saturday photographing - it leads to a conflagration of artistic blurs. So once I figure out the flash, and how to frame a shot, and what sorts of exposure settings I need, and how to adjust contrast without washing everyone out, and how to retouch a little more subtly, I should be good to go. (People who know me on Facebook can see my photography efforts there)

chasing sea foam dreams around another dirty old town

Professor Coldheart — Sun, 01 Feb 2009 12:00:57 +0000

A Hyundai commercial came on late in the 3rd. "Have you heard about Hyundai's new program?" someone asked. "If you buy a Hyundai and you lose your job, they'll take the car back." "Won't the bank do that for you already?" I asked. Somewhere between the commercial for the G.I. Joe remake and the commercial for the Escape to Witch Mountain remake, a Super Bowl happened. It was a tense Super Bowl, don't get me wrong. Lot of good play on both sides, and I have to credit the Cardinals for making it close in the 4th. But nothing epitomizes the Steelers more than James Harrison, hero of the 2nd quarter for running back a pick for a TD, becoming the villain of the 4th by flagrantly roughing Ben Graham. Harrison shoved the Cardinals punter down, kept him on the ground by pushing down on his shoulders, then punched him as he struggled to stand. Taking nothing away from the athleticism of Santonio Holmes and Troy Polamalu, the Steelers are as disreputable a bunch of thugs as ever donned football uniforms^* The Super Bowl was not the most brutal sporting event I saw this weekend. That honor goes to UFC 94, which I watched with Brett, Will and a bunch of other Everett kids on Saturday. In between talking about the murders that kids they went to high school got away with^**, we watched a series of bizarre matches and even more bizarre judging decisions:

A crowd full of drunken guys in their 20s and 30s went from laughing at the one guy named "Dong" to cheering him on sincerely. He demonstrated more prowess and control in the first two rounds of his fight against Karo Parisyian than anyone we'd seen thus far. Then ... he lost in a split decision. I hesitate to yell "racism," but East Asians always fare poorly in MMA (oddly enough).
Winner for most bizarre entrance music: Jon "Bones" Jones, coming out to "Angry Johnny" by Poe. A refreshing change from the late 90s rap and early 00s nu-metal that most fighters find intimidating, but ... really? You're going to pump up the crowd by playing Poe? I suppose it got inside Stephen Bonnar's head (he entered to The Who's "Eminence Front," FYI), since Jones won with the first unanimous decision of the night. He had some sick mule kicks.

I liked the UFC match better - fewer villains won - but I enjoyed the company at both events. If I miss anything about moving to a smaller place, it's not being able to host a dozen or so people for a ball game or a movie night. Still wouldn't trade back, though. _______________ ^* Unlike my own Baltimore Ravens, gentlemen all. ^** Not joking. Murders, dude.

I'm in the basement, baby; drop on by

Professor Coldheart — Tue, 03 Feb 2009 12:00:05 +0000

I neglected to mention: before the Super Bowl on Sunday, I played some poker. Like most pursuits, poker only requires a little effort to get from poor to average. The only thing that keeps me in the game, when the ringers like Bobby S. and Michelle McN. are splitting $60 pots, is very conservative play. I fold about three times as many hands as I play, and I'll never chase a hand for more than a round or two. Playing like this will keep you in the game long after some of the others. My weaknesses (that I know about):

I can be bought out pretty easily. Raise me by twice my bid or more and I probably won't call you on it. Fortunately, I have a poor enough understanding of poker odds that the times I should fold to your bluff, I won't. If there's a 6, 7, 8 and 10 showing and we haven't seen any 9s yet, you could probably bluff a better player into folding. Not me. I've got no clue what cards I should be looking for. My ignorance keeps me alive.
I stay in on strong hands and lose to stronger ones. This happens to every poker player from time to time: standing on pocket 9s while the other guy's building two pair. If there's a defense against it I don't know it.

Playing like this will never win me any poker games - except against monumentally poor players, and they're never the ones who host a poker night. However, it will minimize my losses and keep me in the game for a while. And when I sit down to play with the best at ImprovBoston - as I did this past Sunday - free beer and good company are reward enough. (I walked away with $17 after a $20 buy-in, if you must know)

we'll meet again, don't know where, don't know when

Professor Coldheart — Wed, 04 Feb 2009 14:04:41 +0000

President Merkin Muffley: General Turgidson, I find this very difficult to understand. I was under the impression that I was the only one in authority to order the use of nuclear weapons. General "Buck" Turgidson: That's right, sir, you are the only person authorized to do so. And although I, uh, hate to judge before all the facts are in, it's beginning to look like, uh, General Ripper exceeded his authority.

I love dark comedy. My theory of comedy is that the humor in a situation depends on how you pronounce "absurd." If you say it with furrowed brows and thunderous contempt (e.g., "that's absurd!"), it's not funny. If you say it with a stifled chuckle and bright, wide eyes (e.g., "that's absurd!"), it's funny. Humor is a reaction to the unnatural: the surprising, the shocking, the Not-How-Things-Should-Be. Even the most lowbrow comedy - a man falling down a flight of stairs, for instance - works on this principle. People aren't supposed to fall. They're supposed to walk upright. Whoops. However, humor's not the only way we can react to the unnatural. We have our choice of reactions: terror, anger, abject disbelief, etc. Seeing someone get hit by a bus while you're crossing the street will shock you into silence. Seeing someone get hit by a bus during a Doritos commercial will probably get a chuckle. On the spectrum of absurdity, there's a line somewhere. For each of us this line is personal. Before that line, our reaction to the absurd is a laugh. Past that line, our reaction is a gasp. Dark comedy works because it pushes that line, inch by inch. The biggest nations in the world control weapons capable of destroying most mammalian life on this planet, including us. These weapons rest under the hands of people we wouldn't trust to audit our taxes. Funny, right? Having big dreams does not make you any more likely to succeed. In fact, following your dreams no matter what can shield you from the kind of feedback that would warn you of failure. You might be spending your whole life in pursuit of something pathetic. Hilarious, I know. A mom who's a serial killer. An assassin who gets a change of heart at his high-school reunion. Three doctors cracking wise during the Korean War. Ha ha. This is why I like dark comedy, irony and cynicism so much. I love any attempt to carry a tiny light into the dark corners of irrationality. I rejoice for anyone who can find the humor in tragedy. I prefer laughing over crying. Dark comedy's tricky, of course, because it doesn't always work. But when it works, not only does it kill, but I think it uplifts as well.

when I'm burning down the railway track

Professor Coldheart — Thu, 05 Feb 2009 12:00:52 +0000

I've spent a lot of time over the last few months wondering if I'd do the right thing in a crisis. Last night I did. Chester St in Davis was narrower than usual last night, due to piled snow from last night's storm. I alternated between walking down the one-way street with traffic to my back and jumping up on the slushy sidewalks. Just past Cottage Ave I squeezed past a guy unloading his pickup. Ten seconds later I heard a bang and a WHUMPF. Looking back, I saw the guy leaning around the corner of his pickup. He had his arms up in disbelief, looking toward a car that was passing him (and approaching me). The open door of his truck swung erratically. The car took off. Without hesitating I took off after it. [googlemaps http://maps.google.com/maps?q=chester+st,+somerville+ma&oe=utf-8&client=firefox-a&ie=UTF8&split=0&gl=us&ei=uR6KSdz2J5aitgfg6MCaBw&s=AARTsJqs4Ijig_SgClhXdQ9BCPwzQWc76Q&ll=42.394479,-71.124094&spn=0.004754,0.006437&z=16&output=embed&w=300&h=300] I got the first three digits of the license plate when it hit the corner of Chester and Orchard and made a sudden left. My messenger bag slapped against my hips as I jumped across the sidewalk, sprinting and huffing. The car remained at a tantalizingly consistent distance - outpacing me on the long stretch of road, then slowing up when it was about to turn. Just a little closer, I thought. The driver made a right on Milton, a narrower residential street. I sprinted halfway down the block, passing a woman scraping off her car. The driver got to the end of Milton, abutting the much busier Massachusetts Avenue. He waited, signal blinking (really?), to turn right. I prayed for the North Cambridge traffic to hold up for just ten more seconds. If ever I needed a legendary Masshole driver to refuse to yield, now was that time. He turned while I was still over a hundred yards away. Lost him. Winded, I retreated to Chester Street, where the pickup driver and a local hefting a power drill stood in conference. "Ya get his license plate?", the maintenance guy asked. "First three digits," I said. " 'sbetter 'n I thought! You took off after him like a track stah." I gave the hit-and-run victim my business card, noting the first 3 digits of the license plate down on the back. Don't know how much it'll help - I didn't get a look at the make or model in the dark. "Call me if you need anything," I said, resuming the interrupted walk back to my apartment. I don't know what I intended to do if I caught the driver. The odds of my catching that car were pretty low in the first place - I've never been a great runner, and wearing a heavy coat and a messenger bag didn't help. And the devil knows the police aren't much more likely to catch anyone with only three digits off their tag. What I'm most proud of is my reaction time. Someone was in trouble, I had an opportunity to help, and I picked the right thing to do without hesitating. I stuck with it, even though I had no obligation to, until the opportunity seemed lost. I don't care whether or not I was a good citizen or some sort of hero - what's important is that I went from zero to sixty at the drop of a hat. It doesn't quite answer how I'd handle myself in a fight. But, no pun intended, it was a good dry run.

hammer of the gods

Professor Coldheart — Fri, 06 Feb 2009 14:13:51 +0000

In the worship of security we fling our lives beneath the wheels of routine - and before we know it our lives are gone. What does a man need - really need? A few pounds of food each day, heat and shelter, six feet to lie down in - and some form of working activity that will yield a sense of accomplishment. That's all - in the material sense, and we know it. But we are brainwashed by our economic system until we end up in a tomb beneath a pyramid of time payments, mortgages, preposterous gadgetry, playthings that divert our attention for the sheer idiocy of the charade. The years thunder by, the dreams of youth grow dim where they lie caked in dust on the shelves of patience. Before we know it, the tomb is sealed. - Sterling Hayden, Wanderer

On March 13th I'm flying abroad, by myself, for the first time in my life. You should really get someone to travel with you. Well, I can't. And that's not going to stop me. They speak a different language over there, you know. So? It's Northern Europe; I'm bound to find an English speaker somewhere. If not, it'll be an exercise in non-verbal cues. You could lose your wallet, or your passport, or get stabbed or drugged or kidnapped. I'm a white guy with good hair who speaks English. The entire Western Hemisphere is practically conspiring to make sure nothing bad happens to me. You could end up cold, miserable and bored. I'm only going for a weekend. Worst case scenario, I'm out three days and a couple hundred bucks. You ... All right, enough of this. Even if the fears I have about traveling abroad weren't trivial, I shouldn't be letting fear make decisions for me anyway. I'm young, single, employed and out of debt. There's no better time in my life - other than years ago - to explore. Time to get it over with and start testing myself on that jagged edge. March 13th through 16th. See you in Reykjavik.

this is a message to the law saying we hate you

Professor Coldheart — Mon, 09 Feb 2009 13:46:17 +0000

"Is that Roman Polanski?" "Where?" "Dancing on that bench over there." "You know, it could be." "What's Roman Polanski doing at Phoenix Landing?" "I don't know, but don't tell anyone." "Don't tell anyone what? That Roman Polanski has RETURNED TO THE UNITED STATES?" "Quiet!"

novel feedback

Professor Coldheart — Tue, 10 Feb 2009 16:34:20 +0000

Short Version: The bad news is I probably need to trim about 20,000 words and rewrite another 10,000. The good news is, I know which ones. Long Version: Kate made the very salient point that the unnamed protagonist doesn't do a lot in the first 25 pages. It's all setup. We get introduced to his nemesis Chris in a very vivid flashback, but Chapter One is all the minutiae of moving. Wow. She made the point that, in a thriller, I need to hook the reader early on. I need to get readers to care about the characters involved, and I need to build anticipation for what happens later. This got me thinking about whether or not the novel really is a "thriller," per se, of the James Patterson or Dan Brown or Kate Flora variety. I mean, yes, there's murder and suspense and betrayal and intrigue. But it's not, in my mind, primarily about those things. It's about answering the question of how far you'll go to protect the ones you love. What is the duty of a man to his family, of a father to his child? Then again, maybe I should get off my pulpit and quit pretending that "thriller" is a pigeonhole. Fundamentally, the interesting parts of the novel are the murders and the cover-ups. It's suspenseful. Nothing wrong with that. And even if I'm aiming for a more literary angle, Kate raised a valid point - that nothing really happens in the first 25 pages. It's all setup. I need to give a reader something. I also definitely need to establish the protagonist as a caring parent earlier on. He has, at best, a casual friendliness with his wife and child in the first 25 pages. If the crux of the novel hangs on the terrible sacrifices he'll make to keep them safe, he ought to be at least openly fond of them. She pegged the protagonist accurately as self-conscious, easily manipulated by men with stronger will (a "bit of a wimp," in her words). So I need to find a way to make him likeable. Yes, he's uncertain; yes, he makes bad choices. But those choices arise from fears that most readers should recognize - am I doing everything I can for the people I love? am I a good father? a good husband? a good neighbor? The current draft, which I'm still editing, stands at about 90,000 words. Here are the changes I'm considering:

Prologue: I do like the flashback. I really do. But I think the protagonist needs to flashback at a different point in the action. Maybe when he finds Bill Chang's body in the car trunk, or when he realizes he dropped Ben Cardigan's body off in an abandoned lot. "After the police left ..." hints at tension, but it doesn't really set anything up.
Chapter One: let's skip the whole moving out of the house. I didn't really know what I was doing there anyway. Chapter One will be our protagonist at the office - trimming out a lot of the extraneous descriptions of work; let's just focus on his job, it's hard but he's good at it. Then he goes home, where Tracy is in conversation with Ben Cardigan, who's brought around a housewarming gift. Welcome to the neighborhood!
Chapter Two: becomes the first trip to the Franklin Pool, meeting Chris and Ian, etc.

I'm going to finish the recap with a tangent here. While visiting the parents for Christmas, I pulled A Simple Plan off their shelf (now a major motion picture starring Billy Bob Thornton and Bridget Fonda). I got about four chapters into it before I had to stop. Not because it was bad - quite the contrary; it worked just fine - but because it read so much like the novel I was writing that it felt weird. Here's why I bring this up: I keep hesitating to get to the first crisis point - Kimberly in the trunk of J.J. Norvanski's car - early on. But I think I need to. And I don't think it'll hurt if I do. In A Simple Plan, the narrator and his brother find a crashed plane full of (presumed) drug money in the first or second chapter. The plot hits the ground at a sprint. So I think I have a lot to trim. But I can manage. The lean, athletic story I want to tell is hidden in there, buried under some shabby clothes and a bit of fat. I need to burn it out.

I said whoa no, william and mary won't do

Professor Coldheart — Tue, 10 Feb 2009 16:35:50 +0000

Two things on writing: First - Grub Street's annual networking conference with agents and editors, The Muse and the Marketplace, falls the same weekend as my 10th high school reunion. I love you, Dons¹, really I do, but I haven't spoken to most of you in ten years. So ... yeah. Good thing I didn't buy those train tickets yet. Second - Grub Street also offers manuscript consultations a few times a year. You pick someone to read 25 pages of stuff, choosing from a list of teachers, editors and published authors, and then meet with them on a Saturday to get feedback. I e-mailed the first 25 pages of the novel I finished last year to Kate Flora. This past Saturday, we met for half an hour to talk about it. I talk about her feedback in detail in this locked entry, whose password is the name of the town in which the story takes place². Anyone who's read the manuscript is welcome to take a look. ____________ ¹ My high school mascot is a Spanish nobleman. ² All lower case, two "t"s.

I guess I'll drown in my own tears

Professor Coldheart — Wed, 11 Feb 2009 20:03:57 +0000

I left work at about 9:30PM on Monday. I caught the #70 right outside my building. A blind woman got on about two stops after I did. We both got off in Central Square^*. "Do you need a hand, ma'am?" I offered. She did, as it happened. She didn't take my arm, but I did offer directions at her request ("we're on Mass Ave right now, with Harvard to your left and Boston to your right ..."). When I told her we were near a Wendy's she asked to be directed that way. I was doing pretty well until I tried to get the door for her and accidentally opened it on her hand. Oops. Sorry. The next morning, I started thinking about how I'd react to being blind. A lot of people dread blindness: groping around in the dark, getting lost, getting exploited by strangers. I'm different. If I went blind, I'd worry about solicitous assholes. No, you don't need to yell at me. No, I don't want to hear about your cousin who's also blind. No, I don't want you to hold my things. No, I don't want to hear about how brave I am. No, don't open the door to Wendy's for me. And don't fucking grab at my fucking arm. [youtube=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Ql729hGQGgQ] (get to about the 6:30 mark) This explains part of my introverted nature - I'm always afraid of Helping Too Much. I linger in the back. I don't want to smother anybody. The reason behind that, of course, is that I never ask for help myself. ____________ ^*. I want to suggest that the three people who shouldered past her to get off the bus first - despite her asking the driver several times to let her know when we hit Central - says something about Boston. But I imagine they do that shit in New York, too.

where can I find a woman like that?

Professor Coldheart — Thu, 12 Feb 2009 14:08:34 +0000

Three blips on your radar: The geniuses at Overthinking It kindly put up my rather dense screed on Cartesian dualism in Rick Springfield's "Jessie's Girl". Read it and be enlightened! You can expect more from me there in the future - hopefully some of it a bit lighter. # # # Happy birthday, Charles Darwin! # # # After complaining about how awesome Ted Leo and the Pharmacists sounded, and why oh why did you have to addict me to another indie darling, RJ burned me all of his EPs. I've been listening to them on every commute for the past couple of weeks. Right now I'm torn between Hearts of Oak and Shake the Sheets as my favorite album¹. Ted Leo might have come out of a lab. His lyrics are literate but scan perfectly (who else could make "ossify," "historicity" and "apostasy" work like he does in "Bridges, Squares"?). The themes he hits are subversive without being preachy (consider "Criminal Piece" or "The One Who Got Us Out"). And he rocks with that perfect American flavor of Clash-style punk. If Elvis Costello grew up in Arlington, VA he'd front a band called the Pharmacists. In fact, Ted Leo might be too clever for me. It was just this morning that I finally realized how subversive "Me and Mia" is. Oh, I get it. "Me and Mia, Ann and Ana." Right². ____________ ¹ Although, isn't the album dying out as a musical format? The weakness of an album has always been the varying quality of its songs. For every "Back in the U.S.S.R." there's a "Wild Honey Pie"; for every "U Can't Touch This," a "Let's Go Deeper." Since iTunes, Napster and Rhapsody - currently the market drivers - all let you buy songs piecemeal, why waste your money on filler tracks? ² To be fair, you did warn me.

and it's not the time to ossify

Professor Coldheart — Fri, 13 Feb 2009 12:00:10 +0000

I talk about myself a lot on this weblog. So I'm going to switch things up on this awesome Friday and tell you about the excellent people in my life. Top of the list is Rachel V, who's been a dear friend for a ridiculous number of years now. Rachel's been one of the best kind of friends - someone who not only listens to me when I need to vent but who also deflates me when I get too ridiculous. If you want to learn more about Rachel, you should go see ImprovBoston's anti-Valentine show, Thorns, this Saturday. You can also see her in MOSAIC, IB's bizarrely creative Saturday evening sketch show. I can always count on my man Serpico to bring a good time to whatever it is we're doing. (That's not his nickname, by the way - that's the name he was born with) He's a limitless font of energy. He's got ridiculous enthusiasm for everything in his life, but most specifically improv, Boston College (our alma mater) and his girlfriend Kim. If you want to learn more about Serpico, check out Nerds on Sports. The site used to have a pretty extensive roster of contributors - including yours truly - but everyone's slowly dropped off except him. The man's got staying power. Two people I don't see often enough: Neil R. and Lynne D. I include them here because they're two of the smarter, funnier writers I know. And that's not a compliment I pay to anyone. I'm a conceited ass when it comes to writing, because I think I'm King Kandy of Candy Land. But I've worked with these two and they're better at it than I am. On the real. Neil doesn't update his weblog at Brackishwater nearly often enough (although the latest entry suggests he's busy with more fulfilling projects). Lynne used to weblog a lot but doesn't anymore, so your best chance to see her creativity is in MOSAIC (see above). Finally, two people who continue to look after me, even when I don't think I need it - which is when I especially do - are Fraley and Melissa. They go out of their way to make sure I still hang out with them, even now that they've moved all the way to Newton. They also gave me one of the most sincere honors I've ever had in my life by asking me to officiate their wedding this May. Marrying two of my best friends together is going to kick ass. Neither of them writes online that often, although Melissa is also in MOSAIC^*. These people are all awesome in ways that I'd like to be. They don't talk themselves up nearly enough, so I will. ____________ ^* I planned this entry in my head and started writing it before realizing I'd be namedropping MOSAIC three times. It's like the universe has conspired to force me to see that show.

do you think your wu-tang sword can defeat me?

Professor Coldheart — Mon, 16 Feb 2009 15:00:05 +0000

Hopefully nobody's reading my weblog on their day off, so I can yammer about why I love Avatar: The Last Airbender so much. I recently acquired all three seasons and have been watching them in dribs and drabs over dinner for the past few weeks. I'm two episodes away from finishing Season 1 (no spoilers in the comments, please). And I just can't get enough of it - of this cartoon that originally aired on Nickelodeon. What gives? Here's what gives:

The characterization works. You almost never see a character do something stupid simply for the sake of stringing the plot along. This sounds trivial, but think for a moment about how many of the best shows in the world hinge on that kind of sloppy writing. The male hero sees his female crush cheat on a test - should he confront her about it? should he tell the authorities? O, the heartbreak - and voila, that's 44 minutes filled right there. In Avatar, though, everyone owns up to what they want. They have their own agendas; they're not just vessels through which the show's plot is poured.
The action is incredible. There's only one episode in S1 I can think of that breaks the above rule - "Bato of the Water Tribe" - in which Aang (the titular Avatar) keeps something secret from his friends Sokka and Kitara in the hopes that they'll stay with him. It's pretty lame. Fortunately, the writers dispense with that by the second act break and, as if to make up for it, stage one of the most kickass kung-fu fights I've ever seen. And I've got a decent collection of Yuen Woo-Ping on the shelf. Most animators depict fights as wavy blurs of lines and feet, or a few stock motions looped endlessly together. The animators of Avatar consulted with kung fu instructors before putting pen to paper. Every character fights in a recognizably different way. Plus, the canvas of animation means the directors can get away with stunts that would look stiff or artificial in real life - like Aang running up a cliff face on a ball of whirling air while someone lobs fireballs at him from below.
The stories are simple but sophisticated. Most cartoons and sitcoms write kids as "dumber adults." The three heroes of Avatar are all kids, floating in a vague range of pre-adolescence. These kids, however, are just as smart as the adults around them - they just care about simpler things. Add to that the fact that the show has few real villains. Aang and his friends are chased by two remarkably sympathetic antagonists - Prince Zuko, a hot-tempered teenager, and his sardonic Uncle Iroh (voiced by the late Mako). Zuko's a boy trying to live up to his father's unspoken expectations, and Iroh's a put-upon man with a job he doesn't much like. The few times they get inconvenienced or captured - or, late in the season, when they get taken off the hunt for the Avatar - you find yourself rooting for them.
The writers have an excellent sense of comic timing. Consider the episode "The Fortuneteller," where Aang - the Avatar - and his friends get their future foretold by a village mystic:
Aunt Wu: You will be involved in a great battle, an awesome conflict between the forces of good and evil! A battle whose outcome will determine the fate of the whole world! [dramatic pause] Aang: Yeah yeah, I knew that already. But does it say anything about a girl?
Sokka, normally the comic relief character, isn't as enthralled by this fortuneteller as everyone else.
Sokka: Hey, you. I bet Aunt Wu told you to wear those red shoes, didn't she? Red Shoed Man: Yes. She said I'd be wearing red shoes when I met my true love. Sokka: Uh-huh. And how many times have you worn those shoes since you got that fortune? Red Shoed Man: Every day. Sokka: Then of course it's going to come true! Red Shoed Man: Really? You think so? I'm so excited! [...] Sokka (pointing to the exploding volcano) Look! Can your fortunetelling explain that? Man in Crowd: Can your "science" explain why it rains? Sokka: Yes! Yes, it can!
The plots themselves are remarkably sharp. Here I can't talk any further, at the risk of spoiling things. But for those who've already seen it, I'll say that the "Winter Solstice" two-parter, "Jet," and "The Blue Spirit" - among others - impressed me as much as any other TV that I watch regularly.

Just as Batman: The Animated Series was perhaps the best cartoon of the 90s - adult in tone, theme and visual style but still palatable for children - I think Avatar: The Last Airbender is probably the best cartoon of the 00s. Parents: get your kids hooked on it today. Better for them than that Pokemon crap.

look at the tested and think there but for the grace go I

Professor Coldheart — Tue, 17 Feb 2009 12:32:48 +0000

At 90s Night this past Friday, I ran into KT, who had fully recovered from her case of K.I.D. (though I hear there's 18 to 25 years of outpatient visits). I only got to see her briefly. And b0st0n regular jenskot (no known alias) showed up as well with a friend of hers from school. But the high point of the evening was running into Erin L. and Matt W. I hadn't got to dance around to Bosstones with Erin since ... 2001? Holy hell. College was a long time ago. "It's good that we've run into each other now," I yelled to her over the music, "at a point in our lives where our hair is the best it's ever been." # # # Saturday, after brunching with Rachel V. in the morning, I went to Lisa B's birthday party at her sky-rise in Medford. I lost several games of flipcup but stayed sober enough to drive home, partly by loading up on an insane number of carbohydrates. Someone put The Princess Bride on TV about half an hour before I left. "What do you think would happen if Andre the Giant fell on you?" Steve M. asked me. "He's a bit taller than me," I observed, "but he's three times my weight. So I doubt he'd even ..." "Three times? Jesus." # # # Sylvia and RJ mentioned earlier in the week that they'd never seen Road House, so I dragged them to my apartment on Sunday evening to watch it. "She can't make eyes at him," RJ complained, as the Kelly Lynch / Patrick Swayze romance began to bud. "That sketchy bar owner's already been sizing him up." "This movie has both homo- and hetero-eroticism," I told him. "You're allowed to have both." "I guess." # # # Monday I attended my first Yelp! Elite event. I don't know who's making money off these things; it's happening in a way that's invisible to me. If you're an "Elite" reviewer - and if they let me in, how hard can it be? - you get invitations to monthly events at local bars. Corporations provide gift bags and free drinks and snacks. Guests pay nothing. This has to profit somebody; I'm not sure who. The February event was at Noir on Monday night. Not only did I chat up Serpico, Kim, Joanna and Brian - folks I see all the time - but I went out of my way to meet strangers, too. I mingled, which is shocking if you know me. And I loaded up on fancy appetizers and downed three Maker's Mark Manhattans in ninety minutes. Either the bacon and spinach dip really soaks up the bourbon or they poured the (free) drinks light, as three Manhattans will normally floor me. But I was in good enough shape to watch people ice skate. "Are you going to skate?" Lauren R. asked. "Nope," I said, gesturing in the air a foot above my skull. "My center of gravity's right about here." "Well, we're going to." "Great. Remember to fall on your forearms, not your hands. Have fun!"

my planet sweet on a silver salver

Professor Coldheart — Wed, 18 Feb 2009 15:14:15 +0000

Suppose the Sun let out a massive electromagnetic pulse tomorrow evening, as it is within its rights to do. Ironically, we're most familiar about the EMPs caused by nuclear detonations - the effects of a geomagnetic storm we can only speculate at. But it's pretty certain that a solar flare of sufficient size could cause an E3 pulse that would affect most of the planet. This would short out every power transformer, rendering the world black and lightless. It's not clear, based on my casual reading, whether a solar flare would also generate an E1 pulse, the kind that ruins computers. But it sounds plausible, especially with a big enough solar event. So let's say that happens, too. Every computer on Earth is blanked and fried. Every power station on Earth starts spitting black smoke. Everything stops. Then what?

More than half of the world's humans don't even notice.
Communications grind to a halt. Even presuming your cell phone survived the E1 pulse, the cell tower relies on computers - and electrical power - to rout your call. Landlines would still work, except the switching centers also rely on both computers and electricity. Any region that's still served by an operator and a switching board has communication. Everyone else can fall back on shortwave radio - unless the aforementioned solar flare has fucked up the ionosphere so much that radio signals are no longer intelligible.
Food riots within a month conservatively - maybe even two weeks. While interstate trucking (the source of most American foodstuff) still works, nobody knows what trucks to send where. Food shipment relies on a complex system of transactions, few of which are possible without communications (see point #2). Folks in the Heartlands might be okay for a while.
Water treatment plants in the major cities fail. Flushed sewage begins seeping into groundwater. Dysentery, cholera and typhoid return to the Eastern seaboard.

And these are just the things we know will happen. There are plenty of things we can infer - looting, anarchy, etc. After all, guns still work just fine. I started thinking about all this, oddly, because of the dinosaurs. So much of human knowledge is stored digitally in this century, and we're only going to add more. If something happened to destroy that knowledge, what would a species of alien archaeologists think of us, millions of years from now? Maybe dinosaurs had rich and fulfilling aesthetic lives. Maybe they had immense solar-powered machines, designed to break down into biodegradeable cruft after a few uses. A massive asteroid impact that blotted out the sun would render these machines useless, destroying dino society. Sure, they wouldn't all die out instantly. The hardy ones, capable of adapting to a hunting/foraging lifestyle, would survive for millions of years. It just wouldn't be much of a life worth living. They would spend monotonous days snatching at lesser herbivores, fumbling blindly through the decaying remains of the once great Dinosaur Empire.

pick me up around my knees

Professor Coldheart — Thu, 19 Feb 2009 13:55:24 +0000

If I can't write content of my own, I'll link to people who do:

Zabeth has a tumblr blog based on the reliable concept of finding interesting bits of media and commenting on them. What makes hers different, however, is that she's a professional funny person and that she lives in L.A. - a perpetual source of comedy.
If the bracing, apolitical cynicism of IOZ or Whatever It Is I'm Against It turns you on as much as it does me, you might like Dear Leader as well. He also does trenchant reviews of movies and TV from time to time.
The House Next Door: TV and film commentary of all sorts. Literate and accessible.

if this doesn't make you see, it doesn't mean you're blind

Professor Coldheart — Fri, 20 Feb 2009 12:00:23 +0000

Two things! (1) I have another post up on Overthinking It, regarding Star Trek II: The Wrath of Khan. There are two significant plot holes regarding Ceti Alpha V - the planet that Chekov and Terrell find Khan stranded on - and I (over)think they cast an entirely different light on the real villains of the movie. I'm particularly proud of this one; please check it out. (2) I got tagged to write about 25 albums that are important to me on Facebook. But I'm doing it here, so I can give a short blurb as to why each entry is important. 1. Get Ready - New Order (lost my virginity to this album) 2. Deltron 3030 - Deltron 3030 (my first exposure to indie hip-hop, care of Hawver) 3. Blazing Arrow - Blackalicious (my first exposure to "conscious styles" hip-hop; played it on the drive from Baltimore to Ocean City, MD between my junior and senior years of college) 4. Revolver - Beatles (one of the first CDs my parents owned. I remember playing chess with my dad in our living room and listening to "Taxman") 5. River of Dreams - Billy Joel (one of the first CDs I owned - a Christmas present, along with a stereo for my room) 6. The Chain - Fleetwood Mac (not the first CD I bought with my own money, but the first one that I played until I had it memorized) 7. Superunknown - Soundgarden (probably one of the first CDs I bought with my own money. Defined - and probably extended - my bitter teenager phase) 8. IV, or Z0S0 - Led Zeppelin (bought this my senior year in high school. Spent lots of free periods in the library, looking up Led Zeppelin biographies and trivia on the Internet. And this was the 1998 Internet, mind you - meaning whatever Geocities pages Yahoo! had listed in its directory this week) 9. Greatest Hits - Echo and the Bunnymen (my car got stolen the summer I graduated college. I recovered it, but every CD I owned was gone. The first week after I moved into the Brain Trust, I hit up Newbury Comics' annual sale. I bought this, plus a few others that time has erased from memory, and the first volume of Sandman. "The Killing Moon" and Neil Gaiman will forever be linked in my mind) 10. Medusa - Annie Lennox (no reason; it's just good. I think my mom played this on a lot of road trips in high school. I borrowed it from my parents' collection when I went to college) 11. Greatest Hits - The Band (one of the few common music tastes shared by my brother, my father and I. If I had the vocal range to pull off "Unfaithful Servant" I'd learn the guitar just to play it) 12. Quality Control - Jurassic 5 (I played this album until my friends in college were sick of it, or me. I cut my last class at BC to see these guys play a free show in the parking lot behind Robsham ... which I then left early to get to a stupid rehearsal for a stupid student director project. My dearest friend in the world, MT, stayed for the whole thing, rushed the stage and got the autographs of everyone in Jurassic 5. Even NuMark. Chali 2Na noted after his signature: "Your friend hooked you up! Give her money!") 13. Perfecto Presents Another World - Paul Oakenfold (in college, Dan Upham was the kid who was cool in all the ways that I wanted to be cool. When he introduced trance to the CCE parties - more or less by strong-arm force - I immediately picked up the first album he recommended. I've only dabbled in electronica in fits and starts since then. This was my gateway drug, though 14. Lucy Ford - Atmosphere (my first Atmosphere album) 15. Illmatic - Nas (I already thought Biggie was the shit when I picked up Ready To Die, and I already knew that Wu-Tang was the greatest before I got my own copy of 36 Chambers. But Nas just caught me completely off guard. I expected something good - I didn't expect something poetic) 16. Live in Paris - AC/DC (a staple of suburban youth in northern Baltimore County. I remember my spine quietly shaking with excitement the first time the opening riff of "Thunderstruck" came on) 17. Somebody Told Me (Singles) - The Killers (the B-sides released with certain editions of Hot Fuss included two songs, "The Ballad of Michael Valentine" and "Under the Gun." The latter has particular personal significance to my first years at The Complex in Allston) 18. With Love and Squalor - We Are Scientists (the first band that I can say "I saw them when." They were an opening act for Ambulance LTD) 19. Enter the 36 Chambers - Wu-Tang Clan (my junior year of high school, Brian Roman hands me this CD on a long van ride home from a debate tournament. "You've got to check this shit out." I didn't dive full into hip-hop at that point, but this undoubtedly planted later seeds) 20. Greatest Hits - Don Henley (the summer after my freshman year, I helped Andrew Torres coach the Catonsville High debate team at nationals in Rochester, NY. On the long drive back, he put in Don Henley and we sang along to every ridiculous song. I don't care what you haters think - "Boys of Summer" is excellent) 21. Crash - Dave Matthews Band (the last DMB album I liked, and the second I bought. I got this in the summer of my sophomore year, and I remember listening to it for the first time during a sudden summer thunderstorm. The sky became a thick gray quilt, and I had my window open to catch the smell of wet wind) 22. Shake the Sheets - Ted Leo and the Pharmacists (yeah, I'm putting an album on this list less than a month after I've heard it. I have a suspicion Ted Leo's going to be important) 23. Shine - Bond (I got back into GMing roleplaying games in a big way my first year out of school, living in the Brain Trust. Pirates of the Caribbean inspired me, so I hosted a game of 7th Sea. This was where I really started to grow into the GM I am now. This was also where I introduced Melissa and Fraley, whom I'll be marrying in 99 days. Electro-classical quartet Bond contributed a great deal to the soundtrack of this game - I remember "Space," which I used as Villanova's entrance music, being particularly chilling) 24. Disney's Robin Hood - Walt Disney Pictures (I grew up with this dinky Fisher-Price record player. One of the earliest records I had - from so long ago I can't even remember when I got it - was a narration and voice-recording of Disney's Robin Hood. The one with John Gielgud as Prince John. I didn't realize how often I listened to this until fifteen years later, at college, when I found myself quoting the movie back at the screen. Word for word, pause for pause, accent for accent. So apparently I remember a lot of it) 25. THIS SPACE LEFT DELIBERATELY BLANK (my life's not over yet)

strapped in the chair of the city's gas chamber; why I'm here I can't quite remember

Professor Coldheart — Mon, 23 Feb 2009 12:00:29 +0000

Weekend adventures included:

Drinking at the Davis Square VFW in a benefit concert for the upcoming Avon walk for breast cancer research. Attendees too numerous to list: essentially, the entire Davis Square community on LiveJournal. I had plenty of beer and cheap gin - there's no cheaper drinking than VFW drinking, let me tell you - and watched Provocateur do their usual electro-pop dance spectacular. Pictures available on Facebook.
Shouted myself hoarse over the soundtrack at The Field while drinking with Hawver, Fraley, Dave G., Melissa and Katie H. Hawver and I debated which country would become the next world superpower after oil took another price spike (my vote: Canada; his vote: nobody). The conversation wound its way to rock music, at which point we all listed our five essential rock albums. We all agreed on Appetite for Destruction. This gave me the opportunity to recount my favorite Axl Rose anecdote, as told by Sebastian Bach:
I had just finished shooting Supergroup for VH1. It was on TV in America while we were gallivanting across Europe. We had a beautiful dinner at some incredible Italian restaurant. We are sitting there and I go, "Dude, I just shot this reality show for VH1 and they paid me this amount of money, man. It was fucking easy. It was only like two weeks. It was hilarious. Axl, if they paid me this amount of money, they’d pay you like a million bucks for 10 days of some shit." He’s looking at me with this look on his face and he’s all quiet and he goes, "Sebastian, you don’t understand." I go, "What?" He goes, "I will pay VH1 $2 million to leave me the fuck alone!"
Beating BioShock. Maybe I've missed out on some key developments in FPSs over the last five years, but the level design in BioShock seemed a little repetitive. You get within three feet of a goal in the first 10 minutes of the level, then some arbitrary wall is thrown in your path. So you have to backtrack through the level to get MacGuffins A, B and C, then you can advance the remaining 50 feet and fight the boss. Plus, the game would arbitrarily make the standard mooks that you run into more challenging at various points. I don't mind facing harder enemies and having to upgrade my gear - I just mind when it comes without warning. That being said, it was rewardingly challenging, opulent in both graphic design and original score, and the rare type of video game that makes you think about the human social order. Expect more on that later.
Jiu-jitsu on Sunday. While my work schedule stays crazy, I'm taking advantage of the new open classes on Sundays. Aside from some initial cardio there's no fixed format - you work on what you like for as long as you like. I've learned and practiced some pretty exciting wrist locks these past two weeks. Plus it gives me an active cornerstone to what might otherwise be a lazy day.

you don't need no money with a face like that, do ya honey?

Professor Coldheart — Tue, 24 Feb 2009 12:38:40 +0000

My iPod - the fourth generation model, 40 GB, no color display - had been freezing about once a week and requiring a hard reset. Last Friday it finally died while charging, giving me the iPod frown. I'll take it to the Geniuses to see if they can salvage it, naturally, but I had been thinking about upgrading my portable music solution anyway. So I turn to you, Internet, for advice. Two questions:

First, if I do go iPod again, as I most likely will, which model should I get? I like the slim convenience of the Shuffle, but I don't know if 500+ songs that I can't choose from will be enough variety for me. Music controls my moods in a powerful way. I like to have lots of different playlists depending on what I'm going for - quiet reflection, pumped-up energy, just feeling like a cool cat, etc. So if I decide storage space trumps convenience, I may go for the Classic (80 GB). It's more expensive, but I can experiment with watching videos on the train. Like the cool kids do. I'm not likely to go all the way for the iPod Touch, but you're welcome to give feedback if you have one and love it.
Second, if I don't go iPod, what non-Sony product would you recommend? CNet speaks well of the Sony NWZ-S738F, the Archos 605 and the (hyurrrech!) Zune. The folks at Consumer Reports like SanDisk and Creative. Your thoughts?

they all play on penny whistles; you can hear them blow

Professor Coldheart — Wed, 25 Feb 2009 12:00:41 +0000

Since my iPod has gone on the fritz, MTV.com has become my preferred source for listening to 80s and 90s music online. The RIAA has cracked down on YouTube, and the sound quality tends to be a little better. I just roll up a playlist of favorites, minimize the browser (since I'd rather hear Lindsay Buckingham sing "Big Love" than watch him), and crank through a spreadsheet. Yesterday I saw MTV promoting the latest My Chemical Romance video, "Desolation Row." Hmm. Well, all right. I liked "Famous Last Words." Let's give it a listen.

My Chemical Romance - New Music - More Music Videos

My thoughts, in rough chronological order:

As far as screamo covers of Bob Dylan songs go, it's not bad. I can tap my toes to it.
You know, it's funny. This song first entered my consciousness as the title heading of Chapter 1 of Watchmen. "At midnight, all the agents ..." etc.
Now that I think about it, this video has an awful lot of cops-in-riot-gear imagery.
And the marquee at the start of the video said My Chemical Romance was opening for a band called "Pale Horse."
And Zach Snyder's the director?! Wait a second ...

So Watchmen audiences can expect a My Chemical Romance cover on the soundtrack. I don't know if this disappoints me or entertains me; I offer it without comment.

in an octopus' garden, in the shade

Professor Coldheart — Thu, 26 Feb 2009 12:40:35 +0000

Hey lovers: check out my latest post on Overthinking It: The Myth of Atlantis: Atlas Shrugged and BioShock. It's a comparison of one of the most acclaimed video games of 2007 and the novel that inspired it. (It's a fairly light take on Rand's philosophy, for those who were hoping for a rigorous defense or deconstruction. Go read it anyway)

out on the road today I saw a deadhead sticker on a cadillac

Professor Coldheart — Fri, 27 Feb 2009 13:07:20 +0000

But seasons must be challenged or they totter Into a chiming quarter Where, punctual as death, we ring the stars - Dylan Thomas, "I See the Boys of Summer"

For as long as I can consciously remember I've feared death. But I've also feared aging just as much. At least in death you're asleep for the bad parts, whereas old age just stays with you. Your hands get weak and palsied; your sharp mind starts to slip at the corners. Everything becomes slower and harder and duller. I do find hope, though. Once in a rare while I'll see an old person do something awesome. I should stress that when I'm talking about old people doing awesome things, I don't mean Grandma baking you a cake that spells out your name in frosting for your 21st birthday. I don't mean Grandpa reminiscing over the awesome things he used to do, back in Normandy or Korea. I mean Jack Palance doing one-armed pushups onstage at the Oscars. I mean Dorothy Parker still wielding a razor pen, even in her later years. I mean old guys who drag their grandchildren by the collar rather than spoil them. I mean old women who don't take shit from anyone. Things like that give me hope that old age won't mean twilight. During belt tests in jiu-jitsu, like the one our school had last night, the black belts stand in the back - partly to supervise the proceedings, partly to look dignified and supportive. Several students of all ranks demonstrate at once, peeling off and sitting down as their techniques are finished. Finally we just had two: Anthony and Mussal. Mussal worked with Rob, one of the bigger students in our class. He would cock his head to get instructions repeated to him; our head instructor, Nick, tends to speak a little fast. He would start each technique with slow precision, but then whip on the final momentum. Several of the black belts nodded approvingly at his shodan wrist locks: excellent lead, enough to get a bigger man on the tips of his toes. We ended the test by surrounding Anthony and Mussal, one at a time, and firing attacks at them in rapid succession. Nick called out an o-goshi hip throw, one of the staples of judo. I took an overhand swing at Mussal. He blocked it, stepped inside, popped me up on his hip, and flipped me over. "Too light," he called out; everyone laughed. Finally, we'd all attacked him and Nick called an end to the test. The class broke out in applause. Nick came over to shake his hand, but Mussal waved him off. "Where's the other one?" he asked, his Moroccan accent thick but legible. "You mean Vlad?" Vlad's one of the senior brown belts, a few months away from joining the ranks of senseis. He's built like a duffel bag full of bricks and he moves like three cats. In martial arts parlance, we would say that he has exceptional ki - good control of his breath and balance that results in good movement. I cannot consistently throw him. Mussal wrapped up Vlad's lead arm, pulled him off balance, dropped his hips, and tossed him on his first try. At the end of the test, every promoting student kneels in the front and removes their old belt. Sensei Nick ties on each new belt in turn. He reached Mussal at the end of the line and leaned in close to ask him something. "Can I?" Mussal nodded. "Mussal," Nick told the class, "is turning sixty in 45 days. And I think all the black belts here would agree that that wasn't just a good test 'for someone his age' - that was a phenomenal test, period." "Thank you for not giving up on me," Mussal said. "All of us get tired," Nick continued. "We get injured, we get stresses in other parts of our lives. We get old. But it's how you react to those obstacles that makes you a true martial artist." I know, realistically, that not every aspect of aging lies in my hands. I could still fall victim to some illness, some lingering disorder or early dementia. But to the extent that my age is under my control - in attitude, in outlook and in the way I react to the world - I don't intend to give up yet. Or ever. I may still be scared of death, but I'm not going to start dying early by letting life pass me by. I'm dancing on my sixtieth birthday: that's a promise.

There's no one in here but the fighters. - Redbelt

'cause I've got one hand in my pocket

Professor Coldheart — Mon, 02 Mar 2009 12:00:02 +0000

After my haircut on Saturday, I got a hot chocolate with Dr. Grace at the Starbucks on Boylston St downtown¹. We pounced on a table near the window and people watched. "It's such a gorgeous day out," she observed. "It's supposed to snow on Sunday," I told her. "I heard that, but it's turning to rain later." "And it's going to snow all day Monday into Tuesday, too." "See," she said, half-frowning. "This is why we only hang out once every three months." "Not because we're busy?" "No." # # # I took my broken iPod to the Apple Store on Boylston St while I was there. The Genius behind the counter regretfully told me that they couldn't do much with the 4th generation models. "If you trade it in to be recycled," he offered, "we'll give you 10% off a new one." That's a pretty exceptional deal, considering the 4th gen is good for nothing but scrap. I may take them up on it if eBay can't beat that price². Browsing through the store on Saturday morning, I remained pretty convinced that the Classic would be the one for me. 120 GB of capacity would keep me in music for years to come. Then my iBook spazzed out on Sunday - freezing up, the display dissolving in a slow rainbow of colors. Considering this iBook is over 5 years old at this point, and that it was one of the models prone to logic board failure, I feel it's served a good term. But now I need a portable web browser in addition to a portable music player. I could buy a Classic for $224 (after the recycling discount) and get a cheap laptop in a few months, hoping that nothing happens to my desktop Mac in the interim³. Or I could shell out $269 for a 16GB iPod Touch that'll also check e-mail, function as a GPS and browse the web. I have just shy of 16GB worth of songs currently, but I don't need to take all of them with me. ¹ Because there's only the one on Boylston St. ² From a reliable dealer; I'm not paying $200 for a box full of marbles. ³ Which isn't at all likely, except that I've just commented on it.

everybody, move your feet and feel united

Professor Coldheart — Tue, 03 Mar 2009 12:00:59 +0000

Winter has taken a bitter toll on my car. Well, winter plus neglect. Stopping at Target one morning before work, I noticed that my front license plate hung from my front bumper by one thin bolt. I bought the cereal that I came in for and, not finding a bolt in the hardware aisle that I thought would work, some duct tape. That duct tape held my license plate on the front bumper for another four weeks. Two weeks ago I hit a pothole on Mt. Auburn St with such jarring violence that I was amazed the tire hadn't exploded. It hadn't, but the wheel cover had flown off. It's probably gracing some homeless person's basket of treasures in Harvard Square today. So: duct-taped license plate. Rusting, exposed hubcap. I went to the Autozone near my office to get replacement parts on Tuesday. I gave some serious thought to the "diamond"-encrusted rims, sparkling merrily under the fluorescent lights. Sure, they only retailed for $39.99, but the value in irony alone would be through the roof! However, I could not in good conscience put fake diamond rims on one wheel of my car without also putting fake diamond bolts in my license plate frame, fake diamond buttons on the door locks, and a fake diamond cap on the tire pressure valve. And I'm not made of (fake) money. Saturday afternoon I brought out many, many more tools than I needed and fixed my car. The license plate just needed a screwdriver to drive in the new bolt. The wheel cover didn't even need tools. Once I puzzled out the instructions, I literally fit it over the hubcap and tapped it into place until it snapped on. Car maintenance - the hallmark of manhood! Just don't ask me to change my own oil. # # # Saturday evening I made good on my unintentional promise to see MOSAIC. MOSAIC crams a series of two- and three-minute sketches into a half-hour slot, ranging from high-concept mindfreaks to observational silliness and the occasional moment of sober honesty. Rachel V. and Lynne D. were in it, at their heartfelt hilarious best. I think their current roster of sketches are about two rehearsals and a bigger crowd away from being the most unorthodox thing going on at ImprovBoston. As it is, they were still a good time. You should go see it. It's not all somber commentary on growing old and airline security and vanishing privacy. Sometimes, it's four people on stage, dancing to Junior Senior with pictures of kittens.

what's this in my drink?

Professor Coldheart — Wed, 04 Mar 2009 12:00:52 +0000

I worked from home on Monday with Internet Inc's permission. This was about as fun an exercise as struggling with access to a remote intranet, on a Mac, using an earlier generation of Office, can be¹. But I didn't leave the apartment for an entire day - which is a fun exercise but, when you live in a one-room studio, a little tiring. # # # My work schedule has prevented me from getting to the library as often as I'd like, so I've broken one of the core rules of my 50 books a year plan: I'm re-reading a book. It's a book I read within the last two years, even: Tim Powers' Declare. In my defense, Declare is a dense enough book that it's not as if I know exactly what's coming on a second read-through. And I've been busy. And who asked you, anyway? Huh? # # # I've got another post up on Overthinking It today: Can You Hear Me Running: Thesis, Antithesis and Synthesis in the Music Videos of Mike + the Mechanics. I put far, far too much effort into turning two unrelated music videos - "Silent Running" and "All I Need is a Miracle" - into one story. It's not the best thing they have on the site currently, but it's some good Overthink. ________________ ¹ I know I technically didn't need any of those commas.

goes to my head

Professor Coldheart — Thu, 05 Mar 2009 14:04:52 +0000

Two quick shout-outs:

The Second Glass, who host a regular crash course in wine appreciation at Downtown Wine & Spirits in Somerville. The Second Glass is a handful of guys and girls near my age who have an encyclopedic knowledge of wine without any of the pretension. They can reel off the vineyard characteristics and aging variables of a particular Bordeaux at the drop of a hat, but they'll close with, "Now your typical wine douchebag would say this wine has good 'legs' to it ..."
The Yelp Elite crew, for putting together this kickass wine-tasting and lecture. It was 20 of us crowded into the back corner of the liquor store, swirling wine and sniffing it like pros. I met some new people in the community and walked away with three cheap but phenomenal bottles of red: a 2007 Evodia Garnacha, a 2006 Andeluna malbec and a 2004 Knick Knack Ozzie red.

how come you taste so good?

Professor Coldheart — Fri, 06 Mar 2009 12:00:23 +0000

A friend (whom I won't embarrass by linking to, unless she says it's cool) requested a list of bad-ass strip tease songs. Realizing that there are several different types of strip teases, I reeled off the following:

"Start Me Up" - Rolling Stones. Good for high-energy shows. A Sarah-Katherine Lewis favorite! "Gimme Shelter" - Rolling Stones. For mysterious shows with a lot of scarves and veils and the like. "Honky-Tonk Women" - Rolling Stones. A reliable stand-by. "Brown Sugar" - Rolling Stones. Has a very teasing tone to it; good for when you want to lead the person on a bit.

At this point I realized I had, without intending to, picked four Rolling Stones songs in a row. In fact, you could probably compose a good strip-tease playlist entirely of Rolling Stones songs. Seriously. It just keeps going.

"(Can't Get No) Satisfaction" - Also good for teasing someone. The alternation between the whispered verses and the shouted chorus lets you change tempo really easily. And the lyrical content makes it obvious. "Time Is On My Side" - Last song before closing, when it's only three customers and one dancer in the bar. "Paint it, Black" - Not quite whips-and-chains material, but I picture a very salsa-esque dance with a lot of flounces and maybe a bullwhip. Like Salma Hayek in From Dusk 'Till Dawn. "Street Fighting Man" - Good for a birthday boy or the bachelor the night before a wedding. Lavish attention on him; make him feel tough. "Tumbling Dice" - Sassy but upbeat. Do this with a big grin on your face and a lot of pole-work. "It's Only Rock 'n Roll (But I Like It)" - As with "Satisfaction," the alternation between steady verses and screamed chorus makes this ideal.

But it's not universal. There are quite a few Stones songs that would send mixed signals.

"Ruby Tuesday" - Real tough beat to do anything with. "You Can't Always Get What You Want" - Just throws the look-but-don't-touch strictures right in the customer's face. Plus, as High Fidelity so aptly observed, the connection with The Big Chill disqualifies this song almost immediately. "Heartbreaker (Doo Doo Doo Doo Doo)" - Got a real sexy rhythm, but it's all about cops shooting civilians and kids dying in the Struggle. Oh, yeah. That brings out the tips. "She's So Cold" - Of course, the stripper isn't actually enthralled at your barely-concealed erection. We know she's faking it. But why remind everyone? "Let's Spend The Night Together" - Someone's going to take this literally and rush the stage. You know they are. "Can't You Hear Me Knocking?" - Real dirty, sultry blues make it perfect to start, but then what do you do for the 3-minute jam session at the end? Stand up there and twirl?

And then there are some that you would not want to use at all. You would crash and burn miserably. Things would end in tears and gunshots:

"Angie" "Mother's Little Helper" "Wild Horses" "Have You Seen Your Mother, Baby?"

So, clearly, you need to choose with care.

can I get some fries with that shake-shake booty?

Professor Coldheart — Mon, 09 Mar 2009 11:00:11 +0000

How long's it been since a media blow? Too long, I fear. Fast Food Nation: Informative and entertaining. The author wears his politics on his sleeve, sometimes to his discredit as an objective source - decrying the politicians that subsidize agribusiness then, less than a page later, calling for "more regulation" as a solution. And he occasionally goes on weird tangents, like the paragraphs he spends on telemarketing jobs and Walt Disney. These quibbles aside, the facts are solid, presented well and damning. Everyone gets horrified by a different part of this book. For me, it came with the aggressive marketing of fast food and soft drinks to public school students. Nothing illustrates the failure of public schools to provide a cost-effective education better than their eager willingness to accept Coca-Cola dollars and McDonalds' sponsorship. Well, that, and the horrific working conditions in modern meatpacking plants. And the irresponsible farming practiced by the largest farm corporations. And the risks of e. coli. All right, it's all bad. You may disagree with portions of it. But you owe it to yourself to learn what America's largest producers, employers and providers of food do behind the scenes. Prime Suspect (S1): Pretty good. Helen Mirren plays a police inspector put in charge of a difficult case. She battles with skeptical superiors, institutional sexism and a lack of tangible evidence to track down a prolific serial killer. It was a little jarring to watch male officers openly scoff at a female in charge - I don't know whether this is an artifact of London's differing attitudes toward the sexes, or of the early 90s vs. the late 00s. But the police proceduralism is taut and well-managed. And Helen Mirren, of course, is perfect. She plays a role typically reserved for males - the obsessed law-enforcement officer who throws himself into his job, forsaking family and personal attachment with autistic abandon. Think Al Pacino in Heat: all she is is what she's going after.

don't pay him any attention

Professor Coldheart — Tue, 10 Mar 2009 13:24:00 +0000

Two things: (1) A friend of mine got Beyonce's "Single Ladies" stuck in my head, so I had to go watch it on YouTube to exorcise it. [youtube=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8mVEGfH4s5g] Question: does Beyonce seriously drop a Buzz Lightyear reference at 2:20? Seriously, Beyonce? (2) As of this weekend, I'm now a staff writer for Overthinking It. Expect lots more pedantry from me in the future. The staff officially introduced me on the weekly Overthinking It podcast. If you've ever wanted to hear exactly what my voice sounds like - or if you know what it sounds like, but want to hear me talk about Watchmen - then tune in.

the city's a flood and our love turns to rust

Professor Coldheart — Thu, 12 Mar 2009 12:00:48 +0000

I'm a city boy at heart. I always will be. # # # Go to Mike's Pastry in Boston's North End before 7:30 and you beat the evening rush. You'll still have to shoulder your way through a mob thirty deep - Back Bay couples with gray temples, suede and camelhair; pudgy college parents wearing their daughter's school on their sweatshirt - but you'll face worse at any other time. Push gently to the front: there are no lines, and the half-dozen ladies serving all orders won't resolve your disputes of ordinality. It's anarchy in practice: order evolving unplanned. A spread of opulent treats tempt you under the glass counter. Experiment if you like - the Oreo cheesecake looks too good to be anything but great - but you're best served with some cannolis. Get at least two, more if you intend to share. Specify ricotta filling and powdered sugar. Hanover St. in the North End is narrow, centuries old, and on Saturday nights it gets packed. Cops lean casually against motorcycles. Valets crack wise and swap cigarettes. College freshmen sprint across intersections and slap each other on the arms to punctuate sentences: yo, you see that?. Anything could happen. # # # U2 played a secret show at the Somerville Theatre last night. Rumor bled into the network as early as a week ago, but the band only confirmed concrete details this morning. Anyone passing through Davis Square as early as Tuesday would have seen cops blocking off the street behind the Theatre, and lighting trucks bigger than most Somerville apartments unloading. Only a few hundred people got in - radio contest winners, mostly - but another few hundred mobbed up outside. Close enough to snap postcards from The Edge, but still penned back by a long line of cops and riot barriers. As the concert got underway, a kind soul in an apartment overlooking the Theatre cracked his window and perched a radio on the ledge, relaying the concert live from WBCN. Then some jackass brought out an amp and started busking in the Square. Nine out of ten for opportunism, buddy, but you lose a few points for class. I didn't see this, mind; I just make it a point to know what happens in my city. I got people. # # # Come to the Asgard often enough and they know you as a regular. The staff turns over pretty regular - you never see anyone work there longer than six or nine months - but it only takes a few trips and a few big nights at karaoke to plant your face in their mind. The bouncer waves you in; the bartender catches your eye. You point, rather than speak, and he draws you a perfect pint of Guinness. You see the same faces - friends from the real world, people you only know through this bar, strangers you've never spoken to but see here often enough. You form a routine. You drop the cold mask that you put on for walking through a city alone at night and put on the social face. It's good to see you. It's good to see anybody. # # # I like the quiet introspection of being alone with nature. But I don't need it. I spend enough time inside my own head. I need distractions. I like walking past a building tall enough to obscure the moon, looking up and seeing lights on. Maybe it's a cleaning crew, vacuuming out offices while Jam'n 94.5 echoes down the hallways and the best view in the city hangs outside their window. Maybe it's a late night brainstorming session. It could be someone trapped in a dead-end job, scared to step outside. Could be a crime in progress. There's enough going on to keep my mind occupied. That's why I'm a city boy at heart.

iceland part one

Professor Coldheart — Tue, 17 Mar 2009 16:42:58 +0000

I didn't know what to expect for my first international flight traveling alone, so I got to Logan early. I kicked my shoes off for the security line but, in the current production of TSA security theater, did not have to present my boarding pass. With several hours to kill, I had a few beers at Houlihan's, chatting with an electrical engineer working for Dean Kamen. We swapped horror stories of driving in Boston weather. She won, having spun out on New Year's Eve onto the lawn of the Goffstown, NH police station. The currency exchange booth in the Logan Terminal offered every currency in the world except Icelandic kroner (ISK). I talked my way into the emergency exit row, though I had to take a middle seat. Fifteen minutes before takeoff it looked as if I would have the row to myself. Then the smiling though heavily made-up air steward sat the biggest man I'd ever seen next to me. Picture Bobby before he lost all that weight, for those of you who know Bobby. For those of you who don't: the man was at least a head taller than me and eight to twelve heads heavier. His belly spilled over the armrest. When my arm grazed against him it felt like I had just brushed too close to a fire. I had no idea how I would sleep, let alone sit still, for four and a half hours. Then the flight attendant brought another man down, chatting with him in Icelandic. Everyone in Iceland knows each other, since the entire country has half the population of downtown Boston and most of them live in Reykjavik. The window seat was still open. "These two are friends," she said, indicating the titanic man sitting next to me and the newcomer. "Would you like to sit next to each other?" I offered. "If it's not a ..." "No trouble at all," I said, shifting over one. "I assure you." I couldn't get the window seat to recline, unfortunately. I slept for three fitful hours, aided by 10 mg of melatonin and the three Sam Adams from the airport bar, and then watched some Arrested Development and How I Met Your Mother on the seatback TV. My verdict on HIMYM: silly and diverting. First impressions of Leif Eriksson International: a product of the Industrial/Aquarium school of architecture that swept Europe in the 30s and the U.S. in the 60s. Expansive windows look out onto pitch blackness (at 0630 Iceland time) or, once the sun rises, the snow-covered lunar landscape of Keflavik. I went through another security sweep, this one with shoes on, and then got my first stamp in my new passport from a bored Icelandic guard. LEI has a remarkably libertine attitude toward customs: walk left if you have something to declare; walk right if you don't. I went straight for the Nothing line and two bored blonds in guard uniforms - one male, one female - gave me a quarter-second glance of disappointment then returned to their conversation. Call me a maverick, but Iceland might benefit more, given its current economic straits, from doing away with its Customs department entirely. Or maybe even setting up an anti-Customs office. "You will be subjected to humiliating search unless you're bringing in $100 or more of trade goods, foreign fruits or international currency." I changed $100 U.S. for 10,500 ISK - brightly colored bills and a handful of nearly worthless coins. Enticed by the prospect of lucrative savings, I browsed the duty-free mart, which was open and bustling at 0700 in the morning. Sadly, not even the prospect of not paying customs duties, or getting a refund on any Icelandic VAT I spent in-country, made the liquor cheap enough to buy. It had to get made in the U.S. and shipped across the ocean first, after all. Tired and still disoriented by lack of sleep, I bought a bus ticket to Reykjavik and stepped outside. A vicious horizontal wind checked my stride, bringing with it the icy smell of the North Atlantic. The sun creeped over the horizon as the bus trundled along, casting a gorgeous glow over the Icelandic countryside. I finally remembered why I came. Part two tomorrow.

Reykjavik Blizzard

Professor Coldheart — Wed, 18 Mar 2009 03:12:30 +0000

Baejarins Beztu Pylsur

Professor Coldheart — Wed, 18 Mar 2009 03:13:42 +0000

Apotek

Professor Coldheart — Wed, 18 Mar 2009 03:14:43 +0000

iceland part two

Professor Coldheart — Wed, 18 Mar 2009 11:00:15 +0000

General impressions of Reykjavik:

More Like NIceland: Everyone I met in Reykjavik was cordial. Not quite friendly and outgoing, the way you'd get in the American South, but civil and helpful. Mix a laidback eagerness to please with the inherent stoicism that comes from any cold-weather climate, and you get an Icelander. I stumbled stepping off a curb and a complete stranger asked, "You okay?" The cute blonde at the coffee shop rattled off a list of suggestions when I asked for a good place to go dancing. One in three cars I saw on the street had all its doors unlocked. And everyone speaks English. [caption id="attachment_813" align="alignleft" width="128" caption="At least once a day. Every day. Just like this."][/caption]
Weather: Every day, you'd get 45 to 90 minutes worth of blizzard. Then the sun would come out. Then it would rain - sometimes light spitting, sometimes a steady downpour. Then overcast. Then sun. Then, perhaps, more snow. You get odd little patterns like these when you live between the North Atlantic and the world's quota of glaciers.
Food. Pricey. Everything on Iceland other than fish, lamb, hot water and light beer needs to be imported. Since I didn't fly three thousand miles to experience Reykjavik's notion of a cheeseburger, I ate seafood for most meals. Lunch on Saturday was fish and chips, and the fish had that sinus-filling freshness that suggested they'd been in the sea the other day. Saturday dinner: plokkfiskur at a restaurant called Boston - a fish "stew" that's served like a plate of mashed potatoes. I asked the waitress at Cafe Paris what the fish of the day was for lunch on Sunday. She looked up for a moment, searching for words in her head. "Hot dog," she replied, in the heaviest accent I heard that weekend. "No, sorry - the fish of the day." She nodded, turning to double-check on the chalkboard at the front of the restaurant. I followed her gaze. "Had-dock" was, indeed, the fish of the day. [caption id="attachment_814" align="alignright" width="128" caption="Iceland just can\'t get enough of these above-average hot dogs."][/caption]
Actual Hot Dog: Apparently, hot dogs (or pylsur) are a big deal in Iceland. I saw the longest line that I saw for any establishment - including the nightclubs I visited on Saturday - outside a one-man hot dog stand on the Reykjavik harbor. In the snow. The hot dogs taste pretty good, but the toppings make the difference. Icelanders order their pylsi with a creamy remoulade. You wouldn't think a hot dog lacked for something sweet but it really ties the package together.
Beer: If you want to drink the local brew, know these three brands: Viking (like Budweiser, but with flavor instead of water); Gull (a bit hoppy for my taste but still solid) and Thule (which I didn't try). These are all golden-colored lagers with hearty taste. You can also find Guinness on tap nearly everywhere. [caption id="attachment_815" align="alignleft" width="128" caption="Apotek before things heated up."][/caption]Clubs: As with other cities in Europe, the nightclub scene in Reykjavik doesn't really start until midnight, and doesn't really start until 2:00 AM or so. I ended up killing a lot of hours in coffeeshops until the night scene picked up. Though you have your choice of fine dancing establishments, I bounced between Cafe Paris and Apotek from midnight onward. In Apotek, a stringy-haired elf of a man snatched a scarf off a girl and taunted her with it as she tried to grab it back. She called the bouncer, who remonstrated with the guy until finally tossing him out. The miscreant dragged his weight, clinging to a railing in the end to keep from being thrown outside. This didn't kill my mood, though. I danced until 4:00 AM, hopping on a bench with a bunch of strangers to lord my gangly might over the crowd. This being Europe, I recognized almost none of the songs. That never hurt me, though.

Blue Lagoon

Professor Coldheart — Thu, 19 Mar 2009 11:34:42 +0000

Flea Market

Professor Coldheart — Thu, 19 Mar 2009 11:37:07 +0000

Reykjavik Under Construction

Professor Coldheart — Thu, 19 Mar 2009 11:37:54 +0000

iceland part three

Professor Coldheart — Thu, 19 Mar 2009 13:20:50 +0000

Concluding our three part series:

Heat, Part One. Hot water in Iceland stinks, literally. The entire island sits on bubbles of sulfuric water, requiring only a little drilling to summon to the surface. The amount of effort that the rest of the world puts into heating water for the home, a Reykjavik home has to put into cooling it. The result: cheap hot springs open to the public! I stopped by a public spring on Sunday morning, paying a mere 360 ISK and getting access to a swimming pool, a sauna and two outdoor hot tubs. Nothing beats the pummeling relaxation of sitting by a water-jet in 102-degree water, or lying perfectly still in a 107-degree pool with your head in the 35-degree air. [caption id="attachment_822" align="alignright" width="128" caption="One of Reykjavik\'s many halted construction projects"][/caption]
Come Back Later: Everything in Reykjavik except the bars and the restaurants closes by 7:00 on Saturdays and stays closed through Sunday. Check that: I did find a couple museums still open on Sunday, so I walked around and peered at some medieval copies of the Eddas.
Things I Bought but Didn't Use: This being my first trip out of the country alone, I prepared more than I probably needed to. I left the security pouch (small sleeve that hangs on a cord around your neck for passport, money, etc) in my hotel room the whole time - I was in zero danger from pickpockets. I could have made some use out of the mini-tripod (not an actual Gorillapod, but similar), but there was enough precip. and wind at all times that I didn't want to leave my camera alone. And I left the power converter/adapater in Boston: I had nothing on me that needed charging.
Half-Price DVDs: Hollywood insiders, or TV shows that depict Hollywood insiders, talk about the lucrative value of the overseas DVD market. Nothing drove that home for me more than seeing rows of DVDs for sale - in stores, in flea markets - of movies I'd forgot existed. Like Dummy, or career-killer Private Valentine (starring Jessica Simpson). [caption id="attachment_820" align="alignleft" width="128" caption="No color filters used. The sky and water are naturally this blue."][/caption]
Heat, Part Two: Get on the bus from Reykjavik to Leif Eriksson International at the right time and it drops you off halfway, at the internationally acclaimed Blue Lagoon spa. A natural hot spring, the spa's chief attraction is a massive outdoor rock pool (at least 100,000 square feet) of milky blue water. The pool generates large quantities of thick silicate mud with documented results in alleviating psoriasis and other skin conditions. You can ladle a handful from one of many buckets stationed throughout the pool, or just scoop some up from between your toes. After yip-yip-yipping from the spa door across the open, windy deck, I plunged into the rock pool and lazed around. The mood's like a cocktail party in the summer - over a hundred strangers in swim wear, wandering around in knots and making new friends. I waded around the perimeter, lingering in any pockets of extra-hot water that I found, before taking a quick break for a steam bath. Then I scooped out some algae-laden mud, worked it in my hands until it had the consistency of melting vanilla ice cream, and rubbed it into my face. After it hardened, I stepped under a deafening, sulfuric waterfall to rinse off. Then I did it all over again. I was like a cat in a sunbeam.
Parting Thoughts: You didn't ask, but I gave a little thought to Reykjavik's current economic straits. Nobody I talked to or saw seemed particularly desperate, but I never ventured too far from the city center. Downtown Reykjavik is a cozy nest of shops, bars and restaurants that all hinge on tourist dollars to survive. The locals don't eat there: someone asked a coffeeshop proprietor where she'd go to eat around there, and she mentioned a pizza place. The entire city felt empty. Maybe the driving snow kept the marginal visitors indoors, but even on Saturday night Reykjavik never looked more crowded than Salem, MA. And while Reykjavik's a small city, it's also a global tourist hot spot and (until recently) a major center of finance. I can't speculate as to causes or cures. Michael Lewis's excellent article on Iceland sums up the economic climate better than I could. But, economics nerd that I am, I have to make one idle observation: Every place I went to took credit cards. Every single one. Every hotel, bar, restaurant, corner shop, museum, airport cafeteria and bus stop kiosk. Of the 10,500 ISK that I got on Saturday morning, I still had paper and coins left over when I left on Monday night. I'm not against credit cards, mind you: anything that reduces transaction costs eases trade, and thus lifts all boats. But running a business that takes credit cards costs money. Visa, Mastercard and American Express all charge merchant fees. This is why some stores (in violation of their agreement with the company, but shhh) require a minimum purchase if you use plastic. No one in Reykjavik did, though. If I didn't already have the coins handy, I could have paid for my 260 ISK hot dog with American Express. That's a $1.58 transaction. Lots of credit cards are a symptom of lots of credit. Economists have always touted the easy expansion of credit as a feature, not a bug, of Keynesian macroeconomics. Wealth on paper exceeds wealth in fact - banks write checks on houses they don't own, and hand those checks to financiers who leverage them in speculative investments. Credit expands, until "the stock market multiplie[s] nine times [and] real-estate prices triple." Reykjavik could be a look into the U.S.'s future. Everyone acknowledges things are bad in the U.S. at the moment, but there's still the fear that they could get worse. Pundits, investors and politicians all look for a warning sign that the economy's about to make one last, tottering collapse. I'm not an expert, and my judgment is strictly anecdotal. But here's a handy rule: when the one-man hot dog stands start taking credit cards, run.

Snuggies at the Mall

Professor Coldheart — Fri, 20 Mar 2009 04:30:39 +0000

let's go to the mall! today!

Professor Coldheart — Fri, 20 Mar 2009 13:19:34 +0000

Today's sign of the continuing disintegration of the American shopping mall as a center of commerce:[caption id="attachment_827" align="aligncenter" width="300" caption="Right next to SlapChop and the teetering boxes of Airborne!"][/caption]Selling Snuggies in a mall sounds odd enough - the reversed bathrobe is one of those products that thrives on direct marketing and drop shipping, not herding massive quantities of inventory around. But no one's selling these in a storefront or a mid-aisle kiosk. Snuggies are being sold directly by the corporation that owns the mall. The mall proprietor thinks that's the most valuable use of her employees' time. And you know what? It probably is. Sure, the Snuggie's one of those useless fads that'll seem quaint in four years and comical in ten, but at least people want one. How many shopping malls still contain things people want? Malls survive on a fragile web of factors - cheap petroleum, suburban housing developments and the profitability of large inventories - that the 21st Century has already begun smashing. I suspect malls will continue to deteriorate, becoming more a hangout for those marginal teens who don't have a private place to drink and less a destination for young professionals, until they're finally bought up, razed and turned into something useful like cemeteries. Then perhaps we'll return to that period of urban development where shops appeared in neighborhoods to fulfill economic demand, rather than being planted in the middle of nowhere as if by mistake in SimCity. (I've been reading Kunstler again)

cylon_rumble

Professor Coldheart — Sun, 22 Mar 2009 03:27:22 +0000

why are we here? because we're here. roll the bones

Professor Coldheart — Mon, 23 Mar 2009 11:00:22 +0000

I intended to touch on the Cattlecar Fantastica season finale in the tail-end of a larger media blow, but I have a suspicion the comments may "blow up." And not in a Cylon-baseship way, or in a Saul-Tigh-ordering-young-men-to-die-for-New-Caprica way. I mean, in that way of the Internet. So BSG gets its own post. Spoiler-free Abstract: I found the series finale satisfactory. I mean that in the most precise sense of the term - not damning with faint praise, not rolling my eyes as I type it. The writers threw a lot of baggage atop the show's rickety cart over 5 years and 4 seasons. Come the showdown, they rightly decided to pick up the pace, letting a few pieces fall off along the way in the name of making good time. Also, just for the sake of discussion: if you thought that the BSG series finale sucked unforgivably, could you name one series finale that you found satisfactory? That really transcended the level of craft it had displayed in prior episodes, unified every loose plot thread in one artful tapestry, and succeeded as an hour of TV to boot? I can't. I don't watch a lot of series finales, but the few I can recall - The Wire, Arrested Development, Sports Night have been "good enough for my money." I think a lot of BSG fans had some remarkably unrealistic expectations for this episode. Riddle me this: if the writers of BSG were capable of the transcendent plotting and writing that the Internet seems to expect of them, why weren't they doing it in the last 19 episodes? Did you think they were saving the good ideas for the end? Spoilers under the cut: The Good: The vignettes on Caprica City were engaging and unexpected. I liked seeing the familiar faces in a simpler time, watching their (comparatively) strifeless lives. The only backstories I didn't like were Adama's, Tigh's and Ellen's. I don't get what aspect of the interview Adama was objecting to - other than a Luddite revulsion to polygraphs, the same reactionary technophobia that carried him through the first Cylon War and probably got him stationed aboard the Galactica in the first place. And I didn't buy Ellen's moment of sappy sentiment, staring lovingly into Saul's eyes in the deafening confines of a strip club. Also, the space battle was awesome and nothing more needs to be said about it. [caption id="attachment_836" align="alignleft" width="187" caption="Robot on Robot Action."][/caption]The Ambivalent: Getting the Cylons to a cease-fire, only to have them open fire aboard the bridge, seems like padding to me. The end result's the same as if the Cylons hadn't agreed to a truce. And for all the tension and fatalism going into the Galactica's final battle, you'll note that only one person we care about died in the shooting: Boomer. Two if you count Racetrack. But this would have been an excellent opportunity to sacrifice some minor characters to up the stakes, like Helo or Hot Dog. I'm not as bothered by Starbuck's abrupt departure as I would have been by a jury-rigged solution that tried (and failed) to justify her presence. It's clear the staff wrote themselves into a corner with her ("so she's not a Cylon. And she's not one of the Original Cylons, like Tigh and Galen. And she definitely died. So ... hm"). Given that, I'm content with the sleight-of-hand that shuffles her off stage. It's not perfect, but it will serve. The Bad: Okay, so the prophetic vision that Roslin, Boomer, Baltar and Caprica Six have shared since the second season was a dream-symbol for ... the walk from Galactica's port wing to the bridge? Really? The crucial destiny that Hera served by getting to the bridge, in Baltar and Caprica's hands, was ... to get taken as a hostage by Cavill? Who gives her up anyway after Baltar talks him down and Tigh offers him immortality? And then reneges on that deal, opens fire, and dies anyway? (Also, Cavill shooting himself bugged me. I don't react well to blithe mutilation, like the end of Kill Bill or Scarface, at all. Cavill's willingness to kill himself out of petulant spite strikes me in the same nerve. At first I thought he was just "taking a shortcut" back to the resurrection box in the Colony basestar, but I forgot he doesn't have one) But, yeah, the "truth of the opera house" turns out to be pretty lame. As I've said before, prophecy is the dumbest literary device ever to enter fiction. In fact, I'd be really interested to see someone run a complete throughline of the show's prophecy to see how it turned out, starting with the Scrolls of Pythia and ending with Kara punching in Earth's coordinates. "And lo, a dying leader will get better, but only for a little while, and she will lead humanity to a planet everyone thinks is Earth, but is actually the last Earth that your ancestors came from ..." The final conversation between "Six" and "Baltar" in New York City, 2009, was exceedingly lame. A slow pan over Manhattan, without any dialogue whatsoever, would have accomplished the same effect more profoundly. As it is, their preachy commentary on the cyclical nature of humankind smacked of bad genre literature. The kind of thing that BSG was supposed to transcend, y'know? Overall:

Homer: Well, we didn't get any money, but Mr. Burns got what he wanted. Marge, I'm confused. Is this a happy ending or a sad ending? Marge: It's an ending. That's enough.

the evil that men do to live life close to kings

Professor Coldheart — Tue, 24 Mar 2009 11:00:44 +0000

And now, the remainder of your media blow: Kitchen Confidential: Now I see what the fuss was about! Bourdain writes accessibly, but also with the intent to educate - about what goes on in kitchens, the way restaurants are run and, most importantly, what separates good chefs from the great ones. A fun read. Killing Pablo: Perfect airplane reading from the author of Black Hawk Down. Bowden chronicles the rise to power of Pablo Escobar, a man so ruthless that he cowed the largest Colombian cartels into obedience and so wealthy that he talked the Colombian government into letting him build his own prison once they caught him. He also discusses the efforts of first the Colombian police, then of America's Delta Force, to bring him down. It's a gripping story that moves at a good clip. It's not perfect, mind you - Bowden tries to force some parallels between Escobar and his son vs. a father-son team of Colombian inspectors who track him. But Bowden gets major cred for all but accusing U.S. Army Intelligence of aiding the efforts of rival drug cartels and disenfranchised cops in terrorizing Escobar: assassinating his men, planting car bombs in his family's neighborhoods, and the like. The evidence seems pretty compelling, and the implications are heavy. Emergency: A rather self-absorbed but still informative look at one man's efforts to survive "off the grid." Over the course of several years, the author rolls through a virtual checklist of both left-wing and right-wing escape tactics: hiding your currency off shore, getting a second passport, learning how to shoot and survive in the wild, and urban combat. He ends up becoming more self-aware and active in his community as a result, "graduating" from an L.A. music writer to a part-time paramedic and emergency responder. The book's downside arises from the name on the cover: Neil Strauss, author of The Game: Penetrating the Secret Society of Pick-up Artists. This book isn't about how you can prepare yourself to survive a disaster - it's about how Neil Strauss can prepare himself. Step one is to have wealthy, equally paranoid friends who put him in touch with immigration lawyers on St. Kitt's. Step two is to expense a variety of survival retreats and self-defense lessons to your publisher. Strauss spends equal amounts of time puffing himself up - telling anecdotes about busty publicists who throw themselves at him, or the creepy neckbeards who expect the U.S. is going to collapse - and poring over his own soul in agonizing detail - am I not really a man unless I can slit this goat's neck and skin its corpse? If you're looking for actual ways to hide assets, get out of the country, survive in the wild or defend yourself, this book will be of limited help. It'll point you in the direction that Strauss took, but that's it. Contra the reviews of Tim Ferris or Rolling Stone, this book is not a manual. It is, if anything, a tawdry and flimsy overview. Kings: When Leonard first mentioned this NBC drama, I decided I had to watch it just for the balls-out lunacy of its concept alone. A modern day retelling of the Biblical story of King David, set in a one-step-removed America called "Gilboa"? Starring Deadwood's Ian McShane as King ~~Saul~~ Silas? How did that ever get greenlighted? "It's, er, like Dallas ... but with actual royalty!" Don't ask me how, but it works. Like Battlestar Galactica (in its S1-S2 heyday), Kings overlays medieval sensibilities onto a modern setting. You have kings and high priests and court historians and the occasional coronation, but you also have cell phones, global news networks and runs on the Treasury. King Silas, pulled in a hundred different directions by his family, his faith, his subjects and the corporations that helped rebuild his city, latches on to a farm-boy hero - David Shepherd - who singlehandedly takes down a Goliath tank and saves the King's son. David gets promoted to high office and drawn into the inner circle of court. I like Kings - the one episode I've seen so far - for its political maneuvering and for the "how are they gonna bring this in?" puzzle of all alternate universes. I like watching Ian McShane play the Shakespearean patriarch, and even the pretty faces playing the next generation aren't bad. But I'm most fascinated by its take on religion. Kings uses religion not as an excuse to be preachy, or even as the butt of a joke, but as a crucial factor in court politics. The God they refer to is the God of the Old Testament - not the source of right and wrong, but the source of power. When Silas is warned that he's turning away from God, it shakes him, and rightly so. Sadly, Kings probably won't last a season. But I really hope it does.

then froze, only to blow the herb smoke through my nose

Professor Coldheart — Wed, 25 Mar 2009 13:31:11 +0000

I hadn't gone to 90s Night in a while, and my friend Meghan O' also expressed a desire to go dancing. So after sharing some excellent Upper Crust pizza with Melissa and Fraley over the BSG finale, we trucked to Allston and shook it all out. The dance floor seemed more crowded but less sketchy than usual. # # # I bought an Afrin Pure Sea nasal rinsing ... thing ... about a week ago and started using it this weekend after some congestion. I can't figure the damn thing out. Both the bottle and the box ask me to refer to the insert for instructions, but the instructions aren't so complicated that they couldn't print them elsewhere. (1) Tilt your head all the way to one side. (2) Jam bottle into nose. (3) Let stream flow into upper nostril and out lower nostril. I can manage step 1 just fine, but I may be failing on step 2. What inevitably happens is a stream of diluted seawater flows back out the nostril it went in, trickling down the side of my face and into my sideburns and ear. I wait there over the sink until my dignity returns, then cap the bottle, wipe my face and neck off and blow my nose vigorously. The result is marginally clearer breathing. Possible issues:

Maybe I'm too congested in the nostril I'm trying. What if I stick the bottle up the clearer nostril first, and let the stream clear out the blockage with the aid of gravity?
Maybe I shouldn't be holding my breath. Is that how the nose works? If I hold my breath, am I sealing up the necessary sinus cavities?
Maybe my head's not tilted far enough to one side.
Maybe this is a scam.

Any advice, Internet?

there's something in my head, but it's not me

Professor Coldheart — Thu, 26 Mar 2009 18:44:49 +0000

Got home and promptly went to bed at 6:30 last night. Slept until the alarm went off this morning, whereupon I called in sick to work and slept another few hours. That seems to have put a real dent in this head cold, so I think I made the right call. Plenty of odd dreams though. In the first, I visited my old offices at the Company. After chatting with my former supervisor, I left the building, only to see that there was now a food court abutting the office. "Good use of all that extra space we had," I said to myself, until I realized I couldn't find where I'd parked. I wandered through a hotel that had been constructed on the parking lot's grounds, getting lost in an eight-bed suite. In the second, I was playing some fighting video game (it looked like the latest in the Soul Calibur series, but wasn't). I wanted to select one character whom I'd been doing really well in using, but couldn't. In the third, I was in Baltimore. I was driving down Padonia Road to get somewhere. I tried to pass this SUV that was driving abysmally slow in the right lane, only to see it change lanes right in front of me. Then I realized it wasn't changing lanes - it was being pushed over by this massive gust of wind. I struggled to keep my car from sliding into oncoming traffic while still navigating the double reverse curve. When I regained control of the car, all the traffic in front of me had stopped. Something had happened at a school - no one knew what - and no one was moving. The recurring theme, if any: being unable to get back the way I came. Not sure what it means. # # # In cheerier news, I'm buying myself an iPod Touch for my birthday. The question: which one, and when? I have just shy of 16 GB of music on iTunes. A lot of it sees only occasional use, so I could do some rigorous culling. And it's another $100 to get the 32 GB Touch. However, even if I trim down a full GB worth of music, I'll still be expanding my catalog in the future. Also, Apple's announced the release of the 3.0 OS for the iPhone (and iPod Touch) this summer. I don't know if it's worth waiting for that upgrade, or if I should just buy now and pay the $10 to upgrade this June/July/whenever. So I've made a poll! Validate my choices, Internet! [polldaddy poll=1490534]

so we'll walk down the shoreline one last time together

Professor Coldheart — Fri, 27 Mar 2009 11:38:37 +0000

Too many of my friends have sent family to the hospital in this past week. And only some of them have come back. So take advantage of this rare moment of unguarded sentiment from me and believe the following:

I Like All Of You. Really. If you think I don't like you, nine times out of ten that's just me being reserved, or lost in my own thoughts, or distracted whenever I see you. But really, I like you just fine. I ration out my enthusiasm in careful doses (whether I need to or not), so don't feel bad if you don't get a share. Give me time; you'll see it.
I Like Hanging Out With You. If it involves drinking and dancing, or drinking and laughing, or drinking and talking about affairs of import, or a small but non-imaginary number of things done sober, I want in. I might not know I do, but I do. I'm like a camel with social contact - I can coast for days on a good night out or an entertaining lunch with friends, until I wake up one morning and find myself starving for extroversion again. And you? You're fun people. So shoot me an e-mail or a .txt, if I can't get over myself and do the same to you first.
I'm Not Upset. When I get lost in thought, my face tends to fall into this reserved, inward look that makes people think I'm mourning something. I'm not. But I don't mind you asking. Because, one time in twenty, I actually will be. And it wouldn't occur to me to say anything if you didn't ask.
I'll Miss You. I still have no idea how to handle myself at funerals. Doesn't matter how well I knew you.

Anyhow, that's all I've got for now. Monday the mask goes back up, and it's one-paragraph movie reviews and sarcastic news commentary again.

how old are you, are you old enough?

Professor Coldheart — Mon, 30 Mar 2009 11:00:38 +0000

1. "I went to The Pill for the first time." "How was it?" "It's great. It's a new wave / indie pop dance night. Good crowd; hipsters, but less intense." "Less intense?" "Yeah, dialed up only to about a 3. Not trying as hard to not try as hard, if that makes any sense." 2. I had the above conversation with Rachel V. at Copperfield's Down Under, a basement bar and music venue near Fenway attached to the well-known Red Sox boozer. We were there (along with Vickie and RJ) to see Bonus Round, a cover band fronted by a coworker of mine. They played all night to a bar packed to capacity and covered both Concrete Blonde and K's Choice, and if you need me to say than that I can't say enough. I'll be seeing them again. 3. There is no #3.

wreckx n effect is in effect but I'm the wrecker

Professor Coldheart — Tue, 31 Mar 2009 11:00:44 +0000

A pre-birthday media blow: Mass Effect: I can't get over the feeling that I'm playing this game wrong. Part of this feeling arises from the fact that Mass Effect has no tutorial to speak of, throwing you into the action with limited instruction but deep backstory. But most of this feeling arises from the hundred different variables the game asks you to worry about. Do I want to upgrade my armor to improve its "hardening," its "physical protection" or its "damage reduction"? Do I need my weapons to do more "physical force" or to reduce "cooldown"? Is it better to bring a squad mate with four dots in Sabotage or five dots in Overload? I played this game for five hours before abandoning my first build - reluctantly, after several attempts at driving across a frozen tundra in an ATV that handles like two drunk cows, only to arrive at a distant lab, be denied the opportunity to save, and then die at the hands of a giant robot four times. I considered those first five hours my tutorial, started a new game, and have since enjoyed it much more. As with all Bioware games, the setting oozes detail and history from every pore. Cultures and factions exist not just to provide obstacles but to add depth to a rich mural. I could spend weeks reading a novel set here. I just wish I knew how to keep my team behind cover. A Brief History of Time: I think I get it. Fortunately, Hawking has a unique gift for clear language in the deep sciences, and he repeats details as needed. For every two things I missed there was one thing I nailed dead-on. Dead Man's Shoes: Not as clever as it thinks it is, but still inventive and engaging. When a small town gang of North England drug dealers torture a mentally retarded boy, his brother (Paddy Considine, who also wrote) comes home from the army to enact his revenge. Were it not for a lot of long tracking shots over local soundtracks this movie would be 48 minutes - long enough for an hour of TV with commercials. As it is, it moves at an okay pace in ninety minutes. It's all character study - little plot, little growth, little except some inventive cinematography and Considine, who's very fun to watch. Cosmos: John Scalzi pointed out that this entire series is now available on Hulu. To think that such a thing could exist - a slow but opulent procession of computer-generated imagery, teasing us with glimpses of distant galaxies and subatomic biology. Watching it in hi-def is a tonic: a means to restore your sense of wonder at a mundane universe. Take an hour, pour yourself a cooling drink, and watch an episode. I also recommend this fan-produced video of an excerpt of Carl Sagan's "Pale Blue Dot." It instills in you a feeling of awe, humility and optimism. It's the closest thing I have to the divine. [youtube=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2pfwY2TNehw]

if I told you I felt ageless, would you tell me I'm not old?

Professor Coldheart — Wed, 01 Apr 2009 11:00:48 +0000

I turn 28 today. In a few months I'll have outlived Jimi Hendrix. I've already buried Tupac and Biggie. By the age of 28, Dylan had already recorded Highway 61 Revisited, Blonde on Blonde and Nashville Skyline. Pynchon had already written The Crying of Lot 49. Welles had already released Citizen Kane. And let's not get started on Mozart. Not that my best years need to be behind me. ~~Muhammed Ali didn't even start boxing until he was 28~~ Gene Hackman didn't got an on-screen role until he was 33. Fitzgerald wouldn't see Gatsby in print until he was 29. Jordan had only brought the Bulls one title. Soderbergh had yet to follow up on the acclaim of sex, lies and videotape. Hemingway had already written The Sun Also Rises, but For Whom The Bell Tolls and The Old Man and the Sea were still ahead of him. Also of note: when he turned 28, my old man was four short months away from bringing a certain young heartbreaker into the world. All right, Professor. Enough cake. Back to work. (correction c/o Matt W., who realized I said 28 when I should have said 18)

everybody knows that you're in trouble; everybody knows what you've been through

Professor Coldheart — Thu, 02 Apr 2009 11:40:50 +0000

"You should join Twitter!" "I can't." "Why not?" "If I had another outlet for self-indulgent blurbs, I'd have nothing to write about." . . . Thanks to everyone who came out to Asgard last night for my birthday. I appreciate all your shout-outs and dedications. I reserve a special spotlight for Doug, the only man who can pull of Andrea Bocelli at karaoke; Melissa and Fraley, who came out all that way; and Rachel V., who rocked a vicious rhyme like she never did before. And to choreographer Kate, and MB back from New York, and the drunken panda, and, and ... well, you're all great. . . . The water in my Brita tank has started to take on a vaguely sweet aftertaste. Since my initial efforts at diagnosing it have all failed, I'm using PathWise Root Cause Analysis to find an answer.

What is the object affected? Taste of water. What other, similar, objects could be affected but aren't? Appearance of water (no weird particles or changes of color); temperature of water. What exactly is wrong? Very mild aftertaste of something sweet. What else could be going wrong but is not? Could be a stronger aftertaste. Could be a really foul aftertaste. Where do you see the problem? In the water that comes out of the Brita pitcher. Where else could I expect to see this problem occur, but hasn't? In the milk. In the bread. In the cheese or yogurt. When did the problem first occur? Couple of weeks ago. When else could the problem have occurred, but didn't? Couple of months ago. In the old apartment. Just yesterday for the first time. When in the process flow does the problem occur? After the water's been sitting in the fridge for at least a few hours. (I discovered this on Tuesday, having poured myself the dregs of a pitcher and getting that sweetish smack of the lips. Then I poured myself a second glass, having just refilled the pitcher, and tasted nothing) When else in the process flow could the problem occur, but hasn't? As soon as the water filters. Before the water filters (i.e., could be originating at the tap). In what pattern does the event occur? Every instance, given enough time. How else could the problem repeat itself, but hasn't? Every second or third or nth instance. How big is the problem? Mild but not ruinous aftertaste. How big could the problem be? Bad taste that ruins the water-drinking experience.

Based on the above, I'm going to test one theory, by filling the pitcher with water and leaving it on the counter rather than refrigerating it. I'll keep you posted, as I'm sure the suspense is killing you Edit: I never spelled out the next step, confusing some of you, so let me continue. What I do now is test several theories and see whether they satisfy the Is/Is-Not conditions listed above.

"You need to change the filter." This doesn't satisfy the "when" condition - the fact that a pitcher sitting in the fridge for hours gets funky, but a freshly-filtered pitcher does not.
"There's something in the fridge emitting odor." This one gets a little shaken by the "where" condition - it's odd that only the water would be affected by whatever the thing is. But right now it's a strong possibility.
"The tap water itself is funky." This is a heavy runner-up. Any changes to the consistency of the tap water would be beyond my control. It seems odd that I wouldn't have noticed any other symptoms (see first question - "what other, similar objects"), but it's eminently possible.

Science - it's a method!

and when I say devil, I mean the manifestation of doubt

Professor Coldheart — Fri, 03 Apr 2009 16:00:32 +0000

Here's a list of stupid things that I do out of principle. 1. Boycott Sony. Sony mixes evil and stupid together in a way that astounds me when I'm not retching from it. No matter what you think of the nature of online file-sharing, you have to agree that Sony's steps in combating it have gone past the draconian and into the actively spiteful. Sony's attorneys have advanced the argument, in court, that copying a music file to your computer, WITHOUT distributing it, is the same as stealing it. Sony surreptitiously installed rootkits on personal computers which secretly transmitted data back to the company, then brazenly refused to apologize when caught ("most people don't even know what a rootkit is, so why should they care about it?"). And Sony has been stodgily maintaining useless proprietary hardware for years. This is probably the least stupid item of the three. There's nothing dumb about refusing to give money to an evil corporation that makes garbage products. And furthermore, it seems to have worked: Sony's projecting a $2,920,000,000 loss for the current fiscal year. But Sony's a really big company, and my lone boycott's not going to change their ways. It still counts. 2. Boycott Kellogg's. This is a recent one, and I had to polish off a box of Club crackers in the pantry before I could start this one. But ever since Kellogg's severed their sponsorship deal with Michael Phelps (after pictures of him smoking pot surfaced in tabloids), I've decided that Kellogg's isn't getting my money. First off, what Seth said: Second, and I'm paraphrasing Radley Balko here, the most successful human swimmer in the history of the Olympics smokes pot. Rational people, on hearing this, would re-examine their convictions about drug use ("hmm - I guess marijuana isn't the career-killing, brain-wrecking, body-shattering toxin I was led to believe"). Irrational people would cling to their fervently held myths. They would insist on punishing the transgressor, because his misbehavior might "set a bad example," inspiring millions of children to smoke pot and then turn into disgusting slobs, even though the very example Phelps sets means that that ain't so. (Now, in spite of my better judgment, I have faith in the attitudes of most educated Americans. Since about forty percent of Americans have tried pot, I suspect most of us know that the War on Weed is ridiculous. Even if people don't believe that genuinely harmless behavior should be made legal and left alone, they think of pot as laughable and goofy, not poisonous and life-ending. Oh, those potheads. But there's still a significant, shrill minority that wants to ruin the lives of people who consume a drug that's less harmful than alcohol. And those are the idiots to whom Kellogg's catered by publicly shaming Phelps. So that's why they won't see another dollar of mine) Now, this boycott is demonstrably stupid. Unlike Sony, Kellogg's has a workable business model - no one's going to go bankrupt making salty snacks for Americans. But I'm sticking with this one, too. 3. Refuse to Show ID for Allergy Meds. This is the dumbest of the three, and probably the stupidest thing I do. Last week, I tried to fill a scrip for Allegra-D that my doctor had written for me. The tech made some phone calls, double-checked my insurance information in confusion, and then called over the pharmacist to talk to the insurer. They chatted on the phone for a bit. "Your insurer's no longer covering it," he finally told me. "They recommend getting the over-the-counter equivalent." I can get the generic equivalent of Allegra-D at any pharmacy in the U.S. It will be just as potent as the stuff I could (up until recently) get on prescription. And it'll only cost a little more than I would have spent on a health insurance co-pay. All I need to do is get a little card from the rows of drug meds, walk to the pharmacist counter, and exchange the card for a bottle of Sudafed or Claritin-D. After presenting my driver's license. I won't do it. You used to be able to buy Claritin-D without showing a government photo ID, if you recall, but the Combat Methamphetamine Epidemic Act of 2005 changed that. Because pseudoephedrine - a powerful decongestant - can be used to cook up some crank, you now have to present ID when buying it. This will supposedly diminish meth production (even though it hasn't). This shouldn't bother me, right? After all, I'm not a drug dealer, and I have no guilty intentions. First off, that's a variation of "if you're not guilty, you don't have anything to hide," a disgusting maxim that's been used to justify every invasion of privacy from Octavius's triumvirate to the PATRIOT Act. And second, it's not even true. You can get arrested and convicted for buying large quantities of cold medication, period, full stop. Not for manufacturing meth. Not for intent to distribute. Simply for owning large amounts of cold meds. William Fousse was sentenced to a year of probation for such a crime. A man who bought up to the legal ration of allergy meds in a month was arrested when he bought some for his child. This is not paranoia; this has already happened to real human beings. This is a useless law that will not produce results, and with which compliance merely facilitates a charade. I will have nothing to do with it. Now here's why this boycott of mine is stupid. Go back to the top of #3 and read the beginning again. I was going to a pharmacy to fill a scrip for Allegra-D. In order to get that prescription at co-pay cost (instead of $156, and what does it say of American health care that I'd only be paying one-fourth of that if I had health insurance?), I had to present my insurance information. The pharmacist had to verify this with the insurance company, creating a record of my name, my home address, my date of birth, my employer, etc. In other words, I had no problem giving the pharmacist an ID to fill out a prescription. But I have irreconcilable problems giving the pharmacist an ID to buy over-the-counter meds. I know this is a rather silly little contradiction. I know that my diminishing stockpile of pre-2006 pseudoephedrine and my stubborn refusal to take care of my allergies won't change the law. It won't make things harder on Pfizer, or the FDA, or the DEA. I'll live a stuffier and more inconvenient life until I die, or the law changes, or pseudoephedrine is banned outright. That's what principle makes me do.

and love, you can't give it away

Professor Coldheart — Mon, 06 Apr 2009 11:00:57 +0000

Thank you to everyone who made it out for one of my three birthday events in the past week. I deliberately picked times and places that would draw a crowd already - Asgard on Wednesday, Common Ground on Friday, Phoenix Landing on Saturday - to make it easy for people to show up. Also, because I have lots of good memories associated with these places, and would never mind having more. I drive myself pretty hard on the things I find important - fitness, writing, finances, this weblog. But I picked this past week to indulge. I still worked out, but I ate greasy food I'd normally avoid. I still wrote, but I didn't force myself to stare at an empty page if the words weren't coming. I still got up early, but I sat around reading (or watching The Shield) in my pajamas rather than hurrying into the shower. Birthdays are as good a period as any to let the routine slide. It felt good, of course. I can see why some people want to do it all the time. But idleness like that only works in contrast. I can only let the bills pile up and the novel grow dusty for so long before I start itching to make changes to the world again. Sometimes I wonder what I'd do if I came into a mythical amount of money - the illusory hot stock tip, the briefcase of money at the train station, the winning lottery ticket. I couldn't see myself living a life of mindless luxury. At least not for more than a year. Probably travel the globe and weblog about it. Learn some exotic and expensive skill (sailing, hang gliding, wine growing, etc). The hands itch for, as Sterling Hayden put it, "some form of working activity that will yield a sense of accomplishment." So: the consumption cycle ends. The production cycle begins anew. Enough cake. Back to work.

and when you try to make plans, god is known to laugh

Professor Coldheart — Tue, 07 Apr 2009 11:24:21 +0000

1. Saturday a week, I found a ring thick with keys in the parking lot behind the CVS in Davis Square. I was on my way to meet Vickie and Rachel V., so I couldn't really do anything with them. I considered stopping in at the CVS, but the parking lot's not associated with that store. Also, I don't know if they have a dedicated lost-and-found or a rigorous procedure for night staff notifying day staff that hey, someone turned in some keys. Logical next step: the cops, I suppose. 2. Last night, I threw on my leather jacket and grabbed an umbrella to get some JP Licks. They sell ice cream for $1 a scoop on Opening Day, so I got two scoops of Oreo cookie batter. I put a little paper cone on the cup of ice cream then, juggling my umbrella and the cup, walked back home. Getting back into my apartment, I realized that my hat had fallen out of my pocket at some point. My Kangol 504, 2XL, navy blue. Cursing like a pregnant sailor, I stuck the ice cream in the freezer, put my shoes back on, and immediately retraced my steps all the way to JP Licks. I asked at the counter: no one had turned in a hat. Scanning the ground in frustration, I walked home again, scrutinizing every dark shape lying on the sidewalk.

no, nothing, no woman need matter, no change

Professor Coldheart — Wed, 08 Apr 2009 13:35:59 +0000

Why does dinner theatre get such a bad rap? Is it the quality of the food? The calibre of the actors? I haven't taken in a lot of dinner theatre myself, but I saw Bad Habit Productions charming performance of All in The Timing in the back room of the Burren this past Sunday and loved it. Jonathan Overby remains one of my favorite local performers, and Anna and Daniel (the directors) had a clear and interesting vision. Plus, I got to eat a burger, drink some Guinness and snack on the Burren's thick, salty steak fries. The best way to watch a play, really. . . . Just a reminder: you can also check out my articles on Overthinking It, now that I'm a staff writer there. I also take part in the podcasts pretty regularly, which are always fun to listen to. Like last week's, where Mark, Pete and I talk about hospital dramas, The Matrix and North Korea's communications satellite.

and I'll try not to sing out of key

Professor Coldheart — Thu, 09 Apr 2009 13:50:09 +0000

After careful consideration, I conclude that there's no nicer (alcoholic) high than the high you get from red wine. Beer makes you giggly, liquor makes you sloppy, but only red wine - in conjunction with the proper food - can produce that feeling of warm camaraderie. It subdues the running commentary in the back of your mind, producing rare moments of pure joy at the present moment. My former manager K. had the whole team over for dinner last night at her place near the North End. We met her husband and her 2-year-old, snacked on rice cakes and potato puffs with cumin, then tucked into a meal of savory chicken and a variety of curries. Work crept into the conversation, but in a laughing, relieved way - like the way you can joke about the brakes failing on your car on a steep hill the day after it happens. Fortunately, we spent most of the time talking about travel, and family, and where to find good food in Boston. At the wine tasting with The Second Glass, one of the aficionados made the point that a good glass of wine should appeal to all the senses beyond taste. You should like the way it looks, get a good sense of what it smells like, note its texture while you're drinking it, etc. Wine snobs dress all those aspects up in a lot of jargon, but that's not necessary. Just acknowledge the wine's impact on your other senses, touch on it lightly, then move on. To those five senses I would add a sixth: the kinaesthetic awareness of the people around you. Wine takes me out of the analytical mode that I spend 20 hours of the day in. I relax more, I laugh more, I speak freely. A good red wine transforms me, until I'm like the wine itself: I become fluid, hearty, flushed and a little sweet. I hold up a glass of California cab, noting its color, and say, this is my body.

backpack_europe

Professor Coldheart — Thu, 09 Apr 2009 22:03:31 +0000

meth_user

Professor Coldheart — Thu, 09 Apr 2009 22:04:05 +0000

phd030909s

Professor Coldheart — Fri, 10 Apr 2009 13:45:28 +0000

picassodonquixotesancho

Professor Coldheart — Fri, 10 Apr 2009 13:46:36 +0000

small_business

Professor Coldheart — Fri, 10 Apr 2009 13:47:47 +0000

come down from your ivory tower

Professor Coldheart — Fri, 10 Apr 2009 13:59:26 +0000

The U.S. posted an 8.5% unemployment estimate about a week ago. And whenever a new batch of layoffs hit the news and the streets, my generation does what it was born to do: think about going to grad school. Now, I have a lot of friends in grad school, business school or law school currently. I'm sure all of them made excellent, informed choices before signing up for fifty thousand dollars in debt and three years of tedium. However, I know a few people who are on the cusp. Should I go back to school?, they wonder. I had so much fun at college. An advanced degree might make my resume look more attractive. I can ride out the recession behind the walls of l'academe, then emerge with a door-busting CV and some phat paper! All of that sounds tempting. I know I don't like the looks of the job market today, and I'm safely employed. But before you commit yourself to a thousand hours of research on subjects you'll never care about, and another thousand hours of papers no one will ever read, I want to make sure you've considered the alternatives. (Please note: the following does not apply to people who need to go to grad school to continue their chosen career, like med students or adjunct professors. This is only a warning to people who think grad school is a great place to hide from a down economy) Five Alternatives to Getting an Advanced Degree (Grad School, Business School, Law School, etc) 1. Flee The Country On average, grad school costs over $30,000 per year. Let's say $35K, since the data in that article's at least 4 years old and you'll be paying for most of that $30K by taking on debt anyway. Law schools and the top tier business schools, of course, cost significantly more. [caption id="attachment_882" align="alignleft" width="115" caption="I\'ll bet they wish they were writing a 50-page paper right now."][/caption]For $35,000 a year, you could backpack across Europe. Move to an exotic city, crash at a cheap hostel for a week, then quiz the locals on a good neighborhood. Lease an apartment there for a month. Visit ancient Roman ruins and the remains of Moorish culture. Learn a different language. Try foreign food. Make friends from another continent. Live a little. Don't want to spend that much money? Or maybe breadth of travel's less of a premium? Then go teach English in Thailand. You pay no more than $3000 to $4000 for airfare and program fees; the school handles the rest. They will put you up for a year, give you local support and provide you with a curriculum. You can make a difference in kids' lives (if that matters to you) and see a completely different corner of the globe (which should). Grad school's probably not going to make you a more interesting person; sorry. Visiting another country will. 2. Get Arrested Call me a cynic, but I doubt that most of the one hundred and fifty thousand or so students enrolled in law school have a passion for the intricacies of jurisprudence. For one thing, it's a hard subject to get passionate about. Study the tax code if you don't believe me. But let's say you're not in it for that mythical six-figure paycheck and you really, truly, in your heart of hearts, have a deep and abiding love for the minutiae of the U.S. penal code and all the local statutes. Really? Really and honestly? Okay, fine. Get arrested. [caption id="attachment_883" align="alignright" width="128" caption="This generation\'s Clarence Darrow."][/caption]Nobody knows more about the law than the halfway smart guys who show up on the docket every other month. I'm not talking about the chronic fuckups who've dissolved their brains with meth or glue or Sterno. I mean the hustlers - the guys living on the raggedy edge trying to make a dishonest buck. The guys who know half the cops in the city by their first name. The guys who have a dozen sob stories to beg for a few dollars but can always come up with bail money. I was standing in the Davis Square T station the other day when the infamous Spare Change newspaper scammer tried to foist a used newspaper on me for a dollar. I snapped his picture with my cell phone camera. "That's identity theft," he started howling. "You can't do that!" "Then go get the security guard," I told him. "I'll wait." The leathery man continued to spit abuse at me, circling at various erratic distances - sometimes a foot away, sometimes yelling from the other end of the track. But never once did he lay a finger on me. I'd just outed him to everyone within earshot and ruined his game for the rest of the morning. But he knew that as soon as he touched me, that was an assault rap. This guy's probably stood before enough judges in his life to know the legal limits of any scam he runs. Think too much of yourself to get arrested for vagrancy or petty theft? That's fine. You can get arrested for securities fraud, embezzlement, or any of a long list of white-collar crimes. I promise you: you will get more practical knowledge about the law after one indictment than after three years at law school. 3. Start Your Own Business "Oh, but I'm not trying to hide from a down economy," you tell me. "And I don't want to go to grad school. I'm looking for an MBA. I want to put myself at least $50,000 to $100,000 in debt so I can spout terms like 'six Sigma' and 'root cause analysis' without sounding like a jackass." Two things. First, there's no way you can work the words "six Sigma" into a conversation without sounding like a jackass, unless you're talking about Mega Man. Second, if you want a practical education about what it takes to manage a business, start your own business. You can learn how to write a business plan online. You can buy or borrow a nice suit and hit up your local bank for a business loan. That hundred thousand dollar debt you were so comfortable taking on just a few minutes ago? Plow that money into online advertising, then work out of your garage or attic making cold calls. Cynics love picking on entrepreneurs. They tell you that at least one third of all small businesses fail within the first two years, and that fewer than half survive past four years. This is true. You are almost guaranteed to be broke and jobless in four years. Now, raise your hand if you've held a desk job with the same company for longer than four years. Keep your hand up if, at the start of year five, you still liked it. What's the worst thing that can happen here? That your business will tank after two years, leaving you eighty thousand dollars in debt and without a job? Oddly, that's exactly the same place you'd be if you'd gone to business school. Only now, instead of being one of 10,000 identical MBAs flooding the job market, you'd have a wealth of local contacts, a resume full of actual job experience, and an interesting story to tell. "Producing training videos for animal shelters? Huh. What was that like?" 4. Write the Great American Novel Everybody thinks they can write a novel, just like everybody thinks they can talk about economics. As someone with degrees in English and Economics, I find this monumentally offensive. I spent years of my life slaving over meaningless papers just to get the necessary accreditation to say, "the eyes on the billboard in The Great Gatsby are a symbol, ma-a-n" or "I find the entire discipline of Keynesian macroeconomics to be bullshit, and thus won't bother discussing it." That's not something just any moron can do. [caption id="attachment_886" align="alignright" width="70" caption="Clearly not the work of an English major"][/caption]However, history suggests that you don't need a degree in English to write a novel that people will like. I'm sure there are a few obscure authors who managed to pull it off. Hell, maybe people wrote novels before the existence of B.A. degrees, or in languages other than English (though nothing comes to mind at the moment). And if you're willing to leap into the risky world of entrepreneurship (#3) or going to jail (#2), nothing's stopping you from the daunting endeavor of writing a manuscript about People Coming To Terms With Things. So: what does it take to write a novel? Answer: at least 50,000 words, though 60,000 is probably safer. If you get to the end of your masterpiece and find that you only have 50,000, then go back and stick in an adjective every fifth word. Give some consideration to plot, theme, vividness of imagery and the changing motivations of your characters, but don't get too hung up on it. Let's give ourselves a whole year to write this novel, rather than trying to cram it into a month that already has a major American travel holiday in it. There's 52 weeks in a year, but let's give ourselves 2 weeks vacation (just like a real office job!). 50,000 words in 50 weeks means 1,000 words a week. That's either 1 hour of writing on a given weekday, or 200 words five days a week. I'm even giving you the weekends off. Don't get the impression that you can spend the rest of the day loafing around Walden Pond, though. Even if you only spend half an hour every day writing those 200 words, you'll still need to devote plenty of time to:

Cold-calling agents;
Filling editors' slushpiles;
Posting cat pictures on your blog;
Walking to the nearest coffeeshop with your laptop, ordering a non-dairy latte with a double shot of espresso, checking Gawker, and then walking home;
Bitching on the Huffington Post about how little respect America has for the humanities disciplines

Unfortunately, publishing companies don't pay very generous advances for unsolicited manuscripts by first-timers, so you'll be living off savings or going into debt. But, had you gone to grad school, you would have written at least 150,000 words of research papers, grant applications and pleading e-mails to professors that no one would ever read. Plus you'd be eighty thousand dollars in debt. Now, you'll be eighty thousand dollars in debt, but you'll have written at least three novels! And one of them's bound to be good. 5. Sit On Your Couch, Smoke Weed and Play Video Games This is a hard one to justify. Traveling abroad enriches your outlook. Getting arrested gives you excellent stories and builds your negotiation skills. Starting your own business puts a bold new face on your resume. Writing a novel puts you in the company of struggling authors worldwide. In all of these cases, you're trading grad school for something fulfilling. But staying at home and playing video games all day? Especially once you see the crap that Sony's coming out with? The folks at the unemployment office prefer that you at least lie about your attempts to find a new job. And it'll be hard to return to the job market with an empty year on your resume. So, if you pursue this path, you'll want to come up with a good cover story. Taking care of a sick relative, perhaps. Or "finding yourself." Maybe you joined the Peace Corps! They don't keep records, do they? Given the pathetic spectacle of a grown human being sitting in their pajamas at 3:30 in the afternoon, the remains of a burrito sprinkled over their T-shirt while they look for something to occupy them between new episodes of Days and reruns of Seinfeld ... wouldn't grad school be a more attractive option? No. [caption id="attachment_885" align="alignleft" width="128" caption="courtesy of PhD Comics, so you KNOW it\'s true!"][/caption]First, nobody cares what you did in grad school. The next employer you interview with - unless they're an academic - won't really care about the hours you spent researching some obscure point of Macedonian culture just to finish your Art History paper. And the academic employers won't want to hire you anyway. Universities already overflow with warm bodies. Second, there's nothing that says that a human must constantly strive to improve their status in the eyes of society. We frown on sponges and slackers, but it's not (yet) a crime. Let's say you spend a month, or a year, or ten years, pursuing the cheap and visceral thrills of daytime TV and the nighttime club scene. You end up just as bald, choleric and (eventually) dead as the guy who started a family! But you had a better time along the way. And who's hurt by it? (Some people start to feel twinges of dissatisfaction after month 3 of a slacker lifestyle. If this happens to you, then consider it your body telling you to wake up and start being productive again. If it never does, then congratulations - you're no worse than a good 40% of this country) You've already committed yourself to waking up three years from now over $90K in debt and unemployed. Why not enjoy the intervening time? Think how good you'll be at Gears of War 2 with a thousand days of practice! . . . There are, of course, dozens of good reasons to go to grad school. I'm sure you've already thought of a couple. But if you're that scared of e-mailing strange businesses on Craigslist - and it's horrifying, I know - then don't run off to academia just yet. There are alternatives. There's always hope.

rogue

Professor Coldheart — Mon, 13 Apr 2009 04:17:58 +0000

ipod-touch1

Professor Coldheart — Mon, 13 Apr 2009 04:18:23 +0000

crank_dvd_cover

Professor Coldheart — Mon, 13 Apr 2009 04:18:44 +0000

then the devil jumped up on a hickory stump and said boy let me tell you what

Professor Coldheart — Mon, 13 Apr 2009 11:00:01 +0000

Friday Saturday Sunday

and you can't find nothing at all if there was nothing there all along

Professor Coldheart — Tue, 14 Apr 2009 11:00:40 +0000

And on the third day, they went to the media blow, only to find the stone rolled aside: The Limits of Power: A book-length op-ed. Heavy on assertions, backed up by telling but sparse anecdotes, Bacevich's new book on American imperialism likely won't convince anyone who wasn't one foot in the bag already. But for those of us who were, it's a stirring call: an indictment of the view that American military presence is capable of bringing peace and democracy in "small wars." Bacevich does a good job of separating Democratic rhetoric from the historical record. The wars that Bush started were hardly a break with American tradition: Presidents have been intervening in regional conflicts, starting wars on spurious pretenses, and expropriating foreign resources for domestic use since the late 40s. Hell, if you include the Louisiana Purchase, it's been happening for centuries. (I know that little blurb's going to rile up readers on both the Left and Right, but I'm not really interested in debating it. If you want to defend American exceptionalism, take it up with Bacevich, not me) Crank: I watched this on Sunday in anticipation of Crank 2: High Voltage this weekend. It's vacant and dumb, but it's well-paced. I've said this several times before, but Jason Statham can hold an action flick together with his tired, unshaven Everyman nature. He works best when he isn't given zany one-liners - just a weary look and a bruised resiliency. Despite its shallow appearance, Crank has a lot going on beneath the surface. Expect me to write more on that subject on Overthinking It later this week. We already touched on the Easter symbolism in Sunday's Overthinking It podcast, which you should definitely listen to. Xenos: In contrast to the decrying of fascism in Bacevich's The Limits of Power, I read Dan Abnett's breezy glorification of Sci-Fascism, Xenos, at about the same time. Abnett's novels take place in the Warhammer 40,000 universe, known for its tabletop strategy games and online multiplayer RTSs. Xenos follows Gregor Eisenhorn, a gun-toting Inquisitor in the Church of the God-Emperor of Mankind. He jaunts from planet to planet with a retinue of psychics and gunfighters, hunting down twisted worshippers of the Chaos Gods. Xenos is fun, mindless pulp. The body counts are high - over twelve thousand people die in the first three chapters (most of them all in one blow) - and every other chapter ends with someone kicking in a door with a gun in his hand. Abnett tosses around sci-fictionisms like "ceramsteel" and "data-slates" with abandon. A diverting guilty pleasure. Mass Effect: Beat it this past Saturday. Rebooting after the first 5 hours and tinkering with some of the auto-target settings cured what ailed the game - I enjoyed it much more throughout. I'd still rather read a novel set there then play a game, but I'll buy the sequel (eventually). My advice to the first timers:

Order of planets: Lissa, then Feros, then Noveria, then Vermire. Trust me.
Give everyone without the Fitness trait or the Soldier trait an armor upgrade that regenerates their health. You'll save medi-gel, and mental effort, if you don't have to worry about healing the other guys between combats.
Get comfy with the squad orders on the D-pad. If an enemy digs in, use the Up button to send your other two guys forward, laying down covering fire. If enemies are strafing your weaker engineers or biotics, use the Down button to tell them to dig in, then charge ahead with grenades and autofire.
Do as many side-quests as you can before visiting the first plot point planet (see order above). Also, visit as many other planets in the Galaxy as you can. Mineral deposits and random scavenging leads to boatloads of cash, and cash is only useful in the early game.

the way you treat me is a shame; why do you hurt me so bad?

Professor Coldheart — Wed, 15 Apr 2009 11:00:08 +0000

I considered taking the car on a road trip to Baltimore this coming weekend. I ended up buying train tickets instead, but I had the car in mind for a while. So I started considering what sort of maintenance the 1996 Camry would need for a 1,200 mile round-trip. Probably need the CV joint looked at. Fuel filter, too - oh, and see if that recurring shuddering is the EGR valve. And when's the last time I got my oil changed? Craning my neck forward, I took a look at the sticker in the top left of the windshield. Apparently, I was due for an oil change in October. I had a surging moment of adrenalized panic, as if my car had been fueled by ignorance for the last six months and knowing the date would set the engine on fire. Then I double-checked the sticker. The nice folks at Valvoline had recommended I come in for an oil change in October - at 145,000 miles. My car just hit 144,000 this winter. I did some simple math. Mechanics and dealerships insist that you change your oil every three months or 3,000 miles (even though the actual requirement's closer to 6 months and 5,000, respectively). This would mean I last got my oil changed in July 2008. If I'd only put another 2,000 miles on in that time, I probably wouldn't hit 145K until July 2009 - three months from now. Holy hell. When did I start driving fewer than three thousand miles in a year? Moving to Davis has offset so much of my transportation costs. I take the subway and shuttle 3 days a week and I rarely drive on the weekends. My closest friends all live near the Red Line, or at least within walking distance. I could make do without a car if I absolutely had to. Of course, I should still get the oil changed anyway - nine months is a bit too long to go without oil changes if you use your car with any regularity. But it's good to get that last bit of proof that I'm a city boy at heart. I couldn't get away with driving fewer than three thousand miles in a year outside of a city, unless perhaps I lived on a farm.

click, click, boom

Professor Coldheart — Thu, 16 Apr 2009 13:03:14 +0000

I have a new post up on Overthinking It today: The Three Faces of Crank. I unpack the rich, intricate subtext behind the 2006 action flick, just in time for its sequel this weekend. An excerpt:

Chev Chelios (Statham) wakes up as the movie begins. He lives in a gorgeous apartment in an L.A. high-rise - exposed brick, big flat screen TV, lots of windows and ambient light. He soon learns that he’s been poisoned with the “Beijing cocktail” - a synthetic drug blend that blocks his adrenal receptors (”if you slow down, you die!”). Taking to the streets, he makes a series of phone calls and visits - to a local snitch, to a hoodlum on the other end of town, to the guy who injected him with the poison, to a street doctor who might have a cure. And, of course, to his girlfriend. He reaches all of these people except his girlfriend, Eve (Amy Smart) - a sun-kissed California stoner who sleeps in late and gets easily distracted. After several mega-doses of drugs to keep his heart racing, Chelios gets to his girlfriend’s cozy, homey apartment. She doesn’t know what he does for a living, apparently, so he tries to act casual as he scoots her out of the apartment. She refuses to be hurried, though, asking him to go fix her microwave while she gets dressed. While playing with the microwave, the drug-induced high that’s been pumping his adrenaline starts to wear off. Panicking, Chelios slams his hand in a hot waffle iron. Let’s review: (1) While running around, assaulting the people who tried to poisoned him and keeping his heart rate up, Chelios cannot reach his girlfriend. He can reach everyone else he needs to - the snitch Kaylo, the doctor who diagnoses him, even the man who poisoned him - but not her. It’s only after he crashes a motorcycle - entering a period of relative calm - that she calls him back. But remember, in the language of film that Crank employs, calm equals death. (2) When confronted with the trappings of domesticity - fixing the microwave, waiting for his girlfriend to get dressed so he can start his day - Chelios literally starts dying.

superstar, but he didn't get far

Professor Coldheart — Fri, 17 Apr 2009 11:00:17 +0000

I'm visiting family in Baltimore, taking the train down this morning and back on Monday, so don't expect much. If you'd like to contribute, please recommend a book that's available on the Kindle. Please note: anyone who recommends one of the first twelve items listed at that link gets five across the eyes.

use your days and save your nights

Professor Coldheart — Tue, 21 Apr 2009 11:00:38 +0000

My parents' house in Baltimore sits in the suburbs, half an hour north of the city. It smells warm and alive in the spring. I went out on the deck on Saturday to read but swarms of yellowjackets surrounded me, divebombing my head with regularity. I fetched a can of wasp killer from the garage. Can spray at distances up to twenty feet, the can warns, and they're not kidding - this stuff shoots out in a potent white arc that would make Andrea Dworkin frown. I covered every crack around the windows and doors with it. The porch smelled like the oil I used in elementary school to keep my trumpet valves in order.
Mom and Dad got me a Kindle 2 for my birthday. Even outside the city I had intermittent access to the Sprint Whispernet. I held in my hands a plastic and aluminum device, encased in black leather, that was thinner than my copy of The Stress of Her Regard but could hold one hundred times as many words. I tromped up and down the stairs, hunting for peak signal. In four years, I thought, willing the row of access bars from a measly 3 to a potent 4, this little ritual will seem quaint.
Ironically, Charles Stross's Accelerando was the first novel I downloaded.
Took Hunter, the family's Shetland sheepdog, for a walk through the neighborhood on Saturday. We passed spacious homes - like my parents' - with massive bay windows on half acre lots. Meanwhile, the house my father grew up in, built in Wilmerding, PA in 1891, sold a few months back for forty thousand dollars. The "rags to riches" story may be a cliche, and an article of religious faith among this country's conservatives, but that doesn't mean it doesn't happen.

invisible airwaves crackle with life

Professor Coldheart — Wed, 22 Apr 2009 11:00:58 +0000

This week's media blow can download over either the 3G or standard wireless networks. House of Sand and Fog: Brutal and moving and impressive. Kathy, a recovering addict whose husband has just abandoned her, gets evicted from her Pacific Coast bungalow for failure to pay a small business tax that she does not owe. In the ensuing time that she's absent, her house is bought up by Massoud Behrani, former colonel in the Iranian Air Force and current convenience store clerk. Neither Kathy nor Behrani seem willing to give up the house, and they both have perfectly valid claims to it. The premise itself is amazing enough - two families whose lives are ruined by the brute ignorance of large institutions - but Dubus's ability to put the reader inside each character's head is what makes this genius. Both Kathy and the Colonel are equally pitiable and sympathetic. Sure, Kathy could have probably stayed in the house by organizing her correspondence with the state a little neater, but she clearly doesn't deserve to be evicted for that failing. And, yes, Behrani may have served the Shah of Iran, but he's merely trying to provide a home and an income for his family. Both sides to this struggle have equally valid points of view, and it takes Dubus' genius to depict them. In the broadest scope, House of Sand and Fog is about how hard a time we have adapting to change. Kathy is given the opportunity to sue the county for wrongfully evicting her, but she doesn't want a lawsuit. She wants to be back in the house her father built; she wants to not be the fuck-up addict daughter her family thinks she is, who lost their dead father's last treasure. Similarly, Behrani has the chance to sell the house back to the county at the price he paid, but he's already had it appraised at four times its auction value. He wants to restore his family to the life of prosperity they knew in Tehran. Both sides want to cling to a prettier past life, and the steps they'll take to get it turn this story into tragedy. State of Play: Saw this with the family this past weekend. A fun little government conspiracy thriller, but it's not going to win any awards or light anyone's ass on fire any time soon. Russell Crowe is That Sloppy Journalist who believes in following hunches; Rachel McAdams is That Spunky, Fresh-Faced Cub Reporter who's still getting her balance; Helen Mirren is That Hard-nosed Editor who wants the hot story but is getting pressure from the publishers to go to press now; Ben Affleck is That Young, Impassioned Congressman who gets in trouble. You've seen this story before; what makes it interesting is the caliber of actors telling it. Also, according to Dad, it's nowhere near that easy to get into Crystal City at night, to say nothing of the Capitol Building. Accelerando: Singularity sci-fi on hyperdrive. Stross buffets the reader with concepts from page one, barely wasting a second on exposition. Don't worry if most of the jargon, like "gravity well" and "nanoassembly conformation" and "surplus neurotransmitter molecules," run over your head. Stross takes frequent breaks to recap, recontextualize and give a tired reader a break. Although, in a way, the breathless rush of unimaginable concepts sets a good tone for the story - an explosion of technology that transforms What It Means To Be Human, pushing the species along so fast that the next generation looks alien. The first (of several) protagonists, Manfred Macz, is a hyperactive information junkie who gives away lucrative business propositions for free in an effort to liberate the human race from the constraints of classical economics. As an econ nerd, I find the notion of freeing human beings from Supply and Demand about as plausible as freeing human beings from evolution - but then, a significant portion of the novel is given over to uploading our neurons into massive computers, so why not? I have no particular bias toward marginal utility, downward sloping demand curves and time preference! They're cruel beasts. It's just that right now they're the only game in town. Also: I wonder how Stross avoided getting tagged with the "asshole" brush that so many people labeled Rand with. Both Accelerando and Atlas Shrugged are about the same thing: Nietszchean super-geniuses who never make mistakes, doing end-runs around giant government agencies and incompetent corporations, bringing the benefits of high technology to their like-minded friends and family while the rest of the human race gets eaten alive. But I've never seen Stross get the same griefing that Rand does. (This may be partly because Rand spends a lot more time dwelling on how pathetic and miserable her ideological enemies are, and partly because Stross is a genuinely better author)

wet bus stop; she's waiting; his car is warm and dry

Professor Coldheart — Thu, 23 Apr 2009 11:00:56 +0000

Those of you who don't follow sensational crime stories, or who live outside of New England, might not have heard that a Boston University medical student was arrested for robbing and killing prostitutes found on Craigslist earlier this week. I don't intend to speculate on the suspect's guilt or innocence in this post. The man certainly doesn't look like the prostitute-robbing type. And when you read as much Radley Balko as I do, you grow suspect of District Attorneys who leap to the airwaves after making an arrest to trumpet a suspect's guilt. However, I suppose there's not a phenotype of "prostitute robber / murderer," and vainglorious DAs are hardly new. As I said, that's incidental. What intrigues me most is a highly public arrest in the Age of the Panopticon^*. Within hours of the arrest being announced, webloggers had found the suspect's Facebook page. Within a day, they'd found his wedding website with his fiancee. Amateur psychoanalysts have already picked apart his choice of wedding hotel reservations ("registering at Bloomingdale's before thinking better of it and switching to Pottery Barn, Williams-Sonoma and Macy's"). And a slew of anonymous commentators have already told this stranger their opinion of him (and his fiancee) on TheKnot.com. Here's a fun exercise: if you were accused of something unthinkable, what clues could people unearth - in hindsight - from your public Internet presence? Google your own name and see what comes up - your weblog, your Facebook page, your LinkedIn profile, etc. Take as objective a look as you can at each of those windows into your life. Now imagine what the dumbest, loudest people on the Internet would say about those clues if they already thought you were guilty. Leave a lot of cutesy comments for a significant other? "Clearly shows signs of being obsessive. Probably even a little possessive or jealous; I'll bet they snap when they don't get their way." Complain a lot about how your job's stressing you out? "Some people repress a lot of tension from work. They let it build and build until it snaps something." List any past job experience as a finance professional, lawyer, bartender, musician, or sales executive? "Oh, well, you know how those people are." My generation still hasn't adapted fully to the Panopticon - the all-surveilling-all nature of the Internet, where each of us is equally vulnerable and powerful in turn. We see nothing wrong with bitching about work in our Facebook status, or posting pictures of ourselves on dating sites, or complaining about exes in our weblogs. Yet this clearly doesn't mesh with our other behaviors. We don't act like drunken emotional buffoons all the time, but we leave evidence of that behavior lying around for anyone to find. Given a long enough timeline and enough monkeys at the typewriter, someone will discover something embarrassing about us. And if some brush with glory - or some brutal crime - catapults us to the spotlight, everyone is going to find all of it. So one of two changes has to occur. Either the next generation - children born in the 21st Century - will have stricter notions of privacy than we ever did. They'll make every network private, handing out access cautiously and withdrawing it as a statement of defiance. People will craft multiple masks online: one for family, one for acquaintances, one for potential romantic partners, one for close friends, one for work, etc. Already we see some of this in Facebook privacy settings, but it's not as broad as it could be. (If that's the route they go, I'd see it as a tremendous loss of the Internet's communicative potential. But, recluse that I am, I can't fault someone for wanting to keep their drunken pics off their boss's computer) Or, the next generation will adapt its behavior, acquiescing to the changes in technology. So the Internet makes everything public? Fine - we'll abandon all attempts at privacy. We'll back-sass our parents, speak frankly to friends and strangers, and tell our supervisors what we really think. They could find out who I'm dating or where I went last weekend with enough effort on Google, so why hide it? (This might also be an unpleasant result, as it means our kids will spit more trash and give less respect than we did. But I imagine we'd think that of them in any case; the old always do think that this generation of kids are the worst ever) Regardless of which way it changes, the next generation has to make that change eventually. And when they do, our generation will have to catch up. Because technology has once again outstripped our mores, and we need to stop acting surprised. _______________ ^* I'm not strictly happy with Bentham's Panopticon as a metaphor for the death of privacy. The Panopticon doesn't expose everyone to surveillance - it exposes all the prisoners. The Panopticon also contains a warden who cannot be seen. As Foucault points out, the perpetual tension of being watched without knowing when you're being watched enforces discipline better than any number of guards. Since I compare Facebook to the Panopticon in order to say that "we're all watching each other," not "we're all victims of a monolithic power," I could probably find a stronger metaphor. But I can't think of one yet. The next best analogy is to the Belcerebon species from The Restaurant at the End of the Universe, an alien race cursed with immutable telepathy. Each Belcerebon constantly broadcasts its thoughts to every other thinking creature nearby. And while this is pretty close to the way Twitter works, I get a lot more literati cred referencing Jeremy Bentham than Douglas Adams.

cropped-we_are_the_enemy.jpg

Professor Coldheart — Thu, 23 Apr 2009 13:55:38 +0000

http://periscopedepth.files.wordpress.com/2009/04/cropped-we_are_the_enemy.jpg

'cause everyone knows that's how you get famous

Professor Coldheart — Fri, 24 Apr 2009 11:52:51 +0000

First off, I take part in this week's Overthinking It Think Tank, along with Matthew Wrather, David Schechner, Jordan Stokes and Ryan Sheely. Our topic: Best Logo. Vote for your favorite! (Meaning, mine) # # # While we're talking OTI, last week's podcast - which I couldn't attend - spent a lot of time debating What Art Is. When you hang out with literate, creative people long enough, this subject inevitably surfaces. We all know enough about the 19th and 20th Centuries to know that a lot of stuff that wasn't considered Art at the time - Impressionism, Stravinsky's "Rite of Spring," Chaplin's films - now fits snugly within canon. We're also snobbish enough that we don't want to open the doors to every Jeezy-come-lately. Somewhere, a line must be drawn. I have a question, though: why do we have to draw a line between Art and non-Art? What does it profit us to draw a distinction before the fact, rather than after the fact? Suppose that Art has an objective existence, outside of "what people call Art." There are some books, movies and songs which are Art and some which are Not Art. What if we accidentally let “Oops! …I Did It Again” into the club and it turns out that it’s not actually Art? What’s the downside? Are future generations going to be confused if the definition of Art is too broad and lose (what little) interest they might otherwise have? Will the National Endowment for the Arts get swamped by bogus requests? Will a B.A. in Art History become even more worthless? I ask partly tongue-in-cheek, but primarily because I think it’ll steer the debate in a more fruitful direction. I'm not saying that we can't define What Art Is. But I firmly believe that, if we settle beforehand why it's so important to have a clear, workable definition, the final definition we settle on will be a lot more solid. So: that's your challenge for today. Not a definition of What Art Is (though please, pitch in to that debate too), but an explanation of why it's so important to have a clear definition of What Art Is. I'm curious.

in a way he's the one who devised the plan

Professor Coldheart — Mon, 27 Apr 2009 14:50:00 +0000

I spent most of this weekend indoors at Grub Street's annual Muse and the Marketplace conference. Writers take over two floors of the Park Plaza Hotel, networking, taking seminars from some of the best writers out there, and getting manuscript feedback from agents and editors. My take:

I attended the conference primarily for the Manuscript Mart - a chance to sit down privately with an agent or an editor, have them read an excerpt of your work, and hear their thoughts. Most attendees use this to pitch, but I had no illusions about by manuscript (the novel I finished last year) being saleable. I wanted to hear what the pros thought. (Agent) Michelle Brower, Wendy Sherman Associates: I need to work on pacing. I have a good sense of character, description and dialogue, but for a murder thriller, there's very little tension in the first 20 pages. She recommended that I scoop up a bushel of thriller writers - King, Cornwall, Patterson, etc - and read them for craft. "Also, I think your protagonist needs a name." (Editor) Rakesh Satyal, HarperCollins: Spend more time on the primary characters in the first 20 pages. If I need to front-load all that tension, I need to introduce the main characters efficiently and thoroughly. Give a clearer description of the setting, particularly the family's new neighborhood. He also called me out on several unnecessary adverbs that I thought I'd scooped up in the first revision. "It'll help the audience identify with your protagonist if he has a name."
Tess Gerritsen gave a gem of a talk on taking a strong premise and pushing it into a genuine plot. She writes very different from me: starting with a good idea and letting rip rather than outlining. We both agree that a character evolves through the writing process, though, not a character sketch. We as humans never learn a person's whole life story when we meet them: we meet a person as they are at that moment. So should it be in your novel. What hooks a reader in, she observed, are premises and scenes with strong emotional content. Keep an eye out for what makes you feel something, even during the research stages. "When you're doing research," she told us, "if you find something that makes you say, 'Wow' - put that in the book." Her example: the one-in-fifty failure rate of NASA shuttles, which came up while researching Gravity.
Sure were a lot of women my mom's age pitching their memoirs! Or maybe I just picked the right string of seminars. The male/female ratio was about 40:60, and I fell several years below the median age.
Chuck Sambuchino: think Mark Wahlberg, literary agent. He has the same high, urban accent (not Bostonian, though), the same aggressive upper body language, and the smart attitude Wahlberg would likely have in dealing with a roomful of unpublished writers. "There's a lot of debate about self-publishing ..." began one question. "There is?" Chuck laughed. I attended two of his - one on query letters, one on non-fiction book proposals. A query letter (he says) needs to sell your strengths in a way that gets the agent excited. Work on your pitch until it's streamlined and effective. And the non-fiction book proposal seminar not only gave me information, but ideas for things I might write myself. Chuck handled himself like a pro in a tight room with a limited clock and a lot of questions. "Not all of this applies to memoirs," he said, watching half a dozen hands slowly go down.
I expected cold sandwiches and chips, but they lay out quite a spread! Caesar salad and chicken breast with capers for Saturday lunch, with key lime pie for dessert. On Sunday: baby spinach salad, chicken asiago and Boston Cream pie. I wouldn't mind cheaper fare if it meant a cheaper conference, but Park Plaza caterers might not have down-market options.
Amy MacKinnon taught a seminar on using sparing, salient details to enhance description. The handout had more examples than concrete principles, but it gave me a wealth of new authors to consider: Stewart O'Nan, Jhumpa Lahiri, Paul Yoon and this Hemingway guy.
Free wireless!
Ann Patchett gave the keynote speech during lunch on Sunday. She chose, ironically enough, "the Muse and the Marketplace" as the topics of her speech. "The Muse," she began, "is bullshit." Writing is a job, she stressed, and writers have to treat it with the same respect as a job. If you sit around waiting for creativity to inspire you, or you confine yourself to peculiar rituals and superstitions before you can write anything, you will never produce the volume that you must to succeed. The more time you spend sitting in front of your computer, trying to write, the more you will write and the better you will write. We put such a high premium on creativity, she said, when it should really be the top level of the pyramid - and therefore the last applied. Absolute commitment should come first - the vaunted ten thousand hours - then technical proficiency. Only once you've assembled all the tools should you get creative. Patchett talked about the immense technical quality you see in most short stories today. She had a hard time narrowing down the twenty Best American Short Stories when she edited the collection in 2006; she said she'd have a hard time finding twenty such novels. The reason, she said, is because writers throw short stories away. Nobody expects to sell their first short story, but everybody wants to sell their first novel. Writers invest so much time and pain into novels that they have a hard time letting go. (N.B.: Patchett wasn't saying to write more short stories - though that couldn't hurt - but to view novel manuscripts more objectively)
As for the Marketplace? Opinions vary. Some speakers encouraged new writers - publishers are clearing out their mid-lists in the slow economy and are willing to buy a debut novel cheaply in the hopes of finding a breakout. Others acknowledged the changing market - Barnes & Noble's head buyer will not be the most important person in the print world by the end of 2009. But the moral remained constant: keep networking, keep honing the craft and keep writing. Luck strikes anyone who stays at the table long enough.

used to do a little but a little wouldn't do so the little got more and more

Professor Coldheart — Tue, 28 Apr 2009 11:00:44 +0000

Muse and the Marketplace isn't all I did this weekend, though. On Saturday, I saw Flat Earth Theatre put up 12 Angry Jurors at the Arsenal Center for the Arts. Afterward, Rachel V., Orit, Rachel's MOSAIC co-star Josh and I had appetizers and beers at Donohue's.

Orit: I'm trying to think of a way to work a jury trial into my [3rd and 4th grade] class now. Professor: Just wait until one of your kids does something wrong - which has already happened - and voila! Josh: Or you could just accuse one of doing something. They'll know what they did. Rachel: Ooh, ooh. You could torture one of them until they confess. Because that always works.

Donohue's keeps one big-screen set tuned to IAmTV at all times. IAmTV shows an award-winning lineup of wakeboarders, BASE jumpers and girls in bikinis around the clock. Finally, television for audiences that find Two and a Half Men too hard to follow. On Sunday, after writing, eating dinner and recording an Overthinking It podcast, I stopped by ImprovBoston for some beers and pizza. Harry G., Ryan the Intern, Kevin H. and I spent several minutes idling in the hallway, shooting nonsense at each other.

Harry: Anyone want to buy some heroin? I've got six bags of it. Ryan: Yes, please. Professor: Yeah, because heroin's sold by the bag. A giant trash bag of heroin, just sloshing around. Kevin: That's our new improv troupe name: 'Sloshing Bags of Heroin.' Harry: Our first show's nothing but West Roxbury junkies and undercover cops. Professor: (Boston accent, into collar mic) Yeah, 10-22, guys, it's just a feckin' improv troupe.

I don't see Harry as often as I should. Somebody fix that.

a hundred dollar bills, look at you! look at you!

Professor Coldheart — Wed, 29 Apr 2009 11:46:18 +0000

I think I ought to speak to a financial adviser. "Professor," you ask in a robust chorus. "Don't you have a degree in economics from a prestigious university?" I do; thank you for reminding me. But that doesn't make me qualified to invest wisely. I know I've used this metaphor in the past, but: asking an economist for stock tips is like asking a physicist to build a bridge. Engineers (the people who build bridges) need to know physics, but their education doesn't end there. Similarly, I have my private theories about what the economy will look like in 2016, but that doesn't tell me which funds to buy. But I remain chary about just walking into the closest Ameriprise office, dumping my financial statements on the desk, and asking, "Whaddaya got?" I have little faith in the ability of advisers to build an investment plan to weather a crisis they never saw coming (or hurried along, depending on their employer). So I need someone I can trust. The first step: knowing about myself. What do I know?

I have good saving habits. When I moved from my job at The Company to my job at Internet Inc., I got a pay raise of x%. Almost all of that x% goes into savings. I'm living at the same standard of living I did before - which is easy; I'm used to it - and banking whatever extra money I make.
I hate managing my investments. Burton Malkiel, in A Random Walk Down Wall Street, ranks categories of investments on a "sleeping scale," in which instruments are ranked on a scale by how much sleep you'll lose worrying over them. Bank accounts are "semicomatose," money-market accounts are "long afternoon naps and sound night's sleep" (though any editions published after 2008 might offer, ahem, a mild caveat), real estate is "tossing and turning, vivid dreams" and gold is "insomnia." The farther down you go on the scale, the more you have to manage the investment. I have more important things to do with my time than log on to a website and track a portfolio every day, or crunch numbers on my homemade spreadsheets. I like my investments the way I like my rotisserie grills: something I can set and then walk away from.
I'm allergic to risk. I hate the thought of losing money. A decent rate of return would be nice, but right now I'd be happy with a vehicle that simply kept its value year over year. I wouldn't invest at all, except the knowledge that my savings accounts and money-market accounts will lose value due to inflation spurs me on. Real losses have finally started to scare me more than nominal losses.
I have a 401(k) through my current job, a 401(k) from my old job, some stock in my old company, an IRA that I started when I was a teenager but have not touched since college, an online stock portfolio, a savings account and a checking account. I have zero debt and zero real assets (unless you count a car that needs minor bodywork and a new CV joint).
Goals: get to that mythical "three months of expenses" savings mark. Save up for various trips outside the country. Saving for retirement's less of a priority - I'm not of the mindset that puts off the fun parts of life until age 65, and I spend a lot of my spare time pursuing a job that I can still do in my golden years. But I'm not going to stop saving for retirement.

Having examined my financial life, let's see if it's worth living.

it's hard to overstate my satisfaction

Professor Coldheart — Thu, 30 Apr 2009 11:31:50 +0000

Bi-weekly post up on Overthinking It: Illmatic and the Crisis of Peaking Young. Have all of Nas's later albums fallen short of his debut because he got overhyped? Because he couldn't handle the pressure? Or maybe it's okay that he produced the best work of his life in his first album? I answer the question - with science! # # # Mini media blow: Avatar: The Last Airbender: Wow. Damn. You know what, forget all the apologies I made for letting threads drop in the Battlestar Galactica season finale. DiMartino and crew tied every little thing together for the Sozin's Comet finale. The White Lotus Society, Zhuko's family tension, Mae and Tai Li, Aang and Katara - it all comes around. It was an action-packed finale that made me misty, made me cheer out loud and left me impressed at the scope of its action and spectacle. Seriously, watch this cartoon. I could rant for hours about what I liked about Avatar, but what ultimately does it: Avatar surprises me. I find very little mainstream TV surprising. Battlestar Galactica managed to occasionally shock me, but rarely reversed expectations. Avatar has characterization, visual touches, storylines and dialogue that I would not expect from an "adult" show, to say nothing of a kids' cartoon. Portal: So much fun. I also started playing Half-Life 2, which came with the Orange Box, but really I bought the whole game just for Portal. And it was everything I hoped it would be and more.

the man the authorities came to blame

Professor Coldheart — Fri, 01 May 2009 11:48:56 +0000

A cheery moral dilemma for a sunny Friday afternoon. One afternoon, at one of my former jobs, I entered the break room to find a petition sitting on the table. The petition had a lengthy, handwritten spiel attached to it. One of my coworkers had left this there. In the attached document, she averred that the man who had murdered her daughter over a decade ago was coming up for parole. She wanted signatures for a petition to present to the parole board, in order to keep this man in prison. On the one hand, I knew this coworker well enough - by face and by name, if not on lunching terms. I had no idea that she'd had a daughter, to say nothing of the circumstances of her grief. I have a soft heart and have no problem with little gestures, like a signature, to console someone I know. On the other hand, I had no idea of the circumstances of this man's conviction. I had only heard one side of the story, and a biased one at that. I had a hard time signing my name to a petition that a complete stranger, who'd never done me wrong, should stay in prison another decade or so. On the other (other) hand, one signature would not make or break the difference on this man's parole. Hell, there's nothing to say that this petition itself would have made a difference: I don't know the weight that parole boards place on these things. So signing this would cost me little, would hurt this convict less, and would make my coworker happy. On the other [other (other)] hand, I feel pretty strongly that sentencing guidelines should be left to the judge, the jury (where the law allows) and the penal system. Not put up to a popular vote, which this petition seemed to be attempting. I won't tell you what I did. Instead, I'd like to know what you would do and why. [polldaddy poll=1581754]

clint_eastwood_actors

Professor Coldheart — Mon, 04 May 2009 03:25:33 +0000

ks77150

Professor Coldheart — Mon, 04 May 2009 03:26:41 +0000

oh, why can't every day be like christmas?

Professor Coldheart — Mon, 04 May 2009 11:00:39 +0000

I took part in the 48 Hour Film Project this weekend, this year for Red Light District Attorneys. The 48 Hour Film Project always begins, for me, with a beer- and soda-fueled writer's meeting at someone's apartment that lasts until two in the morning. Fortunately I wasn't writing this year, so I let Greg, Christine and Sean argue over script details. I didn't know what I was there for until Marcelo said, "I'm figuring you as the camera operator for most of this project." Apparently the promotion track from "some volunteer" to Cinematographer only has one step. Fortunately, Nick (our on-site director) packed a Panasonic PV-GS320, a camera with which Neutrino had made me intimately familiar. So at 8:30 on Saturday morning, I was rolling footage in Quincy Center, shooting breakfast footage at Kim's apartment. Playing the camera operator gave me the opportunity to do three things I've always wanted to do: Use meaningless jargon. "I'd like to film Greg seeing this list from the edge of the table," I said, "though I don't want to go all Dutch angle on him." I also confused panning (sweeping the camera while the operator stays stationary) and tracking (holding the camera forward while the operator moves) at least once. Also, I used the term "gracing the lens," which Google has informed me does not mean anything, and probably entered my glossary as a misheard lyric from a Postal Service song. Fortunately, no one was paying attention to me at that point. Indulge my desire to experiment. As the only camera operator, and the only person in the crew who had more than 6 hours sleep the night before, my whims got a level of legitimacy they should probably never receive. "I want to track along the banister here," I said, getting the pan/track distinction right for once, "end facing down the length of the banister as Christine finishes wrapping the Christmas lights, then hit it here as she plugs them in." Nick stared at me for a moment, then nodded. I didn't do this too often, and never at the expense of essential filming, but expect some crazy camerawork! Take Clint Eastwood's directing advice. Clint Eastwood imported a lot of his experience as a veteran actor of TV and film into his directing career. For instance, he noticed when filming TV westerns how hard it was to get four horses to walk abreast down a street - they're skittish creatures who don't like to stand very near each other. And then when someone would yell, "ACTION!" the horses would all jump again, and it'd be another five minutes getting them together. "Actors are not unlike horses," he observed on Inside the Actors Studio, so he makes a practice of keeping a quiet set and telling his actors to begin by softly saying, "Whenever you're ready." We wrapped principal photography, after a complicated shot that involved sprinting through a science lab and swiveling the camera on an office chair, at about 5:30 on Saturday. In my (limited) history of 48 hour shoots, that ain't bad. I'll post the finished product as soon as it's available; anyone in Boston can come watch it at the Kendall Square Cinema at 9:30 this Wednesday.

'cause I'm as ill as the convict who kills for phone time

Professor Coldheart — Tue, 05 May 2009 12:21:28 +0000

If you're not already subscribing, you should check out this week's Overthinking It podcast, in which four white guys and an Asian argue about rap music. We also sling terms like "racially normative" around and, at one point, call Mozart "soulless and technical." It's the most controversial podcast I've ever been on; don't miss it. # # # Media blows monitor your movements: Brazil: Tasha Robinson over at the AVClub gave Terry Gilliam a lifetime pass for directing Brazil, and I have to agree with her. With a savage look at the demoralizing effects of bureaucracy and the numbing balm of consumer culture, Gilliam depicts a world too plausible to be real. It's 1984 with punch and savage wit. The puppeteering and other effects, dated though they are, work wonderfully: Jonathan Pryce as an airborne angel, the legions of hunchbacked baby-faced ghouls, etc. Half-Life 2: Started playing this about a week ago. I can go at it for maybe forty-five minutes at a time before I get revulsed or frustrated. Either something disgusting leaps out of a corner and attacks me (oh fuck, it's on the ceiling, it's pulling me up into its mouth, oh FUCK) or I hit a repetitive stretch of gameplay and tap out. However, I can definitely see what the fuss was about: the controls feel smoother and the enemy A.I. smarter than any other shooter I've played in a while. And there's such an obsessive level of verite in every aspect of the world - from the scraps of paper and graffiti to the periodic radio announcements from City 17 - that I almost don't want to leave.

emotional feedback on a timeless wavelength

Professor Coldheart — Wed, 06 May 2009 11:00:45 +0000

So I joined Twitter. You can tell a new technology or medium will be revolutionary when everyone's talking about it and no one agrees on what it means. Mainstream media outlets think Twitter is the next communication breakthrough, whereas the marketers on AdAge think microblogging is niche. I don't recall anyone talking this way about Orkut. So while Twitter may not be the platform of the future, it's at least an arrow pointing the way. That said, most people make the same mistake with Twitter that they do with Facebook or their weblog. They think of Twitter as an easier way to share things with their friends. That's not true. You have a very small number of genuine friends (maybe as few as 2, maybe as many as 20). You have a lot of Twitter followers. When you fill your Facebook page with passive-aggressive complaints about coworkers or jealous acquaintances, you might think you're sending a message to the right audience. Instead, you're broadcasting a message to the entire world - a message that will remain until a massive electromagnetic pulse shorts out the digital planet - and hoping that the right audience listens. Twitter and Facebook might be a way to make new friends. I've certainly used it for that. But "friends" have an existence off of social media. You go drinking with them. You stand behind them at their weddings. You lie to them about how good their hair looks. Those experiences, social media can not (yet) duplicate. So what will I use Twitter for? To entertain people. Let me know how I do.

it longs to kill you; are you willing to die

Professor Coldheart — Thu, 07 May 2009 13:08:36 +0000

Allergies have struck back with a vengeance in the last forty-eight hours. Itchy eyes, congested nose, gravelly thick voice. Things got so bad this morning that I took one of my jealously hoarded pseudoephedrine. I have given up trying to predict allergy reactions based on the weather. Two Saturdays ago, the weather was sunny, 80 degrees and breezy; I felt fine. This week it's been rainy and in the 50s and I've been miserable. So forget the weather report. Forget the pollen count. A decade in Boston has taught me plenty. If I can make it through Memorial Day, I'll be fine.

peepshow, creepshow, where did you get those eyes?

Professor Coldheart — Fri, 08 May 2009 12:14:36 +0000

Both the professionals I spoke to at Muse and the Marketplace - an agent and an editor - recommended that I read more thrillers to improve my pacing and suspense. So I Kindled James Patterson's Jack and Jill and read it this past week. James Patterson: not that great. Let me give you some examples from the first few pages. Our hero, Dr. Alex Cross, is woken in the middle of the night by a pounding on his front door.

"Shit. Damnit," I whispered into the soft, deep folds of my pillow. "Leave me alone. Let me sleep through the night like a normal person. Go away from here." [...] "Oh Jesus, John. You know what time it is? You have any concept of time? Please get the hell away from my house. Go home to your own house. Bang on your own door in the middle of the night." [...] My heart was hammering and felt as if it were suddenly too big for my chest. My wife, Maria, had been shot down and killed not far from this place. Memories of the neighborhood, memories of a lifetime. I'll always love you, Maria. [...] We make quite the pair when we arrive at a crime scene: [John] Sampson with his huge shaved skull and black leather car coat; me usually in a gray warm-up jacket from Georgetown. Shoulder holster under the coat. Dressed for the game that I play, a game called sudden death.

Those excerpts all come from the first eight pages, by which I mean the first three chapters. Did you know there's no rule that says a chapter can't be two pages long? I looked. I didn't need to, because Patterson's clearly looked for me, but now I know. Characters spend huge swaths of time in their own head, flashing back to details or lines of dialogue they just heard. In italics. Ominous italics. Ominous italics that get their own paragraph. When they're not thinking about what they've just seen or talking to each other in ways that no human being would speak to another, Patterson's characters make their living by failing to solve mysteries. Dr. Cross supposedly has this unique gift for getting inside a killer's head - making him so useful to Metro police that they made him a police detective, leading to the occasionally awkward, "Hey, Doctor-Detective Cross! Over here!" - but I never saw him do anything that you, or I, or the guy driving the bus couldn't do. SPOILERS: The eponymous Jack & Jill are a pair of serial killers targeting Washington, D.C. celebrities. They kill, or arrange for the death of, a fictional Ted Kennedy equivalent, a prominent news anchorwoman, and a Supreme Court Justice's girlfriend. Dr. Cross dutifully goes to the scene of each killing, tries to get inside the killers' heads, and stares moodily. At the same time, a serial killer is targeting children at the school his son attends. Three children die at this maniac's hands - two students and one other kid as a red herring. Dr. Cross shows up at each of these crime scenes and thinks really hard about some stuff. Then, Jack and Jill kill the President. Dr. Cross finds a bit of evidence (which anyone could have found) that identifies Jack. He and the Secret Service surround his house and arrest him. This is after the child murderer takes the principal at the nearby school hostage, a hostage crisis which Dr. Cross escalates into gunplay and then ends through force. So, really, Cross just lets the plot drag him along by the collar until it's time for him to punch people, and punch them he does.END SPOILERS. All that being said, James Patterson is clearly a better writer than I am. Why? 1. He's sold a lot of novels; I've sold zero. Big sales volume, as I've said before, is not the only element that separates the mediocre from the good. But it means he's found a market and an audience, while I have not. A writer needs an audience. Therefore he's a better writer than I am. 2. He's better than me at what I need to get better at doing. Devil take the clumsy oaf and his stable of ghostwriters, he has the art of pacing down. Not a chapter goes by that doesn't end on either a new plot element or a cliffhanger. Everything moves. I almost understand why he pads his pages out with so much internal monologue and ominous repetition - if he didn't, this book would be 100 pages. Whereas yours truly? I write these meandering, ornate paragraphs full of characterization and description. I spend pages setting up characters for later suspense. Screw the later suspense. Throw them in the pot now. So I've learned something at the feet of an (ahem) master. That's what writers do.

valkyrie_cruise

Professor Coldheart — Mon, 11 May 2009 04:31:10 +0000

generation_kill

Professor Coldheart — Mon, 11 May 2009 04:32:22 +0000

generation_kill

Professor Coldheart — Mon, 11 May 2009 04:35:28 +0000

when you're a boy, you can wear a uniform

Professor Coldheart — Mon, 11 May 2009 11:00:17 +0000

Valkyrie: Diverting but not moving. A Bryan Singer film about a plot to kill Hitler, starring Tom Cruise, should keep me on the edge of my seat for its entire run. But right when Col. Stauffenberg (Cruise) implemented the plan to isolate Berlin from the SS, I got a text inviting me out drinking. Five minutes later I was out the door. Why didn't this work? Perhaps knowing the source material - not just the fact that Hitler survived, but the details of this particular attempt, explicated by Jack Palance on an old episode of "Ripley's Believe It or Not." Perhaps Tom Cruise lacked the usual psychotic magnetism that draws viewers in, having only one eye to play out of. Ultimately, though, I came at the movie with a small amount of cynicism. [caption id="attachment_964" align="alignleft" width="110" caption="Cruise\'s stance on cults of personality is well documented."][/caption]For the supposedly true story of men fighting against fascism, the plot bludgeons us with the theme that indecisive politicians can't save us in a moment of crisis. Only the bold men of action (a/k/a, the military) can. Stauffenberg gets inducted into the conspiracy and immediately starts bossing the civilians around. Stern men in crisp uniforms lean over desks and shout about the need to ACT being pressing, and the time to ACT being now, etc. This technocratic love of action over deliberation, of Doing Something vs. Figuring Something Out, has been a hallmark of terror states for centuries. One wonders if Stauffenberg et al abhorred Hitler because he crushed Germany in the grip of fascism, or because he was so bad at it. My historical revisionism aside, if the director of X-Men can't make a moving film about men giving their lives to free a country that hates them, or make an exciting film about men maneuvering their way around thousands of soldiers, then the director has failed. Given the budget thrown at Valkyrie, the caliber of actors involved - Cruise, Branagh, Wilkinson, Nighy - and the sheer audacity of the visual spectacle, it's actually not bad. But it's still a rental, not a purchase, at best. # # # Generation Kill: Some movies glorify war. Some movies vilify it. And some productions - like HBO's miniseries Generation Kill, created by the producers of the greatest thing which the medium of television has yet to produce - treat war just as it is. War is thousands of men with hundreds of different agendas running around the desert with guns. Generation Kill is the result. [caption id="attachment_968" align="alignright" width="150" caption="Hey! Rolling Stone! Know what this war is really about?"][/caption]Generation Kill follows Bravo Company in the 1st Recon Marines through the early days of the Iraq War. In true David Simon / Ed Burns fashion, we meet more people than we can possibly remember the names of in the first two episodes. We rely on snips of dialogue and brief flashes of characterization to make them stand out: that's the gullible racist. That's the homosexual sniper. That's the smart-ass diet pill freak. Etc. Eventually, after the first three episodes, our attention narrows to one Humm-Vee in particular: "Hitman 2," driven by the wisecracking Cpl. Person (James Ransome, Ziggy of The Wire S2). The platoon's sergeant, Brad "Iceman" Colbert (Alexander Skarsgard) rides shotgun. In the back are the naive sociopath Lance Cpl. Trombley and an embedded reporter from Rolling Stone. You could film an entire series of the conversations these four have while rattling through the Iraqi desert. Like The Wire, Generation Kill immerses viewers so fully that it defies the term "naturalism." No one pauses for exposition. The show doesn't come with a glossary. You, the unschooled viewer, have to pay attention. Fortunately, the actors, the cinematography and the editing all combine to make everything clear in context. When Hitman 2 calls in a "fire mission" to "Hitman Actual," or when an idling bunch of Humm-Vees are told to get "oscar mike" for a point forty "klicks" distant, you know what they mean. If you don't, or if you can't figure it out, this show is not for you. Very important note: I'm only 3 episodes in to the 7 episode series. Please don't spoil anything, even obliquely, in the comments.

it's been a year or two since I was out on the floor

Professor Coldheart — Tue, 12 May 2009 11:00:51 +0000

I can no longer stay up past 2:00 AM two nights in a row. I tried this weekend: dancing at Common Ground on Friday with Sylvia, Joanna's roommate, Rachel and Caitlin's friend Andrea. I also went out on Saturday when Megan and Amy put out a call for Phoenix Landing. The result: twinges in my lower back as I hunched over the sink the next morning. No spasms (yet). Just the quiet reminder that my body needed time to repair. I can no longer eat whatever I want whenever I want. Breakfast on Saturday was a Dunkin Donuts sausage egg and cheese sandwich. Lunch was four slices of pepperoni pizza with some Diet Pepsi. Dinner was a spinach and cheese quesadilla (from Pemberton Farms, home of healthy food, in fairness). Breakfast on Sunday was a post-jiu-jitsu protein shake from the Watertown BSC. Lunch was a grilled cheese with tomato and a side of fries at the Brighton Cafe with Provocateur's own Matthew. Dinner was a burger at Lucky's in Southie, followed by two stiff cocktails at Drink with Rachel V. The result: toxic heartburn. Add to that a sexy rasping cough from allergies, and I'm a bent old man. I wouldn't have it any other way, though. Not strictly true - if I could choose to magically stay healthier and see my friends in one weekend, I would. But that's not an option. So I suffer a little so that I can jump and scream to "Flagpole Sitta" at 90s Night. So that I can rap "Mo' Money Mo' Problems" with a total stranger in Cambridge. So that my friend Aaron can elaborate on the differences between Old Fitzgerald and Maker's Mark while pouring me a vieux carre in Drink on a quiet evening. All this talk about living passionately, cramming a life full of promise, carpe diem and that shit? Time to start taking it seriously.

I was so much older then, I'm younger than that now

Professor Coldheart — Wed, 13 May 2009 11:38:42 +0000

Sorry to cut and run, guys, but they're firing up the time portal and I'm about to jump sixteen years into the past. Quick question, while we're on the subject: what three pieces of advice would you give your twelve-year-old self?* * "Invest in Google" doesn't count.

slug

Professor Coldheart — Thu, 14 May 2009 13:15:19 +0000

it doesn't take a lot to get a lot of us to talk this way

Professor Coldheart — Thu, 14 May 2009 13:18:35 +0000

I've got a post up on Overthinking It that I'm particularly proud of: Toward a Grand Unified Theory of Schwarzenegger. Critics accuse Arnold Schwarzenegger of always playing the same type in his 80s action roles. But what if that's deliberate? What if he's actually playing the same person? # # # My answers to yesterday's questions: 1) Find some activity where you'll meet more girls. Not to date, just to learn how to talk to. 2) Take a few computer classes. 3) Nothing in your life is as important as you're making high school out to be. If you can't handle something, tell your parents. If you can't tell them, tell a counselor. If you can't tell her, tell a priest (while you're still talking to them). But letting the pressure build until it breaks you will accomplish just that. # # # Monthly Yelp Elite event at Nile Lounge in Allston last night. Free drinks and snacks courtesy of Kick for Nick, a charity that distributes soccer balls to Iraqi children. The easy, cynical response would be to laugh - what good are soccer balls in a civil war? - but don't forget that futbol is the most popular sport everywhere in the world except for the U.S. Nile Lounge is a hookah bar, and I indulged in many fragrant incenses. You'd fit a little plastic mouthpiece over the tip of the hookah, draw in a deep draught and exhale gently. Wash your palate out with a little Naragansett and try another. Personal favorites: White Peach Apple (light and sweet) and Blue Nile (tastes like Powerade). # # # I couldn't stay at Nile long, though, as I had an Atmosphere concert to hit up at the House of Blues. First, some words about the venue: the line for admission stretched to the end of the block. Red-shirted guards rousted drunks and rowdies from the queue; I saw one poor stumbler get cuffed and paddywagon'ed while I was still one hundred yards from the front door. The inside tiers like a stadium: open ground floor, balconies ringing the second and third levels, and even some theater seating in the way back. They closed off the first floor by the time I arrived, but I got a killer view from the second floor: balcony corner closest to stage right. The artist: this was my second time seeing Slug and Ant live. I'd immersed myself deeper in their foreign language in the past year, picking up not only God Loves Ugly and Seven's Travels but even some of the sad clown bad dub tracks. This was fortunate, as 90% of the set came from God Loves Ugly and When Life Gives You Lemons ..., with a rare mixtape track thrown in. As with last year, Slug eschewed that fake-ass encore shit to take us out on a high energy set. "Now, the smart thing to do would be not even mention the encore and just play the set," he admitted. "But I'm not that smart." But the following changed between this year and last: Size of the venue: Roxy had about a thousand fans; House of Blues holds over 2400. "This is some Mad Max Beyond Thunderdome shit," Slug observed. "Ant was comparing it to the Los Angeles crowd. I was comparing it to home." No pushing: Slug pointed out a vortex of moshing humanity ten feet back from the stage. "I ain't down with that shoving. No crowd-surfing, neither. I'm serious: I'm getting too old for that. You keep up that shoving, I will politely ask security to put you in a chokehold and take you to the fucking sidewalk."

one thing about living in Santa Carla I never could stomach, all the damn vampires

Professor Coldheart — Fri, 15 May 2009 11:00:54 +0000

People of the Internet! I declare the final showdown. I give you the opportunity you've been waiting for. This is your one and only chance, ever, to convince me that Joss Whedon lives up to the hype. I've long maintained that Whedon scripts dialogue beyond his actor's capabilities, putting A-list screwball in the mouths of B-list actors. That his much vaunted "strong female roles" simply put a new gloss on the same girly stereotypes that we've seen in every sitcom for the last fifty years. That his cutesy moralizing is, well, cutesy and moralizing. But I could be wrong! It's happened before. In order to give Joss Whedon the full benefit of the doubt, I will watch an entire season of Buffy The Vampire Slayer. I'll watch every episode, beginning to end. I'll even take notes. So what do you, Whedonophiles of the Internet, have to do? Easy. Tell me which season to watch. Because I'm only going to watch one. "Oh, but you really have to watch these episodes from Season X-1 in order to get Season X." If that's true, then Whedon fails as a writer and everything I've ever said about him is true. Network television is episodic - it uses a formula to fill a structure. A viewer should be able to pick up any episode of a good TV show and follow along. I might laugh a little more at recent episodes of (say) The Office if I knew that Dwight and Angela used to sleep together, but the episode should still work as a story if I don't know that. "Oh, but they're all good." Then pick the best one. "Oh, but you should watch Firefly instead." I've seen Firefly. Fun, but hardly amazing. I'm a busy man and I've all but made up my mind on Whedon. But I'm holding out because of the incredible passion my friends have for him. So, in the interests of fairness - and because it'll make good weblog fodder, if nothing else - I'll give him a shot. So, discuss with your Slayer friends which season I should watch, fill out the attached poll, and make me a believer! [polldaddy poll=1604043]

like a pinch on the neck from mr. spock

Professor Coldheart — Mon, 18 May 2009 11:00:38 +0000

SPOILER FREE Star Trek: silly fun. As with all J.J. Abrams productions, the writers clearly came up with the setpieces first (giant space battle! high-altitude parachute dive! Kirk fights a giant alien monster!) and then strung a plot together to connect them. But if the setpieces are fun there's nothing wrong with that. None of the cast made much of an impression on me, with the exception of Zachary Quinto as Spock and John Cho as Sulu. Karl Urban did a good enough job cranking his dial to "Ornery" and nailing it there, but that doesn't take a lot of depth. And I hesitate to call Nero the most boring villain in any Star Trek movie of the last forty years only because I haven't seen Nemesis. Any problems I had were with the rather fumble-thumbed way Abrams steered his characters from plot point to plot point. I didn't mind the Deus Ex Machina that much - it's a neat tip of the cap to the hardcore fans, and it's not out of place for the series. And I could even follow the jarring fight scenes pretty well. Abrams used the same MTV smash-cuts that have been a staple of Hollywood fights for twenty years, but I always had a general sense of what was at stake. Worth seeing in the theaters, once. I don't know if I'd see it again (though I'm grateful that Katie, Sylvia and RJ were willing to). But I'm glad Abrams made a Star Trek movie that no one has to apologize for. "Yeah, it's weird, but the prior one was much worse." "See, that'd make sense if you'd seen this particular episode." This was a fun movie that anyone could access and enjoy. That being said, without the Star Trek franchise painted onto it, it'd be a perfectly unremarkable story of Maverick Made Good, with a dash of Hardass Learning To Trust His Feelings and a Generic Eurotrash Villain thrown in. Not bad, Abrams. You've bought yourself a reprieve. Now do better with the next one.

you'll catch a sharp sword to the midsection

Professor Coldheart — Tue, 19 May 2009 11:00:26 +0000

I got a haircut on Saturday at Franco's, on the corner of Hampshire and Prospect in Cambridge. Franco's remains the only place I go for haircuts, because I can walk out of there with a haircut that I like that day. Not two days later once it's grown in. Plus, they only charge about $5 more than SuperCuts. I compromised between short hair (which Melissa and John, whom I'm marrying in two weeks, like) and long hair (which I like). It's short on the sides and back but still has room on the top to play with. # # # As mediocre as James Patterson is, Tess Gerritsen is exceptional. I mean that literally: she excels at the qualities Patterson lacks - believable dialogue, interesting characters, accelerated pacing. Where Patterson will take forty pages to make two things happen, Gerritsen unfolds a dozen fascinating plot points in sixty pages. After hearing her deliver a talk on turning plots into premises at Muse and the Marketplace, and being told that I ought to read more thrillers, I Kindled The Surgeon and tore through it. It's a genuinely gruesome serial killer mystery and a medical thriller sewn up into one. Excellent beach reading. From these novels I've read so far, I've learned the following (for the thriller I've been editing): every chapter must advance the action in some way. It should either end in a cliffhanger, or a momentous revelation, or a plot twist, or the plot being forwarded. In the initial draft, I devoted entire chapters to characterization. I can't do that and keep the reader engaged, though. Characterization needs to come along with the plot. I can't ask the plot to take a time out while I get inside someone's head.

it's a beautiful day in the neighborhood, a beautiful day for a neighbor

Professor Coldheart — Wed, 20 May 2009 11:28:18 +0000

I haven't been religious for more than a decade now. From the day I decided to walk away from religion I've never missed it. It fills no essential role in my life, either ethically or logically. I almost forget what it was like to be religious. But I have noticed one thing missing: the sense of community. Church, or temple, or the mosque: these are all great places to meet a broad cross-section of neighbors. Consider that the people you see at your place of worship, you might never run into otherwise. They don't work at your office; they don't belong to your community pool; they don't date your friends. But once a weekend, you show up at the same place. You bake stale brownies for the same picnics, assemble the same houses on church retreats to the Appalachians and chaperone the same pool parties. You're forced to meet people whose paths would never cross yours normally. Networking like that improves the quality of your life. The broader and stronger your network, the better the type of jobs, perks and friends you'll find. Oh, you're in the market for a car? My cousin's a dealer out in Springfield - he's been trying to offload some inventory. Or: sixth grade, you said? My daughter just entered sixth grade at that private school up in Clinton; she loves it. And my wife sits on the school board. Let me give you our number. Religious services work like that, in a way few other groups do, because of the disparate interests they draw in. Other groups - professional organizations, amateur sports teams, bar-hopping circles of friends - can approach that level of networking success, but they can never duplicate it. You need the random-but-not-quite sampling that a faith draws in - people who believe enough in common to talk to each other, but not so much that they have nothing to say. I've been part of like-minded atheist experiments - the Boston Objectivist Network being the most successful - but it's never quite the same. And I think this is why religious people will enjoy a statistical, and thus political, advantage over the non-religious for decades to come. They have instant networks. They have a voter base - or, more importantly, a movement base - that can easily be tapped into. Atheists do not. I'm not saying you should join a church you don't believe in for the free brownies and car washes. But I'm always looking for ways to expand my network.

you see the face on the TV screen, coming at you every sunday

Professor Coldheart — Thu, 21 May 2009 11:47:57 +0000

When I called the Internet out last week, asking for the one season of Buffy I had to watch, I took a little flak for the following comment:

“Oh, but you really have to watch these episodes from Season X-1 in order to get Season X.” If that’s true, then Whedon fails as a writer and everything I’ve ever said about him is true. Network television is episodic – it uses a formula to fill a structure. A viewer should be able to pick up any episode of a good TV show and follow along. I might laugh a little more at recent episodes of (say) The Office if I knew that Dwight and Angela used to sleep together, but the episode should still work as a story if I don’t know that.

So now, a series of retractions and clarifications. First, this probably isn't something Whedon is guilty of. Whedon's a master of the sitcom art, capable of making memorable (if not interesting) characters and putting them in situations that escalate at a good clip. He has a season-wide arc as well as an episode-length arc, and that's fine. But he doesn't script boring episodes up front and save the interesting characterization for later (Dollhouse being the apparent exception). However, I am not making the above quote up. People say that to defend TV shows all the time. Babylon 5, for instance: every time someone recommends that I watch that show, I remind them that the dialogue is terrible, the acting pretty mediocre, the plots ridiculous, and even the setting's a bit of a laugh (the good guys are "the Rangers"; the bad guys are "the Shadow"; got it). And the funny thing is, the show's staunchest defenders agree with all this. But they insist I try the show anyway because "Stracynzski has such a complete vision. If you watch the whole thing, you'll see what he was getting at." I'm sure. But I'm not going to give up 88 hours of my life just to sit back at the end with a reflective "Huh." Furthermore, some folks tried to defend that ridiculous proposition. "You wouldn't say each chapter in a novel has to stand alone," someone said. Well, no. Nobody does. A chapter is not meant to stand alone. The chapter division of novels is largely artificial - a holdover from serialization, a method of introducing suspense and delineating plot points. But each chapter is not meant to have its own arc. This analogy fails because novels and episodic television are different things, and you can't evaluate one medium by the standards of another. That being said, this requirement that each episode in a TV series stand on its own merits belongs primarily to network TV. Cable television doesn't have to worry about this as much - premium channels, like HBO or Showtime, even less. It's a function of how advertisers pay for airtime and track a show's success on a week-by-week scale. That's a limit on the medium, sure, and it'd be silly to confine a medium to its established limits. But it'd also be silly to expect a show to succeed which blatantly ignores those limits. I don't know why I spent so many pixels defending a proposition that doesn't apply to Whedon (as far as Buffy is concerned). But I like explaining myself.

supertrain_close

Professor Coldheart — Fri, 22 May 2009 04:09:09 +0000

a highly critical review of the first 1:30 of NBC's Supertrain

Professor Coldheart — Fri, 22 May 2009 11:00:10 +0000

(Why only the first minute-thirty of Supertrain, NBC's notoriously poor 1979 television drama about a luxury train and the lives of its passengers? Because you're busy people, for one thing - you don't have time to waste on an entire two hour pilot when you can dispose of a 30-year-old show in less than two minutes. But, more importantly, I feel the first 90 seconds of this piece of garbage indicate the flaws that would poison the entire product. In the terrible dialogue, shitty cinematography and ludicrous plot of the pre-credits sequence, you see a synecdoche for the entire nine episode disaster. The part stands in for the whole. Enough metonymy! Enough preamble! On with the pablum!) N.B. You have T.C. to thank for this) A Highly Critical Review of the First 1:30 of NBC's Supertrain [youtube=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=__Omp5-8vZY] Seriously. Just watch the first one minute and thirty seconds, then press Pause. I'll wait. ... ... ... back with us? Right. Here we go: The Opening Shot: From the very first fade-up from black we're already in trouble. I don't know what the photographer wanted to convey about this remarkably cramped board of executives. Are they bold captains of industry, leading us into a future full of supercars and superjets? Are they demons of greed, willing to sacrifice the lives of thousands of passengers in the name of profit? Neither. This off-kilter crane shot tells us that these men are mere Legos for the viewer to manipulate and discard at will. The Opening Monologue: Apparently, the "Federal Department of Transportation" (because Winfield, the CEO, doesn't even pick up the fucking phone if it's Municipal or lower) has called Winfield in for help on "the pitiful state of rail passenger travel in this country today." "As a result," he slurs, "Trans-Allied Corporation will construct, starting from scratch, the first continental railroad built in this country in seventy-five years." The Board reacts visibly, none of them having read the memo or remembered the phone call or even asked Winfield why they got called in. Winfield soldiers on. "An atom-powered, steam turbine machine," he explains - revolutionary, of course, since lumber and coal certainly aren't made of atoms. "Capable of crossing this country in thirty-six hours. And coupling that locomotive to the most luxurious, most comfortable best served train of coaches ever designed." So, four times slower than a commercial jet-liner and, with all those amenities, at least twice as expensive. Hell of a business plan, Winfield. I'm Not Done Bitching About The Cinematography: As if to apologize for the awkward crane shot that opened this fiasco, every subsequent shot crams as many faces into the screen as possible. When Winfield speaks, we see his aviator-wearing bodyguard smirking behind him and the sides of at least two other people's heads. As he outlines the extravagance of his plan ("thirty. six. hours"), the camera pans down the greasy, jowled faces of the Board - I swear, it's like a buffet of gravel painted to look like ham - in claustrophobic detail. If I could rent out a theater and show this on a big screen without getting sued by Trans-Allied, I would, just for the terror these faces would inflict on a 20-foot scale. Now See Here: Shockingly enough, this plan to lasso three hundred civilians to a nuclear power plant and rocket it across the country on an untested railroad line has a detractor. He sits at the exact opposite end of the table, as detractors must by law, and waits for a break in the rambling before saying his piece. "You know what I think, Winfield?" he asks. Then he tells us: "You're letting your psychotic fascination with railroads [sic] lead you into a suicidal gamble with the future of this company!" Heads nod in agreement. While I'm glad someone in this wood-lacquered closet has an eye for the bottom line I don't quite get his objection, for the following reasons:

Isn't a fascination with railroads understandable? I hear it was rather common among boys who grew up around the turn of the (last) century - machinery and timetables and vast quantities of freight and all that. Maintaining that hobby into one's golden years might be a bit eccentric, sure, but I hesitate to call it psychotic. (Well, all right, Winfield did murder all those people six years ago. Bringing it up now is bad form, though)
Wait - what the hell does Trans-Allied Corporation actually do? I assumed for the first minute or so that they were already in the railroad business. But this guy's objections suggest they aren't (since a "fascination with railroads" would be tolerable - almost a prerequisite - for the CEO of a railroad company). So what is it they make? Nuclear reactors? Steel? Scarves? Whatever the hell it is, why did the Federal Department of Transportation give them permission to build a nuclear train and the four thousand miles of track necessary to run it? "Well, Trans-Allied has next to zero experience in construction projects of a cross-continental scale, having invested vast fortunes in skate keys and pet rocks. But they seem so damn determined!"

You Forgot One Thing: My Impending Death: But Winfield's got a honey of a rejoinder lined up. "So you think it's a gamble, do you? Well, gentlemen, since I can count my remaining years on the fingers of one hand, from my point of view it's not much of a gamble at all." Okay, hold up:

That's your idea of reassurance? "Gentlemen, you raise some interesting objections. But I'm five years from the grave! My ideas are clearly sound."
Unless perhaps this is some oblique and cynical reference to the inefficiency of all government contracts! It took twenty-five years to complete the Big Dig (from initial planning to project completion), and that was just one city. Can you imagine how long it would take to build a never-before-seen type of rail line, capable of supporting a nuclear reactor that could travel at over one hundred miles per hour, that would cross a dozen states? Winfield must be grinning like a fiend behind that bushy mustache of his. "I'm going to lock us into the biggest boondoggle since Teapot Dome," he's saying, "and then die before the first rail gets laid! Hope you like federal prison, dicks!"
If I ever get the opportunity to tell a room full of people that I can "count my remaining years on the fingers of one hand," I'm only holding up one finger. And I think you know which one.

The Big Reveal: Having dropped that turd right in the middle of the table, Winfield stumbles around to a covered portrait. "I give you - SUPERTRAIN!" The board oohs and aahs at the gorgeous painting. Again with the nitpicking:

"Your objections are irrelevant. I've already started this hideously expensive project and called this meeting as a courtesy. And by courtesy, I mean 'slap in the face with my dick.'"
The Board's awfully impressed at a painting. Well! I didn't think his plan was feasible before, but he's got some concept art. And check out that bitching frame. I have seen the Supertrain and believe; blessed are those who have not seen and yet believe.

Roll opening credits. Cue disco theme song. Enter the Supertrain. I would urge you to watch the rest of the pilot episode, but I assure you it gets even dumber. Intolerably dumb. The pointless board meeting held in Grandpa's basement is the high point of the first ninety minutes. You've seen everything you need to see - bad camera work, stupid dialogue and a plot that can't shoot straight. I'm amazed NBC let it go five episodes, much less five months.

revelations 21:4

Professor Coldheart — Tue, 26 May 2009 11:00:07 +0000

"Did that guy just check you out?" "Who?" I asked. It was a cool Saturday - high 60s, sunny, not much breeze - and we were lounging on a park bench in Boston's Public Garden. "That guy that just walked by." The gentleman in question: early fifties, Mediterranean complexion, expensive gray suit and a fat wristwatch. He passed by our bench to join a similar man and a boy younger than me (his son?) two benches down. "No, he's a bodyguard," I replied glibly. "Just making sure I'm not a threat." "You're kidding me." "No, you see how he sits on a different bench than the rest of the party? That's the principal; he's the bodyguard." "This is you doing your whole 'I wish I were a spy' thing." # # # "I love cities," I said later. We had an excellent view of the Boston skyline above the trees. "I took the train to Baltimore about a month ago. It passed through New York, on this big sweeping arc that skirts the island before taking you underground to Penn Station. So we got this extended view of the Manhattan skyline. It overwhelmed me for a second." "I could never live in a city that big. People everywhere, buildings blotting out the sky." "That's the point," I insisted. # # # Bagpipes struck up from the other end of the garden. A piper led a procession along the asphalt path, winding through the Garden to a secluded copse of trees eighty yards away. The piper returned a few minutes later, talking with one of the wedding party about his work in a genuine Scottish burr. "Did a show up in Dedham recently," he was saying. Twenty minutes later, the piper came back the same way, this time leading the bridal party. "That's a bit of a wait between entrances, isn't it?" I observed. "It's the guy!" "Where?" "The one who was checking you out." The Mediterranean fifty-year-old supports the arm of his tanned daughter, beaming in her white dress. "So he wasn't checking me out," I explained, "and he wasn't a bodyguard. He was making sure we wouldn't get in the way." Sure enough, the bridal party passes within six feet of us, sitting on our bench just off the path. If my legs had been splayed out - the way they often are when I get comfy on a park bench - the procession would have had to arc a little to avoid me. # # # A couple in their late forties, healthy weight around their midsection, tumbled into a cuddle on a hollow in the lawn. The woman rested her head on her husband's chest; he languidly stroked her bare arm. Soon the two of them were kissing, then making out passionately, legs thrown over each other. It was a pleasant Saturday in downtown Boston; probably one hundred people passed them every ten minutes. The wedding continued about fifty feet away. All part of the circle of life. # # # "Every now and then you poke your head out of your shell." "Really?" I asked. "Very rarely. And it takes so much work." "I'm proud of my mask," I said. "I put a lot of effort into making it." # # # We took a detour as we exit the Public Gardens, finding a statue on a pillar in an empty fountain. Trees in bloom surrounded it, blocking out the sunlight as thoroughly as the New York skyline. The statue atop the pillar was Morpheus, god of sleep, cradling a dying child in his arms. The inscription on one face of the pillar read: In gratitude for the relief of human suffering by the inhaling of ether a citizen of Boston has erected this monument A.D. MDCCCLXVII. On another face, it reads: Neither shall there be any more pain - Rev.. "This is my favorite statue in the garden. I always try to look for it every time I'm here." I didn't say that. For a while, I didn't say anything.

prince_of_the_pagodas

Professor Coldheart — Tue, 26 May 2009 15:56:27 +0000

prince_of_the_pagodas

Professor Coldheart — Tue, 26 May 2009 15:58:14 +0000

nobody seemed to know me, everybody passed me by

Professor Coldheart — Wed, 27 May 2009 11:00:19 +0000

I found a new karaoke spot on Friday: the bar beneath the Charles Playhouse in Boston's theatre district. Small turnout for a Friday, though Memorial Day weekend might have contributed to that. A few friends had turned out for Dave C's twenty-ninth birthday. "I wanted one last big bash," he said. "I've noticed that I have different priorities in an evening as I get older. I can't bounce back from those big nights out any more." I agreed with him. But that strikes me as an excuse to schedule your Saturday mornings wisely, not to cut short your Fridays. # # # I missed my car (in the shop - over one thousand dollars of spring and strut work) most acutely on Sunday, when I had to hoof it to Brighton to grab a burger wih Sylvia then back to Cambridge to have a drink with Pre-Doctor Margaret N. But the benevolent confluence of the Red Line, the #66, the D Line and the #1 made it all work. The evening brought me through a gamut of bars, too - from the 112 beers on tap at the Sunset Grill in Allston to the cultivated dinge that is the People's Republik. Does anyone else think a 112-beer tap is wasted on 90% of Allston residents? # # # Explored the bike path in Davis Square with Andrea on a balmy Monday afternoon. We passed and were passed by a record number of cyclists, enjoying the shaded ride and the air free of humidity. "That dog looks lost," she remarked, commenting on a pug that had planted its feet in the middle of the sidewalk. I indicated the pug's owners, a mom and her toddler pedaling a few yards away. "The dog knows what it's doing. It can wait all day if it has to." I also hit up Joanna's annual barbecue in Porter Square, eating some grilled sausage and listening to Serpico recount earlier adventures in New Jersey. "It's a massive grown-up arcade and restaurant complex," he was saying, of Xanadu, "that looks like nothing so much as a stack of shipping containers dumped in the parking lot of Giants Stadium. There's no way that place can be making money." "Well, sure," I said. "Based on the set of books you're looking at." "True. There's probably a wealth of boxed-up arcade games in there that'll burn real easy." "Or just vanish overnight. 'Hey, it'sa one 'a dem extremely local collapsars. Just sucked everyding into its event horizon. Whaddaya gonna do?'"

the past is prologue

Professor Coldheart — Thu, 28 May 2009 11:00:24 +0000

At or around 625 B.C., the great Median empire, in what is now Iran, staggered from crippling blows. The Assyrians had slain the Median king Phraortes. The Median armies, though vast in number, had no tactical organization or formation; they were "all mixed up in a mob," according to the historian Herodotus. And when Phraortes' son Cyaxares led a march on the Assyrian capital of Nineveh, a surprise attack by the Scythians scattered his forces, costing the Medians the better part of their power. From these setbacks, Cyaxares would reunite Media and not only slaughter his enemies, but go on to expand Media further. First, the King of the Medes invited the Scythians, nomads and lusty warriors, to a gigantic feast. Getting his enemies drunk, the Medians then slaughtered them. In order that he would succeed where his father failed, Cyaxares then allied with Babylon in order to destroy the city of Nineveh, looting and ruining it utterly. In the course of his conquests, Cyaxares organized the Median army into ruthless efficiency, separating infantry, archers and cavalry. At the height of its power, the Medes received tribute from the Persians, Armenians, Parthians and Aryans: all the greatest forces of the ancient world. The Medes' rise to prominence troubled Alyattes, fourth king of Lydia. Alyattes ruled the vast kingdom in what is today Turkey, and launched wars of conquest with caution and cunning. He made a policy of pillaging his enemies without ruining them, allowing them to recover for later harvest. Herodotus notes that, in his annual invasions of neighboring Miletus, Alyattes "refrained from demolishing houses in order that the Milesians, having somewhere to live, might continue to work the land and sow their seed, with the result that he himself would have something to plunder each time he invaded the country." Capable, and possessed of great foresight, Alyattes had every reason to fear a union between Media and Babylon. For five years, the Lydians and the Medians clashed regularly, with the balance of victories split very evenly. Each great empire had just cause to fear the other, but the early assaults matured into a relentless conflict. The feuding had reached the intensity of a bonfire when the great armies met in western Turkey, at the Halys River. They charged, filling the sky with arrows and plowing through ranks of spearmen with heavy horse. Then, as Herodotus records, "the day was turned suddenly into night." A total solar eclipse plunged the world into darkness at noon. Now, the men of Lydia and Medes weren't ignorant savages. A darkening of the sun would not strike a civilized man as the work of demons. In fact, this same eclipse had been predicted by Thales of Miletus, to the exact day and year. Nevertheless, the generals must have taken it as a sign, because both armies lay down their weapons. The empires of Lydia and Medes made truce. Alyattes gave his daughter to the son of Cyaxares, and marriage sealed the bonds of peace. The Median empire crumbled under the rule of Cyaxares' son, and soon joined the Assyrians and Scythians in the furnaces of history. The battle at the Halys river, which produced the peace between empires, occurred exactly two thousand, five hundred and ninety-four years ago, today. I can say this with some certainty, unlike most dates in ancient history. And that in and of itself is astonishing. Nothing in the fragmented records of historians, who were themselves borrowing from hearsay, gives us this kind of precision ... except a total solar eclipse. By pinning an astrological event to a point in history, we establish not just one date - the last exchange between Lydia and Medes - but dozens of dates surrounding it. From those dozens, we can pinpoint hundreds more, a starburst of concrete information exploding outwards from a single conflict and a single solar occurrence. Combining two unrelated fields, the physical science of astronomy and the social science of history shifts the picture from two dimensions to three. History evolves from guesswork into certainty. All this from a single clue. Historians refer to May 28, 585 BC as one of the cardinal dates of history - a point of certainty whereby other dates can be established. It's the Rosetta Stone of the ancient calendar, the Grand Central Station through which the empires of the old world pass. The past is no longer a mystery to us. We know what happened, and, for the first time, when. When one astronomer from a conquered province took the time to predict a solar eclipse and make his prediction known, he gave the future an inestimable gift. The moral of the story: write everything down.

imperial, mysterious, in amorous array

Professor Coldheart — Fri, 29 May 2009 11:00:51 +0000

Tomorrow, as I've mentioned once or twice already, I'll have the honor of marrying two of my best friends in the world - John Fraley and Melissa Carubia. A portion of this weblog's audience knows the two of them already. Many of you will attend the ceremony. But for those of you who aren't, here's a preview of what I've put together for the readings. Entrance Music: Melissa will walk down the aisle, supported by her dad, to Bauhaus' "Bela Lugosi's Dead" (the nine-minute version):
[youtube=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Kq2RXSboWMs] First Reading: The maid of honor will read the entire text of Leonard Cohen's "Democracy":
[youtube=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zdePVqDPa6I] Second Reading: The best man will read selections of T.S. Eliot's "Ash Wednesday." He's already been coached on the appropriate use of unpredictable changes in timbre and long silences to underscore the points he finds important. Interlude: Eleven minutes of shortform improv from A Sparkle in the Sprocket, Lesley University's second least-terrible improv troupe. No suggestions from the audience will be taken. Music: A performance of the "Pas de Six" from Benjamin Britten's Prince of the Pagodas. The bridesmaids will don tutus and ballet shoes to portray the palace guards; the groom, a unitard and codpiece to portray the salamander who turns into a prince. Officiant will cover during the time it takes to change by finding fault with audience members' apparel. Third Reading: The third and climactic act of "A Matter of Perspective," the third season Star Trek: The Next Generation episode in which Riker is accused of impropriety on Tanuga IV and a court is convened on the holodeck. Ritual Combat: To first blood. Vows Exchanged: In the interest of deviating from tradition, the audience will read the vows aloud. Each program is printed with a different word of the vows, which must be read in order. Hopefully the audience will have sorted the order out amongst themselves by this point; if not, get comfortable. Outrelude: Another six minutes of improv. Exit: Bride and groom exit the hall to Radiohead's "Treefingers": [youtube=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YBjk10F6SsA] It's going to be magic. Looking forward to seeing you there!

all just a little bit of history repeating

Professor Coldheart — Mon, 01 Jun 2009 11:42:48 +0000

Thursday was Fraley's bachelor party. I caught up with the crew at Smith & Wollensky's downtown. They had just completed a few laps at F1 Racing and had sped here to make the 7:00 dinner reservation. The order of arrival at Boston's best steakhouse had nothing to do with who won the go-kart race, with Serpico and Auston narrowly beating Fraley by a few minutes. "And we were hurrying," Serpico said. "We may have swapped paint with some cars on 93." Over three bottles of red - S&W will keep bringing out more wine unless you tell them not to - we cut into some au poivre fillets and swapped anecdotes. Auston recounted the story of his best man losing his wife's wedding ring the day of the wedding, while Ben (the ring-bearing best man for this ceremony) gradually paled in the corner. I talked hip hop with Jonathon W. and Will, who sided with me on the Lil Wayne debate on Overthinking It. The party detached from S&W and wandered Boston's South End, stopping in a couple pubs whose names I can't remember. But that's why I take photos - so I can recall moments that would otherwise leave me, just as consciousness left me in the back seat of a cab between the Back Bay and Davis Square. That's also why I recount stories starring people you don't know. This weblog's primarily a journal for me: a means of remembering what I've done that I can look back on in two, five or ten years. Of course, if Thursday night was any indication, a few beers and the company of lifelong friends can jog the memory as well.

her folks had said our life together sure was gonna be rough

Professor Coldheart — Tue, 02 Jun 2009 11:00:51 +0000

"This must be the infamous Perich," the woman said, shaking my hand as Fraley introduced us. That introduction has never borne good fruit for me, but this was Fraley and Melissa's rehearsal dinner. The woman speaking was the Liberty Hotel's wedding coordinator, Michelle. Quick recap for the tourists: the Liberty Hotel was once the Charles Street Jail, the downtown lock-up that briefly held Malcolm X, Sacco and Vanzetti and a number of other famous Boston miscreants. It stood for nearly fourteen decades before closing in 1990 due to overcrowding. Ann Beha Architects renovated the interior and added a sixteen-story guesthouse adjacent, turning it into one of Boston's premier luxury hotels. The entrance opens into a gorgeous five-story atrium, ringed by balconies that let into conference rooms and bars. Michelle proved more than equal to my paranoia, anticipating my questions as we paced the site of Saturday's ceremony: the former prison exercise yard. "Am I going to be mic'ed?" "Yes." "Standing mic or body mic?" "Body mic, clipped to your lapel." "And the three attendants who have readings?" "Standing mic. Facing that way." She pointed past me. She humored me until I shut up, then coordinated the rest of the procession. The groom's party, bridesmaids and I practiced our stately walk into the exercise yard, standing with our backs to Storrow Drive. After a brief pause, Melissa emerged from the top of the stairs - dressed nicely, of course, but not in her gown - and followed us out. "You know," I mentioned, "as long as we've got everyone here ..." But Fraley vetoed the plan; my license wouldn't kick in until tomorrow. Upstairs, after cocktails and an excellent dinner, Fraley and Melissa's parents sat us through a brief slideshow, depicting the two of them as they grew up and eventually met each other. Then friends and family were invited to get up and offer toasts to the couple's health. I sat there, nursing a mediocre hotel wine and smiling. "We're expecting to hear something from you, too," Mrs. Fraley insisted. "I'm saving the A-list material for tomorrow," I claimed, drawing a laugh. But to be honest, I had nothing to add. Watching two of the most amazing friends in my life not only embark on a journey I didn't think I had the courage to make, but to do so with such effortless grace and humor, took everything out of me. What words could I use in the face of that? (photo courtesy of Dave Green)

when was the last time you danced?

Professor Coldheart — Wed, 03 Jun 2009 11:58:34 +0000

Plenty of sap in the posts on the bachelor party and the rehearsal dinner. The actual day of the wedding? Nothing but fun.

The groom's party, plus RJ, plus myself, breakfasted at Clink, the Liberty Hotel's classy lounge and restaurant. Ben, the groom's brother, asked for tobasco for his eggs; the waiter produced the tiniest nip bottle in the history of nips. "I'll pay you ten dollars to shoot that," I offered. Ben considered for a moment but shook his head. "I don't want my annual trip to the emergency room to be today." "We're a fragile bunch," his brother agreed. "I don't go to the ER as often as Ben does. But when I do, I get to go on all the rides!"
"This place used to be a prison," Jason, brother of the bride, noted. "Full of institutional abuses and civil rights violations. Now it's a hotel where some of the wealthiest people in America stay." "Right." "Have we decided whether that's 'good ironic' or 'bad ironic'?"
"You are so tall," the photographer commented. She had me lean casually against a recessed window while taking pictures with the groom. "I'm used to it."
After photos the groom's party retired upstairs to watch the Red Sox lose to Toronto. We snacked on cold cuts and deli bread provided by Hawver's wife Dea. We'd hoped that the air conditioner and the Red Sox would prove relaxing, but Ortiz's continued failure to connect did little for our nerves. "Your wife is awesome," RJ mumbled around a mouth full of turkey and provolone. Then: "God damn it, Ortiz!"
"It's weird," Kevin, the bride's other brother, said. "We're in an opulent luxury hotel that used to be a pris--" "We covered that already," Jason said. "Really?" The two of them are twins, possessed of that weird genetic telepathy.
At five minutes of five, having struggled with boutonnieres for several minutes, we marched down to the ceremony en masse. Fraley stood around a corner so that Melissa could make a quick pass behind us. He watched the crowds of friends and family file onto the lawn in front of us, his mother at his side. "Okay," he said. "Now I'm nervous."
We'd been coached on moving quickly down the aisle - not hurrying, obviously, but taking longer than the step-pause-step pace associated with most wedding marches. This led to a slight traffic jam near the end - I, with the bride's mother on my arm, drawing up short behind the groom and his mother. It also led to a lot of waiting with the entire party up front for the opening march to end and the bride to enter. I know that happens all the time, but it seemed interminable while we were up there. Should I make a 'cut' gesture to the string trio?, I wondered.
After the ceremony, I cornered a concierge. "What can I--" "It's essential," I interrupted, thrusting an envelope containing the marriage license into his hand, "that this get in the mail today." "They might have already picked--" "Just put it in the box. I don't care." "Yes, sir!"
Impressions of the reception diverge. I spent various points laughing over beef and red wine, lost in somber thought and dancing like I'd always wanted to. Strangers congratulated me on an excellent ceremony. "It's all them," I insisted, nodding toward the happy couple. "I couldn't have managed for anyone else."

I can't drive fifty-five

Professor Coldheart — Thu, 04 Jun 2009 11:00:44 +0000

I put a high premium on convenience. I value my time very highly. While I don't mind taking the bus - it gives me time to read, or watch videos on the iPod - I'd prefer to drive if it'll save me some trouble. In Boston - or Cambridge, where I live - this convenience comes very dear. A little over a week ago, I dropped my car off at VIP Auto after the plunking sound coming from the wheel well had turned into a legitimate scraping. I mentioned the CV joint as I dropped it off, hoping I had nothing more to worry about. The call came: the right front spring and strut had come off entirely, and the left ones were rusting. Final bill: over one grand. I paid. One thousand dollars (plus) stacks high, but I had the cash on hand. And in the grand scheme of things, it's not that expensive of a repair. Provided I only have to make it once. In the summer of 2008, I replaced my radiator, for about $700. Now, at the end of May, I've paid over $1000 for the front springs and struts. I rapidly approach the number at which Zipcar would make more financial sense than keeping my current beater. (Actually, I've technically passed that number. But I'm not immune to the sunk cost fallacy, so I'll hold onto the car I just sunk a grand into. For now. But the next time I get a repair bill totaling $300 or more and the car can still roll, I'm rolling it out of the mechanic and into my parking lot, where it'll stay until I get Zipcar lined up)

the victims have been bled

Professor Coldheart — Fri, 05 Jun 2009 11:00:12 +0000

I've struggled for a while on what exactly bothers me about Joss Whedon's writing style. Realizing that Whedon cut his teeth as a writer for Roseanne clinched it for me: every scene he writes feels like either a sitcom or a soap opera. His characters take awkward pauses between each sentence - pauses which make no sense in the context of dramatic television, but would make perfect sense if someone were waiting for a laugh track to be dubbed in. The camerawork makes each scene take half again as long as it ought to, lingering on non-speaking characters for reaction shots ... which would be fine, if the actors were any better. And most episodes peak with cheap moralizing of the Lassie variety ("y'see, Timmy ..."). Ick. Whedon's a man of immense creativity but without the stylistic chops to back his vision up. And style matters. Friends had no real concept (they're these single people who live in Manhattan!) but really clever writing; that carried it for more than a decade. Buffy had a barn-burner of a concept (hot teenagers kill monsters) and mediocre writing, and it struggled to get seven seasons. That being said: when he gets out of his own way, his stuff can be fun. Notes on the first five episodes of S3: ANNE Awful. This episode introduces a new season, meaning it should ramp up the conflict early to hook viewers in. Instead, the episode's nearly half over before Whedon introduces the central conflict (Ricky goes missing; Lily asks for Buffy's help). The scene where Buffy and Lily ask after Ricky at the clinic - presumably before he got a tattoo of Lily's name - has some awfully weird cinematography. The camera sticks on the nurse like her face contains Ominous Import, instead of just Ominous Amounts of Cellulite. Buffy quickly finds where Ricky, as well as several other teenagers, have vanished to - a hidden portal to a demonic dimension that manufactures ... what exactly? I dunno. Buffy spends all of four minutes here before staging a revolt and escaping; you'd think it wouldn't be so easy to overpower, slay and evade demons on their home ground, but what do I know? The A-plot climaxes with a pointless fight scene: Buffy clambers up onto an elevated platform and kicks 20 demons in the head. If those demons were chasing the escaping slaves, why would they climb up after her? Why wouldn't they just run around this platform - it hardly obstructs the path - and keep after their quarry? And if for some bizarre reason they're compelled to fight her, wouldn't the consecutive head-kickings of demons #11, 12 and 13 suggest a need for better tactics? "Hey, let's throw something at her from one of these dimly-lit railings, maybe." But the entire scene exists just to make Sarah Michelle Gellar look like a competent fighter, which running with her hands flailing* does not. Anyhow, Whedon pads out the 44-minute running time with some profoundly dumb B-plots. Xander worries that Cordelia might not like him any more. Willow worries about how they're going to hunt vampires without Buffy around. So they set a trap for a vampire ("act bait-y"), only they completely screw it up, haw haw. Cordelia and Xander end up on top of each other and start making out - which, in sitcom logic (see above), means they're together. And I guess the fact that a vampire got disintegrated means the gang can pull off a staking without Buffy. Only we never see anyone acknowledge either of these things; the episode ends with these threads untied. Are You Fucking Kidding Me?:

"This is no place for a kid to be. You get old fast here" (OH HAI SYMBOLIZM)
"I just want to be alone in a room with a chair and a fireplace and a tea cozy. I don't even know what a tea cozy is, but I want one."; and
"Humans don't fight back. Humans don't fight back! That's how this works!" (DID I TELL U BOUT DA SYMBOLIZM?)
"Want to see my impression of Gandhi?"
When Buffy finds Lily being "baptized" (when did this go from non-judgmental place for troubled teens to cult, and why is no one else startled by that shift?), she kicks in the door and confronts the cult leader. Or rather, the door swings open and she walks in rather casually; the sound of splintering wood is Foleyed in. I know Gellar can't actually kick in a door, but could it have least looked like she tried?

All Right, I'll Admit, That Was Cool:

Buffy ripping the telephone off the wall. It's done casually, the comic timing is perfect, and it's a subtle (!) reminder of the superhuman strength that Buffy totes around.
"If we can focus, keep discipline, and not have quite as many mysterious deaths, Sunnydale is gonna rule!" This was the first character whom I believed was a real person feeling real feelings.

Overall Grade: Second worst episode of the first five. DEAD MAN'S PARTY Wretched. The scene where Buffy's mom Joyce hangs the Nigerian death mask in her bedroom stands as an example of everything that's wrong with Buffy when it goes wrong. The acting's no better than community theater ("leave plenty of pauses between each line, and for God's sake don't react when someone else speaks"). Every conversation takes twelve sentences to communicate something normal humans could manage in two. And it would take a psychotic - I mean literally, someone who does not process reality the same way everyone else does - to think that that Nigerian death mask "cheers up the room." But Joyce has to leave that mask hanging, or else the episode cannot proceed. Also, Joyce invites Buffy's closest friends over for a welcome back dinner. Talking it over in the library, they decide to turn this dinner - at which they are guests, not hosts - into a party. A party with a live rock band, two dozen strangers, and liquor ("do a shot! You have to do a shot now!"). Which Buffy's mom and her weird neighbor Pam are cheerfully attending. Who said this was okay? Who thought this would be okay? Biker gangs behave like this, not teenagers who go to good schools and like each other. So the entire episode hinges on two instances of stupid behavior that everyone has to pretend are normal. It climaxes with Buffy's friends yelling at her for running away (right, because nothing keeps your friends around like anger). The confrontation between Willow, Xander and Buffy plays out like bad improv, with characters repeating the same ideas but never advancing the conversation. Thankfully, zombies crash through the window to get things moving again. Are You Fucking Kidding Me?

"We should figure out what kinda deal this is. I mean, is it a gathering, a shindig or a hootenanny?" I couldn't hear the rest, as I was vomiting, but Seth Green goes on for another thirty seconds in this vein.
The Principal describing the "tingly feelings" he gets when he fantasizes about punishing Buffy. And I don't think Whedon was trying to make him come across as a pervert - that was his notion of clever, villainous dialogue.
"The Watcher's back on the clock. And just when you're thinking career change, maybe becoming a ... a looker or a ... a seer ..."
"You can't just bury stuff, Buffy. It'll come right back up to get you." (MAI SYMBOLIZM LET ME SHOW U IT)

All Right, I'll Admit, That Was Cool

" 'Do you like my mask? Isn't it pretty? It raises the dead!' Americans."

Overall Grade: I very nearly bailed on my promise to watch all of Season 3 after this episode. Worst of the first five. FAITH, HOPE AND TRICK And then suddenly it gets better! Buffy meets Faith, who got promoted to slayer in the five minutes that Buffy was dead. Whedon ladles Faith's salacious spunkiness on a little thick - the first anecdote she shares with the gang is about a time she killed a bunch of vampires "without a stitch on ... stark nude." Does he not think that Xander, or the rest of the male audience, would find Eliza Dushku hot unless she talked about being naked? Regardless, Faith is free in all the ways Buffy isn't, which leads to some tension between the slayers ... until Kakistos, the vampire that killed her Watcher, shows up. I don't buy Faith running from Boston all the way to California - everything about her screams overconfidence, not underconfidence, and nothing about Kakistos makes him look like a threat. But the two team up, stake him, and seem to end up as friends. B-plot: Buffy acting all confused and coy around Scott Hope, the cute boy who wants to ask her out. Scott has all the backbone of the zombie cat from the last episode: struggling for the courage to ask Buffy to dance, buying her a ring before they've even gone on their first date, hoping that they can be "friends," etc. Then again, maybe a loser like Buffy - a juvenile delinquent with shit grades, no life outside school and no friends except three weird kids and the school librarian - is the best he can do. Ha ha, just kidding: Buffy's clearly a desirable match, and Scott's clearly a winner (see sitcom logic, above). Are You Fucking Kidding Me?

"They should film that story and show it to children every Christmas." Upon further reflection, 95% of what I dislike about Buffy the Vampire Slayer comes out of Nicholas Brendan's mouth.
I'm torn between whether or not I like or dislike Giles' inventing this "binding spell" out of nothing to get Buffy to talk about Angel's death. Ultimately, I dislike it, simply because Buffy could have legitimately brought up Angel's death without it (she is dating again, after all) and because I can't stand the notion of lying to someone for their own good.
A pre-emptive AYFKM for Angel reappearing when Buffy leaves her ring at the spot where they fought. We haven't learned yet how exactly Angel escaped from whatever hell he got sent to, but if it's "... your love brought me back" or some variation thereof I will spit fire.

All Right, I'll Admit, That Was Cool

Mr. Trick lunging out of the car window to snag the drive-thru attendant ("... now I'm hungry."). It was a well-timed shock and a well-delivered line.
Mr. Trick casually donning a thick rubber glove to yank the pizza delivery guy in through the front door.
Hell, I just love everything Mr. Trick does. You can thank him for turning me around on Season 3.

Overall Grade: Apparently, the A.V. Club's Noel Murray is also watching Season 3 of Buffy for the first time (note to self: he apparently likes it; discount any future reviews of his). He says that Angel's reappearance in this episode "seemed like Whedon’s way of announcing that all the season’s main introductory stuff is over. The story starts now." Though he seems to mean it as a compliment, I'd say that's one of the places Whedon consistently goes wrong: he thinks that he can waste three episodes on character development and arranging the deck chairs. He can't. That's what turned people off of Dollhouse.** "Faith, Hope and Trick" works because it has three decent fight scenes (Faith taking the vampire outside; Faith and Buffy on patrol; Faith and Buffy vs. Kakistos) in addition to introducing three new recurring characters as well as advancing Buffy's personality (she's getting over Angel's death) on top of a dramatic cliffhanger to cap the episode (Angel's return). It's full of action, tension and development. It's the first episode of Buffy that I would not have minded going longer (compared to "Anne," which could not end soon enough). BEAUTY AND THE BEASTS I really liked this episode. It treats the typology of relationship abuse pretty seriously - Pete alternating between a monster, tormenting Debbie both physically and mentally, and then regressing completely to a withdrawn, weeping boy. Abusers keep hold of their victims by becoming so warm and defenseless when they're "good" that one wants to forgive them for being bad. Pete's been slaughtering kids with his bare hands, but Oz takes the blame. Even though he's been locked in a cage on each night in question (also, which nights does Oz turn into a werewolf?). At first Buffy fears that Oz might be responsible. Then she gets even more concerned that Angel might be responsible, since he's still a weird, snarling mess. Are You Fucking Kidding Me?

"Every guy - from Manimal right down to Mr. I-Loved-The-English-Patient has beast in him. And I don't care how sensitive they act - they're all still just in it for the chase." (KIN I INTEREST U IN SUM FINE SYMBOLIZMS?)
Angel saving Buffy from super-strong Pete. For an episode that dwells so much on abused and vulnerable women, watching Buffy kick Pete through the air and onto, say, an upright shard of glass would have capped things nicely. But I guess even the prophesied defender of humanity needs to be SAVED BY HER BOYFRIEND once in a while.
The episode ends with an exposition dump on what exactly happened. This is a staple of TV drama - breaking down a mysterious plot with a real-world explanation ("so the landlord was simulating those ghost noises with radio static"). The problem: nobody actually explains anything. Willow's explanation, word for word: "Mr. Science was doing a Jekyll/Hyde deal. He was afraid Debbie was gonna leave him, so he mixed this potion to become super mas macho." That's not an explanation - that's what we, the audience, saw happen. At least invent some Star Trek pseudoscience ("... created a serum out of the genetic material of bulls that accelerated his adrenal and pineal glands ...") to make it look like you did something worthwhile.

All Right, I'll Admit, That Was Cool

The Oz / Pete brawl in the library. Bodies go flying, furniture gets smashed, people lunge across the room. Honest fun.
Giles getting hit by a tranquilizer dart. Giles really is the Professor X of this crew. Since the most common obstacle between the heroes and resolving the crisis is knowledge - what ritual do we use, what item do we obtain, what demon are we supposed to slay - knocking out the most knowledgeable character heightens the stakes. Plus, his reaction made me chuckle.
Bookending the episode with quotes from The Call of the Wild. Very literary touch.

Overall Grade: Rather good. HOMECOMING A rollicking treat. Buffy's abrupt desire to become Homecoming Queen looks a bit forced at first blush - a cheap "idiot ball" ploy (see sitcom logic, above) to get her and Cordelia at odds. But later we realize it is forced. Buffy doesn't want to be Homecoming Queen so much as she wants to have left an impression on her classmates. Of course, this revelation only comes when Buffy and Cordelia hide in an abandoned cabin, pursued by Mr. Trick's posse of demonic mercenaries ("Slayerfest ... 98!"). The B-plot, Xander and Willow's sudden tryst, wouldn't work if Xander and Willow weren't teenagers. But we expect teenagers to do stupid, hormonal things, and the addictive intoxication of a crush makes perfect sense. Of course, nothing comes of their "affair" in this episode - it neither gets any hotter nor blows out into the open. Nor does anything happen with it in the next episode. Or the next one. Nice going, Whedon. Are You Fucking Kidding Me?

The Xander/Willow affair hinges on the two of them noticing each other in a new light - changing into fabulous clothes for the Homecoming dance. Willow models three dresses for Xander. Xander's jaw drops at the least flattering of the three - a jaw-to-ankles black number that makes her look like a clove cigarette.
Buffy takes out the two Germans with AR-15s by sticking one of them with the device they've been using to track her. The two of them, receiving remote instructions, fire on each other through a classroom wall, killing each other. Okay, come on. No one who's ever handled a gun in their life - much less professional mercenaries - would fire blindly through a wall if there was a halfway decent chance their colleague was on the other side.

All Right, I'll Admit, That Was Cool

"We all have the desire to win, whether we're human ... vampire ... and whatever the hell you are, my brother. You got spiny looking head things. I ain't never seen that before."
We first meet The Mayor when an aide lays a WANTED poster on his desk. The camera zooms tight to the aide setting the poster on the blotter, capturing just the poster, his hands, and a letter opener. A musical sting suggests that the Mayor's going to do something with that letter opener ... but no. Never even picks it up. Not even when he asks to see the aide's hands. Cleverly done, Whedon.
"Whatever. The point is, I haven't even broken a sweat. See, in the end Buffy's just the runner up. I'm the queen. You get me mad, what do you think I'm gonna do to you?"
The tie for Homecoming Queen. Though it often backfires, Whedon loves to reverse expectations for an easy laugh.

Overall Grade: I laughed a lot, I cheered a little. __________ * Athletes pump their arms when they run. Actresses keep their elbows pinned to their sides and flail their arms. Watch this episode again, when she's dashing around corners to get the demons to chase her, and see what I mean. Or hell, watch any episode where she has to run. ** In fairness, you could also make the case that that's why the single greatest thing that the medium of television has yet to produce never caught the critical acclaim it deserved: the language, backstory and rich cast of characters take three to four episodes to even get straight, much less get moving. Scott Tobias raises this point in reviewing Generation Kill; I repeat it in the interests of full disclosure.

there is a season, turn turn turn

Professor Coldheart — Mon, 08 Jun 2009 11:00:51 +0000

As of this past Sunday, I've lived in my current apartment for one year. Today, you get the grand tour. The view from the front door. Bed immediately to my right. Walkway defined by position of couch. TV (and flatscreen Mac also used for watching movies) facing the couch. Bathroom in the back. Detail on the bathroom. Detail on the kitchenette. As for the actual living experience: the studio's warm in the winter and cool in the summer, thanks to built-in A/C and electric baseboard heat. Either the walls have reasonable soundproofing or I'm the loudest person (by far) on my floor. Laundry's in the basement; parking's out back. And I live within 3 minutes of one of the hippest neighborhoods to visit in Somerville, and within 6 minutes of the Red Line, which can get me downtown in 20. So I plan to stay.

every stop I get to, I'm clocking that game

Professor Coldheart — Tue, 09 Jun 2009 11:00:16 +0000

The Footlight Club put up a production of Agatha Christie's And Then There Were None in Jamaica Plain this weekend, so I took Sylvia and Katie H. to see it. The play has some limitations compared to the novel - all action takes place in the drawing room of the mansion on Indian Island, with occasional bits being narrated from off-stage ("oh no ... he's fallen off the cliff!"). And this version has a happier ending than the original novel - two of the guilty party escape death. Fortunately, the director of this adaptation ramped up the creepy atmosphere by having ghosts, dressed in rags and Eyes Wide Shut masks, stalk across the stage at opportune moments. Despite the melodrama, I found the ending genuinely chilling, and was grateful not to have to walk to my car alone. Then I got to Common Ground, only to find a bar full of drunken Allston hipsters ... and the real horror began! # # # Sunday dawned gorgeous and warm, 80s with a storm-tinged breeze but no actual rain, so I took my notebook to Davis Square and brainstormed. Inspiration struck me, and I plotted out my next novel from beginning to end. I filled five pages with notes, alternating between furious scribbles and vacant staring. I outlined the project so thoroughly that, if I died, someone could reconstruct the novel from those notes alone. Lots of authors advise that you not outline a novel in too much detail - you don't want to straitjacket yourself into a plot that'll stifle you. But a solid outline makes me feel more confident. It's a landmark to which I can always return, even if I want to go exploring. # # # I also saw a war between transients in Davis that afternoon: a guy in his late teens, dirty but fully dressed, hit up passerby for bus fare. He avoided me - whether intimidated by my attention to my notebook or my comical mirror shades, I couldn't tell. But then he asked another transient for change. This man - dressed in red sweatpants and unlaced sneakers - vaulted up off his bench and blared something incoherent. He stumbled across the square, ranting louder as the distance between the two of them increased, until he collapsed onto a different bench. (Edit: The wanderer - Angry Mike) The truce among the indigent strains to the breaking point. Soon, all hell will be unleashed.

back with another one a'them block-rockin' beats

Professor Coldheart — Wed, 10 Jun 2009 11:00:38 +0000

I like ImprovBoston's new space partly because of its key location (right in Central Square) and partly because of its awesome size. But I love it because of the bar. On any given Saturday when I have nothing else to do, I can show up at the IB bar and see at least three people I know. Take this past Saturday, for instance: coming back from Brighton, I ran into Will, Dave S., Kevin H. and Lindsay W. at the IB bar. I had a drink and chatted with them about the expansion of search technology. Eventually, though, the Cambridge liquor license required that IB close. So Will offered a suggestion: "Let's go to the Tavern at the End of the World." While it's not at the actual end of the world, it's on the border of Somerville and Everett, so you're forgiven the mistake. The tiny front room has a smattering of cheap tables, plywood walls like you'd find in finished basements, and a collection of odd movie posters. I ordered a cheap domestic draft and sat down with my chair flipped backward. The back room had a DJ. This townie bar, in the most industrial part of Boston short of the Big Dig, had a DJ with a full-on Akai sampler, mixing some of the most staccato electronic beats I've ever heard. Pure static and rhythm. A dozen hipsters pulsed to the music - the usual baby-fat girls with mod haircuts and skinny boys in thrift store hoodies. We finished our beers, talking about our history with the theater. Half past one in the morning. "Let's get some roast beef," Dave suggested. Back into the cars we piled, across the Everett border to Mike's Roast Beef. Mike's is a staple of late night debauches. It stays open until 2:00 AM on weekends - later than most places in Boston - and sometimes later than that, thanks to the patronage of every cop between Revere and Winthrop. I got a junior roast beef with mayo and onions, which instantly became one of my top 5 sandwiches in Boston. We split some crab rangoons and talked about corruption. "Providence just closed this thirty-year-old loophole in their prostitution laws," Kevin mentioned. "Until May, it was illegal to sell sex on the street. But the cops wouldn't bother you if you worked indoors." "That's because the 1980 law wasn't meant to shut down prostitution," I explained. "It was meant to shut down the independent operators. This is Providence we're talking about." "Speaking of," Will said, "who wants to go to a strip club?" When Will said that King Arthur's was in an industrial park in Chelsea, I thought he meant near an industrial park. Across the street from a block of warehouses. But no: King Arthur's abuts the same unpaved road that services a long row of jacked trailers and distribution centers. There are no streetlights to speak of - only the cheery neon glow of Arthur, rex quondam rexque futurus, telling you where the poon at. I had my phone out to text a message to several friends:going to chelsea strip club with will and dave. if you don't hear from me in 12 hours call cops.... but the club was closed. We must have arrived pretty late, too, as not even the usual crowd of after-hours loiterers, completing various exchanges for various commodities, could be seen out back. Circling our cars, we headed home. You never know where an evening in Boston will end, if you just let it go.

I ain't afraid of no ghosts

Professor Coldheart — Thu, 11 Jun 2009 11:43:57 +0000

A reminder that this is Ghostbusters Week on Overthinking It: our look back at the 25th anniversary of the release of Murray, Ackroyd, Ramis and Hudson's epic comedy. My post, Death of a Thousand Pecks, went up today. Only in the 80s could an EPA inspector be a movie villain - but what does this mean for the movie? Or for the 80s? # # # Also, this week's Overthinking It podcast talked about the weird framing of abstinence in pop culture. I'd like to expand on some comments I made there. (WARNING: the following contains what a male in his late twenties thinks about sex. Viewer discretion is advised) I mentioned on the podcast that Hollywood tends to depict virginity in two different ways:

The Disney view, in which virginity is a treasure to be held onto as long as possible; and
The Apatow view, in which virginity is a burden to be discarded as soon as possible.

(Neither of those are fair labels, since Disney characters don't even talk about sex, and Judd Apatow did not invent the teenage sex comedy. But they're useful labels, since everyone knows what they mean) My observation at the time: no one takes what I'd call the agnostic view of virginity - namely, that "virginity" as a concept does not signify anything useful. Recall that the notion of virginity, as it applies to humans, is inherently patriarchal. A "virgin" is a female who has not had sexual intercourse. Her status as virgin matters only in that it enhances her value in a marriage contract. A woman who has not had sexual intercourse may be married proudly; a woman who has had sexual intercourse before marriage must be put away privily. So, given that we live in an age which admits that women aren't just child-bearers, but might be agents capable of thinking, why does a woman's virginhood matter? My fellow podcasters*, while agreeing that the loss of virginity didn't transform a person in any biochemical way, insisted that virginity is still special because it's the barrier of "the first time." The first time doing anything holds a special significance - riding a bike, going off to school, getting a job, etc. And while I agree that's true, nobody considers their first sexual experience and their first day on a new job equivalent milestones. There are a lot of differences. And I don't just mean the nudity, the intimacy, the male/female dynamic, etc - y'know, trivial stuff. I mean the expectation of success. Bluntly, everybody knows you're going to fall the first few times you ride a bike. Everyone will tell you that your first job out of college will probably suck. But pop culture insists our first sexual experience will be magical. Soft lights, elevator jazz, lots of awed eye contact and plenty of cuddling after. Show of hands if that sounds like your first time. Anyone? ... .. . Okay, I'll go: my first time was not like that at all. I believe that the unrealistic weight hung on the importance of The First Time hurts the young. Your first time having sex will probably be a little awkward. Your first time doing anything is awkward. Don't stress out about it. Alcohol helps, in small doses. Just remember to breathe, use all the protection available to you, and wash up after. More important than your first time having sex, I've found, are the times you have sex with someone you really care about. Or the times you have really amazing sex. Or the times you have awkward, lonely sex (I said "important," not "good"). Or the times you have comical, embarrassing sex. These are the moments you want to reflect on and learn from - not necessarily your very first time. You shouldn't hurry into losing your virginity for the wrong reasons. But you shouldn't hoard it for the wrong reasons either. You should have sex for the first time for the same reason you have sex for the nth time: because it's with someone you care about, or because it's fun, or because you want to make a baby, or because it feels good. Whatever your reason, have a reason. And the sanctity of virginity should not be it. * All males, which is why I'm re-opening the discussion here; I'd really like to hear some female viewpoints on this.

and all the vampires walking through the valley

Professor Coldheart — Fri, 12 Jun 2009 11:00:15 +0000

I've been watching the final season of The Shield in concert with the third season of Buffy. This makes for an interesting mix of tastes, like brushing your teeth, then sipping a glass of orange juice. For one thing, almost everyone on The Shield acts more naturally. I prefer naturalism over melodrama, unless the actors crank the melodrama really high (think Mystic River high). For another, as much as Whedon plays at dark, creepy settings, Sunnydale ain't got shit on Farmington. I know it's not a fair comparison - FX can get away with a lot more than the WB. But most jarringly, every given episode of The Shield packs in so much more plot than Buffy does. Whedon struggles to fill 44 minutes with an A and a B plot; Ryan crams A, B, C and sometimes D plots into 48. The cast of major characters tops a dozen - the four-man Strike Team, Wagenbach and Wyms, Sofer and Lowe, Aceveda, Billings, Vic's family, Shane's family, the villain of the season, etc. It just makes Buffy seem ... slow.^* My reviews of episodes 306 through 310. BAND CANDY The most fun episode yet. Whedon introduces the evil subtly at first - we see Giles and Joyce compulsively eating chocolate but don't call much attention to it - culminating in some giggly slapstick at Bronze. The adult actors get to stretch their legs a little, freed from the one-dimensional constraints of their usual roles. And the action and mystery move along at a good clip. The episode's fun enough, in fact, that the worn patches only show up on closer inspection. Did Mr. Trick and the Mayor need to turn every adult in town into a carefree teenager just to steal four babies? Mr. Trick makes an awful lot of his final confrontation with Buffy ("I like other people to do my fighting for me, but I just gotta see what you got"), then flees almost immediately. And once again, the powerful demon whose presence would mean terrible things for Sunnydale gets dispatched in about thirty seconds. Oh, well. Are You Fucking Kidding Me?

"Were you at the Bronze? What was happening there that was so important?" "Bronze things. Things of Bronze." Ugh. Why not just have Gellar say, "Insert retort here; rewrite later"?
"Giles at sixteen? Less Together Guy, more Bad-Magic-Hates-The-World-Ticking-Time-Bomb Guy." Look, you clearly wanted the word delinquent but didn't have a thesaurus within arm's reach, and deadline was in twenty minutes. But don't try hyphenating eight words into one if what you need is a complete sentence.
We check in with Angel but don't advance the romantic storyline in any meaningful way. Yawn.

All Right, I’ll Admit, That Was Cool

Once again, The Mayor. He pulls off little bits of absurdity ("Now where did I put that Scotch?") that I would have a hard time with from the good guys. It could be because he's the villain; it could be because he's a better actor.
"I do well on standardized tests ... what? I can't have layers?"
Giles as a rocker. We really got to see his range here; Head pulls off the disaffected teenager ("you've got good albums" / "yeah, they're okay") with beautiful poise. Plus, you know the cigarettes he and Joyce were smoking were a primetime television stand-in for a different kind of ritual herb. Watch the way he holds his to see what I mean.
Setting the demon on fire. It was clearly CGI, but it wasn't clearly CGI, if that distinction makes any sense.

Overall Grade: Lots of fun. More like that, please. REVELATIONS Decent. The Buffy/Angel tryst finally comes to a head, with Xander catching the two of them making out (only took, what, four episodes?). The crew freaks out that Buffy kept his return secret, since apparently Angel did a lot of despicable things last season. In what becomes a recurring theme this season, Buffy's sorry for keeping a secret from her friends as soon as they find out about it, but not one second before. Gwendolyn, the Watcher sent to check up on Giles, bitches a little harder than she needs to, but not too hard for a sci-fi/fantasy TV show. And Whedon scripts her heel turn very well; I didn't see it coming until about five seconds before it happened ("Destroyed?" she asks, when Giles mentions they've found an evil artifact, and then I thought hmm). Are You Fucking Kidding Me?

Willow backing down from her confession: "I opened my SAT booklet five minutes early." That's not drawing out the tension, Whedon - that's stalling the obvious.
"Faith! A word of advice: you're an idiot." Really? I think Faith reasoned pretty accurately from the limited data available to her. And "you're an idiot" isn't advice.
So this terrible artifact's power is to shoot lightning? This ancient relic, which we certainly can't let fall into the hands of a demon, is like a less convenient assault rifle?

All Right, I’ll Admit, That Was Cool

The Buffy vs Faith fight.
Giles lecturing Buffy. Buffy does expect an awful lot of slack for a guy who murdered a bunch of people, including Giles' girlfriend.

Overall Grade: Serviceable. LOVERS WALK Up and down. Spike shows up, getting both the episode's best and worst dialogue, and kicking the plot in motion. He kidnaps Willow so that she can cast a love charm on his ex-lover Drusilla. This sets Buffy and Angel on a hunt to find her - a fun little jaunt through downtown Sunnydale that puts them in the middle of a huge vampire brawl. We also get some closure, finally, on the Xander/Willow thing. Again, the two of them become sorry for all the heartbreak they've caused as soon as they get caught - which leads me to doubt the sincerity of their apology, but whatever. Are You Fucking Kidding Me?

Spike's speech about what love does to people goes on exactly two sentences too long to be cool. I respect the effort, though.
Angel can't enter a home unless invited, but that doesn't seem to bother Spike when he shows up in Joyce's kitchen.
Speaking of "the rules of vampires," how much sunlight does a vampire need to be exposed to in order to start crisping? Is it direct sunlight or nothing? Spike spends a lot of time in ambient, reflected sunlight in this episode with no obvious downside.
I get that Buffy lives in a universe where magic and demons are real, etc, but the contented little shopkeeper at the Magicke Shoppe struck me as, well, a Hollywood caricature of paganism. "Blessed be," and all that.
The whole "soft like baby food" confrontation between Lenny (vampire scumbag) and Spike seemed a bit tacked on. Spike's reversal from sad sack to proper villain comes on too quick to be believed.

All Right, I’ll Admit, That Was Cool

Spike's initial confession of his heartbreak to Willow went on a few minutes too long. But repeating that same confession to Joyce made it funny.
Hell, Joyce was on fire for that whole kitchen scene. "Willow's a witch? Wait, Xander's a witch?"
"Oh, sod the spell. Your friends are at the factory."
The fight scene in the street, and in the magic shop, was a lot of fun.
I was worried the episode was going to end on a string of close-ups of our heroes staring sadly into the distance. But the splash-cut to Spike balling down the highway, screaming along to Sid Vicious, made me laugh out loud.

Overall Grade: Not bad. Fun in places, a drag in others. THE WISH Very impressive. Whedon takes too long to get to the crux of the episode - Cordelia's wish creating an alternate reality in which Buffy never came to Sunnydale - but things ramp up and stay interesting from then on out. We get a quick but encompassing view of the city without Buffy: dark, deserted, and terrified of its own shadows. Cordelia tries to warn alternate-universe Giles and crew about the danger they're in, but gets ganked by Evil Willow ("bored now") and Evil Xander before she can spell things out. Buffy shows up and a massive brawl breaks out at the ubiquitous factory. Good times. Are You Fucking Kidding Me?

Vampires are attracted to bright colors? What?
So this wish-granting demon's "center of power" - its secret vulnerability - is the necklace hanging over its heart. Given that, why would it ever stand within arm's length of someone? It has the power of wishes. Let other people cause trouble for you.
Buffy gets from Cleveland to California awful fast.
"If anyone saw me hanging with Xander Harris' castoff on top of that ..." I'm not going to suggest that high schoolers don't talk like that. But they don't talk like that to each other. At least not if they're not trying to be deliberately cruel.

All Right, I’ll Admit, That Was Cool

I like Evil Willow and Evil Xander much more than normal versions of same. They seem to be real people inhabiting the situations they're in, as opposed to poorly constructed punch lines waiting to stumble into a scene.
"Look," Oz tells Willow. "I'm sorry this is hard for you. But I told you what I need. So I can't help feeling like the reason you want to talk is so you can feel better about yourself. That's not my problem." What? Characters on Buffy calling each other out on their self-centeredness? How can this be?
The fight in the factory was epic.
And that girl being drained of her blood, by a machine, while still alive, creeped me the fuck out.
Whedon plot twist that pays off: Cordelia, the only person who knows what the "real world" is supposed to be, getting killed at the end of the second act. Holy shit! Now we're stuck, right?
Loner Buffy, straight outta Cleveland, seemed distinctly different from Sunnydale Buffy. I respect the effort put into that acting distinction.

Overall Grade: Just one coat of wax shy of perfect. AMENDS Oh, fuck, a Christmas episode. I can't think of the last Christmas episode in any TV series that I enjoyed. This one's no exception, with Angel struggling in unconvincing torment over his past monstrosities. It's not that I don't buy his agony when the ghosts of his former victims get in his face - that makes sense. It's that I don't buy his borderline turn into a "beast." He seems scared and annoyed by the memories of the people he's tortured, but not particularly aroused. Regardless, Buffy tracks down the cultists griefing him - creepy priests with tattoos where their eyes should be who serve "The First." Again, for such a primal vessel of Evil, the First's minions go down like a stack of china. Buffy then goes to track down Angel, reversing the decision she made two episodes ago (but which we all saw coming) to fall for him again. Happy ending. Blech. Are You Fucking Kidding Me?

The sun doesn't come out? That's the "Christmas miracle" this episode ends on - cloud cover so heavy that it plunges the city into supernatural darkness? Never mind that this is the lamest Christmas miracle in the history of Christmas miracles (which it is). But doesn't another twelve hours of darkness in a city on the edge of the Hellmouth mean that the Slayer has to work overtime?
I know sarcasm's part of Buffy's repertoire, but it doesn't help impress me about how dangerous The First is supposed to be. Could at least one person in this episode act scared of it?
This is me being new to the franchise, but - Angel tortured Giles and murdered his girlfriend? As well as a bunch of other people? How are we supposed to like him now?

All Right, I’ll Admit, That Was Cool

Remember how I sneered that the dress that Willow changes into in "Homecoming" isn't that flattering of a dress? Okay, the little red number she's wearing when Oz shows up at her place? That's a flattering dress.
Angel showing up at Giles' place. Angel plays his desperation at having to turn to Giles really well. Giles is equally cool in turn, producing that crossbow almost out of nowhere.
Whedon didn't run the "Hanukah spirit" joke into the ground! Three times, and done.

Overall Verdict: No worse than any other Christmas episode in any other TV series. ^* I bring this up so people don't accuse me of judging Buffy too harshly for failing to live up to the greatest thing which the medium of television has yet to produce. The Shield is really good but, to my jaded eye, it's not as good as The Wire. I'll explain why if you're really curious.

I got something to tell you, far outside the black and white

Professor Coldheart — Mon, 15 Jun 2009 11:00:55 +0000

If you're young and want to socialize with strangers in your major metropolitan area, do whatever you can to become a Yelp Elite. Yelp has figured out a business plan designed to funnel free appetizers and liquor into the gullets of 21- to 38-year-olds, somehow at a profit to everyone involved. Monthly Yelp events involve taking over a bar or restaurant, supplying snacks to everyone they invite, and not charging a dime. I suppose the establishments get some publicity out of it; as a marketer, I remain skeptical. The big Yelp Elite event for June, this past Tuesday, was a toga party at Ivy. It felt a little too loud and stuffed for me, cramming three hundred people into a space better suited for two hundred. You could only acquire the free drink of the evening - miniature St. Germain cocktails - at one corner of the bar, leading to a traffic jam of Gallic proportions. But I met plenty of new people and chatted up older friends as well. My toga - two mismatched towels, slung around my waist and torso - caused talk. I much preferred the smaller event the following evening - a free screening of 500 Days of Summer at the Loews Harvard Square. Marie C., Lauren R. and I (along with Boston's Yelp hostess Leighann F. and several dozen other people) saw Joseph Gordon-Levitt and Zooey Deschanel schmoop around on screen, then repaired to Charlie's for burgers and beer. The TVs on the second floor alternated between the Red Sox game and Ghost Hunters on Sci-Fi. "My sister's ex-boyfriend convinced my entire family," Leighann explained, "that the specks of light you see in photos when a flash goes off are ghosts. They still believe it, even though none of us can stand him now." "Maybe he should have used his powers of persuasion," I suggested, "convincing them he wasn't a douche." A micro media blow of 500 Days of Summer:

__________, an attractive but gloomy male between the ages of 21 and 59, meets __________, an energetic pixie with an anachronistic haircut between the ages of 18 and 26. After a whirlwind courtship which involves late night conversations, sprints through __________'s landmarks and a soundtrack featuring indie pop stars __________, __________ and __________, the two fall into bed together. __________ is happier than he's ever been! But __________ refuses to commit to the extent he wants, for reasons she won't get into. After several fights, a few walks in the rain, and a gloomy song by __________, the two of them realize that __________. Credits fade on an artsy cartoon cityscape.

there's a chance we can make it now

Professor Coldheart — Tue, 16 Jun 2009 11:00:53 +0000

"How many?" the proprietor at Do Re Mi asked. "Thirteen," Trisha said. Trisha made a rare visit to the East Coast this past weekend, and trashy karaoke in Allston topped the list of events. The old man rubbed his chin with his thumb. "Normal rooms, very crowded for thirteen. Party room, best size." He led us back through winding hallways, carpeted in purple all-weather fabrics and indirectly lit. I had never been taken this far into Do Re Mi before. Typically, I show up late for whatever's going on and wave at the front desk. They smile and point me toward the only other room in the building with white people in it. The party room: a suite the size of my apartment. Leather couches at least a decade old, with stools and a poorly kept piano in the back. And a massive, widescreen TV up front. "Whoa," we said. "Eighty dollars an hour," he said. We spent the rest of the evening fighting over the karaoke machine's remote and belting out classics from the days of late night partying: Queen, The Darkness, Rage, Green Day, etc. I brought a half-pint of Canadian Club and ended up consuming all of it. Allston hipsters, like I used to be, enjoy the shady and the cheap. It makes the minimal care they take of their own lives seem almost opulent in comparison. The dive bars cater to college students and the laundromats stay open late. I mention this only because we had some reservations about returning to Do Re Mi, having heard that it expanded and renovated. Would it still have its seedy charm? Could it still pass for a front for Thai prostitutes in the evening hours? Let me assure you, scenesters and unemployed heroes, that the new Do Re Mi is worth every penny you pay. Sometimes, you just have to spend $340 on the party room.

breathe in, breathe out

Professor Coldheart — Wed, 17 Jun 2009 11:00:37 +0000

As an atheist, rationalist and all-around humorless asshole, I don't go in for a lot of Eastern mysticism. I don't think much of reiki. I don't believe in the healing power of crystals, or cranio-sacral touch, or reflexology. I think ear candling's a dangerous fraud. I don't trust acupuncturists or chiropractors. So you wouldn't think I'd be big on ki. Watching Vlad promote to black belt at jiu-jitsu this past Saturday, I took a moment to revisit my thoughts on ki. Vlad's built like a linebacker - big but fit, in full control of his mass. But he moves with a fluidity that speaks to incredible control over his own body. When Vlad throws you, you don't feel the tension of exertion behind it. You feel a smooth, continuous projection, like a roller coaster cresting a hill. That's the kind of energy it takes to toss someone to the ground using only your hands, or to break through a stack of boards with a single chop while kneeling in front of them. The human body is a pretty efficient machine for directing force into one fine point. Think about it: your body has enough fine control to turn a deadbolt, enough raw power to lift a box of books, enough coordination to ride a bicycle and enough balance to descend a staircase. That's a remarkable variety of tasks. But too often, if we're using our body without training, we dissipate that force. We lift heavy boxes by bending at the back instead of the knees, or we try to turn a deadbolt while holding four bags of groceries. Instead of directing our muscles to their most precise use, we let them run wild. It gets even worse in a fight, when adrenaline ramps up our reflexes. Our arms flail in crazy windmills. We hold our breath, filling our body with tension, and lean forward on our toes as if to spring. We swarm and crush, but we don't fight effectively. How much better to dispel that tension - forcing your body to relax, directing energy from where it's wasted (keeping the entire body rigid) to where it's needed (the hand, the leg, the arm, etc). Think of the incredible coordination required for Dwight Howard to dunk a ball from nearly the free throw line. Every muscle must be working in unison to that goal alone - legs, torso, arms, hands. He couldn't pull that off if he just had a powerful jump, or merely had good ball control. It takes athleticism, coordination and practice. [youtube=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=EO3c8EaxsxQ] That's ki. Strip it of the mysticism, and ki is shorthand for the control and awareness of one's own body that comes with years of practice at a given task. It's what lets me push away an opponent half again my weight when I couldn't bench that much, even on steroids. It's what lets the world's greatest athletes perform in the clutch. And it's what carried my friend and fellow instructor Vlad through his black belt test this past Saturday. Call it what you've like, but I've seen it. It's real.

and the road leads somewhere, but it's not yet to your door

Professor Coldheart — Thu, 18 Jun 2009 11:00:06 +0000

Dear Ted Leo, What the hell, man? What the hell? You decide to play three shows in New England - one in Providence, one in New Haven and one in Massachusetts - the weekend that I'm traveling to Philadelphia. That's bad enough. And hey, the Massachusetts show is on Thursday night. I could conceivably make that one. I could get in the car, drive to see you, and stand in the front row screaming every word to every song off of Hearts of Oak and Shake the Sheets. That might make your day. But you're playing at the Easthampton High School Gym. Seriously? (1) You couldn't land a venue in Boston? Or Cambridge? Or Somerville? Your promoter couldn't have spent the extra fifteen minutes on the phone it would take to mumble the words "Ted Leo and the Pharmacists" and get you a slot in a colllege town with a solid indie scene? Is it a question of moral distaste? Did Paradise vote for McCain? Does T.T. The Bears have investments in the Sudan? The hell? (2) Taking as read that you couldn't swing any of Boston's hundreds of clubs for this one night - the Easthampton High School Gym? Did you owe the PTA a favor? Are they into post-punk and anarcho-syndicalism in Easthampton? You couldn't even make it as far east as feckin' Worcester, guy? Really, dude. Not cool. P.S. Living with the Living was good, too.

a couple of guys who were up to no good started making trouble in my neighborhood

Professor Coldheart — Mon, 22 Jun 2009 11:00:10 +0000

The cab ride from Philadelphia's 30th Street Station to the Courtyard Marriott near City Hall took me past fewer adult theaters than I would have expected. They integrate well into Philadelphia's downtown aesthetic of 1750s buildings with 1930s storefronts - art gallery, sandwich shop, adult theater, clothing store, adult theater, Western Union, Ben Franklin's house, adult theater, and so forth. Philadelphia's transients integrate really well, too. I saw crazy homeless people in every neighborhood in Philly - and I walked quite a few blocks - but never once got approached for change. It's a gentler sort of homelessness. The indigent have won the battle for Philadelphia; they live as idle conquerors. I walked from the hotel to the historical district, checking out the Liberty Bell and the outside of Independence Hall. Though I passed at least a dozen sandwich shops on the way out, not one spot on the way back (a mere two blocks south) advertised a cheese steak. And I didn't feel like dropping $11 at some outdoor tavern - I wanted as close to the genuine street article as I could acquire. I finally found a street vendor two blocks from my hotel and picked up a cheese steak with the works - peppers, onions, ketchup, and of course the afterthought of cheese. It went down hearty. Matt and his brother Griff, along with Matt's fiancee Lydia and Griff's wife Sarah, picked me up outside their hotel for the rehearsal. We braved Phillies traffic on 95 South to get to Swarthmore, arriving only a few minutes late. There I met the rest of Matt's groomsmens' party - three fine gentlemen I would have met a month ago had I made it to the bachelor party. "You're Kevin's older brother?" they asked, with a knowing nod that I would need at least four more beers to justify. The Saturday forecast called for heavy rain, so we scoped out the backup location first: the Quaker Meeting House on Swarthmore's north campus. Lydia and Matt eschewed a wedding planner for the ceremony, giving the rehearsal proceedings a refreshing informality. We lined everyone up, figured out who would stand where when delivering readings, and worked the timing of entrances and exits. Bam. In, out, thirty minutes. "What are you going to be wearing for the ceremony tomorrow?" one of the bridesmaids asked. "A Snuggie," I said. "The sleeves are embroidered." Rehearsal dinner: back in the city at Estia (warning: Flash intro, plays music). Weddings that unite two big families lead to a lot of moving and entertaining stories over toasts, and this was no exception. Matt's grandfather gave Lydia a warning about the men of his family "falling hard." "My wife and I've been married fifty-eight years," he explained. "Matt's parents, thirty years." We took that as the encouraging sign we think Ray meant, and clinked glasses. My own dad had a story from the bachelor party. "So one of Matt's friends goes to buy Matt a 'femme' drink as a gag. 'Give me a Yuengling,' he says, 'and the girliest, weakest drink you have on the menu.' 'Two Yuenglings, coming up!'"* Kevin showed up with an hour left in the evening, having driven straight from work in Baltimore without his cell phone or a solid knowledge of where we were. He caught me up on his extracurriculars. He's playing in a rec lacrosse league, of whose players half used to play for Division I schools and the other half have not touched a stick in over a decade. "I'm playing defense," Kevin said. "I don't have to run so much." We closed out Estia's function room early, harassing the waitstaff and doing a few final shots. Then Matt, Griff, Kevin and I took to the streets, doing what you'd expect four guys who've known each other for over twenty years to do when one of them's getting married. Would you believe that Philadelphia's the only city in America with a public library that's open until 3:00 in the morning? They serve very good espresso. * Dad later tells me that, though this is a true story, the bartender may have taken that line from Futurama. Regardless, any anecdote that helps dispel the New England myth that Yuengling's a beer of some high quality gets printed as gospel on this weblog.

ain't no angel gonna greet me; it's just you and I my friend

Professor Coldheart — Tue, 23 Jun 2009 11:00:29 +0000

We moved hotels on Saturday, from one closer to the city (for the rehearsal dinner) to one closer to Swarthmore (for Matt and Lydia's wedding). I rode with Kevin, tailing behind my parents' SUV down a rain-slicked 95 South while Chuck Barry played "School Days." "AC/DC does a decent cover of this song," I remarked. I borrowed some cufflinks from my dad and slipped into my dark pinstripe suit, with a patterned cornflower tie. Gluing my hair down onto my skull, I paced the room until Matt's rented motor coach came to fetch us. The groom's party and the bridesmaids would all ride to the wedding together, taking preliminary photos before the ceremony. The superstition about the bride and groom seeing each other before the ceremony didn't bother these two, but the one about handling wedding rings during the rehearsal did. No judgment implied; every couple's different. We stopped at Lydia's parents' house to pick her and the bridal party up, where we proceeded to wait for half an hour. "Still not ready," reported the groom's father. "The important thing is: we got here on time," Matt's brother Griff, the best man, observed. "No one can pin this one on us." We then pinned boutonnieres on each other, which proved trickier. Lydia showed up, glowing like a June bride, and the coach rolled to Swarthmore. We snapped pictures on the front porch of the Quaker Meeting House while guests filed in the sides. The downpour slowed to a drizzle but did not let up. With a scant ten minutes to go the groom's party slipped into the back for our entrance, while the bridesmaids waited to enter from the front. I caught up with Matt, his lips tight, and clapped him on the shoulder. "You know what rain on your wedding day means?" I asked him. He shook his head. "Not a god-damned thing." The remaining details are too personal to entertain a larger audience. If you've been to one wedding for close friends, you get the gist: touching ceremony, drinking with family, dancing with friends, arms on shoulders and heads in hands. I will say: Matt and Griff and their parents have been as close as family to me and mine for about twenty-five years. Having the honor of officiating Matt and Lydia's wedding - bringing their two families together - felt touchingly appropriate. I did the best I could and had the most fun I think I could have.

rule britannia is out of bounds

Professor Coldheart — Wed, 24 Jun 2009 11:00:10 +0000

WALL-E: Another touching and awesome Pixar spectacle. Pixar has mastered animation to the extent that a one-foot robot with only two words in its vocabulary can emote more effectively than most of the stars expected to carry a summer picture today. They've mastered comic timing on a level that puts 99% of comedies released today (Mike Myers films, the [Genre] Movie series) to shame. And I'm not the best barometer for tearjerkers, sensitive twit that I am, but very few human actors can move me like Pixar's wooden toys, fuzzy monsters, colorful fish or rusting robots. (No, I haven't seen Up yet; planning on it) Red Mars: I started this book when I was 14, maybe, got about 100 pages into it, and couldn't sustain interest. Don't know why I stuck to my initial judgment for so long - putting too high a premium on my adolescent judgments - but man, was I wrong. Red Mars works on all levels. As a compelling story of social orders in development, Red Mars tells the story of the first permanent colony on Mars - dedicated scientists at constant odds, each with their own vision of utopia that they seek to impose upon a lifeless planet. I also found myself able to follow the hard science aspects to a greater extent than in other sci-fi novels - I got the importance of aerobraking, and moholes, and the Phobos oscillation on the space elevator. So few engineers-turned-authors can make that work for an English major like me. But above all else, Red Mars tells my favorite story: of how the war between institutions grinds humans in its wake. Red Mars lacks any overt villains. Though the United Nations and the megacorporations that run it draw no real sympathy, they do have a compelling case: they made a significant investment in Mars by getting the colony there, and they want to see that investment recouped. The environmentalists and the terraformers both make solid arguments for their points of view. Even the saboteurs draw the reader in, with their hokey Rousseauvian mysticism. What else was I wrong about at age 14, I wonder? Your Religion is False: Asked and answered, I suppose. Atheists will never gain much traction in the public forum with the cranky attitude that people like Richard Dawkins and PZ Myers adopt in talking about faith. The ancient churches of the world have dealt with better (and better armed) vitriol for centuries. But gone are the years when joking about a holy man would get you exiled from your village, or burned at the stake, or eaten by bears. Laughter is a hard weapon to deflect. Joel Grus puts humor to good use in Your Religion is False, by taking a John Hodgmann-esque look at all of the major world's religions. He alternates between straight-faced looks at the absurdity of religious doctrine and exaggerations for comic effect:

Conservative Protestants strictly follow three universal principles, all of which revolve around the idea of "I'm sick of the Pope telling me what to do":
"If the Bible says it, I believe it. If the Bible doesn't say it, I don't believe it. If the Pope says it, for sure I don't believe it, unless the Bible says it too, in which case I have to ask my pastor what I think."
"It doesn't matter how good or evil you are - if you accept Jesus as your savior, you're going to heaven, and if you don't you're going to hell."
"I'm sick of the Pope telling me what to do."
The first causes all sorts of problems, as it forces Conservative Protestants to believe that the world is only 6000 years old, to disbelieve in all sorts of useful science, to insist that one man both built a boat capable of carrying and subsequently discovered two members of every species on Earth (including, apparently, all five million-plus species of beetles), and to assert that pi equals 3. The second causes all sorts of problems, as it has allowed a number of Nixon-era criminals to establish lucrative post-incarceration prison ministries. The third is actually an exceptionally sensible position.

And he devotes attention to just about every religion I've heard of, from the obscure (transcendental meditation, Jainism, giant stone head worship) to the institutional (Christianity, Judaism, Islam, Buddhism, etc). I think this is the book's greatest strength and the key to its outreach. Every believer thinks that religions other than his own are silly, or false, or harmful, and wouldn't mind a chance to poke fun at them. Maybe by seeing them juxtaposed with his own beliefs - equally silly in Grus's eyes - he'll have cause to rethink them. Highly recommended. Buy a copy today. (Disclosure: I advised Joel on certain portions of the book and provided some feedback on an early draft. However, I think you all know me well enough to know that, if I didn't think this was a genuinely worthwhile book, I'd put off Joel's persistent requests for a glowing review with a polite passive-aggression until he lost interest or took the hint. I'm that sort of asshole. But I haven't; it's legitimately funny)

it's like nothing else to make you feel sure you're alive

Professor Coldheart — Thu, 25 Jun 2009 11:40:22 +0000

I'm in so many other media this week. First, I have a post up on OTI comparing Burn Notice to John le Carre novels. If you like either, you ought to check out the other. Or, at least, my article. Second, don't forget this week's podcast if you haven't listened to it already: our 2009 summer movie preview. We also come to the consensus that we need a woman on the podcast - not out of any sort of affirmative action principle, but because several listeners have requested it and, really, it makes sense. Finally, OTI and Eco-comics - the weblog that mixes economics and comics - swapped guest writers this week. I gave them a post about the Justice League and comparative advantage: how Superman illustrates the Ricardian principles of trade. You should check it out.

no one wants to be defeated

Professor Coldheart — Fri, 26 Jun 2009 11:00:34 +0000

Your correspondent's adventures in consumerism in the Arsenal and Watertown Malls over the course of one hour on Thursday evening. First, the Gamestop in the Arsenal Mall. I dropped two unopened XBox 360 games on the counter, hoping to get some store credit. The girl behind the counter looked them over. "We can't take these," she said. "They're sealed." "And if I open the seals right now?" I asked, not at all getting it. "No, it's a loss prevention thing." I stood there for a moment, staring at her in confusion, before walking off. It's one of those decisions that's equally rational and ridiculous at the same time. It reduces the chances of Gamestop buying back a game that somebody stole from them, true. But it can easily be foiled by your hypothetical delinquent stepping outside, slitting the shrink-wrap off his games, and going to another Gamestop. Next, I drove across the street to Autozone. Autozone will run a diagnostic on your car for free if you show up with the "Check Engine" light on. A stringy-haired tech followed me out to my car. I started my car, but he cautioned me to kill the engine but leave the battery on. "Yeah, I just need the battery running to ... whoop," he said, feeling around underneath the dash. "What year's this car again?" "Ninety-six." "Sorry; can't help you." He indicated the interface on his diagnostic's plug. "That was the year before they switched over to the standardized model." He stood there, twiddling the cord on his diagnostic reader, shrugging with a wistful smile. After that, I went to Best Buy to check out some computer headsets. Nothing leaped out and grabbed me. While I browsed, a cluster of blue-shirted blimps hovered around a computer in the cell phone section, spreading the news that Michael Jackson had just passed. "Should we make an announcement?" someone asked. "It's channel 5 on the phone if you want to get the PA." Thankfully, no one did. I mourn the King of Pop's loss as deeply as anyone, but he's not, y'know, the President. Finally I ended up in Target, where I found some computer headsets for around $10. Since I could use one for the Overthinking It podcast, I scooped it up. I killed some more time browsing for backup hard drives and video cameras before going to check out. "$16.85," the checkout lady said. "You have it posted for $10-something," I said. She punched up an itemized display. "No, $15 plus tax." "It was listed for $10 where I found it." She flailed around for a bit. "Where? Where is ...? Shawna, have you seen ...? He was just here." She toddled off, looking for a manager or a stockboy to go check the aisle. I stood there, tapping my plastic on the checkout stand, rocking from heel to toe, and feeling sorry for the poor woman who'd just unloaded a cart of groceries onto the conveyor behind me. Sorry, miss. Just picking a fight over $5. Won't be a minute. The checkout woman returned, unable to find the employee she needed. "What'd you say it cost?" "$10-fifty-something. I can take you back there to check." "I can't go back there," she insisted. "I have to stay up front." Again, we stood there for a moment. Finally, she punched a clear code in and entered "$10.59." I swiped my card, thankfully not having to wait for a signature, and took off.

ooo, ee, ooo ah ah, ting tang, walla walla bing bang

Professor Coldheart — Mon, 29 Jun 2009 11:00:33 +0000

Fireball Island: At Michelle B's party on Friday, Noah brought Fireball Island, an exasperating hell-pit from Milton Bradley. You and three other explorers scramble your way up the slopes of Fireball Island, dodging fireballs until you can snatch a jewel from an altar. Then there's a hilarious slapstick while the jewel changes hands until one explorer can get down the hill, into the boat, and off the island. Part of what makes the game ridiculous:

Every time you roll a 1, a fireball appears. Whoever rolls the 1 can pick who gets the fireball, which has to roll from one of several points around the island. If you get hit with the fireball, you're bumped back to a distant space and lose the jewel, if you're holding it.
You can take the jewel from another explorer by passing them. And since you're only moving 2 to 6 spaces at a time, this leads to the "end-game traffic jam", where three to four players are clustered one or two spaces away from each other, and every consecutive move leads to the jewel changing hands.
As such, the wisest strategical moves, once the jewel reaches your hands, necessarily involve prolonging the game. Once I had the jewel, I ran to the other end of the island - as far from the exit as possible - forcing the other three players to sprawl out in tracking me.

I won, but largely through luck and attrition. Luau: The annual Davis Square Luau (hosted by Colby, Dea and others) was again a success - perhaps not as ridiculous as last year's, but still fun at all relevant points. True to the voodoo theme this year, Colby busted out barbecue ribs in a serving tray shaped like a coffin, and Dea decorated the inside of the house with loads of shrunken heads. A tiki band played for the first few hours, handing the reins over to a veritable stable of DJs until the morning. I drank, I circulated, I danced, I took some good photos. If you missed it, you suck.

accidents mean no one's guilty; ignorance means someone's killed

Professor Coldheart — Tue, 30 Jun 2009 11:00:44 +0000

This media blow might get political, but that's no fault of mine: The Lives of Others: Oscar-winning German film from 2007. Set in East Berlin in 1984, it follows a Stasi captain ordered to surveill a popular playwright and his actor girlfriend. The passion in their lives draws him in, until he finds himself bending the rules to keep them safe. Like The Conversation, but heartwarming and taking place outside of Gene Hackman's head. Phenomenal - moving, funny and rich in historic detail. (Note: National Review called it the best conservative movie of the last twenty-five years - which, coming from a magazine that's spent hundreds of pages defending warrantless wiretaps and detention without trial in the last decade, ranks as one of the sicker ironies I've read in some time) Half-Life 2: Acquired it with the Orange Box; finished it last week. I see what all the fuss is about! The grossout horror aspects don't do it for me (zombies! ceiling barnacles!), but the shooting felt more intuitive and intense than any other FPS I've played in recent memory. The house-to-house urban levels (Anticitizen One and "Follow Freeman") justify the sticker price - which isn't much in 2009, so go get a copy. And the in-game dialogue does not disappoint (as it shouldn't, coming from the makers of Portal). Dr. Breen's tired lectures to the troops at Nova Prospekt beat the writing in any given Michael Bay movie, hands-down. "This brings me to the one note of disappointment I must echo from our Benefactors ..." I started in on HL2:Ep1 but logged off pretty early. Given the cataclysmic ending of HL2, I figured that Ep1 would put you in control of Alyx Vance as she fled City 17. Now that would have been cool. But no, once again it's Gordon Freeman, forced to invade the same Citadel he just spent several hours blowing up. I'll pick it up again once time has cooled its memory, I'm sure. Slan: Typical '40s pulp - lots of action, lots of breakneck pacing, lots of pseudo-scientific talk. In the distant future, the human race has united into a single global police state, fanatically devoted to one end: killing the super-mutants called slans. Slans look exactly like humans, except for the golden tendrils emerging from their skulls that give them telepathic capabilities. That, plus their superhuman speed and reaction time, make them a threat to the human race. The story moves along at an engaging clip, pausing only on occasion for lengthy lectures on the history of the current situation. In these lectures we get a definite sense of the time in which van Vogt wrote this novel: 1940, when the world hadn't quite lost its fascination with fascism yet. Because fascism isn't just jackboots and insignia (though those are essential). It's any political system which treats culture, genetics and politics as different facets of the same machine, a machine that, if it were only tempered just so, could launch the human species at a lightning pace. Still, it's pretty understated. Get past that and you have a classic piece of sci-fi history. Buffy: I haven't forgotten you. A couple more episodes, then I'll have my next batch of 5. Black Summer: Superhero comics stem from adolescent power fantasies, and the passing decades have not matured that appeal much. Sure, comic books sometimes touch on political issues of the day, but almost always within their own limited language - "hey, wouldn't it be cool if a super-soldier punched Hitler in the face? and he had a sidekick who was my age?" At the end of the day, it's still wish-fulfillment. And that's fine. Indulging in wish-fulfillment gets the human race out of bed in the morning. But let's call it what it is. Black Summer is an independent comic series written by Warren "&%$#" Ellis and illustrated, sometimes too ornately, by Juan Jose Ryp. It tells the story that brings the Seven Guns, America's only cybernetically enhanced vigilante team, out of retirement. Each of the Guns combines cutting-edge information processing nanotech with handguns of unequalled power - some can run faster than light, some can throw tanks at helicopters, some can see through every satellite or computer in the world. Four of them can hold off an Army battalion. The series begins with the most trusted member of the Seven Guns, John Horus, killing the President and Vice-President with his bare hands moments before they're scheduled for a press conference. He appears before the White House press corps and charges the (unnamed) President with a number of crimes, including but not limited to prosecuting an illegal war in Iraq and ordering the torture of enemy combatants. He demands a new election take place as soon as possible, and then flies off. To Ellis' credit, John Horus is insane. No one - not even his teammates - thinks that murdering the President will solve what's wrong with America. As one of his allies puts it, John Kennedy was so unliked that he barely got elected, and now look what people think of him. So is Ellis saying violence won't fix the system? That violence is an ugly but necessary first step? That the system can't be fixed? I don't know that he's saying any of those. I think Ellis took a dark idea that writers have been batting around since Watchmen ("what if someone truly invincible, and maybe a little bit crazy, were as mad at the President as I am?") and ran with it. The result is an interesting, and brutally violent, little story. I don't think it'll change anyone's mind on anything important. But, again, it's a comic book.

just like a paperback novel, the kind the drugstores sell

Professor Coldheart — Wed, 01 Jul 2009 12:03:36 +0000

Here's what bothers me about sitcoms. Traditional narrative structure gives us a protagonist who has a desire. Between this protagonist and his desire lies an obstacle. The story depicts how the protagonist gets around this obstacle. In boy meets girl, the boy must convince the girl his feelings are true. In the brave little tailor, the tailor must overcome monsters and challenges to win his fame and fortune. Etc. Sitcoms, however, have to tell lots of stories in rapid succession. So eventually, the writers reach a point where most of the obstacles are in the protagonist's own head. Common examples include:

"Oh, I have a crush on her, but I can't tell her."
"Oh, I've done something despicable, but I can't let anyone know."
"I think my boss gave me this promotion because he thinks I'm cute. How can I find out?"
"Despite years of competence at this task, I suddenly doubt my own abilities!"

These all suck because they can be resolved at any time. They exist entirely inside the protagonist's head. He could get over them tomorrow; he could get over them ten years from now. There's no logic to when the obstacle should be overcome and, therefore, no tension. If I'm late for the opera and my car keys fell down a sewer drain, the obstacle will logically be resolved when I either get my car keys out of the sewer, or flag a taxi down, or call my husband and let him know, etc. But if I'm delaying going to the opera because I hate opera, who knows when I'll fess up to it? (If it's a standard sitcom, actually, we know exactly when I'll fess up to it: sometime between the twenty-fifth and twenty-eighth minute. But that's not a function of good storytelling) Sometimes the writers force their characters into situations that push them over their (self-created) internal tension and get them to act. The meek secretary is trapped in an elevator with her handsome boss. Will she confess her feelings? The problem is that, again, the writers are under no pressure to resolve this dilemma now. They could string along her obvious discomfort until the end of the episode. It's happened before. So can internal tension still make interesting stories? Absolutely. But only if it is absolute. A perfect example would be The Shield. Vic Mackey does something questionable - like snatch five hundred thousand dollars from a drug bust and hide it at his house. Does he spend an episode debating what to do? No. He makes a decision and acts on it. The plot advances. The tension comes when events outside his control force him to reevaluate his decision. For instance, his wife Corinne finds the money while searching the basement. What does he tell her? "But Vic Mackey was a bold, decisive character," you object. Fine: consider Billings. In Season 4, Billings witnesses a drive-by shooting while at a self-serve car wash. Rather than flash his badge and draw his gun, he hides around the corner of the building until the shooter drives off. This is a craven decision by a despicable character. But Billings doesn't fret over it. He sticks to it. He remains silent on what he's seen until events outside his control force him to reevaluate his decision: Wagenbach gets the case, runs Billings' plates (from a witness or a videotape, I forget) and corners him. The Shield is a drama, so let me turn back to sitcoms for appropriate examples. The Office occasionally veers into woe-is-me territory, but can usually count on Steve Carell's character, Michael Scott, to propel the plot forward. When Michael Scott gets an idea, he acts on it instantly and drags the rest of his office into it with him. We're hiring a stripper! We're running a marathon! We're going to Benihana! You can hate him, you can pity him, you can laugh at him, but the one thing you cannot do with Michael Scott as your office manager is ignore him and continue on with what you were doing. "Everybody into the conference room." This makes Michael an essential character and Jim Halpert, sadly, a weak one. What's the lesson? Decisions drive plot; debate delays it. People want to see stuff happen. As soon as you introduce a desire and an obstacle, your characters need to start climbing that obstacle. They can't just stare at it and pull their hair. And once they start climbing, they either need to cross the obstacle in a reasonable period of time, or they need to fall off. Or find another hurdle at the top. Either way, your story needs to move.

I heard somebody say burn, baby, burn

Professor Coldheart — Thu, 02 Jul 2009 11:56:56 +0000

Working out on Tuesday, the instructor really kicked my ass. We worked our core harder than I think I've ever worked it, though in a way that didn't feel strained the next morning. I stumbled out of class with my legs loose and my arms glowing with warmth. And this was half an hour before jiu-jitsu. Talking with other jiu-jitsu students about yoga last week inspired me to check the BSC's schedule. The BSC near my office offers yoga almost every weeknight, including classes that fit neatly between the end of my work-day world and the start of jiu-jitsu. Yoga has been, in my experience, an excellent workout - tense and draining without crippling me with exhaustion. It builds every muscle group in sequence. And if nothing else, it's a better use of my time than browsing through Target again. Besides, I pay enough for the gym every month that I ought to take one or two classes to justify it. It's just good business sense. Net result: I walked out of jiu-jitsu on Tuesday baking from the inside. My body churned calories at unreasonable speeds. I ate at a McDonald's for the first time in possibly a year and topped it off with a protein shake when I got home. And while I went to bed tired, I didn't wake up sore. I like the exhausted state of mental clarity that yoga brings. It's like a good massage - every muscle gets pounded free of kinks, forcing you to carry your body in a subtly different way. That, plus the flow of endorphins, plus the glowing warmth your body starts generating, makes you feel confident. I walked out of the BSC on Tuesday rolling from the balls of one foot to the other, like a mountain lion.

ten years burnin' down the road

Professor Coldheart — Fri, 03 Jul 2009 14:49:08 +0000

I've got a piece on OTI today about Born in the U.S.A., perhaps America's most misappropriated patriotic song. I also take some potshots at George F. Will in the column, so if that's fun for you, check it out. (Please note that I don't sincerely believe "Born in the U.S.A." is America's most misappropriated patriotic song - "The Star-Spangled Banner," taken from a British drinking song, might beat it out. But I do sincerely believe that George F. Will is a daft tool) Happy Independence Day, Americans. As you enjoy your barbecues and beach trips this weekend, remember that this country is founded on a tradition of shooting at law enforcement officers and violently questioning the Party line. Now, if the cops harass you for illegal fireworks or open containers of alcohol outdoors, I'm not saying shoot them. I'm not. I'm just saying there's precedent.

into the arms of america

Professor Coldheart — Mon, 06 Jul 2009 11:00:04 +0000

You know you've been working too hard when you get more excited about the errands you'll run on your day off than the parties you'll attend. Which is how Friday started: running to the bank for quarters, starting a load of laundry, picking up fifty dollars in dry cleaning (one suit, three pants, two button shirts, three polo shirts), swapping a load of laundry, going to the library, whoops!, strike that, library's closed on the 3rd of July, mailed a package at the post office, got my laundry. Made a very light lunch. Then I went to Joanna's annual Independence Day barbecue - a day early, but we all had the day off, or took it - just ahead of some rain clouds. They followed me all the way to Porter Square, no matter how fast I walked. I came in on a foursquare game that was just wrapping up and Joanna's roommate Matt stringing an impromptu tarp over the grill, lashed between the fire escape and one of the fences. Some of us hung out inside and drank, listening to Serpico talk about parties in Jersey, until the rain let up. I had a few hot dogs, Katie S's brother (never did catch his first name) confused me with Robert Parish ("CHIEEEF" he yelled, once or twice), Sylvia stole my camera and we ran out of peanut butter cups but hey, it's okay with me. Ended up at 90s Night, as always. I picked Meghan O' up from the bar at ImprovBoston, having a beer and chatting up the night staff. The Harold show let out a little after 10:30, so I said hi to cast and audience. As such, we got to Allston later than I might have liked and ended up waiting in line. DJ Phatmike couldn't do anything for us - the cops were out in force for the long weekend, and headcount was tight - but the queue moved at a reasonable clip. I met Flannery's mythical husband Nate and her friend Martha, and I didn't miss "Flagpole Sitta," and I never have a bad time there anyway. And that's just Friday. Did I mention the weather was gorgeous?

free, only want to be free

Professor Coldheart — Tue, 07 Jul 2009 11:00:12 +0000

PROLOGUE: Some trivia about the Neil Diamond classic that titles this post:
Pete not only references it on this week's Overthinking It podcast, but he sang it at karaoke this past Wednesday. It was awesome. By contrast, I sang Billy Idol's live cover of "Mony Mony" and got the entire bar to curse at me. That was also pretty cool.
This song came from the universally panned (though financially successful) 1980 Neil Diamond film The Jazz Singer.
It was one of 166 songs deemed inappropriate by Clear Channel following the September 11 attacks, sharing that black mark with the entire Rage Against The Machine catalog, AC/DC's "Safe in New York City," Norman Greenbaum's "Spirit in the Sky" and the Chi-Lites' "Have You Seen Her." And who says corporate monopolies ruined the music industry!
I played about an hour of video games on Saturday before I realized I was sitting inside on a gorgeous day. So I got up and wandered Somerville, stopping to say hi to Lynne D. and her yard sale. "There were people here at eight this morning," she said, shocked. "One guy sat out front in a van filled with newspapers for twenty minutes. Taking notes in a little notebook." After checking in on Marie C. and her carrot cake, I emptied my fridge of beer and headed to Mike M's annual 4th of July barbecue. Attendance was low but intimate (because of Don S's simultaneous barbecue, we theorized, to which all the people with baaaaaaaabies might have gone). Mike had constructed two ladder golf sets, which ate up several hours. He and Robert took turns grilling various meats - pork tenderloin, bacon-wrapped steak tips, teriyaki chicken - while the rest of us threw bolas. Two hours wandering Somerville plus six hours playing ladder golf turned my arms crispy, sucking the life out of me by the time we retired indoors. We played about four straight hours of Mike's racing variant of charades - two teams compete to mime their way through a list of items, racing to opposite ends of the apartment to pantomime to their fellow players. We started out strong, but energy and creativity started to flag after several sprints and beers. At one point, our team guessed every syllable of "Scooby-Doo" and still couldn't guess the answer. "Boo bee poo? Poo pee boo?"

to the logical limit

Professor Coldheart — Wed, 08 Jul 2009 11:00:40 +0000

A little under a week ago, I took some flack from folks on LiveJournal for my assertion that sitcoms were an inferior form of art to more active, plot-driven stories. Well, that wasn't really what I was asserting. What I asserted was that I didn't like it when sitcoms did that, and that it was a frequent enough trope that I was comfortable generalizing. I thought that was clear enough from beginning the post with, "Here's what I don't like about sitcoms," but. However, after defending my assertion to several logical people whose opinions I trust, I realized that I should probably unpack my feelings on art a little more. So here they are: 1. I believe that there is such a thing as great art, and that it's not subjective. You and I, reasonable humans and critical minds, will probably disagree on what that great art is (you: Herman Melville; me: Ernest Hemingway, and on into the clove-scented night). But we should agree that there is such a thing as great art - that not only is it Platonically possible, but that it has been done and will be done again. I do not agree that all aspects of art are relative. (I spell that out because some people think that, no, all art's in the eye of the beholder, it's not possible to say that one piece of art is better or worse than another in an objective sense, etc, etc. And I don't feel that's true) 2. I believe that art is anything created primarily to evoke a response. "Primarily" being the operative word. Art is art because its aesthetic value outweighs its utilitarian value. I don't think that a meticulously crafted Louis XIV ottoman is art, though it has a lot of aesthetic value (attention to form, fine craftsmanship, etc) - it's meant to be used. Now I suppose if someone buys it and puts it in a sterile room no one's allowed to enter and insists the children never touch it, it'd be more art than furniture. Similarly, a well prepared plate of food that crosses the line from nutritional diversity (protein, carbs, fiber, fruits) into a tour of the senses could be considered art. (Most people want a clear definition of Art so they can act as gatekeeper. "Duchamp isn't art; it's his gag on the art world." "Pollock isn't art; it's random squiggles on paper." "Video games aren't art; they're toys." That's not what I intend. I'm not trying to exclude anything from the category of Art. I want a working definition of art because, per point #1 above, we can't talk about greater or lesser works of art unless we know what they're better or worse at. Art has to do something, and the term "Art" has to mean something, for there to be greater works of Art) 3. I believe that every form of art has limitations and benefits inherent to its media. Novels can do things that film can't; film can do things that comic books can't; comic books can do things that symphonies can't; etc. I spell this out in more detail in an earlier post on aesthetics of different media. 4. I believe that a piece of art which evokes a response with little apparent effort is a great work of art. I'm least certain about this belief of anything I've asserted so far and would welcome the most hearty debate here. But I believe that, the closer to which art approaches nature while still evoking a vivid response - or proving more diverting - the better it is. Sunsets over the ocean are beautiful, but they're not art. A symphony that evokes the same wordless feeling in you that a sunset over the beach does is a great work of art. A chorale composition, featuring a talented vocalist singing about how beautiful the sun is, standing in front of a dropcloth on which a sunset is projected, is not as good. (Note that when I say "nature" I don't mean "naturalism," though I have a strong fondness for that myself. The Matrix is a greater work of art than Jet Li's The One, because the dialogue, effects and pacing in the former far exceed the latter. It is believable, even if it is sci-fi, and The One is not, even if it is largely similar) 5. Since technical effort is the criteria I use, I believe that the strength of the response evoked by art has little to do with its greatness. Or, in English, there's nothing wrong with being entertained by bad art. A great work of art is great because of its technical strength, not because it evokes more powerful responses or "nobler" responses. I find Road House more fun than Memento. Moreover, I was more entertained by Road House than I was moved by Memento. But I would still say that Memento is the greater work of art, because Christopher Nolan is the greater craftsman. He tells a more complex story with less apparent effort. I say this and I stick by it, even though I've watched Road House at least three times in the last twelve months and haven't touched Memento in years. 6. And finally, I believe that you will find more great works of art among dramas or romantic comedies than among sitcoms. Sitcoms, to my jaded and condescending eye, wear their formulas too openly. There's the introduction, the complication, the rise to climax and the comical denouement. There's the familiar interchange between bumbling husband and tolerant wife, between lewd boy and coquettish girl, etc. Not that the material itself renders it poor art - when this stuff was new, back in the days of commedia dell'arte, it was groundbreaking. But very few new trails have been blazed in situation comedy in the last fifty years. The Honeymooners, I Love Lucy, M.A.S.H., Fresh Prince of Bel Air, The Office, Arrested Development ... I'm struggling to name more. Further, sitcoms exist primarily on television today, and television, like all art, is subject to the limits of its medium. The subject matter has to please advertisers. It has to fit into a 24-minute slot. It has to break up into three recognizable beats to fit between commercials. This is why (in my opinion) you find more groundbreaking material on cable: shows like Party Down or It's Always Sunny in Philadelphia or Weeds. So it's not impossible for a sitcom to be great. It's just not as likely. And this is why I believe it.

oh, you begged me to keep you in that house on the hill

Professor Coldheart — Thu, 09 Jul 2009 11:00:00 +0000

Enough talk about aesthetics. Now let's talk about actual art. The Keep: Michael Mann's last big project before "Miami Vice" (the TV series). A honey of a concept - Nazis occupying a Romanian keep accidentally unleash a medieval demon, which murders them one at a time until a mysterious stranger can stop it - featuring a cast you'd kill for twenty years later: Jurgen Prochnow, Gabriel Byrne, Ian McKellen, Scott Glenn. And yet it's a complete train wreck. 96 minute run-time, and if you sped every slow-motion scene into real time it'd barely be an hour. Sometimes the film moves lethargically, like when we watch a boat pull away from shore for thirty seconds or someone walks down a corridor for an interminable period. And sometimes the film jerks abruptly - Alberta Watson and Scott Glenn meet, fall in love, and sleep together in about two minutes. The acting ranges between melodrama and mumbles: Jurgen Prochnow and Ian McKellen shriek at the top of their lungs that, don't you get it, the Nazis are the real demons, but Glenn mumbles his character's name once and most viewers will miss it. I did like the cinematography, though that's really all that can be said for the final product. Photographer Alex Thomson never shoots the titular keep from higher than ground level - no crane shots or copter shots - reinforcing its alien size. And the shot when a hapless Nazi stumbles into an underground cavern chills the soul - the camera pulls back, back, back for a full sixty seconds, astonishing the viewer with scale, until a bolt of demonic lightning arcs up from the ground. (I'd say more, but I intend to discuss The Keep in real depth in a future OTI post) The Long Goodbye: The first Altman film I've sat through from beginning to end, and I don't know what I was waiting for. It's an artifact of its time, but Altman assembles it so precisely that you can overlook the period. The setting is dated; the characters are not. Consider this the ur-Lebowski: a chain-smoking slacker finds himself in the middle of a crime, then sleepwalks his way through solving a mystery. In this instance, the sleepwalker is Philip Marlowe, played with a cool that I didn't know Elliott Gould possessed, hired to retrieve an alcoholic writer from a shady sanitarium. This case keeps reminding him of the disappearance of his friend Terry Lennox, who the cops suspected for murder - a disappearance that Marlowe aided in. Marlowe gets tangled ever deeper in this web until even his pristine facade starts to crack. Sterling Hayden might be typecast as alcoholic novelist Roger Wade, but his performance still draws the eye. He's magnetic in that way that gregarious drunks are: now rambling and generous, now perched on the brink of sudden violence. Elliott Gould remains unshaken by everything in his path until the very end. When he finally does get angry - learning that the connection between the Lennoxes and the Wades might be deeper than he thought - he's drunk and exhausted. His subsequent confrontation with the detective on the case comes off as comical. And that's what The Long Goodbye is: a dark comedy. Philip Marlowe slept through the 40s and woke up in the 70s, in a Los Angeles that barely makes sense. He reacts to everything - driving a friend out of the country, getting arrested, breaking into a sanitarium, threats from violent mobsters - with an agreeable tolerance. "It's okay with me," is his most frequent line of dialogue. And Altman continues to pile coincidence upon tragedy until we reach the point where it's not okay with Marlowe. Then he acts. Postscript: after hearing Gould's sotto voce monologues in The Long Goodbye, I understand why Paramount gave Altman the reins for the live-action Popeye movie in 1980.

you were a vampire, and baby I'm the walking dead

Professor Coldheart — Fri, 10 Jul 2009 13:08:04 +0000

No introductory paragraph this time. Just more Buffy. GINGERBREAD Eh, all right. I understand - and even respect - the coy wink that the show turns toward adult authorities in Sunnydale. Buffy can cut classes with few consequences, and the police throw their hands in the air when bodies show up exsanguinated. So to turn that around and have the town get in an uproar over two dead children - compared to however many died in "Dead Man's Party" or "Beauty and the Beasts" - cuts at the quick a little. Of course, as it turns out, this uproar has enchanted origins: the ghosts of two German children, who reappear every 50 years to thin out the real world of some witches. Though that draws the question of why Buffy and her friends are immune to the enchantment's effects, but anyway. Are You Fucking Kidding Me?

It makes no narrative sense that Buffy flips out over two dead children ("you mean someone with a soul did this?") when, as recently as "Band Candy," she was torching demons that ate live babies. I couldn't buy this at all. Especially considering the children were largely intact. But maybe I'm just a jaded TV viewer - after watching three seasons of The Shield in rapid succession, my first reaction to seeing two dead kids was "but they weren't molested, were they? missing any limbs?"
"What is this?" "A doodle. I do doodle. You, too; you do doodle, too." GAH FUCK IT'S IN MY BRAIN.
"Fairy tales are real?" the werewolf asks of the witch, the vampire slayer and the old British man who casts spells.
"All right. You want to fry a witch? I'll give you a witch!" ... ugh. All it needed was a sinister cackle and an invocation of some dark power, like OH GOOD HECATE well that was terrible.

All Right, I'll Admit, That Was Cool

The principal relishing his newfound power. " 'Blood Rites and Sacrifices.' Chess club branching out?"
Willow's interaction with her mom wavers between corny and funny, but lands mostly on the side of clever.
"You have been such a champ." "We should do lunch!" "I'd like that."
Buffy's accidental staking of the giant German demon at the end of the episode.

Overall Grade: Mediocre. HELPLESS Very neat. When Buffy starts to lose her super strength on her 18th birthday, she fears it means an end to her Slayer career. But it turns out Giles and the Watchers are poisoning her to test her - intending to lock her in an abandoned house with a vampire serial killer. I seriously feared for a few minutes that the test might go off as planned (it's the sort of thing I think Whedon might do), but complications arise. Buffy not only has to stake the vampire, she has to kill his new subordinate and save her mom as well. Are You Fucking Kidding Me?

"I'm way off my game. My game's left the country. It's in Cuernavaca!" Ech.
Angel confessing that he'd been in love with Buffy for years. This may be my ignorance of canon speaking, but weren't Buffy and Angel enemies in Seasons 1 and 2?
Giles getting fired as Watcher because he cares for Buffy too much. I don't see how this is a disadvantage. A Slayer getting attached to her Watcher, sure - the Slayer is more important, and anything that could act as a liability should be cut out. But what's wrong about a Watcher being fond of his Slayer? What's the worst thing that could happen? It's an artlessly introduced conflict and it rings false.

All Right, I'll Admit, That Was Cool

Buffy taking out the vampire with a glass full of holy water. I wondered for the first half of the episode why the Watchers were so considerate as to give Kralik a glass of water to wash down his pills with. But it's a nice third-act gun on the wall for Whedon to play with.
Cordelia giving Buffy a ride home. I respect that as a character choice.
"I'll kill you for that!" "For that? What were you trying to kill me for before?" I laughed.
Buffy walking home and getting leered at. She probably wouldn't have kicked their jaws off if she had her super strength, but she would have carried herself with more confidence. It made me conscious of how the women in my life - who probably get leered at or catcalled pretty regularly, and don't have super strength - have to handle themselves.
Kralik, and the whole chase through the abandoned house, make a severely creepy sequence.

Final Verdict: Good stuff. THE ZEPPO Not as bad as I feared an all-Xander episode would be. I worried at first that it would be another "War Stories" - the unfunny comic relief character complaining that no one takes him seriously, staging a temper tantrum, and finally getting respect through contrived means. But it didn't work out that way. Granted, Whedon completely bobbles the pacing for the first half of the episode. But when the plot gets moving in two directions at once, with Buffy and the gang closing the Hellmouth while Xander rushes around to find a gang of arsonist zombies? It's exciting. Are You Fucking Kidding Me?

Xander picking up the blonde girl, and promptly losing her after the next commercial break, doesn't advance the plot in any way. It doesn't offer any entertaining bits of characterization, either. I'm not sure why she's there, other than to stretch the episode out needlessly.
Xander and Faith having sex. Faith getting turned on to the point of uncontrollable lust by a fight with a demon is offensive. It smacks of The Rules according to Dane Cook: a girl in the right circumstances becomes a helpless automaton.
"The Zeppo." Why would Cordelia make a Marx Brothers reference?

All Right, I'll Admit, That Was Cool

The second half of the episode, when the plot starts coming together, does something I did not think possible: it makes Xander the normal one. Giles is an absentminded professor, oblivious to the zombies following Xander. Willow's a flighty, emo witch. Faith's a walking Maxim pull-out, and Buffy and Angel are practicing for their daytime Emmy. Xander's flustered but driven need to solve his own real problem - the bomb hidden under the school - seems sane in comparison.
"Is it hard to play guitar?" "Not the way I play it."
Again, Whedon hangs a third-act gun on the wall in a way that completely reverses expectations by having Oz take out Jack O'Toole. I laughed out loud at that.
And the stand-off over the time bomb played out very well. Whedon figured out what it takes to make someone cool: have him react calmly to pressure without saying very much. He even carries it over to the end with Xander's final confrontation with Cordelia. Too bad it doesn't last into future episodes.
I liked the conceit of never really seeing what the gang dealt with while Xander was running around.

Final Verdict: My second-favorite episode of this batch of five. BAD GIRLS Uneven but interesting. Faith turns out to be a bad influence on Buffy, encouraging her to greater heights of larceny and violence until the inevitable happens. Meanwhile, the Mayor ramps his scheming up into overdrive and a new Watcher shows up to relieve Giles. The villains of the week didn't do it for me - a "duelist cult"? what, do they worship epees? - but it made for interesting swordfights, of which I always approve. I think the gang's distaste for Wesley Wyndham-Price (OH PERHAPS HE'S BRITISH) came on a bit thick. The man's a stranger, sure, and he's there to replace Giles, but he's not particularly incompetent. Just young. I'm ambivalent on the unwitting murder of the Mayor's aide as the catalyst for the second part of the episode. It seems a little too ... easy. Faith doesn't watch what she's doing and totally offs a guy! Sure, I guess, but ... eh. Are You Fucking Kidding Me?

In this episode, Whedon makes Faith dumb. Not impulsive, not spunky, but stupid. Ignorant of the consequences of her actions. And this is explicit. At one point Buffy tells Faith, "Wait! Stop! Think!", to which Faith responds, "No, no, no!" What is that supposed to mean? "No, I don't want to think"? Later, breaking into a sporting goods store for some illegal firepower, Faith forgets how to use nouns: "Want, take, have." I know making characters temporarily dumb is a staple of sitcom logic, but this is particularly disgusting.
"I'm torn between the fast-growing fields of appliance repair and motel management. Of course, I'm still waiting to hear back from the, uh, Corndog Emporium ..." I had no reason to think that Xander's character would change. But I hoped. I really hoped.
Is there any reason Buffy doesn't want Willow to tag along with her, other than "the plot couldn't handle it"? I might buy that Buffy was too embarrassed to be seen with Willow when Faith was around, except Buffy doesn't seem entirely comfortable around Faith.

All Right, I'll Admit, That Was Cool

Balthasar. Ich. Loved it. How an immobile ball of lard got to be top dog over the most athletic vampires I've seen yet baffles me, but whatever. He's got character.
The Mayor and Mr. Trick. The two of them can do nothing wrong. "Nobody can tell Marmaduke what to do. That's my kinda dog." And the Mayor's checklist! Priceless.

Final Verdict: It suits. Good lead in to ... CONSEQUENCES Kept me on the edge of my seat. Buffy and Faith deal with the fallout from their unwitting murder. Twists and turns abound - the story drives forward at a quick and engaging clip. What I liked most about this episode: I couldn't anticipate where the plot was going. In most episodes, Whedon either telegraphs the plot twists well in advance, or springs them on you then gives you enough time to dwell on them. Here the story just kept moving. First Faith narcs out Buffy, but Giles actually believes Buffy, then Xander lets slip that he got nailed by Faith, then Xander almost ..., then Angel clonks Faith on the head, and then ... wow. Are You Fucking Kidding Me?

"First word: jail, second word: bait." What makes this funnier than just saying "jailbait"? It's longer, less clever, and it doesn't allude to anything funny.
Giles is right; new watcher Wesley has no reason to assign the Slayers to investigate the deputy Mayor's murder. There's nothing remotely supernatural about it (to an outside observer). It's a decision made purely to make the plot go.
Oh, and the Watchers' means of securing Faith once she gets captured don't work for shit. All it takes is one (vaguely) threatened hostage and she's free again. Nice work, guys.

All Right, I'll Admit, That Was Cool

I can't say I "loved" Faith raping Xander, because, well. But it was definitely a way more shocking, and therefore interesting, choice than anything else that Faith's done in the last five episodes. Put it this way: I buy Faith raping Xander more than I buy Faith growing so unbelievably aroused that she has to sleep with the first thing she sees, and oh look it's Xander.
"She may have many talents but, fortunately, lying is not one of them." Giles sees through Faith's story in an instant. Not that Buffy having to prove her innocence would have been a bad arc by any stretch, but it's very cliched. This takes it in an interesting direction. Now the tension comes not from Buffy having to prove herself, but from Buffy and Giles keeping Faith at arm's length.
Angel's intervention with Faith. He is, in fact, the best suited to speak with her: he's the only one who knows what it's like to enjoy a murder. The dialogue could have been a little punchier, but I could make that complaint about every scene in this series.
Mr. Trick siccing the cops on the Slayers. That plot twist came at just the right time to kick the episode into a higher gear.
Xander letting slip that Faith screwed him. I worried that Whedon would try to drag that secret out for another 3 or 4 episodes (like Xander and Willow's affair), but this was the best time for it. And, as with Giles earlier, everyone gets it without needing to spell it out.
"I guess that means you have a job opening." Ambivalent on the end of the episode, but its unexpectedness nudges it into the Awesome hole. Faith going from "slayer of demons" to "aiding and abetting demons" is a bit of a stretch, but she was never in this to save the world anyway. And when you don't feel like you have anyone in your life to trust, you make some really shitty choices.

Final Verdict: Fun, tense and plotted with razor precision. More like this, please.

a couple of the sounds that I really like

Professor Coldheart — Mon, 13 Jul 2009 11:00:10 +0000

I bought Michelle B. brunch at Johnny D's, in payment for her reviewing the first draft of my second novel and giving me feedback. She teaches at a public high school similar to the one my novel's set at and I needed her help on verisimilitude. I captured the attitude of school kids very well, she said, but could probably dial back the swearing. "Kids are very conscious of where The Line is," she said, "and will dance all the way up to it without stepping over. Unless they want to get kicked out. So in this section here, where Roland says, 'Suppose you suck my dick, bitch,' he might say ..." Next: haircut at Franco's in Inman Square. I come here often enough to be considered a regular now by the staff. First thing Mike did when he sat me down was ask, "How was the wedding?" So I told him about the Liberty Hotel and officiating a wedding behind Storrow Drive and Clink and all the rest. He did my hair up shorter than usual, at my request. I trust the man implicitly. Even though the weather was pleasant, I stopped off at Inman Oasis for a soak in the big hot tub, saying hi to Miss Cheryl at the front desk. Then I walked all the way from Inman back to Davis, burning off about a third of my brunch calories. Serpico invited me out to watch UFC 100 at Sports Despot in Allston. We got there minutes before 10:00 just before the bar hit capacity. I like Sports Despot - crowded, sure, but it's a well-behaved crowd, and there's more than enough TVs. We squeezed in behind the Pop-a-Shot game and watched the bloody action on a flatscreen thirty inches from our noses. Highlights:

Akiyama v. Belcher: My favorite fight of the night. Two technically savvy, aggressive fighters trading blows and working angles. Still, this fight belonged to Akiyama - apparently nicknamed "Sexiyama" in his hometown of Osaka, due to his lucrative singing career - from round 1. Superior grappling and more acrobatic striking. Match Highlight: Two hundred and fifty men in an Allston bar groaning simultaneously when the clip of Akiyama taking a kick to the groin was replayed.
Henderson v. Bisping: I haven't watched "The Ultimate Fighter" in over a year, so I had no idea of the bad blood between these two. So I leaned back to watch a suitable fight for the first round and a half. Then Henderson knocked Bisping out with a punch that got replayed at least six times. Left knee and low left uppercut to draw his block down, and then a right haymaker that slalomed Bisping's jaw. Henderson followed Bisping down to the mat, dropping an elbow on his face from his full height. Still not sure the man knows where he is. Match Highlight: Rogan asking Henderson afterward: "Did you know Bisping was out when you tagged him that second time?"
GSP vs. Thiago Alves: Watching the U.S. Open at work a few months back, one of my colleagues wondered aloud if people watching Roger Federer play realized that they were probably watching the greatest male tennis player of all time - if they were conscious of the man's place in history. I don't follow tennis that close, but I feel the same way about Georges St. Pierre. He's incredibly competent at every aspect of fighting - superior hand strikes, superior kicks, superior grappling, superior submissions, etc. He's fast and he's powerful, an optimized fighter. I hoped for a knockout or a submission, but even Alves knew after Round 5 that he'd lost - he hoisted St Pierre's hand and retired to his own corner. Consider that GSP continued to dominate the ground game for the last two and a half rounds, even after pulling his groin, and join in my amazement. Match Highlight: The "twenty-one-year old" in the Metallica shirt who booed until his voice cracked every time St Pierre took Alves down. Which was at least three times a round.
Brock Lesnar vs. Frank Mir: I hate Brock Lesnar. That doesn't make me special, of course; he's practically built to be hated. The man coasted into UFC from the pro-wrestling circuit, was handed title shots on the strength of his name alone, and has comported himself with bad grace throughout. Tonight's match was no exception: he refused to touch gloves with Mir in the warmup and downplayed his prior loss to Mir (via submission) in the pre-show interviews. And yet I have to acknowledge: Brock is good at what he does. He doesn't possess a lot of technical artistry, but he has size, aggression and a mastery of his limited range. Lesnar took Mir down, slowly turned his ground pin into solid control, then struck Mir until his head bounced off the fence. Match Highlight: The post-match interview with Rogan. "Keep it coming!" Lesnar yelled to the booing fans. "I'm'a go home, drink a Coors Light. A Coors Light," he repeated, pointing to the prominent Bud Light logo on the canvas, "because Bud ain't paying me shit. Hell, I might even get on top'a my wife tonight. Sarah? Where are you, honey?" The thought of that psychotic thug even simulating tenderness scares me.

Postscript: my first run-in with a crazy neighbor in thirteen months of living here. Given that I live in a brick walk-up for shut-ins, I'm amazed it took this long. At about 1:30 on Sunday morning, the guy in the apartment next to me (not Ryan; the other side) slammed something into the ground about forty times. He went on a screaming tirade throughout, indistinct over the slamming, that ended in "fucking upstate New York!" All quiet for another half hour, until he began a slurring rant about several people who might not have been present or listening. "And Joey? Fucking Joey? Fuck you, you fucking asshole! And Johnny? That fucking fag!" Etc. By the time I had resolved the debate on whether to call the cops or get dressed and knock on his door myself, he had stopped.

if it makes you happy, it can't be that bad

Professor Coldheart — Tue, 14 Jul 2009 11:24:23 +0000

This media blow hasn't read anything in a while. Brave New World: Again, I read a book that everyone else on the planet has read years ago. I have nothing to add to the decades of critical acclaim heaped on this book, so I'll talk more about my reactions to it than a critique of the book (savagely funny, frighteningly telling, oddly paced). First, I went in expecting something more of the tone of Nineteen Eighty-Four - not a biting satire obsessed with sex written in a postmodern style. Which isn't bad - it's very true to the moral of the story - but it was certainly a surprise. Could you imagine a book written by an American, today or in the recent past, which features seven-year-olds engaging in "erotic play"? American Puritanism has always been stiffer than British Victoriana in certain ways. Sure, we invented the blues, but we also held onto slavery quite a bit longer (cause/effect? anyway). Second, I don't quite know the effect the story had on me. For one thing, its brilliant, reductio ad absurdam critique of fascism, corporate psychology and Keynesianism suits me just fine. I don't genuinely believe that we'll all worship Henry Ford in the future (and Huxley probably didn't either), but science fiction isn't a lens through which we view the future. It's a lens through which we view the past - what concerned the author and his contemporaries at the time the novel was written. So, on that level, the novel works. But I don't know that I buy every criticism. "There isn't any need for a civilized man to bear anything that's seriously unpleasant," Mustapha Mond tells John the Savage at the end of the novel. And I believe that. At the very least, I see that as an ideal. I believe that relief of human suffering is one of the noblest ends to which one can commit a life. You can measure the progress of civilization by how far it takes humans from the state of nature - when we died young, hungry and often at each other's hands. The romance of chivalry, exploration and surviving by the sweat of one's brow that Shakespeare (and through him, John the Savage) idealize is just that - an idealization, passed down to us by the one person in one hundred who was taught to read. And yet I wonder if I would still think that if I hadn't been so thoroughly conditioned to. I had a comfortable childhood and live a steady life now. The adventures I allow myself exist within controlled confines - train trips to Baltimore, weekends in Reykjavik. Am I just one of the Deltas clamoring for their soma ration - ignorant of what real freedom is because I've never known it? The 36th Chamber of Shaolin: That rarity among 70s kung-fu flicks: a well-paced story that a Western audience can access with little trouble. Leonard recommended this in an AVClub column on gateways to geekery as a good intro to the genre. I wanted to stick up for Fist of Legend or Five Deadly Venoms or even, just to be snobbish, Magnificent Butcher, but, having seen the movie, I can't fault his choice. The plot's an afterthought, but here: callow student Gordon Liu (whom Western audiences might recognize as bearded master Pei Mei from Kill Bill Pt 2) joins the revolution against the Manchu dynasty at the instigation of his philosophy teacher. When things go south, he flees the city to the esoteric Shaolin Temple where he hopes to learn martial arts. The Buddhist monks enroll him in a sequence of bizarre and demanding trials to build up his body and kung fu: think "wax on, wax off" on HGH. Then he returns and kicks butt all over the place. If film students should watch William Goldman films for dialogue, Spielberg movies for pacing and Kubrick for cinematography, they should watch Shaw Brothers' films for editing. Not scene transitions necessarily, but the way the Shaws compose a fight scene. You never lose track of who's doing what or in relation to whom - a rarity in this era of Tony Scott smash cuts. More importantly, you can always tell who's winning a fight, even if no one draws blood, thanks to musical cues, camera angles and pacing. Watch Gordon Liu fight the monastery's abbot to see what I mean. This is the film (along with Five Deadly Venoms, Shaolin and Wu-Tang and Mystery of Chessboxing) that inspired the Wu-Tang clan's debut album. This is The Realness.

last sunday morning, sunshine felt like rain

Professor Coldheart — Wed, 15 Jul 2009 14:40:57 +0000

It's been a pretty good seven days here in Boston. The weather has finally turned around, giving us sunny mornings and temperate evenings. I've made an effort to get outside and be more sociable, making some new friends in the process. I switched up my exercise routine at the gym a bit, leading to new and interesting aches. Also, adding yoga to my workout routine has granted me a steady flow of endorphins. I've been having a lot of fun tackling Oblivion on the XBox and watching Kings on Hulu. And I've even had some success editing old writing projects. That's a parcel of good news right there. But here's the question: if you don't subscribe to the mind/body dichotomy (as I don't), you recognize that mental and physical states tie together. Your mood affects your thought patterns. The chemical composition of your body affects your mood. Stress, hunger and vitamin levels affect those chemicals. And when you're feeling stressed and hungry, you make different choices - different thought patterns - than when you are. So the question: in that laundry list of good developments above, which are causes and which are effects?

tuesday's gone with the wind

Professor Coldheart — Thu, 16 Jul 2009 13:09:20 +0000

When I wrote about the 2009 Muse and the Marketplace conference a few months back, I mentioned Ann Patchett's keynote speech. Let me give a little more detail there: Patchett talked about editing the 2006 Best American Short Stories collection. Out of the wealth of material available to her, she had the hardest time winnowing down to a roster of twenty. "But I would not have had that difficulty were I picking the twenty best novels of 2006," she said. "They're just not the same quality. "Everyone tries to sell their first novel," she continued. "But nobody tries to sell their first short story. You write it and you stick it in a drawer. Or you throw it away. No one has a problem throwing away a short story. But when we invest so much time in our novels, we get married to them. And if you're going to take your craft seriously as a writer, you have to reach the point where you can admit that a novel just might not work. "I had a very dear friend who had tried to sell a novel for ten years. He worked on it and revised it and edited it and workshopped it a dozen times. Finally he gave it to me and said, 'Ann, if you say it can't be saved, I'll put it away.' I read it. Then I came back to him and said, 'Put it away.' And he screamed at me in tears and said, 'No, no, you're wrong,' and we have not spoken since." I say all this because I may be at that point with my last two novels. I've been trying to push the first one as a thriller, but that was before I read any actual thrillers. With two hundred thousand words of Tess Gerritsen and Lee Child and Harlan Cobin under my belt, I now know what a thriller's supposed to look like - and the Levittown Barbecue Club ain't it. It takes its sweet time. I may have some talent as a stylist, but I can't plot for shit. The second one, the one I just finished, is more literary. But it also starts with a murder and it coasts on suspense for as long as it can. If it's a thriller, I don't introduce any real tension until about midway through; if it's literary, I don't spend nearly enough time exploring a theme. And it's barely 60,000 words. Whereas the short story I just finished? The one I sent to Esquire's new fiction contest? I feel pretty good about it. And if it gets rejected, that's a month's work gone. No big loss. But a month of writing a short story helped me at least half as much as a year of writing a novel did. Maybe I should measure my writing progress in plots instead of words. I created four plots in the last six months, etc. I haven't given up hope yet. Michelle's feedback on the second novel gave me some new inspiration. But hope's not what I need most right now. More than anything, I need truth. I need to know whether either of the novels I wrote over the last two years have any future. Because if I need to murder my darlings, I want to get my blood up.

and these children that you spit on as they try and change their world

Professor Coldheart — Fri, 17 Jul 2009 11:28:21 +0000

Short day today, so I'm going to you for content. First, post a link in the comments to your favorite videos on TED.com. If you don't have a favorite yet, visit the site and browse. Mine: [ted id="163"] [ted id="96"] [ted id="121"] Second, if you got invited to speak at TED, what would you speak on? You don't need to be a world-renowned expert. But it does need to be a subject that you can speak passionately and creatively about, and it needs to suggest changes (small or large, personal or social) that you think would improve the world. If I got invited (and I reserve the right to change this if TED calls me up tomorrow), I would speak on how to take advantage of revolution cascades to change a culture. I'd have to spend a few minutes laying out Timur Kuran's theories of preference falsification. Then I'd get into concrete steps:

Promote awareness through spectacle.
Change people at the margins first.
Decide where your strength lies (endurance vs. speed, ingenuity vs. tradition) and ramp it up.

So that's my talk. What's yours? Of course, if you can dance, you can always dance. But it's got to be good. [ted id="179"]

and if you care to take a dare, I'll make a bet with you

Professor Coldheart — Mon, 20 Jul 2009 11:00:12 +0000

I waited in the lobby of Marcelo and Greg's place, juggling an 18-pack of Coors and about three liters of Diet Coke, until Greg came down to get me. "I had some ideas on the walk over," I told Greg as he let me in. "We've taken it in a ... different direction since you left," he said. And indeed, I walked in on a vastly different conversation than the one I'd left. "Do we want to play Dave as a slacker who lucks into this?", Marcelo asked Derek (our head writer) as I stocked the fridge. "Or as a douchebag who sets out to hustle the Devil?" "Definitely douchebag," Derek suggested. "The Devil's our protagonist here." We had been given "Rent" as a theme and "Light Bulb" as a film element for our entry into the Boston Film Race at 10:00 PM, less than an hour ago. We had 24 hours to shoot a three and a half minute film that incorporated those elements, edit it into a presentable format, and return it to the drop-off point. Marcelo produced music, assisted with edits and oversaw the whole production. Greg and Derek wrote. I shot the film, using a camera belonging to one of Marcelo's friends. I stayed quiet through most of the Friday night discussion, watching a better idea than I could have come up with coalesce between Greg, Marcelo and Derek. Aside from interjecting an occasional idea ("what if the Devil's canvassing for souls like a Greenpeace volunteer?"), I had nothing to add until Greg and Derek plotted out the beats. Then I got to work, turning an empty bedroom in Marcelo and Greg's apartment into some semblance of a seedy poker den. "The light bulb can be a bare bulb dangling from a fixture," I suggested. "It'll help convey the seediness." Saturday morning, we started rolling on our first scene - the poker game - at around 9:00 AM. I called "Action" on the first shot and began sweating - not due to nerves, but due to the flannel blankets blocking all sunlight and the 400-watt overhead spot that Dan S., our tech guy, had mounted. "No one touches this but me," Dan established, donning a pair of thick padded gloves. "Unless you want to go to the hospital." The lighting paid off, though, as the HD camera I shot with picked up gorgeous colors and crisp details. A pencil-thin beam of light glistened along the stem of a pair of mirror shades, and the lenses reflected the Devil. I spent an hour and a half filming the same scene from a dozen different angles - a wide shot that included both players and the dealer, two-button shots of each player, extreme close-ups, low-angle shots from the edge of the table, close ups on cards, close ups on chips, close ups on the river. Finally, the battery exhausted, I aired out the room and called a wrap. We shot one more scene at Marcelo and Greg's apartment, then trucked to Greg's office in the city. Every time we moved locations, I snatched minutes here and there to charge the camera battery. We only had one, and didn't have an AC adapter. Also, as the afternoon grew later, I became less demanding with my coverage: settling for two takes instead of three, two angles on a scene instead of dozens, etc. We also started integrating sound into our shoot - the poker scene had been silent, music to be added later - with the aid of Dan's boom mic, portable mixer and backup recorder. Each of us started to drag in his own way as the day's rain failed to materialize, cursing us with brutal humidity. Serpico's head slumped forward as he rested in one of Greg's office chair. Derek, who'd only had about an hour of sleep between writing and acting, started to get shaky. And I overlooked simple ways to film scenes ("have Derek walk toward the camera") for bizarre ones ("put the camera on the tripod, extend one of the legs behind me, mount that leg on my shoulder, point the camera behind me but flip the viewscreen, and walk forward with Derek following me"). We staggered back to Marcelo and Greg's at 3:30 - six and a half hours to go. Lessons learned from this weekend filming marathon:

Storyboard. It's not just for the pros! I shot twice as much footage as I needed for the poker scene - our big setpiece of the movie - because I had no clear vision. I knew that a poker scene should contain things like fingers drumming on hole cards or sweat beading on foreheads, but I didn't know how much and in what order. If I had taken the time to lay out how the scene should unfold, I could have saved the production a much needed hour.
Gear. If an army marches on its stomach, a film crew sprints on its gear. Lacking a camera battery or an AC adapter probably cost us two and a half to three hours - waiting for the battery to recharge to shoot scenes, or losing an hour before we could upload footage. But it wasn't all bad news - Dan's pro light and sound gear, as well as his expertise, turned some good scenes into great ones.
Spell it Out. The final product tells an unconventional but accessible story. So far, the opinions of the crew, producers and first ones to see the (raw) product are split. Some people get what's at stake early on; some don't. (I'm being deliberately vague because I don't want to spoil more of the story than I already have) Writing or shooting with an eye toward informing the whole audience would have helped - especially since we only had three and a half minutes.

That laundry list aside, our final product fills me with pride. It's the best marathon film I've been a part of yet and my second one with the Red Light District Attorneys. And I get a little better each time.

drinking santana cham 'cause it's so crisp

Professor Coldheart — Tue, 21 Jul 2009 11:00:49 +0000

Saturday, after shooting under hot lights for eight hours, I did not trust myself behind the wheel of a car. As such, I couldn't make it to Melissa and Fraley's farewell party for Jon Walton. I did stumble to the end of my block and into the basement of Redbones, to say goodbye to ImprovBoston's own Paul K. and Melissa H. Paul and Melissa are moving out west, so they're driving across the country and seeing a wide range of tourist sites: the Grand Tetons; Mt. Rushmore; Casper. Wyoming. They couldn't work their schedule to include the world's largest ball of twine (the Kansas one), and this filled them with regret. "How do you decide to make the world's largest ball of twine?" Melissa asked. "You commit to the bit," I explained, "a staple of improv. Once you collect enough twine to make a four-foot ball, why stop there?" I've worked with Paul before in Neutrino and always found him a talented, responsive partner on stage. But he's also a genuinely good human being - kind and fun to be around. I told him and Melissa I'd miss them as I said my goodbyes. "We'll miss you too," Melissa said. "But I still read your blog." "You read my blog?" I asked, mouth open. "All the time," she said. "I think it's the only blog I read." This makes Melissa Holman the greatest American hero. # # # The short girl in the black coat darted past me almost before I could react. "Emily!" I yelled. She stopped, and a three-year online friendship culminated in its first face-to-face meeting. I introduced Emily to Victoria while we waited in line for our tickets. Vickie talked about living in Davis Square. Emily reminisced about her high school prom - right here, on Rowes Wharf on the Boston waterfront. Though the weather threatened rain tomorrow and had been muggy all weekend, Monday evening greeted us with cool water breezes. "This is awesome!" Emily squealed, sipping at her complimentary Maker's Mark mojito. "This is Yelp," I told her. The Odyssey disembarked at 7:00, taking us out past the Harborwalk and the Korean War Memorial. We drank cocktails and ate peppercorn sirloin, talking about:

contemporary music: Emily: "I can't handle any musician who was born after 1990";
work: Vickie: "I've seen The Thighs, and yes - they're real and their spectacular";
And the best way to kill a mouse: Me: "Any sharp trauma to the crown of the head should do it."

The party spread over every deck of the boat and practically every Boston Yelper had brought guests, so I only got to say Hi to each person I knew once. But we found Leighann, and my coworker Allison H., and the entertaining Lauren R., and the chocolate fountain with strawberries, and the sun setting over the Boston skyline on the top deck, and a Johnny Depp impersonator with a bottled tan swaggering about in leather and lace and a fake sword. The DJ closed the night with "P.Y.T." as we settled back into dock. "Thank you so much for inviting me to this," Vickie said, moments after embracing Emily and sending her to the Ashmont line. I shrugged. "That's what friends do."

from the homicidal bitchin' that goes down in every kitchen

Professor Coldheart — Wed, 22 Jul 2009 11:00:18 +0000

Take for granted that, when you give a man money and freedom for the first time (post college), he will either (1) live like a child or (2) live worse than a child, acting out all his repressed fantasies. I think about this every time I sit down to the lunch I pack myself at work: two peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, one yogurt, one little cup of mixed fruit in gelatin, some crackers, a stick of string cheese and three cookies, with a glass of milk to drink. And a pretty big salad, but still. # # # Twice in the last three days I've seen someone reading a Rex Stout novel on the T. Not a vintage one, either - if I had to guess, probably a late 80s, early 90s reprint. What gives? Rex Stout's a talent, of course, but wherefore the sudden interest? Assigned reading at Harvard? Did someone mention him on NPR? It could just be my dumb luck. But (as Ian Fleming wrote), once is happenstance, twice is coincidence, three times is enemy action. If I see someone thumbing through If Death Ever Slept on the Red Line this week, I'll know ... something. (I linked to the Geocities page above for novelty) # # # This past June, with its twenty-one sunless days, got me back on my Leonard Cohen kick. I think the man's miscast as a musician - every song of his goes 45 to 120 seconds too long. But Leonard Cohen is, quite possibly, the greatest ~~American~~ North American poet of the twentieth century. At least top three. He, St. Vincent Millay and Hughes can duke it out. Dispute that all you like. What I will not dispute: a Leonard Cohen cover of Lily Allen's "The Fear" would be awesome. Not singing, just speaking as a lonely piano tolls in the background. [youtube=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=q-wGMlSuX_c] Leonard Cohen does not make a good workout track for your iPod, of course. But you know what does? The soundtracks to Shadow of the Colossus and God of War II. Edit them down to just the boss battles. Slip your headphones on, start running, and then blink in a schizophrenic daze as the playlist ends and you find yourself two miles farther than your usual run, dripping with sweat and clutching a bloody sword engraved with runes in one hand. The runes will portend.

the love is the liveliest, the life the loveliest

Professor Coldheart — Thu, 23 Jul 2009 11:36:35 +0000

Three pieces of Overthink: (1) I have a post up on the Fallout 3 soundtrack and its existentialist implications. It's long but should be accessible even to people who haven't played the game. Have fun. (2) I'm sure you've all listened to this week's Overthinking It podcast. If not, you can hear me stand my ground on the insipidity of the "celebrity death trifecta" against all comers. We also talk about Emmy nominations and the passing of Frank McCourt. (3) So every now and then someone lands on our site (apparently) without reading the URL. Their comments on our posts invariably entertain. "hur hur u guys r so retarded its just a [movie / song / video game / comic book featuring Barack Obama] just hav fun wit it." There's no engaging these people, of course; explaining the schtick never makes it funnier. I got one yesterday on my very first post for the site - in which I accuse Rick Springfield of advancing the mind/body dichotomy in "Jessie's Girl". Our dilettante wrote:

Actually I think I will say something as I am a loyal long term fan of Mr. Springfield’s and don’t appreciate his work or him being slammed like this. I think some of you need to listen to some of his later works rather than judge him harshly on only one song. He has evolved considerably in his lyrics since 1981. On his latest CD, Venus In Overdrive, there is a song called “What’s Victoria’s Secret?” and no it’s not about the underwear. It’s basically the flip side of Jesses Girl and tells us men should look for what’s inside of a woman and not objectify their bodies. There is another song on that CD, “Mr. PC” that has lyrics that sum up perfectly what I think of this specific article some of the negative opinions given: On and on and on and on you go tell me Mister PC Round and round and round and round you go preach it PC You got a brilliant way of saying nothing at all

Given this anonymous poster's instant lyrical recall of Rick Springfield songs that nobody knew existed, I can only draw one conclusion: Rick Springfield just trolled our blog. High-five, guys.

I'm guided by the beauty of our weapons

Professor Coldheart — Fri, 24 Jul 2009 11:00:17 +0000

I decided a little while back to swear off talking politics in this weblog. So far I have yet to regret it. Even as the economy and health care continue to dominate the news, even as nationally televised race incidents transpire two miles from my front door - I'm not tempted. My blood pressure's lower. I sleep easier. I smile more often. My posture's improved. Of course, I still follow all my favorite political sites - IOZ, Popehat, The Agitator - and comment on major stories. So it's not perfect. But refusing to talk about politics here gets me one step closer to refusing to care about politics. That'll get me one card-punch closer to enlightenment. Soon I can cash that in for a hot chocolate and a small muffin. But a friend asked me last night what I thought of some current political news item. So it couldn't hurt to make a brief but clear restatement of principles. I crib my inspiration from noted science-fiction author John Scalzi:

I support the right of same-sex married couples to carry concealed weapons. I hope this explains everything.

In Scalzi's case it might, but in my case I don't think it does. Not to detract from Scalzi's pithy excellence, of course. So, to the above, add for me the following:

I support the right of released Guantanamo Bay detainees to drive unlicensed taxicabs. I support the right of uninsured immigrants to pay out of pocket for silicone breast implants. I support the right of women who've had partial-birth abortions to buy Hummvees. I support the right of global bank executives to smoke pot. I support the right of animal rights organizations to pay their staff below the minimum wage. I support the right of Baptist preachers to park their scooters on the sidewalk. I support the right of Wiccans to spank their children. I support you. In something, I'm sure.

I think that about covers it.

to everything, turn turn turn

Professor Coldheart — Mon, 27 Jul 2009 11:45:42 +0000

Houston Airport: every sign repeats its message in Spanish. Even in the Northeast this is common, but never as omnipresent as on a border state. The men's room I ducked into reeked of something Cartier and the baggage claim was under construction, but that could happen at any airport. I showed up late, but still welcome, to the informal party on Friday evening. The last unofficial family reunion on my mother's side had been at my cousin Jessica's wedding about two years ago. Not all of the cousins had been there, meaning the last time I saw some of these people they'd been squabbling over Game Gears and those fabric Frisbees people play with on the beach. Now I was drinking local Texas beer with them and debating the best team in the ACC. Of course, youth continues to march on: this was the first family reunion with great-grandchildren: Lily and Grace, the daughters of my two older cousins Lindsay and Ginger. That brings the Kelley clan totals to seven children (including my mother, the oldest daughter but the second oldest sibling), twenty grandchildren (including my brother and I) and those two. And for this weekend - my grandparents' 60th wedding anniversary - we all turned out. # # # I wish I had a day job as easy as entertaining my five-year-old cousins. For one thing, the weather was perfect - a hot, dry ninety-eight degrees at noon. That may strike some of you as brutal, but we had an uncontested run of the community pool nearest my grandparents' house. And I'd just come from sixty degrees and showers in Boston on Friday, so I welcomed the change. Second, five-year-olds play along with whatever you tell them if you phrase it right. "Stick your arms and legs out," I instructed Matthew. "You're a torpedo!" He snapped into form, whereupon I glided him across the surface of the water and into his dad. Or I'd curl him under my arm like a duffel bag: "You're a jet engine! Kick kick kick!" Of course, life with five-year-olds isn't perfect (shocking, I know), and soon the time came for them to go. "Matthew, get your shoes on. Matthew. Matthew, time to put your shoes on. Matthew, you have to get out of the pool. We're not playing now, all right? Matthew, if you don't take a nap now, you can't hang out with the grownups later. Matthew. Matthew, get out of the pool. Thank you." That last to me, as I hoisted him over my shoulder and dragged him, giggling, out of the water. Being a cousin's easier than being a dad. I got burned on my shoulders pretty bad: despite a thorough application of SPF 30, I probably lost all coverage by hoisting Matthew's brother Chris onto my back like a camel and letting him spray his watergun at assailants. Time will tell if it was worth it.

eight miles high and falling fast

Professor Coldheart — Tue, 28 Jul 2009 11:00:06 +0000

Continental Airlines Flight #482 was scheduled to depart Houston Airport at 1:45 (Central) and arrive in Boston at 6:45 (Eastern). These facts inform the rest of the following narrative. (1) My own damn fault - I thought the plane was taking off at 1:00, not 1:45. So when my ride dropped me at Houston at 11:15, I had two boatloads of time to kill. I got a beer and a chicken caesar salad at the Fox Sports Network Skybox in Terminal E, reading a book and glancing at Tour de France coverage. (2) The flight got pushed back to 2:00. (3) I had the aisle seat nearest the bathroom. I have to imagine this was the airline fucking with me, because I would not choose the aisle seat nearest the bathroom if any other seat were available. But I booked it long enough ago that I can't recall. (4) Houston's a busy airport, so we sat on the runway for a while before taking off around 2:30ish. (5) About two hours into the flight, the captain gets on the vox and tells us that we're in a holding pattern over D.C. to avoid some inclement weather up into the Northeast. Huh. Inconvenient, but good to know. We probably wouldn't notice these things if the pilot didn't let us know - the beauty of air travel. (6) Forty-five minutes later, the captain lets us know that air traffic has given us a new route: skirting western PA, cruising through upstate NY and coming into Boston from the west. Interesting! (7) Forty-five minutes after that, the captain picks up the mic and says we're running out of fuel. Well, not in so many words. What he really says: due to the extended holding pattern and our new flight path, we no longer have enough fuel to make it to Boston. However, when you're in a commercial jet, it means the same thing. You can't just park on the side of the road and call AAA. (8) So our plane makes an unscheduled stop at Stewart Air National Guard Base in Newburgh, NY. We spend half an hour fueling up and half an hour waiting for our clearance to take off again. During that half hour, the entire plane got up to go to the bathroom. (9) While we're on the ground, a 17-month-old baby two rows ahead flirted with the girls in the row immediately in front of me. He would make a smacking motion, sweeping his hand from his lips, smile, and then bury his face in the blanket on his mother's shoulder. He had big, dark blue eyes, like stones in rings. I hope nothing scars him too much in his next sixteen years; the world needs more ladykillers. (10) Landed in Boston a mere three hours behind schedule. Not bad, considering the surprise stopover. But my need for an alcoholic beverage had rapidly exceeded my ability to obtain one. I settled for a meef quesarito at Anna's and got home late.

highway run, into the midnight sun

Professor Coldheart — Wed, 29 Jul 2009 11:49:28 +0000

This media blow covers the face of the Earth in record time. Earth Abides: one of Stephen King's inspirations for The Stand, George R. Stewart's thin novel of post-apocalyptic America runs to overflowing with deep ideas. The characterization could use some work: aside from the protagonist, curious introvert Isherwood Williams, none of the other characters ever seem real. They all exist as very broad types: the nurturing mother Emma, the simple carpenter George, etc. So King trumps Stewart at portraying human beings in odd situations. But Stewart trumps King in exploring deep ideas. He devotes much more critical effort to how a small community of humans might rebuild civilization after a plague depopulates the planet. What will children born after the plague think of old America? Is it worth it to teach them how to farm or build shelter, with the limitless wealth of a consumer society around them? Is it worth following the old laws? It ends on a somber but optimistic note, which is the best a novel of apocalypse can hope for. Men go and come, but earth abides. 17 Again: An agreeable but uninspiring comedy. When Matthew Perry laments having thrown away his youth by marrying his pregnant high school girlfriend, a magic janitor (bear with me) turns him back into his 17-year-old self, played by Zac Efron. Already estranged from his wife (Leslie Mann) and two children (Sterling Knight and Michelle Trachtenberg), he has little difficulty convincing his friend Ned to pose as his dad and enroll him in school. Hijinks ensue. The dialogue rings a little stiff in the ear at times, and the plot's as suspenseful as a game of Horse, but it's fun. Efron has some decent comic timing, or was at least edited to appear so, and The State's Tom Lennon (as uber-geek Ned) steals his share of scenes. Sadly, all the female roles are pretty weak, existing solely as satellites to Zac Efron's radiant grin. Not a bad airplane flick (which was how I saw it). Road Fever: I have been slowly expanding my world travel horizons, to the point that I now have detailed plans to see the world:

London in 2010
Hong Kong in 2011
Tierra del Fuego in 2012

Reading about Tierra del Fuego clued me into the Pan-American Highway, a network of roads that connect Ushuaia, Argentina to Prudhoe Bay, Alaska. Inspired by my plans for travel, I wondered if I could take this route to Tierra del Fuego. As it turns out: that would be a terrible idea. Road Fever is the story of Tim Cahill and Garry Sowerby's 1987 record-setting drive from Ushuaia to Prudhoe Bay - a drive accomplished in twenty-three days, twenty-two hours and forty-three minutes. This route crosses through Argentina, Peru, Nicaragua, Honduras, Panama and Mexico. In the late 80s. The path also winds up hills so narrow that buses frequently plunge off them, speeds past bandit roadblocks and crosses the palms of several border police with silver. The book's all right - Cahill reads like a terser Dave Barry and there's only a tenuous throughline to the narrative. But given that it convinced me to reach Ushuaia by airplane from Buenos Aires, this book has probably saved my life. Thank you, Tim Cahill.

king_silas

Professor Coldheart — Thu, 30 Jul 2009 13:06:15 +0000

silas_crowd

Professor Coldheart — Thu, 30 Jul 2009 13:34:09 +0000

I heard there was a secret chord that David played and it pleased the lord

Professor Coldheart — Thu, 30 Jul 2009 13:34:20 +0000

This past Saturday ended NBC's noble experiment, Kings, the modern day, alternate universe retelling of the Biblical story of King David. My amazement that such a wild concept could ever get aired, NBC soon shared with me - the show barely got 4 episodes out before losing its original timeslot, then going on hiatus, then getting canceled. What made Kings so daring? Again, the concept, while ridiculous on its face, gives rise to such entertaining opportunities. The internecine power struggles of a royal family, living in a one-off Manhattan, with all the intrigues that modern technology and economics can bring to bear? How could that not be awesome? Add in the tangible presence of God - a real God, a jealous Old Testament God, a God men worship not because he's the source of good but because he's the source of power. The possibilities intoxicate. On top of that, the casting was nearly perfect. Christopher Egon, the unknown Australian who played David Shepherd, blended the seriousness of patriotism and the naivete of youth: at times stern, at times confused. Allison Miller brought fire to one of the weaker roles on the show - Princess Michelle - by plunging into whatever conflict was in front of her with an equal and believable passion. But the prize goes to Deadwood's Ian McShane as the eloquent, untouchable King Silas Benjamin. He delivers kingly speeches in iambic pentameter with such casual gravitas that you don't even notice their artificiality.

And that highlights the greatest of Kings' strengths: the ability to make you believe in a fantastic premise. A king, his family, his rivals and a God visible through signs and omens: that's a premise better suited to a Lois Bujold novel than a primetime broadcast TV series. But the show makes it work. You believe that these people are kings and queens, even though (in the show's own history) the monarchy of Gilboa is barely twenty years old, because they carry themselves with royal dignity. You believe that God exists not just because Rev. Samuels can black out an entire building by striking it with an open hand, but because Silas reacts to the stunt with such disdain ("Changing from arcana to tricks?"). People talk as if they believe what they're saying and they know what it means. That's what made Kings work. So why didn't it last? I had no trouble with the dialogue, but I recognize that it grew elusive at times. Highly poetic, even in casual conversation, it ran on into rambling sentences that referred back to earlier images. On top of the words, the show itself relied on conveying meaning through imagery: smokestacks and flags blowing in opposite directions, butterflies, sunlight and birds, etc. Like The Wire, Kings was less of a series than a novel put to video - and like The Wire, that complexity might have cost it an audience. On top of that, shooting all those locations and exteriors in New York City gets really expensive. The producers knew the show was doomed by the midway point of the season. The last five episodes - from "Pilgrimage" to the climactic two-parter, "The New King" - take on a very rushed feel as a result. Each episode carries the weight of three, introducing and burying multiple threads at a time. It made for very exciting television, even though some of the more interesting minor characters - Katrina Ghent, the palace guards Boyden and Klotz - got run over in the crush. Does Kings have any hope? I'd like to see HBO or Showtime pick it up, though they likely couldn't match NBC's budget and the resulting series would feel claustrophobic. So I'm not sure we're going to see the evolving war between Silas and David. Kings has no future; it remains in the mythic past that it borrowed from.

everybody's going nowhere slowly, they're all fighting for the chance to be last

Professor Coldheart — Fri, 31 Jul 2009 11:00:49 +0000

Holly over at Pervocracy (NSFW text but image free) wrote an interesting post a week ago about the one safety class that every woman ought to take, but nobody offers yet:

I've seen a couple dozen assaults in my day, and about two of them were between complete strangers. (Both of those, incidentally, weren't in "fringe areas" but in convenience stores. Perhaps we should teach our daughters never to go to 7-11, it's just not worth it.) The rest were committed by partners, siblings, friends, cousins, my boyfriend's weird friends he invites over, this john my pimp said was cool, and of course Sumdood. It's sort of comforting in a way to think that threats come from "outside," but it doesn't reflect reality. You can creep through the parking lot with a can of mace and total situational awareness and then go home and get raped by your husband. There's a class I'd like to teach young women, actually. (Young people. I've seen a man streaming blood after his wife broke a heavy ceramic mug over his head.) Identifying and getting the fuck out of destructive intimate relationships. Not a brief sideline to Stranger Danger self-defense but a whole class on the real threat. Best for kids young enough to not be in serious relationships yet, but open to any age. It would save ten times as many lives as this "young ladies are fragile flowers that mustn't go into the big bad world alone" bullshit.

Hell yes. Picture a four hour seminar. The first two hour block would cover Signs of Abusive Behavior. Not just physically abusive stuff, but the psychological trauma as well. Does he act like a radically different person in private with you than he does in company? Does he make you feel dumb, weak or vulnerable? Does he threaten you? There should be lots of discussion on this, as a lot of people make excuses for this behavior ("but he takes care of me"; "but he says he loves me"; etc). I'm not an expert on that part, so I'll let someone else write that curriculum. That's the first two hours. Everyone gets a break to cool down. When they come back, all the chairs are pushed out of the way. The second two hour block is nothing but self defense. You cannot teach a new student everything there is to know about self defense in two hours. You couldn't teach it in twenty hours, and you'd have a well-meaning amateur after two hundred. But there are three reasons to include this part anyway:

Two hours of self defense, taught well, are better than zero hours.
It demonstrates to a willing audience that self defense is accessible - that it's not the province of ninjas and commandos, but something anyone can learn.
If one technique sticks in someone's mind and saves their life a month, a year or a decade down the line, it was worth it.

The first hour of this two hour block: learning how to strike. How to throw proper boxing strikes (throw from the shoulders, square the hips, turn off the rear foot). How to throw elbows and knees. How to use the base of the palm, the edge of the hand and the heel of the foot. Where to strike. Which targets will stun someone (sternum, throat, groin), which will break something (elbow joints, knee joints) and which will kill (back of the neck). The second hour of this two hour block: responses to four common attacks. Why four? Because that's pushing the limit of what a brand new student will retain. I'd feel better if we only did three, but we've got the full hour; why not use it? Maybe someone's videotaping this. Each response will have two variations: a submission response (control the attacker through pain) and a striking response. I include two different levels because of the potential variety of attackers. People talk about how "there are no rules in a fight." While this is true, that doesn't mean we completely ignore context. If your husband of ten years tries to sexually assault you because he got drunk and isn't taking your "No" seriously, you don't want to gouge his eyes out. But you want something that will get him off you immediately. I pick these attacks based on some fairly common male-on-female assault scenarios (if anyone has some better suggestions, let me know):

Two-handed choke (attacker has both hands around the victim's throat).
Lapel grab (attacker grabs the lapels of the victim's shirt or jacket. This response can also be used for an attacker grabbing at the victim's chest).
Pinning on the ground (attacker pins the victim's wrists and kneels between her legs. Grapplers will recognize this as being "in the guard" and can guess at some responses).
Hammerlock (attacker grabs victim's wrist and pulls it up her back)

We'll spend fifty minutes working those. In the last ten minutes, everyone gets up in front of class and fights off one attacker, who uses any of those four at random. No model mugging suits, either. I'm not qualified to say if those full padded suits work or not. Teach that two hour seminar at one major university in each of the fifty states and male-on-female assaults, murders and rapes would go down by a third in five years. The first two hours would teach prevention - helping women identify bad situations and get out of them. The second two hours would teach the cure. As always, constructive feedback is appreciated.

with mirth in funeral and with dirge in marriage

Professor Coldheart — Mon, 03 Aug 2009 11:00:51 +0000

I talk a lot about the premium that I pay to live in an artsy city like Boston. This weekend I took advantage, seeing two plays produced in part by friends of mine. after the quake: Simple and engaging. Two stories from Haruki Murakami's critically acclaimed collection of the same name have been woven into one stageplay. A love triangle between a bookish novelist, a cocky journalist and the mother of a nightmare-stricken girl unfolds during the 1995 Kobe quake. The story itself doesn't break any new ground with plotting, but it's not supposed to - it's the quiet, face-saving desperation of the three lifelong friends that draws the viewer in. This quiet romantic drama unfolds in parallel with a story the novelist tells for the little girl, about a six-foot tall frog who calls on the aid of a nebbish loan collections officer to save Tokyo from the sinister Worm. This super frog ("Please! Call me Frog") speaks in the punctuated staccato of a dubbed Gojira movie, sprinkles his exhortations with Dostoyevsky quotes, and springs about in a constant state of martial readiness. He's a quixotic hero whom you'll adore after about twenty seconds, and Michael Tow (a successful financial advisor, apparently) plays him with aplomb. Rosencrantz and Guildenstern are Dead: This is the first time I've seen R&G on stage, so I can't say how this performance differs from any others. I can say that Steve Kleinedler's instincts in directing improv and sketch troupes for years pay off big, as the pacing and physicality of the show's two stars keep the comedy hilarious and the tragedy disheartening. I thought at first that I liked Jon Overby's Rosencrantz more than Stephen Libby's Guildenstern - Overby's louder and more energetic - until I realized that that was a deliberate choice. Guildenstern's the lugubrious one: introspective, philosophical, given to syllogism. Rosencrantz, on the other hand, suggests plenty of action, none of which ever gets taken. Duplicating either character would tire an audience; pairing them against each other highlights Stoppard's genius and Kleinedler's insight. The cast of Hamlet were all rather quiet; I strained to hear them under the vaulted ceilings of the Cambridge Y. But Dennis Hurley's Player King captures the spotlight every time he enters the stage. His performance astounded me - alternately commanding, wheedling, lecturing and obsequious as the scene demanded. His magnetism seemed the least affected, which was all the more amazing given how quiet he is offstage. A good production of a play gives life to the story the author meant to tell, as well as telling new and interesting stories of its own. R&G follows two characters who don't know the story they're in. Certain people in this story, one of the more famous in the Western canon, have melodramatic character arcs and grand falls from glory. But to two trivial characters, set to a series of tasks they never accomplish, this story feels like an arbitrary delaying exercise until death. Are they characters? Are they actors? Are they people? Is the difference worth talking about?

you've got no time for the messenger, got no regard for the things that you don't understand

Professor Coldheart — Tue, 04 Aug 2009 11:00:45 +0000

Standing in the checkout line at the grocery store on Sunday, I had a sudden clear vision of a slogan. Red and white on a blue background, like a candidate's bumper sticker or T-shirt. In bold letters it reads:
2013 The Year We Stop Trying
I have no idea what it means. It does not even exist yet. But I crave it.
News of David Ortiz's failed drug test hit Red Sox Nation last week. RJ and I watched the drama unfold on SportsCenter in the break room at work. Chris McKendry asked Tim Kurkjian if this news came as a shock to him.
RJ: At this point, would any name come as a shock? Professor (thinking a moment): Cal Ripken, Jr. RJ: ... wow. Yeah. Professor: If we discover that he was juicing, I'm giving up on baseball. I'll give it a decade to sort itself out, but I'll stop watching.
Back to the grocery store, sorry. I like little fruit and gel cups with my lunch. The local grocery store alternates between putting Dole and Del Monte on sale; I'll buy whichever's cheapest. I've also started using coupons, too. A few weeks ago, I cashed in a coupon for 25 cents off any two packs of Dole fruit cups. As the cashier rung me up, she handed me back another coupon for 50 cents off any three packs. I understand the marketing theory behind coupons: create brand loyalty by pushing a user over the marginal hump separating them from a new product. Give them a taste for that soft drink, or that frosted cereal. I don't spend enough money on groceries to make coupon clipping a good investment of time, and I don't have a lot of room to stockpile food. But fruit and gelatin keep, so I used my "50 cents off three" coupon this past week. The cashier handed me a coupon giving me 75 cents off any purchase of $10 or more, courtesy of the generous folks at Dole. Nice of them. She also handed me a coupon for 75 cents off four packs of fruit cups. In some dark basement, the medieval twin to my own Internet marketing agency, a hook-nosed drone studies me through grainy surveillance footage. He sees me tuck the coupon behind a refrigerator magnet as I unload my groceries. His greasy fingers play with a stack of loose buckslips of increasing denomination, culminating in "take $7.50 off any thirty-one packs of fruit cups. Expires December 21, 2012." "Go on," he whispers. "What's one more?"

google_billboard

Professor Coldheart — Wed, 05 Aug 2009 03:10:02 +0000

you will not back up an inch ever; that's why you will not survive

Professor Coldheart — Wed, 05 Aug 2009 11:00:54 +0000

I did not intend two posts in a row on this marketing kick, but HEY. Via eyelid on LJ, a marketing win - how advertisers have adapted to Hulu:

Watching Hulu, I was struck by their ad setup. It's very clever, IMO. Instead of having 5 or so ads crammed into a commercial break, just begging the watcher to tune out and walk away for awhile, Hulu puts only one ad in, every so often. And the ads are really short - 30 seconds or less, and it's often only 15 seconds. Hulu also puts a little line in the corner of the screen during ads letting you know exactly how short the commercial break will be ("your program will resume in 20 seconds" - and it counts down!). You know you're going to be able to resume watching in 20 seconds, so why not just wait? I mean, 20 seconds. Come on. And inevitably, in those 20 seconds while you are sitting and waiting, you watch the ad. 20 seconds (or at the most, 30) is really all the time an ad should need.

An excellent example of a company changing its strategy when faced with a new technology, rather than trying to cripple the new technology to fit the old paradigm. One 20-second ad every commercial break. A neat little solution. Could there be a better solution? Sure. I haven't come up with it yet. But I imagine some enterprising marketing guru will within the next 18 months. To leaven the sweetness with some bitterness, a marketing failure from Google - billboards touting Google apps:

commuters whizzing or crawling to work on the Massachusetts Turnpike will see a billboard advertising Google Apps, an Internet-based alternative to Microsoft’s popular Office suite of computer programs. And to make sure drivers pay attention, Google will post a different message on the billboard every weekday this month. The messages will recount the saga of a corporate computer manager who turns to Google Apps to cut costs and improve worker productivity. “It’s sort of an internal monologue,’’ said Google product marketing manager Vivian Leung. “We hope that they’ll follow this story through the month.’’ Similar billboards will be displayed near major highways in New York, Chicago, and San Francisco.

I would not have expected the company that revolutionized search engine advertising to fumble so egregiously in a major ad blitz. But fail they did. Why?

Google is trying to edge Microsoft Office out of the corporate environment.
Who determines what office software a company uses? IT managers.
IT managers make up an incredibly small fraction of the commuters on any given stretch of American highway. Except perhaps in San Francisco.
And yet billboards are still really expensive.
On top of that, Google will apparently change the message on each billboard twenty-one times in the month of August.
That's really, really expensive. This billboard rate card from Lamar Advertising doesn't cover anything east of Worcester, but it's the best benchmark I can get for Boston rates without calling up Clear Channel. So I'm going to ballpark this at $40,000 - one and a half times what a 14 x 48 with a 25 GRP* and a 4-week cycle would run you in the Worcester market.
"Forty thousand bucks for a billboard? Doesn't sound bad at all." True, but keep in mind (A) that's a conservative, back-of-the-ass estimate, (B) they're paying this in New York, Chicago and San Francisco as well, and (C) Google is changing this billboard every day, which doubtless costs extra. I'll surmise that this entire billboard campaign costs them at least $200,000, and I wouldn't be surprised were it double that.
Google can afford to spend two hundred thousand dollars. But how many IT managers are they going to reach with this? Sure, the buy itself made the news. Once. After this week, every IT manager who takes public transportation, or surface roads to work, or works in an office park outside the city, will forget it. Those who do drive past the billboard every day probably won't slow down long enough to read all that text every weekday, just to see what's changed. Black characters on a white background? The eye glosses right over it at 50 MPH.
"But they don't need to get a concrete message out, Professor," you might say. "This is just an awareness campaign." Fair enough. Online display ads - like banner ads on a prominent website - are great for awareness. They establish a presence and attract buyers early in the sales cycle. You could probably run a display campaign that got millions of targeted impressions for $200,000. In fact, I'll bet Google could get a pretty sweet deal on a little one-sentence blurb on the most prominent search engine in the history of cognizant life on this planet.

I'm sure, of course, that Google is running display ads and banner ads and probably putting something beneath their search box in addition to these billboards. But the billboards aren't smart money. They're scattershot instead of targeted. They're big and flashy, instead of customized and unobtrusive. And they belie a particular kind of old-media thinking - which is just weird, coming from a company that's pioneered so much new media. I could be wrong, of course. Google usually knows what they're doing. But billboards strike me as this century's sandwich-board men - an artifact of the old times, a slow and unreliable way of spreading a message. Google's going retro, and I don't think they're being ironic. ___________________________ * GRP = Gross Rating Points, the billboard equivalent of market share. 25 GRP means that an estimated 25% of the area's population would see the billboard once per day.

that's the hide and that's the heart of it

Professor Coldheart — Thu, 06 Aug 2009 11:00:13 +0000

I have some new content pending on Overthinking It, really. I just keep pushing it back. Why? Well, I know this isn't much of a sop, but I've taken over some of the editing duties from the reliable Wrather as he begins his grad school career in Los Angeles. I'll still be writing, naturally, but I'll also be pushing guest posts and getting the regulars scheduled. If you want to see some of my handiwork, check out this guest post on Batman and Dostoevsky by Jared Bauer. It's deep and accessible. I cleaned it up and got it publication-ready. Anyhow, as an associate editor, I will immediately abuse my position and exhort all of you to submit some guest posts. What does it take to write for Overthinking It? Not a degree from Yale, surprisingly enough. All you need is (A) a love of some piece of pop culture - movie, music, book, video game, TV show, etc - and (B) an ability to ruminate on some aspect of that pop cultural item. For instance: have you ever watched a movie and been struck out of your suspension of disbelief by a curious occurrence on screen? Let's say you were watching Superman II and thought "hey, it takes that kid a long time to fall down Niagara Falls." Or you thought: "I never noticed, but American Beauty and Fight Club have one thing in common: employees blackmailing their bosses." Congratulations - you have the cornerstone of a brilliant OTI article! Seriously, we always want guest content. Especially about things other than movies or TV shows (video games? music? books?). Especially by women. But if you're a guy who wants to Overthink The Hangover, don't let me stop you! E-mail me and pitch your idea.

but I don't see any angels in the city

Professor Coldheart — Fri, 07 Aug 2009 11:00:00 +0000

I love cities more than anything. I love the density of city blocks - twenty-story buildings blotting out the sunlight. Crowds of students, tourists, people on business. Diners and narrow, ancient storefronts. Cabs passing green statues. Ten dollar sandwiches and eight dollar drinks. Bars open until four, clubs open until sunrise. Five million people in the same twenty square miles, in defiance of all sense. Being alone in a crowd; making friends out of strangers. I love cities. You have to beg and threaten to get me to go camping with my best friends in the world - and I say this from experience, and it hasn't worked - but I'll take a trip to see a city at the drop of a hat. I'll buy bus tickets, train tickets, plane fare, whatever it takes. I think my love affair with dense urbanity keeps me from embracing my functional anarchism to its full extent - that Daniel Quinn certainty that tight collections of human beings require powerful states and entrenched corporations to sustain them. They clearly do. And I clearly can't live without them. I'm the product of a world I think is unnatural, and it bugs me at times. But then I see the Manhattan skyline from the Acela Express, or get to watch Boston turn the night sky pink, and I forget it all. Cops, unions, housing codes, churches? Bring 'em on! All this I say to preface the trip I just booked to Chicago for two weeks from today (August 21-24). Let me know if you want to a visit from a wide-eyed Bostonian while I'm there.

fish don't fry in the kitchen, beans don't burn on the grill

Professor Coldheart — Mon, 10 Aug 2009 11:00:50 +0000

Snippets:

I thought I did the smart thing by eating a light lunch on Friday, saving room for Redbones barbecue that evening when Kristen A. came to town. But maybe my ab workout at the gym that afternoon hurt matters. Regardless, after a pulled pork sandwich, half a plate of fries and a too-sweet Dogfish Head 75 Minute IPA¹, I felt like I had a wet bag of sand sitting in my gut. People stared at me with concern. I walked around with my hand on my stomach, as if I would give birth to a squalling pork baby any minute.
Lisa F. had a going-away party, prior to her move to New York City, which I devoted an hour and a half to. I expected a quiet gathering of a few close friends, but man! Her five-bedroom apartment got packed out in all directions. People from all walks of life - ImprovBoston, her music program, coworkers - turned out to snack, drink and carry on. "So many people," I said. "I have lived here for nine years," she explained. "I've lived here for ten years!" I countered. "I couldn't get this many people if I threw a going-away party!"²
Deirdre's the volunteer coordinator at the Dorchester Beach Festival³, so I dropped by to visit her and her husband Auston on Saturday morning before gaming. Gourmet caterers Au Soleil served some remarkably good burgers (considering it was a town's summer festival) and Utz Potato Chips. Auston marveled at these, since you almost never see Utz north of Philadelphia. But apparently Utz has serviced Costco and WalMart since at least 1997, and they've got a distribution center in Shrewsbury. "These are surprisingly good chips," he said with astonishment.

______________________________ ¹ I recommend their 60 Minute for all IPA fans, and the 90 Minute if you want to get drunk really fast, but the 75 Minute didn't work for me. Maybe if I had it with dinner instead of after. ² "Immediately after making this statement, Royal realized that it was true." ³ Dorchester has a beach! With real sand! I'm as surprised as you.

let's go hand in hand, not one before the other

Professor Coldheart — Tue, 11 Aug 2009 11:00:35 +0000

The Comedy of Errors: Ten years I've lived in Boston, yet never seen the annual free performance of Shakespeare on the Boston Common before this summer. Such a fault should not be soon forgiven. The Comedy of Errors is perhaps Shakespeare's weakest farce - hinging on a misunderstanding that could be cleared up in the first few minutes, starting out high energy and never really building, and with little in the way of subplot or diversion. The two Dromios - Larry Coen, long a favorite of the Boston comedy scene, being one of them - carry this performance, with their slapstick perfectly timed and their line readings perfectly delivered. And of course Cheryl Singleton in the final act, as the Abbess, giving the proceedings some much needed gravitas to temper their shrieking zaniness. Colorful costumes and fun little dance numbers diffuse the show's energy into a soft glow. It's a fun show, especially at the price, but that says more of the actors propping it up than the source material. Death of a Salesman: I completely forgot to see this play. My friend Ray, whom I haven't seen in years, was in this play and I forgot I meant to see it. I'd like to claim that I was too tired to go out on Saturday, or that I had compelling other plans, but neither would be true. I just forgot. Not even a nagging feeling at 8:00 that evening - isn't there something I should be doing now? something I promised to see? - to tickle me. It wasn't until about noon on Sunday that I remembered I'd promised to see this play. And I feel worse since I know that Ray and company labored particularly hard to get this show off the ground. So, Ray: I'm sorry I forgot. I hope the show, for all its troubles, went well.

now what you hear is not a test

Professor Coldheart — Wed, 12 Aug 2009 11:00:37 +0000

Why does my race (white people) have to ruin everything cool? Everything cool? Item the first: from the upcoming VH1 documentary series, "Lords of the Revolution," each episode highlighting a controversial figure of the late 60s. Episode 101 is about Muhammed Ali:

In an era defined by protest and turbulence, perhaps nobody captured the attention of America in the late 1960s more so than Muhammad Ali. As heavyweight champion, Ali electrified the sports world with his sharp tongue and showmanship flare. (His spontaneous rhymes, in fact, are often considered to be the precursor of rap.)

Oh my fuck. Look: for at least a few decades before Rev. Run met Jam Master Jay, the word "rap" was known to mean "talking in a loose, rhythmic manner," hence the phrase "can I rap with you for a second" used by cool cats in the 50s and 60s, hence the phrase "now what you hear is not a test / I'm rappin' to the beat" in the Sugar Hill Gang's song "Rapper's Delight," because of the relative novelty (to non-urban America) of someone rapping over a bass track and the result being recorded as a song in its own right, so, while perhaps Muhammed Ali's rhymes might be a precursor to hip-hop music, they could not be a precursor to rap, because that is in fact what he was doing; he was rapping; everyone who heard him do it called it rapping; people rapped all the time, and while the word "rap" may be synonymous with a genre of music today, it wasn't in Ali's day; saying that Muhammed Ali invented rap is like saying Russell Simmons invented poetry, and while it may seem like I'm blowing a poor choice of words out of proportion here, I'm freaking out of my skull because the choice of words belies a fundamental ignorance of (A) black culture, (B) popular music, or (C) the culture of the late 60s, and failing at even one of those, if not all three, suggests poor things for a documentary on the Lords of the Revolution. (deep breath) # # # Item the second: two hipsters covering the theme from the Jeffersons: [youtube=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AV0fmNo7474] This shouldn't evoke a stronger response in me than "meh," but I can't help it. "Movin' On Up" is a soulful and danceable song about overcoming poverty through upward class mobility. It translates the American dream - that hard work can pay off for anyone - to the struggling black community. It's full of celebration at having arrived (on the East Side) and optimism for an even sunnier future. But what really makes it beautiful is being able to bring the whole family along ("as long as we live, it's you and me baby; there ain't nothing wrong with that"). We've finally got a piece of the pie. So: rising in social class through the use of labor and capital. Sticking together as a family. And the struggle for black identity in America. If I had to capture the opposite of those three concepts in a single symbol, it'd be a North Carolina hipster playing a trombone on his iPhone. I'm not saying¹ that "Moving On Up" is possessed of some special negritude that means white people could never possibly sing it. Music ain't like that. And I'm not saying that the theme song from "The Jeffersons" has some untouchable sanctity. You could play it for laughs. Hell, Hitler singing it is hilarious. But if you want to cover a really good song like "Moving On Up," you ought to either (A) cover it faithfully or (B) add something of value to it (like humor, or a new and interesting interpretation). Is this a faithful cover? No. It's two white guys who just robbed a thrift store. They bulge their eyes and put on fake soul accents for the close-ups. They play their instruments with as little emotion as possible. They shoot the video in front of backdrops so featureless that the Gap would call them bland. They insert editing tricks for their own sake (overlaying a close-up from a different shot on top of their bodies! wacky!). This song could only vault further from its origins if one of them had bagpipes². Does it add something of value? No. It's not particularly funny, aside from the absurdity of two white guys rich enough to afford an iPhone, an HD camera and After Effects CS4 "movin' on up" from anywhere. And even that's more of a how-dare-you absurd than a ha-ha absurd. It's not as if a jazzy number that had a full band and gospel choir in its original incarnation suffered for lack of a slide trombone. Hipsters! Ruining everything! # # # Is this what white guilt feels like? _______________________ ¹ I probably use this phrase more often than any other in this weblog. ² My thanks to reader Tom D. for coming up with the least soulful instrument on a moment's notice.

that's where I caught her eye

Professor Coldheart — Thu, 13 Aug 2009 11:26:22 +0000

Hey all. If you're into console RPGs, like the Final Fantasy or Dragon Quest series, then you should check out my Overthinking It post on what makes a console RPG an RPG. It's pretty great. Not big into video games? Check out some of our recent guest posts, like this article linking Batman and Dostoevsky in The Dark Knight. I didn't write it, but I edited it, so that counts for something. If you don't like video games or Batman, I'm not sure why you read this weblog. Go home now.

he drinks a whiskey drink, he drinks a vodka drink

Professor Coldheart — Fri, 14 Aug 2009 11:00:51 +0000

Like most single Americans between the age of 21 and 36, I regularly go out and drink with large groups of people. Wait staff at bars accommodate large groups by ringing an entire table up as a single check. However, in an informal gathering, people come and go at different times. They order different amounts of alcohol and food - some folks get one drink, some get three, some get zero drinks but nibble on a communal order of nachos. The problem: how do you ensure that everyone tips enough? I don't mean paying for the right number of drinks (though that happens, too - it happened to us on Wednesday, with a Bacardi, a Bailey's and an Allagash walking off without cash, and only Mark M's generosity kept us from getting barred). I mean that floating, hazy notion of "a proper tip." Between the total cash value of all drinks and the highest potential gratuity, there's a nebulous zone of loose change. This problem persists, even among the closest of friends and the smallest of parties, for a few reasons:

Varying priors. Many people disagree on what a proper tip should be. Some are happy with 15%, some insist on 18-20%. So if everyone's got a different notion of what to tip, the final total will be very hard to predict.
Poor incentive structure.. I wouldn't feel terribly guilty about stiffing the final bill by 80 cents, and I imagine most people are similar. Plus, doing so might make my own finances easier (I don't have to break a bill, for example). But if eight people feel the same way, the final total's nearly six and a half bucks shy of what it should be. I have little incentive to be scrupulous. And groups comprised of people with no incentive to do good always produce bad results.
Lack of information. If the check is in cash, it's easy to contribute in secret. Even if you're not hiding the cash you put in, all those folded bills become anonymous once they enter the general pile. Also, it takes a rare type of paranoia to keep an account of what other people in a large party ordered. So anyone can claim to have put in enough money.
Aggregate preference. If you have Arrow's Impossibility Theorem painted on the ceiling over your bed like I do, you'll already suspect that there might not even be such a thing as "what the group wants." Individuals have preferences, sure, but it might not be possible to aggregate those preferences into a single Leviathan. I bring this up here because there might not be one real number that everyone in a dining party wants to leave as a tip.

So even if everyone's friends, had a great time and loved their waiter, they might not agree on what an ideal tip is. Even if everyone agrees on what an ideal tip is, there's no way to compel an exact accounting from everyone. Even if everyone makes an exact account, there's nothing compelling them to be honest. And even if everyone's compelled to be honest, there's nothing that says the final total reflects the group's aggregate will (if such a thing even exists). It's a wonder waiters get paid at all. Potential solutions? Let's deal with the problems one at a time. Varying priors :: Dictatorial control. One person at the table decides what the proper tip is. Everyone chips in until she says the pot is full. This may sound graceless - we have an ingrained hatred of the word "dictator" - but this is usually what happens anyway. The person counting the money decides when to stop counting. Poor incentive structure :: Remove options. Incentives only matter if you have choices; in the absence of choice, no one needs incentives to do anything. Dividing the check evenly among all diners bulldozes over this problem. People may grumble at paying for things they didn't eat, but that's the price of an imperfect solution. Lack of information :: Mandatory disclosure. I've never seen this method implemented before; as far as I know I invented it. When you put money in for the check, you have to wave the bills over your head and announce the total in a clear voice that carries. After everyone's contributed, tally up the money. If you're short on the bill, whoever put in the least amount has to make up the difference. This not only prevents secrecy, it adds an incentive not to be the cheapest person at the table. Aggregate preference :: ??? No idea. If you solve this problem, you've fixed what's wrong with democracy. I'll buy you and all your friends a drink. You cover the tip.

he's in the place, but I get no joy

Professor Coldheart — Mon, 17 Aug 2009 11:01:24 +0000

Mad Men S3 Premiere (SPOILER-FREE): A gentle easing back in to America's favorite ad agency. Aside from certain exciting developments in the lives of Messrs. Cosgrove and Campbell, no real plot developments here. But I'm okay with that (which is perhaps an inconvenient bit of hypocrisy, considering how much distaste I directed at stories that favor talking over doing, but if inconvenient hypocrisy turns you off, then sister, you're at the wrong store already). Mad Men has such a superlative cast and visual feel that a glance, a pause or a well-timed exit can advance a relationship by volumes. Consider Don's glance at Sal during the London Fog onsite, or Cosgrove's exit from his last conversation with Campbell. Pristine, artistic television; I will never tire of unpacking it. My one regret: the cast has grown so large and deep that we didn't get to spend too much time with any of our other favorite characters. Peggy was on screen perhaps twice; likewise Betty, likewise Roger Sterling. But we saw substantially more of Salvatore than we normally get to, and we got introduced to some of the new British overlords. I question their increasing presence on the show, though. Every major plot change in Mad Men seems to stand for some broader social trend: Peggy getting her own office, the two "hep" young guys brought on in S2 to market to the youth. Is the presence of the English guys a clumsy stand-in for the "British invasion"? Because the Beatles and the Kinks had a loosening, youthening effect on America, and Hooker and Price seem to tighten everyone up. Nobody's comfortable around them. I watched this at a Mad Men premiere party at Noir in Harvard Square, with Marie C. and Jarret I. Roughly 90% of the men and 100% of the women dressed in their approximation of period garb: dark suits with vests, swooping dresses with crinoline. I showed up in T-shirt and jeans (fcuk fashion; it was hot out). I leaned against a wall and watched the show for the first time with a crowd. It was enlightening: I laughed at things I wouldn't normally laugh at, because of the audience, and cheered more openly at things I would otherwise nod at without a word. Don't know that I'd do it every week, but I had a good time. I'll get there earlier next time, though. Burn Notice S3 Mid-Season Finale (SPOILER-FREE): Dark and intense, certainly, but not quite as dark or intense as the episode prior (which took a gut-wrenching turn when Michael had to slap Fiona). And I'd worry a little about the two-steps-forward, one-step-back resolution of the overarching metaplot - Michael's continuing quest to resolve his agency status - were the show not so fun. But it's still fun. The plot in this episode surprised me with plenty of twists. Things got heavy (as they always do when Michael has to put a bullet in someone). And we got some backstory on Fiona, which I never noticed how much we missed until today. But she has a history! And family! Who knew? The Hurt Locker (SPOILER-FREE): One of those amazing, fraught little movies that I don't feel the need to ever see again. Well cast, well acted, well shot - excellent in every aspect of the film language. Even the few moments that I anticipated well in advance ("that guy's going to die, isn't he?") were carried with such aplomb that I didn't mind. And the no-name cast, augmented by the occasional big star cameo, never let me down. That being said, I nixed my plans to see District 9 the same afternoon as this movie, as I stumbled out of the theater with a knot in my stomach. At first I feared food poisoning from the burrito I'd had for lunch, but it was a caesar salad burrito. Perhaps the dressing?, and then I stepped into the 88 degree sunshine and still felt cold. Ah, I diagnosed, adrenaline shakes.

april, come she will

Professor Coldheart — Tue, 18 Aug 2009 11:57:06 +0000

I forgot my camera battery when going to Mia and Bob's wedding in Dublin, NH this Saturday. So now I have to weblog about it to remember it at all. It's not my fault.

Rachel V. and Steve were kind enough to give me a ride up. We listened to Steve's XM radio and Rachel's extra-danceable iPod playlist. "Was nu-metal a reaction to the ... flamboyance of hair bands?" Rachel asked at one point. "I thought nu-metal was a reaction to grunge," I chimed in from the back seat. "And grunge to hair bands," Steve finished. "Only one way to settle this," I concluded, digging out my cell phone to call Fred Durst. Still hasn't got back to me.
"Who are you texting?" Rachel asked Kevin Q. We stood in the shade around the rustic firepit in Mia's mother's backyard. "I'm not texting anyone," he said, not looking up. "Then what are--" "I'm live-tweeting the wedding."
Later, someone waved a copy of the program at Kevin, with its admonition to silence cell phones during the ceremony. To drive the point home, Serpico texted "turn off your phone" just before the ceremony started. Kevin got it and fumed.
The ceremony, though outdoors, was shaded by the towering trees and aerated by ambient wind. Mia's uncle, a pastor, conducted the ceremony, giving plenty of advice and insight to the young couple. We sat patiently until told to stand again. I suppose it says something of the secularity of the audience that nobody knew what to do when prompted to "share a sign of peace." It fell to the lapsed Catholics (like me) to turn and start shaking hands.
No communion wafers, though. Hell, that's another, what, fifteen minutes? Twenty?
Chatting with my favorite EMT, Lynne W., I learned that tall, skinny people are more prone to suffer collapsed lungs. "I wonder if that has any connection to the stabbing pains I feel once every ten months or so when I draw a deep breath," I speculated. "Could be." "Eh, my cross to bear." "Oh, life's so hard for you tall and slender people." "Exactly; I - hey!"
I got to chat at length with the significant others of my friends: Rachel's Steve; Michelle McN's Ben; Kevin's Shawn. They have an identity outside of their predicate attachment to an existing friend, I discovered. For instance, Ben took up snowboarding after skiing screwed up his knees. He, Haley and I chatted about it in the smoker's circle near the parked cars. I wasn't smoking; I just wanted to hang with the cool kids. Like Ben. Also, Steve quit smoking, drinking and caffeine a year ago, all on the same day. Neither Vickie nor I could believe it. "I don't even drink or use caffeine that much, and I don't smoke," I told him. "But if a doctor told me those two were killing me, I'd ask, 'How long do I have?' "
Rode back with a full car - the Serpico/Keoughs and the Smithneys, me snug in the backseat with Claire and Kim^*. We reminisced about childhood indulgences: our favorite books that we devoured a stack at a time, our favorite cartoons, our favorite food. Everyone conceded that everyone at the wedding was cool and that we all need to hang out with them more. Which I plan on.

______________________________ ^* All ri-ight.

so I came down to crash and burn your beggars banquet

Professor Coldheart — Wed, 19 Aug 2009 11:00:23 +0000

The Family: A secret conspiracy of religious fundamentalists, who use their unequaled access to American politicians to meet in secret with overseas dictators, sounds like the plot of a Tom Clancy novel. If true, or if masquerading as truth, then one would expect to find it in a photocopied zine left in a punk rock cafe or an Allston laundromat. Not in a well-researched book, excerpts of which have appeared in Harper's and Rolling Stone. Not by a man who's met this conspiracy in the flesh. But such a book is Jeff Sharlet's The Family. And such a conspiracy is ... well, the Fellowship is such a loose grouping of interconnected "prayer cells" that it's tough to give them a single name. Founded in 1935 by Norwegian missionary Abraham Vereide, it started as a means to create a solid anti-union, anti-communist front - in the name of Jesus - on America's west coast. It has grown since then: a faith that does not target congregations but "key men" in places of high power. Since Vereide's directive that his brothers "submerge the institutional image" of the Family in 1966, they have had no formal status. It's hard to call a faith that builds no megachurches, sponsors no protests, and does nothing public except run the National Prayer Breakfast a "fundamentalist conspiracy." And yet many of the Watergate co-conspirators, including Chuck Colson and James McCord, were members of the Fellowship. Gerald Ford prayed in a secret prayer cell with them. William Rehnquist led the Family's bible study for federal judges. Figures attacked by controversy, such as James Watt and Clarence Thomas, have absconded to the Family's private retreat - the Cedars - to avoid the public eye. Reagan and Bush Sr praised the Family for its secrecy and diplomatic efforts. Paul Temple, former Exxon executive, helps support the Family through generous donations. The Fellowship was instrumental in arranging the Camp David accords in 1978 and the Congo/Rwanda talks in 2002. Senators Hillary Clinton, Sam Brownback and John Ensign, as well as Congressman Chip Pickering and Gov. Mark Sanford have all relied on the Family for moral guidance, if not diplomatic cachet. And this is a short list. What makes the Family so successful, if not so sinister, is that they're not obvious in their fundamentalism. They don't have much use for the Bible beyond the New Testament, and even that they don't memorize. They don't build a lot of churches. They don't write op-eds opposing gay marriage. What they have done, rather, is quietly command the ear of every President since Eisenhower, the most powerful men in both houses of Congress, the occasional Supreme Court Justice, and many American diplomats abroad. Their explicit goal is to turn the U.S. into a Christian nation, and thereby the world into a Christian planet. Or not Christian, rather, but Christ-loving. As Sharlet makes clear, the Fellowship does not believe in the idea of Christianity so much as they worship Christ the man: God made flesh, the ultimate source of power in human form. And in spreading God's power around the world, they have funneled money and U.S. aid to some of the 20th Century's worst dictators, including Mohammed Siad Barre, Suharto and Gustavo Alvarez Martinez. Sharlet doesn't spend the entire book on the Family (though he could). He spends a lot of time digging into America's religious history: its Pilgrim founding, its revivals and hysterias, its itinerant preachers and urban megachurches. Secular observers, Sharlet claims, look at events like the Great Awakening or the Scopes Monkey Trial as outliers - bursts of fundamentalism that flare up and die down in time. Sharlet asserts, to the contrary, that the periods of secular culture are the outliers. America is and always has been a fundamentalist nation. Americans want to feel their religion, not be guided by it. And by tapping into that need for a strong, emotional faith, and delivering it to key men in Washington, the Family has succeeded where generations of grass roots efforts have failed. Their hand is on the wheel.

it was a rainy night when he came into sight

Professor Coldheart — Thu, 20 Aug 2009 11:42:50 +0000

New post on Overthinking It today, which will hopefully inaugurate a series: an in-depth look at the pop cultural legacy of Michael Mann's The Keep. It's a train wreck of a horror/fantasy film, starring Gabriel Byrne, Ian McKellen, Jurgen Prochnow, Alberta Watson and Scott Glenn. Music by Tangerine Dream. Oh, right, it's the Eighties.

don't bring tomorrow to justify tonight

Professor Coldheart — Fri, 21 Aug 2009 11:00:45 +0000

I haven't forgot Buffy, don't worry. But with the mid-season finale of Burn Notice and the season premiere of Mad Men and the final days of Kings and discovering old episodes of I Spy on Hulu, well, I had a lot more interesting TV to watch. DOPPELGANGLAND Whedon never misses an opportunity to indulge in fan service, so why not bend the fabric of reality to put Allyson Hannigan in a corset again? I shouldn't complain, though, as this episode turns a minor villain - Anya - into a recurring character with interesting motivations. And aside from the usual first-act meandering, this is a really good episode! Every character does what they'd reasonably do; we have some fun chase scenes and vampire brawls; Faith barely shows up. Almost perfect. Are You Fucking Kidding Me?

The evil lair where Anya petitions her demon master for her powers back is clearly some guy's basement with a few Hot Topic throws. Clearly. You can see light coming through the ground-level window.
Nothing highlights how superb an actor Harry Groener is, and how poor of one Eliza Duskhu is, then putting them in a scene together ("this place is the kick"- ugh). To be fair, maybe Whedon's deliberately writing Faith as dumb.
... y'know, other than that I've got nothing.

All Right, I'll Admit, That Was Cool

I like Anya. She acts emotionally invested in her situation, rather than with the witty remove that Whedon tries (and fails) to inject in all his dialogue. I'm given to understand that she becomes a recurring character; if so, I approve.
"I swear, I'm just trying to find my necklace." "Well, did you try looking in the sofa in Hell?" I chuckled.
After the sluggish first act, the presence of two Willows in Sunnydale proceeds at a reasonable clip. Evil Willow immediately begins consolidating her power, bullying vampires into submission and turning them into a goon squad. Meanwhile, Buffy and crew realize that their Willow isn't a vampire after thirty seconds - which is good, because a 45-minute comedy of errors would have been appalling.
Willow acting as evil Willow. I think Hannigan's a better actor than Whedon's dialogue and coaching give her the opportunity to be. She delivers every line with the same perky cadence, punctuating them with a smile and some chin movement, regardless of their content. Here, though (and in "Earshot"), Hannigan portrays a wide range of emotions. The scene in the Bronze, where she must simultaneously keep up a vampiric facade, send as many bad guys outside as she can, allay Oz's fears and still act tough was very entertaining.

Overall Grade: Lots of fun. A high point of the season. ENEMIES And then, well. I remember this being the first Buffy episode I ever watched, not long after it originally aired. I formed my first low opinions of Whedon from this one. When it came up again in the queue, I hoped that time had exaggerated its flaws. Nope. This episode starts with Buffy and Faith running into a demon who wants to sell them the Books of Ascension (why should they care? how does he have them? if the Mayor's been planning this for over a century, why doesn't the Mayor have them already?). Faith jacks the demon, steals the books for her new boss, and tricks Angel into standing still long enough for an undead wizard to yank his soul out (that easy, huh?). Angel and Faith go on a tear, screwing and bludgeoning their way across Sunnydale until they lure Buffy back to Angel's mansion. He ties her up until Faith reveals the Mayor's master plan, at which point - ah-ha! It was a trick all along! Also, Cordelia's seducing Wesley. Are You Fucking Kidding Me? Deep breath. Here we go:

Why is Buffy interested in the Books of Ascension, which she hadn't heard of until 10 seconds ago? The demon trying to sell them drops the Mayor's name; does that constitute any sort of bona fides? If I showed up at the Pentagon tomorrow claiming to have Osama bin Laden's address in a Hello Kitty diary, would that obligate the DoD to take me seriously?
I'm glad Wesley suggests beating the rather feeble demon up and stealing the books from him. But nobody considers that this might be a trap to lure the Slayer out? Then again, if it were a trap, it'd be a rather poor one. So I suppose Giles and Wesley's ignorance gets saved by the demon's stupidity.
If it's that easy to separate Angel from his soul, why hasn't anyone tried it before? The Mayor makes some throwaway reference to the effort and sacrifice of getting the wizard to show up, but we never see it cost him anything. And the actual ritual involves throwing some alchemical goop on Angel, then the wizard showing up and chanting for a few seconds.
The entire episode hinges on Buffy and Angel deciding, off-camera, to run a sting on Faith. When do they do that? Here's how the sequence of events has to go: the Mayor summons the wizard and makes his request. The wizard, that same day, grabs Giles and tells him, "Hey, you owe me, so I'm telling you: the Mayor wants me to go corrupt a friend of yours." Giles, having forgiven Angel for murdering his girlfriend and torturing him, tells Buffy, who was on her way to go ask Angel what Faith was doing visiting. Buffy and Giles hurry over to Angel's mansion, telling him what's about to go down. In record time, they come up with a plan to make it look like Faith has turned Angelus back. Giles calls the wizard back (which apparently takes him zero effort, compared to the Mayor) and briefs him on the plan. The wizard agrees. Faith shows up with a vial of goop, etc, the episode proceeds as recorded. That's an awful fucking lot of stuff to happen off-camera.
Buffy's rather tolerant of Angel sleeping with Faith. We never see that happen, of course, but we have to presume it did. Because if a ravenous amoral creature like Angelus got his hands on a nubile young sexpot like Faith, made out with her hot 'n heavy, and then said, "Hold up, let's not take things too fast here"? The ruse would fall apart in a second. So, Angel screws Faith without turning back into a demon (I never saw Season 2, but I presume the "true moment of happiness" that did him in was the consumnation of his love for Buffy, not the moment of climax) and Buffy forgives him.
Every line of dialogue Xander has in this episode makes me hate his character more. I did not think it possible.
And Willow's isn't much better.

All Right, I'll Admit, That Was Cool

Angel relishing his released status as a vampire. Boreanaz is a much better actor than Whedon's dialogue and coaching, oh wait, I've already given this note.
Angel punching Xander in the face. I know technically it's part of the first bullet, but it deserves a call-out.

Overall Grade: Not the worst episode of the season, but it's fighting "Anne" and "Dead Man's Party" for that title. EARSHOT Interesting. I figured this for a daring choice by Whedon, since I knew S3 originally aired in 1999. Then I saw that this episode aired, out of continuity, in September 1999. Probably pushed back several months in the wake of the Columbine shootings. Regardless, it takes an interesting concept - what would you do if you could read minds? - and plays it out to its natural conclusion. I respect Whedon for following the episode's conceit logically, as well as giving us a few twists to keep us from guessing the real killer until the very end. Are You Fucking Kidding Me?

Once again, the first act angst that foreshadows the episode's supernatural bent is tacked on. Buffy feels left out of the gang's social life? Why now? Why more so than usual? She's ducked out of their events without hesitation before - and even when she and Angel were on the rocks.
Who tries to shoot themselves with a hunting rifle?

All Right, I'll Admit, That Was Cool

The mind reading. Whedon was good enough not to skimp on the way teenagers actually think about sex, within the limits of PG-13 television ("I'd like to shove her up against a locker and ..."). I liked the introduction of mind reading as a power that seemed useful at first but proved twisted.
The thoughts of her friends when she reveals her new power to them. Specifically Oz ("I am my thoughts. If they exist in her, Buffy contains everything that is me and she becomes me ...") and Cordelia, thinking what she was about to say just before she said it. Plus, though I haven't been on board with the Wesley character yet, he did a fine job with comic timing here.
Willow's questionnaire. Her interrogation of Jonathan was, again, one of the few times I've seen her act this season: inflecting words, using body language, etc. But I laughed out loud at every character in this sequence, from Xander interviewing Larry ("what secret? that I'm gay?"), to Oz interviewing Hogan (" 'Moderate strain.' Is that a good answer?"), to Cordelia interviewing a teacher ("were you planning on killing a bunch of people tomorrow? It's for the yearbook").
"You had sex with Giles?"
Whedon pulls off an excellent double reversal on who the real killer is. I spent so much time cringing in anticipation of the dark, pseudo-intellectual loner being the murderer that I didn't mind when it turned out the pudgy, frustrated loser was. And then it wasn't even him! I don't always think much of Whedon's plot twists, but they were well used here.
" 'Dingoes Ate My Baby play their instruments as if they have plump polish sausages taped to their fingers.' "Sorry, man." "No, it's fair."
A few shots of students watching Buffy vault to the bell tower to disarm Jonathan help set up the shifting tide of popular opinion that culminates in "The Prom." Nicely done.
"We can work out after school. You know, if you're not too busy having sex with my mother!"

Overall Grade: Didn't have the preachy impact it was aiming for, but fun in its supernatural aspects. CHOICES Once again, an idea taken to its logical conclusion: Buffy, as a high school senior, may one day be heading off to college. What does that mean for her duties as a Slayer? And the stakes get raised even higher when Buffy snags an artifact the Mayor needs for his ritual, but gets Willow kidnapped in the process. Are You Fucking Kidding Me?

Snyder's drug paranoia, thrown in as an afterthought. There's one lame scene in the beginning where he rifles the lunch of two students we don't know just to establish that he might have a reason to be at the school later.
"That won't cut through steel." "No, but it will cut through bone." ARGH. Why not just finish the train of thought for anyone else who misses subtext? "Whose bone are you going to cut through?" "The guy I just shot. I'm going to sever his wrist and remove the cuffs that way." "So then you can take the box to the Mayor?" ET FUCKING CETERA.
The sequence with Oz and Xander decoding Willow's instructions ("twice-blessed sage or twice-blessed toad?") serves no purpose in the story whatsoever. And it's not funny.
For as much as I complain about 24 and its false dichotomies ("we need to light this school bus of nuns on fire, or Al-Qaeda will detonate a nuke! there's no other way!"), it would not be fair to withhold the same judgment from this episode. The only two options are to surrender an evil artifact to the Mayor or see their friend get slaughtered? They haven't infiltrated heavily guarded compounds against impossible odds before? None of them has the least bit of outside-the-box creativity?
Not much of a title.

All Right, I'll Admit, That Was Cool

I didn't think Northwestern was worth getting so excited over as a school, but U.S. News ranks it #12 in the country. Shows what I know!
"You killed him." "What are you, the narrator?" That is fucking rich, considering the nature of Whedon's dialogue. I howled.
Faith's knife as a symbol of her lust for power, and her growing reservations about it. The knife appeared just often enough to be memorable, not so much as to hammer (or stab) the point home.
" 'Faith, we're still your friends. We can help you. It's not too late.' " "It's way too late." Again, one of the few times Hannigan's called to really act, and she clears the fences. Unexpected and good.
Angel and Buffy fighting the vampires over and around the conference room.
I like the "great demonic power" in the box being a lot of spiders. And the terror was scripted very well - two spiders jumping out of the box, scurrying somewhere unknown, and everyone in the room freezing. Sometimes it's the tiny threats that scare us the most.
"I married my Edna May in ought-three and I was with her right until the end ..." Again, the Mayor carrying a scene effortlessly. And he introduces a logical complication - is the kind thing for an immortal to do to monopolize the best years of a young girl's life?
Oz saying nothing in the argument over whether to rescue Willow or not, until he knocks the pot into the corner. Excellent example of commitment in a negotiation scenario; Thomas Schelling would be proud.
Buffy's bargain with Wesley: if she stops the Ascension, she gets to go to college. Doesn't work out, of course, but it represents a refreshing level of proactive effort. It shakes up the cycle of Encounter Threat, Lose Fight, Do Research, Win Rematch.

Overall Grade: I liked it very much. # # # Next update will be the last: "Prom," "Graduation" (Parts 1 and 2) and overall thoughts on the season.

chicago courthouse

Professor Coldheart — Tue, 25 Aug 2009 03:04:57 +0000

north michigan ave

Professor Coldheart — Tue, 25 Aug 2009 03:09:31 +0000

roosevelt subway

Professor Coldheart — Tue, 25 Aug 2009 03:10:57 +0000

like a lover's voice toward the mountainside

Professor Coldheart — Tue, 25 Aug 2009 11:00:08 +0000

No new content on Monday or Tuesday. Wednesday through Friday will be a recap of my trip to Chicago. If you're a friend of mine on Facebook, you can see photos I took of various buildings. If not, you can't. Well, okay, you get three.

goin' to chicago (sorry, but I can't take you)

Professor Coldheart — Wed, 26 Aug 2009 11:00:19 +0000

Twenty-seven B-stroke-6 American Express lets you book flights online with Membership Rewards points instead of cash. The site even duplicates the functionality of Travelocity, allowing you to search a range of dates or a couple adjacent airports. Neat. But they're not always great on follow-up. Case in point: I wanted to check-in for my flight to Chicago early, so I needed a confirmation number from AirTran. Never got it from AmEx. So I called AirTran customer service. Waiting for the list of options to end didn't help; the recording, instead, cycled through broader and broader questions ("I'm sorry; I didn't understand your response. Are you even getting on a fucking airplane?"). I hung up and tried a different number, but this time ended in some bizarre menu where a recording read a list of check-in procedures off at me. "Fees may be accrued for additional bags checked. Carry-on bags must be eighteen inches deep by twenty-seven inches ..." Finally, I tried the second number once more, punching "0" repeatedly until I got a human. She found my confirmation number with all speed, wasting very little time on courtesies. No Touching I had an afternoon to kill before I needed to be at Logan, so I met Misch at Downtown Crossing for lunch. She took me to a place in the food court that served up tasty chicken teriyaki. The upstairs was packed, so we ate in the food court basement. "Why Chicago?" she asked. "I have friends there," I explained. "But more than that, I really like the city. It's modern, it's cheaper than Boston. And I've been in Boston ten years now. It might be time for me to move. Lately I've been feeling something needs to change, though 'moving eight hundred miles' is probably the most expensive change possible. So I guess this is-- "I'm sorry," I interrupted myself. "Could we continue this conversation somewhere that doesn't feel like a prison cafeteria?" Paranoia Rewarded No sooner had I settled into my spacious second-row seat (I sprung for the business-class upgrade) than I felt something missing. Running through the pocket-patting ritual common to all adult males, I found a vacancy on my left side. iPod, yes, but no cell phone. I darted to the front of the plane. "Sir, you're gonna have to -" "I left my cell phone up there." "Okay," the attendant soothed. "We'll send someone up the jetway to get it. We can't let you back into the terminal for security reasons." Vindicating as it was to hear that AirTran personnel don't think any more of TSA screeners than I do, I didn't think sending a third party would help much. My initial conversation with the tiny man who came down the jetway bore this true. "Where was your cell phone?" "Back there. At the gate." "At the gate?" "Where I was sitting." Not literally AT the gate; I took it out of my pocket to shut it off before boarding, so I know I had it in my hand while I was waiting for boarding to be called; this is ridiculous ... "Do you know where you were sitting?" "At the ... one of the seats? Near the middle?" A couple rows back from the gate? Near these two college students; you could tell by the baby cheeks and the sweatpants; are you really going to send me to a strange city without a cell phone? "Okay, come with me." The tiny man escorted me back up the ramp, nattering the whole while about a time that he'd left something at the gate and the plane had already pulled away. I chimed in to be polite ("wow, really?") rather than gargling in panic until we got back to the gate. Once there, I shouldered past him and ran to the row I was sitting in. I tried not to wring my hands as I searched, until the crew member himself found it, its dark blue frame camouflaging it perfectly among the seats. I'd write AirTran a thank-you e-mail, but we probably broke some federal regulations in letting me back off the plane. I'll check with my lawyer first. In Wicker Park Did Kublai Khan Hawver told me to take the Orange Line from Midway into the Loop, then the Blue Line out of the city (toward O'Hare, ironically), getting off at Damen. I found him outside, reading a fat tome on energy policy. We flagged a cab, a light drizzle having started to fall since I landed. Hawver lives in an old but well-maintained neighborhood, in a second story gut-rehabbed apartment. Wide rooms, hardwood floors and spacious ceilings. He and Dea each have their own private offices, as well as large swaths of the living room they have laid out as they see fit (Hawver: Niall Ferguson and Stephen Baxter books; Dea: Buffy and Angel DVDs)^*. All this, plus a shared garageway in the back and a third of a mile from the Blue Line. "How much does this run you?" I asked. He quoted a figure, a mere 30% more than what I pay for a studio (!) in a similar neighborhood in Boston. If I wanted to live in a similar studio, at a similar distance from a nicer downtown, I could pay half what Hawver and Dea pay for a rehabbed 3BR. I choked on my beer. Domo Arigato, Mr. Gelato Hawver and Dea took me to a party a short cab ride away, where some grad school friends of Dea's were wrapping up a barbecue. The host graciously brought out some raw tuna steaks, which I ate with my hands before I even thought to offer someone else (sorry). There was also a hearty cake shaped like a robot. I didn't eat all of that. Quit staring at me. Though I didn't smoke, I followed the smokers out to the porch while the grad students played Asshole indoors. Kyle, lead vocalist in Hawver's new band, talked about his last trip to Boston. "After stumbling out of this bar called, whassit, The Field? We're looking for the train. Can't find it^**. So we keep walking until we hit a bridge going over the river." He went on listing the bars he and his girl Diana hit in their trip around Boston. Hawver and I, functioning alcoholics both, chimed in whenever he struggled for an establishment's name. "Did you come to Chicago to see Hawver play tomorrow?" his friend Tony asked. I thought for a moment. "Yes, I did," I said. "Shit," Kyle said, pitching his cigarette. "Now I'm'a have to be good." ________________ ^* Not to suggest that Dea doesn't read; rather, as a grad student, reading is business for her. ^** To pre-empt the question, yes, you have to be pretty drunk to miss the Red Line coming out of The Field in Central Square. That's what made it such a good story.

90 east toward chicago, on my way to cincinnati

Professor Coldheart — Thu, 27 Aug 2009 13:06:21 +0000

The Hunt Is On While wandering downtown Chicago early on a Saturday morning, taking amateur pictures of the architecture, I passed the occasional pair of fit twenty-somethings in identical T-shirts, consulting a map or a clipboard. The collisions grew more frequent until I found a horde of them in Chicago's government center, participating in something called City Chase. I wanted to explore on my own, and lacked a scavenger hunt partner besides, but it looked like fun. Between doing some voice-over work for Urban Interactive and the lead-up to an Internet Inc. outdoor chase at our new office, I've been thinking a lot about scavenger hunts of late. The one time I had an opportunity to plan one - for my acting troupe in college - led to a lot of frustrating puzzle entries, excessive distances and yelling. But the variables involved fascinate me. You want entries a good distance from each other, but not so far that they exhaust the players. Clues that hinge on insider knowledge without being too obscure. Lots of different factors at play; that's why they call scavenger hunts the "sweet science" on ESPN. ... Ladies A man on a street corner in the Jewelry District asked if I was in the market for jewelry. If I'd said "yes" (it takes a lot of effort for me to lie), that'd have to be one hell of a pitch. Jewelry stores, with telephones and burglar alarms and everything, surrounded me at all points of the compass. That's a lot of credibility to overcome. "I invented diamonds." "The jewelry?" "No, the stone itself." "... go on." In any case, still being a bachelor, my answer was a resigned "No." And We Are Here As On A Coordinate Plane "Where are you?" Hawver asked via cell phone. "I'm at ... 800 South, 300 West," I told him. "Oh, wow," he replied. "I'm at 800 North, 100 East." I love that about Chicago. I could navigate myself, or someone else, to any point in the city, and I've only visited there four times. All I need are coordinates. I couldn't do that in Boston, and I've lived here longer than any one city. I only just realized, two years ago, that the streets crossing Commonwealth Avenue (Arlington, Berkeley, Clarendon, Dartmouth, Exeter, Fairfield) ascend in alphabetical order. Until they don't. And that's only if you stay west of the Common. Past that, it's a swirling toilet drain into Cthulhu's eye (i.e., Government Center) We arranged to meet near to 0,0, via some combination of walking and subways. Once there, we took the Red Line north to Addison. The Red Line sits on mostly a straight north shot outside the city, so the N values increased but the E/W values stayed relatively constant. I did some quick math and consulted my encyclopedic knowledge of Blues Brothers dialogue in my head. "Are we getting off near Wrigley?" I asked. Hawver, verifying that I had indeed taken the pebble from his hand, nodded. Hot Dog ... The Failed Movie We'd come all the way to Wrigleyville to visit Hot Doug's, the world-renowned hot dog shop. "Sometimes there's a bit of a line," Hawver cautioned. "But usually no more than ..." We slowed our walk as we approached the cafe, opposite the Williams and Midway pinball factories. Over one hundred and fifty people stretched in a line out the door, past the end of the building, and into the residential neighborhoods surrounding it. We got to the end of the line and waited for twenty minutes. It never moved. Admitting a temporary defeat, we retreated to a taquerista near Logan Park. I had some chorizo and chicken tacos. "That's probably the one thing I'd miss about moving out here," I said between bites. "Fish." It Takes A Lot Of Money To Look This Cheap Hawver's band, The Lovers, played at Quenchers' 30th anniversary bash. They're a five-man set: guitar (Hawver), keyboards, bass, drums and the lead singer (who also doubles on guitar or keys for some songs). They blend some electro New-Wave sensibilities with garage rock attitude - just fun, foot-tapping rock. They also managed to pack out the back room - somewhere between 30 and 40 people. Hawver introduced me to their keyboardist Kevin and their manager Ashleigh that evening. "You manage these fools?" I asked her. We The Living I suffered a few minutes of confusion when I saw T-shirts for "The Livers" in the merch pile before the show started. Had I been mishearing Hawver's band's name all these months? Not so, as it turns out; The Livers followed The Lovers on the playlist. My second guess, equally incorrect: they weren't a punk band. Because a band named "The Livers," if they mean the organ, has to be punk. No, The Livers are two guys who record themselves playing bass and drums. They then project this on a screen behind them while playing guitar live. The (recorded) drummer counts them in and they use a DVD remote to skip between songs. It's furiously awesome.

come on, baby don't you wanna go

Professor Coldheart — Fri, 28 Aug 2009 11:00:40 +0000

He Ain't Here, But He Sure Went By Yelp recommended Fontano's Subs near DePaul University, so I suggested to Liz C. and Stephanie J. that we meet there for lunch on Sunday. But Yelp did not tell us that Fontano's, like a lot of downtown eateries, is closed on Sundays. I waited for the ladies to arrive so we could make new plans. "We have our choice of Chicago chain eateries," I offered. "Potbellies around the corner there, or Jimmy John's the opposite way." "I've been wanting to try Jimmy John's," Steph insisted. "I've never heard of this place," Liz said. "They advertise it all over!" I replied. "I've been in town two days and I know about it." "I dunno ..." "You're right, it's a ruse. I called Steph this morning and said, 'Now play along - this is going to be hysterical ...' " Jimmy John's was open and vacant on Sunday. They prepare sandwiches with lightning speed; I had just finished paying for my roast beef when it was waiting for me at the other end of the counter. The ladies got Italian cold cuts. I Have Always Depended On The Kindness of Transients Steph wanted a futon or an air mattress to put up some visiting family. I had taken an unintended tour of the South Side of Chicago on Saturday, by simply walking west from Grant Park^*. I vaguely remembered passing a Target ... or was it a Best Buy? Giant CVS, maybe? The three of us stood in front of a You Are Here map on the side of a bus depot, puzzling it out. I texted Google for directions. While I had my phone up, a portly man in a stained sweatshirt, ill-fitting corduroy and a Discman lumbered up next to us. "Who you callin'?" he asked. Even if I'd really been calling a human, was this guy likely to know him? The sheer oddness of the question stymied me until Liz interjected. "We're trying to find a Target," she explained. "Oh, there one on South Clark," he said. "You just take the Red Line to Roosevelt, walk two blocks." He trundled off. Which was right where I'd suspected it was. "Thanks!" We combed every inch of the Target, but could only find a sectional sofa whose arms and back folded down. It looked neat, but it was a bit more than Steph wanted to pay. The trip paid for itself, though, when we got to see the cart escalator. It's a conveyor belt that runs parallel to the escalator that snugly grips the wheels of your shopping cart and guides it down gently. We stared like the slack-jawed tourists that only one of us were. We found an air mattress at the Bed, Bath and What-not a block away. Where Everybody Knows Your Name Since MT was getting in on a late flight from Florida, I had a half-time dinner before meeting her later. Mother Hubbard's seemed far enough off the beaten path that I wouldn't have to deal with too many tourists. Plus they advertised genuine Chicago-style hot dogs, which I had been exhorted to try. "Where you from?" the bartender asked after taking my order. Apparently I looked like that much of a tourist, though I'm sure asking what time the liquor stores close didn't help. Talking about Boston sparked a conversation with the guy sitting two stools down - a New Jersey expatriate who'd lived in Colorado for a decade, then moved to Chicago to continue working for Hyatt Hotels. I chatted with him until the food arrived. Against every instinct in my body, I let the ketchup lie, instead loading the dog with onions, sweet relish and mustard. And it was so good. Not So Fast, Shredder After several scheduling complications, MT, her boy Adam and I settled on Heaven on Seven on North Michigan. Having already eaten, I tucked into a turtle soup, though MT insisted I try the pulled pork she ordered. All very good. I walked in with low expectations of what Chicago could manage for Cajun cuisine, but the freshness of the meat definitely helped. MT doesn't use Facebook, so I got her up to speed on gossip among our old friends. She was delighted at weddings, astounded at pregnancies and happy that folks had jobs and apartments. President Gas is President Gas Again I took the Red Line to the Blue Line, then to the temporary Blue Line shuttle, to get to the Green Eye Lounge. The bartender never charged me for my Bell's Amber. When I waved a five at him, he blinked. "Don't worry about it," he said, "but thanks for being honest." So Hawver and I retreated to a corner, took turns ordering rounds of domestic beer, and did what we always do in bars: debate the future of energy policy. "Everything in this country depends on petroleum," he said. "And when the existing reserves get too expensive for Venezuela or Mexico to export, what is the U.S. going to do?" "Pay more," I replied. "Or invade." "No, but these countries need oil too! Do you think that these South and Central American governments are going to keep selling to the U.S. while their own citizens starve?" "Oh, God! I'd hate to live in a world where that happened!" We ended the discussion at the same stalemate we always have: Hawver insisting that the collapse of oil would lead to a new Dark Age, whereas I insisted it would be a mere global depression that ended U.S. hegemony. Hot Dog, Part II: The Wrath of Foie Hawver and I planned better for our trip to Hot Doug's on Monday morning, getting there at 10:30 on the dot. We had to wait through the line of people similarly desperate for hot dogs, but this took no more than 20 minutes. Afterward the line vanished. Hawver's suggestion is probably best: show up at ten minutes before 11:00, so you miss the desperate people but beat the lunch rush. Hot Doug's only serves duck-fat fries on Fridays and Saturdays, so I missed out. But I got the sauternes duck sausage topped with foie gras and aioli - the legendary foie gras dog. It was sweet and hearty and tender, everything you'd expect. But some fries would have complemented it very well. ^* Okay, the nicest possible part of the South Side.

he's got a road map of jupiter, a radar fix on the stars all along the highway

Professor Coldheart — Mon, 31 Aug 2009 11:00:48 +0000

District 9: I have nothing to add to the chorus of critical acclaim already showered on this movie. An amazingly inventive flick. See it in the theaters. That out of the way, I have a broader question: will the recent string of smart, successful action movies finally put that trope of the "dumb popcorn flick" to rest? Iron Man, The Dark Knight, The Hurt Locker, and now District 9. Even Inglourious Basterds (which I'm not sure I'll get over my distaste for Tarantino to see): you can call it a lot of things, like "tasteless," "derivative," "unfocused," etc., but you can't say it's dumb. The successes above aren't just action movies with a veneer of philosophy smeared across the top. Any movie can try at that (oh, Four Brothers is about staying true to your roots, etc). These movies explore interesting themes, using action as their language. District 9 is about the conflict between newcomers and civilization, portrayed as a literal conflict. In The Dark Knight, the war between Order and Chaos comes down to a brawl on a scaffolded building. I suspect that Hollywood has not finished with dumb popcorn flicks yet. They're too easy to write: dream up some action set-pieces, write a script that pastes them together, start shooting next week. And the growing trend to merchandise every aspect of a film, which started with Star Wars action figures and continues to the Transformers 2 toys available in your Burger King Kids' Meal, guarantees that corporate sponsors won't settle for anything too challenging. But if the industry isn't done with it, I am. You will never get me into a theater again to see G.I. Joe or The Faster and the Furiousest or the equivalent. Having seen what movies are capable of - stimulating depictions of interesting ideas that still have the power to pump my adrenaline - I won't settle for less. Don't ask me to "leave my brain at the door." It's in my skull. I can't do that.

cleaning out the digestive tract of hip hop like cranberries

Professor Coldheart — Tue, 01 Sep 2009 11:00:37 +0000

Watch My Feet I helped Sarah C. move in to her place in Porter Square this Sunday. While unloading her U-Haul, a young man with a drawstring satchel came up. "How you doing?" he asked. I immediately squared my shoulders, knowing he was trying to sell something. Sure enough, he was: RCN sent account executives to canvass the neighborhood, since September 1 is a huge moving day in college-heavy Cambridge, offering sign-up specials. First: I wonder what this says of the economy. I suggest "immense desperation," since RCN is almost certainly paying these guys on commission. The fight between RCN, Comcast and Verizon for the marginal consumer dollar has grown bloody. If newspaper inserts, mass mailings and TV commercials aren't picking up new customers, why not throw bodies at the problem? And if someone's close enough to starving to go door to door in a muggy Boston September, working on vig to pick up thankless outside consumer sales, how bad must the job market look? Second: I'd been thinking a lot about human's ability to perceive body language of late, and this sparked a new train of thought. If a stranger passes you on the street and says, "How you doing?", most of us don't instantly interpret it as a come-on. But when they plant their feet, lock their eyes on yours, and have their hands halfway out, you know it's not a sincere greeting. You know it's a lead-in to a sales pitch, whether to save the environment, sign a pro-life petition or try a new cable package. Mix and Match I bought some ingredients on Sunday to make my own trail mix. Have you heard of this stuff? "Trail mix"? It's so tasty. Professor Coldheart's Kickass Trail Mix (First Draft) 1 part macadamia nuts 1 part cashews 1 part semi-sweet chocolate chips 1 part dried cranberries I'm not entirely satisfied with the first draft. Macadamia nuts are perhaps the tastiest nut, thanks to their high fat content, but they're significantly larger than any other ingredient in the mix. It makes for odd handfuls. I could dice them, but that'd be an awful lot of effort (unless someone buys me a Slap Chop).

there's something in my head, but it's not me

Professor Coldheart — Wed, 02 Sep 2009 11:00:39 +0000

In light of considering the Chicago move^*, I've thought a lot about What I Want and What I Need To Get There. What I want is to write. More than anything. I have this vague dream of earning enough as a writer to support myself, but that could take years. And even hitting that goal won't be a resting place. However, if I continue to dedicate myself to the practice of writing - generating new material, editing the old, contacting agents and editors and other writers - then I'm living that goal. Every day that I write, I'm a writer; every day that I don't, I'm either earning an income or fooling myself. What do I need to get there? Practice, for one thing. Networks. A word processor. A job that puts food in my stomach and gives me health insurance. But if this past Monday taught me anything, I definitely need space. Working on a short story - a trivial short story, some half-imagined nothing, something I fully intend to throw away once I'm finished - I hit a patch. My feet stuck and wouldn't move forward. Swearing, I closed the file, rummaged through my desk and found the blue ideas notebook. Every notebook in the world I devote to more than one purpose, or discard after I've only filled half of it. This one sticks with me, though. It's got my notes from the Muse and the Marketplace conference, novel outlines, short story ideas, snippets of dialogue. This is my lifeline. I flip one page after the next. Nothing grabs me. I bolt a shot of whiskey, wash my hands and take my contacts out. Some nights it just flows, but tonight it's mud in my gears, ash in the gas tank. I know exactly why: because I have an endpoint in sight but no idea how to get there. I'm going to throw this story out anyway. Why labor over it? There's that little bit from a few years ago, what was it, three thousand words? Not even. You've become a much better writer since then. Dig that one out; revise it. No. Well, take a break from this one. You said yourself you haven't structured it enough. Put an outline together. Something will come to you. Not that, either. You just want to suffer, then? Sit and stare at a blinking cursor? What good's that going to do you? Cursing, I go back to the computer. I sit down. I wait. The conversation that I stopped in the middle of - a guy and a girl, on a first date - starts to flow. Maybe not as smoothly as the genius stylist I envision myself to be could manage. But it makes sense. It's what these people would say. I'll let it go until it gets where I need it for the story to continue. Writing doesn't always demand this much of me; in fact, it hasn't been this hard in a while. I can normally write close to two thousand words in an hour, instead of barely half that tonight. But when it gets hard, I need to endure that quiet torture for as long as it takes until I can start writing again. I can't walk away from it. Less than perfect, that's fine; no one ever lives up to the expectations in my head anyway. But not walking away defeated. And that's why I live in a studio in Cambridge. _______________ ^* I'm not moving to Chicago. Sorry.

you'll never know what it means, but you'll know how it feels

Professor Coldheart — Thu, 03 Sep 2009 11:52:40 +0000

Hey fans:

My next entry in Overthinking It's Cargo Cult series reviews Streets of Fire, Walter Hill's campy 1983 rock musical starring Diane Lane, Rick Moranis and Willem Dafoe. I post YouTube clips in the article containing every good song in the movie, so you'll want to check it out.
People who've been asking when I'm going to perform next: tonight! 10:00, ImprovBoston, for A Night of Oral (Tradition). Tickets are cheap. Chris Cuddy, myself and other fine performers will tell some entertaining anecdotes that will enrich us all.

and when you said I scared you, well I guess you scared me too

Professor Coldheart — Fri, 04 Sep 2009 11:01:56 +0000

The final three. THE PROM Fun. Angel comes to a painful but logical realization - that it's unfair to tie a beautiful young girl down to a moping immortal. So he breaks up with her (at an inconvenient time, but is there ever a good one?). Buffy spends an appropriate amount of time heartbroken, then throws herself into her work and tracks down a lone psycho training hellhounds to ruin prom. Meanwhile, Xander uncovers Cordelia's secret day job. Despite her continually hostile attitude toward him, he pays for the dress that she's put on layaway - a lovely, albeit pathetic, gesture. I know that the hokey ceremony at the prom, where the entire class made an award just for Buffy, should bother me more than it did. It's such transparent wish fulfillment - in a show that's all about wish fulfillment, giving the high school outcasts hot dates and superpowers - that I know I should feel seedy. But I don't. Because, ultimately, Buffy has given up a lot of her normal life in order to protect Sunnydale from everything. She doesn't get a boyfriend, she settles for a college other than the best she could get into, and all her friends are weird. So I was moved. Or maybe it's just really effective wish fulfillment. Are You Fucking Kidding Me?

A hellhound that's been trained to shred people in formal wear? A kid who wants to slaughter a gym full of promgoers because ... eh, you know what, the episode isn't even really about this guy. So I'm not mad enough to give this an AYFKM. It's still pretty lazy, though.
The entire episode hinges on the Precious Magic of Prom, which is a trope I'd prefer vanish from American culture as a whole and pop culture in particular. It's one night. It's a dance. You've been to dances before; you'll go to dances again. The industry that's been built up around this one lacklustre night in the tail end of a high school career sickens me - and I work in marketing, so I know from sickening.

All Right, I'll Admit, That Was Cool

I buy into Anya's social ineptitude. For the past several centuries, her only interaction with humans has been to toy with them. I'm not surprised she'd have a hard time telling a pleasing anecdote ("so she wished her husband's head would explode ...").
We knew Angel was going to show up at prom. Everyone knew. Don't pretend you didn't know. That being said, I'm glad the show didn't imply that Angel and Buffy were going to get back together. You can acknowledge that you're not meant to be with someone and still be fond of them.
Also, though Xander paying for Cordelia's dress is, again, pathetic, it represents a nice note of closure on their relationship. A lesser show would use this to imply that maybe they're getting back together (I can see Aaron Sorkin doing this, for some reason). But that would be stupid. Buying someone a prom dress isn't a way to rekindle an old romance, especially if he cheated on her and she nearly died. But it's a great favor for a friend.
"For god's sake, man. She's eighteen, and you have the emotional maturity of a blueberry scone."

Overall Grade: Didn't blow me away, but you can't depict the senior year of your protagonists without having one episode at prom. GRADUATION DAY (Parts 1 and 2) The moment that Season 3's been building toward since "Homecoming." Mayor Wilkins culminates his hundred-year plan to Ascend, turning into a demon and devouring most of Sunnydale. The gang's in for their most desperate fight yet. Are You Fucking Kidding Me?

What little Giles, Wesley and the Watchers know about the Ascension suggests that it's a terrible cataclysm. Even by the standards of the terrible cataclysms the gang avert every week. And getting the inside scoop from Anya confirms this. Given the monumental stakes involved, why the fuck are the only people who can stop it - Buffy, Willow, et al - still going to school? Shouldn't they be locked in the library 24/7, doing research and calisthenics? Shouldn't the Watcher council send some backup? And if the answer's "no, it's not a big enough threat to justify that," then why have we spent all season building up to it? Because if Sunnydale's in no more danger from the Ascension than they are from the Apocalypse Cult of Jhe (in "The Zeppo") or the demon Lurconis ("Band Candy"), then that's a supreme letdown. And if they're in more danger, that demands a proportionally greater response. But no one seems worried that the Ascension's coming in three days.
Xander's meta-consciousness regarding his role as a supporting character ("I just know there's no way I'm getting out of this school alive"). Thankfully Whedon doesn't pay off on this, but there's the fear he might.
The Mayor orders Faith to murder Professor Wirth three days before the Ascension, because Wirth is the only one who knows about the vulnerability of the Mayor's new form. Except (A) Wirth doesn't know, really; he's not a demonologist, (B) as Wesley points out, his homicide only draws attention to his life and research, rather than concealing it, and (C) it's not exactly a momentous revelation! What an obscure bit of lore - the demon's vulnerable to massive volumes of fire. I wouldn't have considered blowing it up with enough fertilizer to vaporize a school library unless I'd read this occluded text.
"Guess who our commencement speaker is." "Siegfried?" "No." "Roy?" "No." ARGHLEBARGHLE.
"We have to find a spell to stop the Ascension," Willow declares. You mean you hadn't been trying before today? Or do you mean staking that vampire with a levitating pencil (which I'll admit was cool) inflated your self-esteem so much that you think you can undo a century-long ritual in three days? Or are you dumb? Or - and I smell a winner - could Whedon not think of anything else for you to do for the next 44 minutes?
"This is mutiny." "I like to think of it as graduation." WUT IZ THIS SYMBOLIZMS I IS NOT SURE
"All that killing, and you're afraid to die?" ... what? How does the one follow from the other?
Buffy feeds her blood to Angel, leading to the two of them thrashing around on the floor of the mansion. Angel grinds on top of her, while Buffy moans and crumples things (like tableware) in her hands. EXCUUZ ME I WAZ TOLD DERE'D BE A SYMBOLIZMS?
Does the vampiric vulnerability to sunlight mean anything? Does it have to be direct sunlight, unreflected off any other surface? Because Angel wanders around the library while the gang's getting ready for war like it's nothing.
For being the "key guy," Xander doesn't contribute a lot to the final battle. He stands and tells people when to shoot the things they're holding. I could have done that. Have I mentioned yet that I hate the character of Xander?
"Guys - take a moment to deal with this. We survived [...] Not the battle. High school." UGH.

All Right, I Admit, That Was Cool

"I'll scream." "Who wouldn't?"
The gang engages in some smart, focused problem-solving. Xander brings Anya in for debriefing. Buffy and Giles accurately deduce that the Mayor killed Professor Wirth to hide something important. Buffy learns that Angel needs a Slayer's blood to survive and decides, without much angst, to take Faith's. Plot, action, progress - a neat little march.
The Mayor! Always the Mayor. "That's a spunky little girl you've raised. I'm going to eat her."
And as dumb as the Mayor's plan was to kill Professor Wirth, his plan to poison Angel is genius. It is, as Wesley points out, an effective way to split the gang's limited resources.
"Fine! You know what? I hope you die! ... aren't we going to kiss?"
The Mayor's been growing paternally fond of Faith since she switched sides, but it ramps up in this episode. This makes his response to her death more appropriate.
Though I thought little of the taunts - as I think little of all Whedon dialogue - I loved the final showdown between Buffy and Faith. A classic furniture-wrecking, window-smashing evening brawl.
The gang shows up and takes Angel to task for feeding off Buffy to save his own life. Even if she did provoke him into it, this is their logical response. Who's going to be more crucial to stop the Ascension - the chosen Slayer, gifted with superhuman strength and speed, or a guy who can't come out before eight-thirty?
Though the "riddles" are hell of lame, I liked Faith passing ... her Slayerness? Whichever ... on to Buffy in the shared coma fantasy.
The graduating class doffing their gowns and going to war on the Mayor. I knew it was coming, but I still got a thrill out of it. It's so subversive.

Overall Grade: It's an ending. So there. # # # Throughout this recap, I've been calling Whedon out for various tendencies I liked or (more often) disliked about Buffy the Vampire Slayer. I realized recently, though, that it'd be unfair to lay all of that at his feet. Whedon may have been producer and show runner, but network television gets written by a committee of different writers. Maybe the "Whedonesque" style that I hated so much could be laid at the feet of a few delinquents. So I used Wikipedia and my prior recaps to search for any trends. Below find a list of each episode and its credited writer. Episodes I Loved "Faith, Hope and Trick" (David Greenwalt) "Band Candy" (Jane Espenson) "The Wish" (Marti Noxon) "Consequences" (Marti Noxon) "Doppelgangland" (Joss Whedon) "Choices" (David Fury) Episodes I Liked "Homecoming" (David Greenwalt) "Helpless" (David Fury) "The Zeppo" (Dan Vebber) "Beauty and the Beasts" (Marti Noxon) "Earshot" (Jane Espenson) Episodes I Tolerated "Revelations" (Douglas Petrie) "Lovers Walk" (Dan Vebber) "Gingerbread" (Jane Espenson) "Bad Girls" (Douglas Petrie) "The Prom" (Marti Noxon) "Graduation Day" (Joss Whedon) Episodes I Hated "Anne" (Joss Whedon) "Dead Man's Party" (Marti Noxon) "Amends" (Joss Whedon) "Enemies" (Douglas Petrie) So, no clear rules but several obvious tendencies:

I am more likely to hate an episode written by Joss Whedon, selected at random, than I am to tolerate or love it.
I am more likely to like or love a Marti Noxon episode than to tolerate or hate it.
Jane Espenson's good, too.
Every writer has at least a chance of overcooking the roast, except apparently David Greenwalt or David Fury. The Davids can do no wrong.

And this half-assed statistical analysis neatly wraps up the theme I've been addressing since June: I just don't like Joss Whedon. He's creative. He comes up with these fantastic worlds - cowboys in space! secret agents with replaceable personalities! high school kids fighting vampires! - that excite you just by hearing about them. And then he fails to deliver in any way that would engage me. I don't find anything worth emulating in his heroes; I don't find the gags he writes funny or the stirring speeches stirring; and the moral of each story, when it's not ham-handed, is just as likely to offend me as instruct me. He's a great producer and a mediocre writer. I gave him a fair shake. But when a given season of his seminal work - voted by his fans to be the one to watch - is just as likely to delight me as it is to bore or annoy me, that's too random a craps shoot for me to bet on. I have better shows to watch. Thank you for indulging me while I nitpicked at your idol. If you want to do the same with The Wire or Mad Men or The Prisoner, I'll sit on my hands.

and I've been putting out the fire with gasoline

Professor Coldheart — Mon, 07 Sep 2009 11:00:50 +0000

Inglourious Basterds: I'm posting this on Labor Day in the hopes that no one sees it. Quentin Tarantino has always approached films with the geeky enthusiasm of a comic book collector, rather than the affected aloofness of a film student. The movies he makes reflect that: a smorgasbord of styles, an epic assault on the senses that's as likely to confuse as delight. Most of his movies suffer for it. But when he makes a movie about the affect movies have on audiences - as he did with Inglourious Basterds, a cheeky little piece of overthinking masquerading as a war film - the encyclopedia in his brain serves him well. Not that every choice he makes is a good one. Midway through the film, two characters eat strudel with whipped cream in a Paris cafe. A fiber-detailed closeup on the bowl of cream: backlit, the spoon descending from above to harvest a dollop, and the spongy texture remaining. Artfully done, but what purpose does it serve in the scene in which it takes place? It's likely a reference to some obscure film that Tarantino's patting himself on the back for knowing. Likewise an early interrogation in a rural French farmhouse: the camera circles around Col. Hans Landa (Christoph Waltz) and a hapless French farmer during one point in the questioning. Why does it circle? What does it reveal, or heighten, or say that the two-shots we'd had to that point wasn't revealing? (This scene also brings up another recurring peeve I have with Tarantino: characters who talk about how delicious something is, rather than reacting as if they tasted something delicious. Samuel L. Jackson does it in Pulp Fiction - "you mind if I have some of your tasty beverage to wash this down?" - and Waltz does it in this scene as well. I know complaining about implausible dialogue in a Quentin Tarantino film's like complaining about how quiet you have to be at a golf match, but it's just stupid. Enough with the kvetching; on to how great the film is) But tricks of camera, editing and pacing are the way films tell stories, and, oddly enough, Tarantino has a story to tell. He didn't in Pulp Fiction (other than, "hey, wouldn't it be neat if a lot of unbelievable coincidences linked the lives of a lot of ridiculous characters, and Uma Thurman's hot?", to which of course, yes) or Kill Bill (other than "aren't kung fu films cool, and isn't Uma Thurman hot?", to which et cetera). He coasted on style. But Inglourious Basterds is all about style: the unspoken language that we use to hint without vocalizing. It's a commentary on style. And given that Tarantino doesn't just deliver a verdict on style, but uses style so effectively to do it, makes this - as Brad Pitt observes - his masterpiece. Brad Pitt, as we all know from the trailer, is Lt. Aldo Raine, a snarling Tennesseean who claims enough Apache blood to lead a platoon of eight Jewish soldiers deep into German territory. He plans for them a campaign of terror and brutality in order to inspire fear in the minds of Nazi soldiers. We watch him deliver an inspiring speech to his men about just what he intends to do to every Nazi they capture. And that's it. We get one scene of the Basterds scalping, executing and bludgeoning a Nazi squadron, but otherwise see very little of them in action. This might disappoint the casual action audience, but this is exactly the point. The movie's not about the Basterds. We merely need to establish that the Basterds exist, and they're doing stuff in France. If the movie's about anyone, it's Shoshanna Dreyfus (who, since Tarantino couldn't plausibly cast Uma Thurman as a 19-year-old Jew, is played by Thurman-lookalike Melanie Laurent), sole survivor of the scene with Col. Landa that begins the movie. Fleeing to Paris, she poses as a native Parisian and the owner of a small local cinema. There, she catches the eye of a young German soldier (the haplessly likable Daniel Bruhl), who's been thrust into fame as suddenly as she avoids it. This soldier has the ear of Joseph Goebbels, and arranges for the premiere of a populist war film at Shoshanna's cinema. She puts in motion a plan that'll end in the deaths of every German officer in attendance, not knowing that the Allies already have a similar plan in motion. And that sets the tension which carries the rest of the film. "What have you heard?", everyone in the film keeps asking. Reputation and word of mouth are the most important currency in the film, whether Landa's uncomfortable nickname "The Jew Hunter," the campaign of terror spread by the Basterds, or even a stuffy British lieutenant proving his bona fides to Winston Churchill by comparing Goebbels and Selznick. Language itself also plays a critical role: Landa speaks English in the opening scene not just as a sly concession to WW2 films targeting American audiences, but also because the Jewish prisoners beneath the floorboards can't speak it. The ability or inability to speak a language proves critical at various climaxes; note that the polyglot Landa survives to the end of the film. Tarantino uses the language of film to make his point: that the language of film tells us whom to root for and whom against. The action climaxes at the Paris premiere of Goebbels' crowning achievement, Nation's Pride, a film that (apparently) consists of nothing but a lone heroic German sniping Allies from a clock tower. The audience (including Hitler himself) cackles and cheers. Later, when two of the Basterds massacre fleeing German civilians from a similarly elevated perch, the correspondence is obvious. And if it's not, Landa makes it obvious when he captures Raine: "Were I sitting where you are now, should I expect mercy?" We are told by the film to imagine the characters in reversed positions. The point isn't mere moral relativism: that you can't tell the Nazis from the Allies. Tarantino's not leveling judgment on WW2. The entire movie takes place in a WW2 that never happened, as the film's final outcome should make abundantly clear. The point Tarantino's making is that you can only tell the heroes from the villains based on who gets the better close-ups. It helps that Tarantino has assembled the finest cast he's ever worked with for this movie. It'd be a waste of time to call out individual performances: they're all fantastic. Especially the Germans, whom he invests with a great deal of humanity - although never without one perfunctory flourish of villainy on the end that justifies their execution. It seems odd, if you think about it, that someone would be a decent, patriotic German their entire life only to descend into savagery right before getting shot. But you're not supposed to think about it. You're supposed to recoil from the character's villainy and then relax as the movie shares our judgment and ends their life. That's how movies tell us who the villains are. And that is Tarantino's point.

living the good life

Professor Coldheart — Tue, 08 Sep 2009 11:00:58 +0000

Papers, Please Neither of the last two times that I've been in a liquor store have I been carded. The law, as explained in the little plastic inserts over the "Take A Penny / Leave A Penny" trays, says that anyone under thirty could get carded. So I either look thirty, or look enough over twenty-one that the liquor store owners don't care. And I know that's not really a law; it's just there to give the proprietors a gauzy veil of protection in case someone gets huffy over being checked. "I don't look twenty-one to you?" Straight Outta Second City I recounted this to Erik V. at Serpico's housewarming on Saturday. Talking about the flexibility of entry barriers, he mentioned a time that he and his improv troupe got turned away from a club. "No Identical Outfits," the sign out front said. But someone talked to the bouncer and convinced them that an improv troupe would not be rolling with the nilly^*, and in any case had the troupe name on their shirt for easy identification. "I can see that causing trouble for naive college clubs," I speculated. " 'We're the Latin Kings! Gallia est omnia divisa in tres partis!' " Serpico and Kim's new place is awesome, by the way - a two bedroom in a building we looked at before moving into Union Square. They've done a lot with the space they have, setting aside the larger room for an office and guest BR and turning the smaller into a cozy master BR. One sectional couch and one three-seater frame the coffee table (perfect for gaming) and TV, and massive DVD shelves flank the opposite corner. Serpico showed off the kitchen island, which he'd bought and assembled the day before, with fatherly pride. Tell Me A Story As threatened, I told a story for Jess Sutich's recurring ImprovBoston show, "A Night of Oral (Tradition)." Four other ImprovBoston regulars and I told stories to a house of ... ten people? Maybe a dozen. Everyone else told stories ranging from knowing chuckles to laugh-out-loud hilarity, ranging from David Mogolov's improbable howler regarding impromptu bathroom breaks on road trips to Christina S.'s touching story of feuding cousins. My story - involving South Philadelphia strip clubs and family - did not get quite as many laughs. Well, the first part of the story did. But I played to a silent house for the last four to six minutes or so. Then again, the story didn't really have a punchy ending or a lot of hilarious twists to it. And two people independently came up and said my story was "well told" or "well structured." So format I have. I'm going to pick a funnier one for next month (a story where I nearly died) and see if that makes a difference. You should come see it; it's cheap. _________________ * By which I mean the nine-milly.

don't get me wrong

Professor Coldheart — Wed, 09 Sep 2009 11:07:30 +0000

Games People Play I hadn't seen Melissa and John in too long, so they obliged me for a drink at Drink, where Aaron served us a variety of historical cocktails. Mine were all whiskey-based; Melissa and John's were primarily gin-oriented, if I'm not mistaken. We talked about Chicago and reminisced on the virtues of Boston. We also spent a lot of time talking about WoWcraft (their obsession, not mine) and tabletop gaming ( ... okay, that one's mine). Despite the lateness of the hour, I stopped off at The Cellar for the vestiges of Sara F's goodbye party. Only the hardcore drinkers had remained: Lisa C., Meghan O., Robert W., Taylor, Rachel R. And of course, me, who didn't even have cab fare home. The conversation turned to the games men and women play when courting each other. "Say you give a guy your number," Robert posed. "And he doesn't call you back for six, seven days. Would you still pick up?" Which is a valid question, of course, but exactly the wrong way to phrase it. If you asked a guy, "Say a girl is really hard to pin down and flirts with you but is never available; would you still be interested?", he'll answer no. When in fact the accurate answer is yes. Guys respond to that behavior like catnip. We just don't like to think we do. I wished Sara F. nothing but success in San Francisco^*. She mentioned - completely unprompted - that she reads this weblog. And she makes a living writing blogs! This makes Sara Faith Alterman the Greatest American Hero. Roll The Dice, Man; Roll The Dice I had some folks over to roll dice on Labor Day. Auston, David F. and David M., Pete and Christine indulged my first halting steps with 4th edition. Despite nearly killing everyone in the second go-round, everyone had a blast. Only this morning did I realize I had an entire fridge of Diet Coke left. I bought a twelve-pack of the stuff - typical gaming fuel - but forgot to offer it to anybody. People went in and out of the fridge all day, but were either too health-conscious or too waist-conscious to tap into the soda. And I almost never drink the stuff. Long story short: could anyone use some Diet Coke? I have some. That evening I went to jiu-jitsu for some actual melee. Despite the soreness of not having really worked out for over a week - and taking several breakfalls from the head sensei - I enjoyed the exercise. One of the reasons I agonized for so long about moving to Chicago was due to feeling in a rut here in Boston. An easy way to change that up is to shake up my schedule, which is hardly fixed. So I'm going to be teaching jiu-jitsu on Sundays and studying on Mondays now. That, plus the move to the downtown office, should spark some interesting developments. Put Your Picture On A Stamp Here's a brief glimpse into how my mind works: Because I regularly send a modest check to the Institute for Justice^** every Christmas, I get on a wide variety of conservative mailing lists. Yesterday's came from the Law and Economics Center, urging me to write a check to help their efforts at "educating judges in sound economics, science and constitutional principles." From the letter:

For a small organization, they've attracted a good deal of attention. They're often criticized in the New York Times. Al Gore attacked them in his latest book. Senators John Kerry and Russ Feingold tried four times to cripple the Law & Economics Center and failed every time. [...] The New York Times, Al Gore, John Kerry, Russ Feingold. I suspect you're thinking that the Law & Economics Center must be doing something right!

I have no love for the Times, but I dislike the presumption that the enemy of my enemy is my frenemy. So into the trash it went. Except for the enclosed Self-Addressed, Stamped Envelope. I feel it's a shame to waste the stamp. It already has my return address typed on it, so I could just get a blank label and use this for something else. But how often do I mail something? There's the rent check, of course, but oh fuck what's today's date. And that's what found me scrambling for my checkbook on a Tuesday evening to mail a rent check eight days late. I would have used the SASE, but I didn't have any sticky labels. ________________ * Which I knew you couldn't call "Frisco," but apparently you can't call "San Fran" either? "SF" is okay. ** Which has the coolest name of any think tank in DC. I expect to see Batman's name on the letterhead. I challenge you to find a better one.

NFL theme song

Professor Coldheart — Thu, 10 Sep 2009 11:45:20 +0000

Against my better judgment, I joined another fantasy football league this season. I dropped out of Dave L's, having lost embarrassingly two years in a row and having no desire to continue supporting better teams' records. But Ray needed another player to round out his league. I wonder if perhaps we have too many teams now (14-team league), but am happy to have a good pool of competitors. But enough about that! You want to see who I drafted, don't you? I'm certain you do. Round One: DeAngelo Williams (Car, RB) Round Two: Ronnie Brown (Mia, RB) Round Three: Matt Ryan (Atl, QB). Green Bay's starter and Tony Romo were still on the board, but I wanted to avoid touching Dallas for as long as possible and don't like Green Bay's chances this year. (Comment regarding Wes Welker, who went rather early: "yes, but he's a very attractive man. when you remove his helmet he sparkles. also he keeps saying he wants to eat Tom Brady.") Round Four: Bernard Berrian (Min, WR). I believe this is the year that Brett Favre's arm finally comes out of its socket and ascends into the heavens, where it belongs. But with all the leather he's going to be chucking up there, law of averages dictates that some will have to fall in Berrian's hands. ("T.O.'s going to suck balls." "On his new show? That's awful desperate") Round Five: Jamal Lewis (Cle, RB). Still love you, man! Round Six: Matt Cassel (KC, QB). And on the bench he can stay, for now. Round Seven: Knowshon Moreno (Den, RB). A rookie to round out the stable. Round Eight: Devin Hester (Chi, WR) Round Nine: John Carlson (Sea, TE) Round Ten: Patrick Crayton (Dal, WR). So I had to draft one Cowboy. Round Eleven: Sammy Morris (NE, RB). They let me take up to eight running backs! I just couldn't stop! Round Twelve: Bo Scaife (Ten, TE). The "I need a tight end" tight end. Round Thirteen: Michael Jenkins (Atl, WR) Round Fourteen: Mark Bradley (KC, WR) Round Fifteen: NO Kicker Round Sixteen: SF Defense I'm starting pretty much just the top half (plus my kicker and D, obviously). They all play on Sunday. Wish me luck!

in every lovely summer's day

Professor Coldheart — Fri, 11 Sep 2009 11:00:05 +0000

LiveJournal blogger The Ferrett has had a couple posts of late on the Oscars "In Memoriam" Montage featured at every Academy Awards ceremony. Actors who died in the previous year get a few seconds on screen, depicted in iconic roles, while grandiose strings swell in the background. [youtube=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=x0ByLMsKl48] Ferrett asks an interesting question, "If so-and-so died tomorrow, what role of theirs would get depicted for their Oscars montage?" He opened this up as a poll to his readers and some debates ensued in the comments. I think most of these debates started from the wrong premises, though. People spent a lot of time arguing over whether Michael Caine was better in The Man Who Would Be King or The Cider House Rules or Alfie. That's an interesting debate, but for the purpose of an Oscars montage, it's irrelevant. The films that go into an Oscars "In Memoriam" montage have little to do with quality and everything to do with making an interesting montage. Take Paul Scofield, for instance (2:03 in the above video). Scofield gets three quick snaps - as Mark van Doren in Quiz Show, as Sir Thomas More in A Man for All Seasons and as Judge Thomas Danforth in The Crucible. If you just wanted his best role, you could leave out everything but A Man for All Seasons; he wasn't bad in the other two, but they're not his best work. If we were ranking his best appearances, Henry V and Zeffirelli's 1990 Hamlet would trump either of those. But! We already have one shot of Scofield in period British garb. Two more like that - as King Charles in Henry V and as the Ghost in Hamlet - would have been monotonous. So you depict him in one modern role (Quiz Show) and one role that, while also period, has a different flavor than Shakespeare (The Crucible). Charlton Heston (2:33 onward) gets four scenes, none of which are from Ben-Hur. But they already included one of his iconic roles - Heston as Moses in The Ten Commandments. So they needed to show scenes from his less popular movies (The Greatest Show on Earth). They also showed an unremembered scene from a recognizable role - standing and looking quietly smug in Planet of the Apes, instead of sinking to his knees in tears. Roy Scheider gets four scenes, but they're equally diverse: an unmemorable shot of him in Jaws, one of him as the Bob Fossalike in All That Jazz, a flat shot of him peering out a car window in The French Connection, and one I can't even place. An interesting montage depicts change and the passage of time. So a film montage of a star's prior roles must include variety. James Whitmore gets one as Brooksie from The Shawshank Redemption, a role most modern audiences would recognize him from. But he also gets one from a much earlier movie of him wielding a flamethrower (I'm guessing it's Them!, the 1954 alien invasion flick). Why? Because it's Brooksie wielding a flamethrower! Variety is the deciding factor. The quality of the role is not. I harp on this only because I've been thinking a lot about marketing lately. Everyone acknowledges the importance of presentation in delivering a message. But few people realize how early presentation begins to affect what the final message will be. The medium, as someone wiser than me said, is the message. With that in mind, which roles will be selected in an "in memoriam" montage for the following actors who have already died in 2009?

Karl Malden
Michael Jackson
Farrah Fawcett
David Carradine
Ron Silver
Anyone else I've forgot

I welcome your speculations.

and then this dangle got all up in my rotisserie

Professor Coldheart — Mon, 14 Sep 2009 11:00:16 +0000

The Power of Positive Thinking I dropped my camera on a kitchen floor on Friday night, taking it out to show to Lisa F. It slid a short distance, popping the battery compartment open and sending the battery flying. I reassembled it and turned it back on: worked fine! Still snapped pictures and everything. Only later did I find that, when I switched from Take Pictures to Review Pictures mode, the camera would now wait about ten seconds before retracting the lens. This is a minor annoyance but, on the grand scale of Things That Could Happen When I Drop My Camera On Linoleum, is relatively minor. Fortune smiles upon my amateurish, grainy Facebook pics. Spatula, Proctologist, Space Station, Etc. Why did I have my camera with me this entire weekend? For ImprovBoston's first annual Boston Improv Festival, which I went to most of the parties for despite only seeing one show. Will Luera, Dan Binderman, Becky Pineo and Kate Garvey^* did one hell of a job putting this together, and the results kept shocking us. I had never seen the theater so packed on Saturday, not just from the out-of-towners (troupes from as far as Canada or Mexico) but from locals new to the theater. This weekend made me proud to be associated with ImprovBoston, however tangentially. I hope the theater made a truckload of cash. I first hit up the Wednesday BIF afterparty at Asgard, snacking on comped quesadillas and watching the Mexican improv troupe lead the entire bar in a rousing chorus of "El Rey." Misch texted me for Friday's afterparty at Becky's house, though she neglected to provide me directions (Lisa F. came through). I stayed there until at least 3:30, wandering the mansion Becky lives in and catching up with improv people from all over. Saturday I wanted to leave early, but then I ran into Dr. Grace at Tavern on the Square, followed shortly thereafter by the rest of ImprovBoston. So what could I do? I only saw one show, so I made it count: Spinning Hardcore, Anna W. and Kristen A's world-famous air-guitar punk-rock ensemble. They reduced an audience to helpless, disbelieving giggles, including several people who'd never seen them before (jaded New Yorkers, even). Following them: Focus, a four-woman improv show that delivered a note-perfect satire of The View. There was the elderly retired lawyer, the saucy comedienne, the Ivy League lawyer and the Christian mom: each fully realized and often hilarious. They discussed DJ AM's death, historical trivia about Boston and President Obama's speech to school children, telling them that they each had something to contribute ("well, that's ridiculous"). ______________ ^* I'm doubtless forgetting someone important.

it's a big ol' land with countless dreams

Professor Coldheart — Tue, 15 Sep 2009 11:00:38 +0000

Nine-Eleven, Nine-Eleven, Nine-Eleven I heard perhaps the worst song I've heard in years - worse even than Gwen Stefani's "Wind It Up" - while grocery shopping on Sunday: Aaron Tippin's "Where The Stars and Stripes and Eagles Fly." [youtube=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TTKmjhJ1__o] This song wasn't written in a Los Angeles studio by cynical shysters looking to cash in on nationalistic sentiment, but you couldn't tell by listening to it. It has nothing going for it except its patriotism, and it's not even good patriotism. Rather than putting art in the service of sentiment, Tippin simply checks off every item on the Feel-Good 'Murrican Song checklist, line by line. The resulting 3:42 potboiler plods through its images like a bus driver calling out stops:

God
Stars and stripes
Eagles
Dreams
Hard work
the Statue of Liberty
the Liberty Bell
Freedom
The price of Freedom
"I pledge allegiance to the flag"
"And if that bothers you, well that's too bad"
Pride
Raising a family
Doing things the same way Dad did

If he'd worked in a reference to Not Letting the Terrorists Win, he would have boxed the full exacta. As it stands, though, it once again demonstrates how sincerity will always be funnier than sarcasm. The next song after this was a Sousa march, leading me to wonder if September 11th Weekend now merited every patriotic song in the catalog on Shaw's Muzak station. You Baby Emcees Drink Pedialyte I was in the Enormous Room on Saturday, having a few drinks and chilling between other engagements. The DJ always picks a good selection of tracks to groove to, but plays them too loud for conversation. This leads to a chill music appreciation as you nurse the Enormous Room's hipster-bait^*. I started tapping my toes as Jurassic 5's "Quality Control" bounced to life over the speakers. The mix of talented and toneful lyricists with Cut Chemist's well-harvested beats never fails to put a party in the right frame of mind. That's a sign of true quality: an album that can still move you, even nine years after holy shit, Quality Control is NINE YEARS OLD? And I wilted back into the couch. The young have no appreciation for classics. Greg Wymer recounted a story to me on Saturday about his most recent DJing gig at The Joshua Tree in Allston. He put on Earth, Wind and Fire's "September," since "this is the one time of the year I can always get away with playing that." A strapless, tanned twenty-something marched into the booth a few seconds later. "Did someone request this?" she asked. No. "So you put this on yourself?" Yes. "Well, I suppose you know what you're doing." Fuck you, you Allston scenester. If it weren't for Earth, Wind and Fire, you wouldn't even be alive. [youtube=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=iknEJf9cPeY] _______________ ^* Hipsters reliably order the cheapest non-Budweiser beer on the menu, in this case Red Stripe ($4).

patrick_swayze

Professor Coldheart — Wed, 16 Sep 2009 01:47:39 +0000

46550_3

Professor Coldheart — Wed, 16 Sep 2009 01:48:13 +0000

and I owe it all to you

Professor Coldheart — Wed, 16 Sep 2009 11:00:41 +0000

Patrick Swayze died Monday evening, succumbing to a long battle with cancer at the age of 57. This gives me an opportunity to go into detail about one of my favorite Swayze movies: Road House. Road House is a great movie. I enjoy Road House without irony or shame. While the fashions depicted therein might be dated and parochial, I don't find them any sillier than the flat doughboy helmets Burt Lancaster busts out of the armory in From Here to Eternity. If the trashiness of the setting keeps you from taking the movie seriously, then imagine it takes place in a Brooklyn nightclub, with a hip-hop soundtrack, and our hero's a storied young bruiser from Marcy. It'll be just as dated 20 years from now. In Road House, the heroes are larger-than-life heroes, and the villains absolute villains. Patrick Swayze, as Dalton, plays a man who brings deep philosophy to a dirty business. And Ben Gazzarra, as the sinister Brad Wesley, carves up the town of Jasper with glee. Road House abandons naturalism for bold strokes of melodrama. Does it make sense that an entire town would stand idly by while Wesley's hired goons drive a monster truck through a car dealership? No. But it gives Gazzarra an opportunity to cackle and Swayze an opportunity to glare. And it also ends in one of the movie's funniest lines: "you got insurance, don't you?" Of course, no one settles into Road House for the Manichean struggle between good and evil. They want to see fights. And not only are there plenty of fights - one-on-one, three-on-one, fist-on-knife, pool cue vs. face, holdout pistol vs. throat rip - but they're all well-staged. Not even our heroes - Patrick Swayze and Sam Elliott, as the father figure we all wish we'd had - can take down half a dozen men and walk away fresh. They end most fights staggering and sore, drenched in sweat with their arms hanging at their sides. And those are the fights they win. Compare that to Jason Bourne, who can disarm six cops without mussing his hundred-dollar haircut. Road House is that rare bird: a movie that devotes excellent craftsmanship to picayune subject matter. The fight scenes are entertaining and well paced. The dialogue's as realistic as Shakespeare and twice as quotable. And Jeff Healey's raspy blues-rock soundtrack keeps the whole movie funky. So what if it takes place in a town in Kansas that no one's ever heard of? Swayze pulled off the lead like no one else could. He carried himself with that tricky blend of lethal readiness and total serenity: a man who knew how to fight but preferred not to. Consider Swayze, the reluctant warrior, in Dirty Dancing, who suffers false accusations under the club's upper-crust guests; or in Point Break, who knows that Keanu Reeves is an "Eff. Bee. Aye. Agent!" but can't bring himself to kill him. This is how we should want all our men to be: confident but never cocky, vigilant but rarely violent. Rest easy, mijo. We'll see you.

you belong with me-e-e

Professor Coldheart — Thu, 17 Sep 2009 11:37:02 +0000

Hey all: I put a post up at Overthinking It delving into the Kanye West, Taylor Swift dust-up at the VMAs on Sunday. Go read it.

fight the horde; sing and cry

Professor Coldheart — Fri, 18 Sep 2009 14:16:16 +0000

Hey, guys. I figured out how to save Iceland's economy the other day. Just off the top of my head. In case anyone's curious, or anything; I dunno. Oh, hi, still here? Okay, good. Iceland can turn its shattered economy around by transforming the island into a giant server farm. ... ... ... no, wait, come back. This plan sounds insane, of course. But it makes perfect sense for the following reasons: 1. Power Is Cheap. Iceland gets 99% of its electricity from geothermal energy and dams. When you live on an island made of hot springs and glaciers, it's hard not to find an easy source of power. Drill a hole into the earth and stop when you hit something boiling. 2. Cold Air Is Cheap. Server farms don't just need electricity, of course. They also need easy ventilation in order to keep the massive racks of computers cool. Fortunately, temperatures in Iceland get no higher than 55° F on average (10° C). And that's during the hottest portions of July. Forget climate control in your server room: just vent in some outside air. 3. Real Estate is Cheap. Iceland is one of the least densely populated countries in the world (230th out of 238). The interior of the country looks like the moon - so much so that the Apollo astronauts ~~faked~~ practiced lunar exploration on its rocky surface. Build a warehouse in the hills outside Selfoss for pennies. 4. Lots of Overeducated, Unemployed White Guys. The collapse of Iceland's banks put a lot of college-educated people back on the job market. A few days of retraining, and voila! All the employees you need. Or better yet: don't bother retraining them. Let them underbid each other. Sit back and take your pick of the most talented / least demanding. 5. Serviced by International Air Travel. Unlike other cold places where real estate is cheap (e.g., the Arctic Circle), Iceland is served by IcelandAir. Icelandair flies to Boston, New York, Seattle, London, Madrid, Stockholm, Berlin, Paris and Amsterdam (as well as a dozen other cities). Basing out of Iceland gives you most of the benefits of a global hub like Heathrow at a sliver of the cost. 6. Not Too Far From The Rest Of The World. Iceland's only a few hundred miles from the UK, and from there it's a short hop to mainland Europe. Lay a few fiber trunklines across the North Atlantic and you have a new, reliable connection. The project to lay this trunkline between Iceland and UK should be jointly financed, as a way of mending the bridges burned by the Cod Wars. So, there's the business case. Iceland's a cold, geologically unstable country full of unemployed men: an engineer's dream. Google or Microsoft could expand their global offerings overnight by buying up the Icelandic interior and turning it into banks of servers. Questions? Comments? Bids on the initial shares will start at one million ~~dollars~~ euros. Update: Joel points out that Microsoft and Google looked into building Icelandic server farms in 2007. The problem then, of course, was that 2007 was the peak of Iceland's investment bubble, when real estate was at its priciest. The plan in 2007 was for Google to buy Icelandic real estate. The plan in 2010 is for Google to buy Iceland.

will.i.am, drop the beat now

Professor Coldheart — Mon, 21 Sep 2009 11:00:54 +0000

Don't I owe you some media blow? I feel I do. X-Men Origins: Wolverine: Not bad, just aggressively mediocre. You ever have a friend who tells an unimpressive one-liner, giggling as he does, that you pretend not to have heard? So he repeats it, forcing you to either smile politely or say, "I heard you the first time"? Wolverine is that movie. It's not awful; it just devotes hundreds of millions of dollars to producing something forgettable. Hugh Jackman and Liev Schreiber spend the first ten minutes fighting through every good war movie of the last century (Glory, Saving Private Ryan, Full Metal Jacket). Colonel Stryker recruits them out of the brig, appealing to their love of country (aren't they Canadian?) instead of their desire to get out of prison. On their first assignment he sics them, along with a bunch of other mutants, on an oddly conspicuous Nigerian diamond smuggling operation. Jackman, Schreiber, Will.i.Am, two guys from Lost and Ryan Reynolds slaughter a building full of security guards just so Col. Stryker can ask their boss where he got a paperweight. This turns out to be a Nigerian village, where Schreiber slaughters a bunch of civilians. Jackman, who's lived through Gettysburg, the Somme, Normandy and My Lai, has finally had it with his psycho brother and walks home to Canada. I could go into more detail about how shopworn the movie is: how Stryker treats Wolverine's memories like a cassette he can record over. How characters get sympathetic just in time for them to get killed. How the need for continuity with the first three movies hamstrings the plot so much that Wolverine, Stryker et al don't have motivations so much as checklists. How Wolverine's invulnerability gives him the same problem as Superman: it's hard to put him in compelling danger. When he's fighting a super-mutant on top of a reactor cooling tower, what's the worst thing that could happen to him? It's not "falling," that's for sure. Rather, let's break one scene down beat by beat, as a synecdoche for the rest of this $150,000,000 tuna melt: the scene in New Orleans, where Wolverine and Will.i.Am go to pick up Gambit.

I've never been to N'awrlins, but I imagine the part of the French Quarter that's open to tourist foot traffic is closed off to motorcycles. Yet Wolverine and Will.i.Am get to amble theirs through parting crowds like it's nothing.
I wonder if they're on Bourbon OH GOOD THERE'S A STREET SIGN.
The two of them walk into a bar, where they pick out Gambit by the fact that he's arcing cards into the air and catching them in his opposite hand. I'm not a professional poker player, or even a ranking amateur. But if I walk into a bar in New Orleans looking for a game and I see a guy with a diamond-topped cane shuffling cards in mid-air, I'm finding another table.
Will.i.Am.: "That's cool."
Will.i.Am slips out the back, where he spots Victor Creed pacing in a back alley. He teleports down there to tussle with him. "I'm gonna kill you," he says, " 'fore Logan even gets a chance." He teleports out of the way of Victor's wild swing and punches him in the back of the head. Didn't Will.i.Am spend months fighting with Victor back when they were in Stryker's unit together? He's seen Victor shrug off bullet wounds. And his brilliant plan is to punch him to death?
Wolverine gets conveniently blown out the back wall of the bar, where he spots Victor having just freed his hand from Will.i.Am's spine. The two of them get in a tussle. Wolverine, now weighing four hundred pounds and laden with a metal harder than titanium, makes quick work of Victor. But just when he's about to finish him, Gambit vaults down from a rooftop and blows the two of them away from each other with a kinetic burst. How'd he get on the rooftop, since the last place we saw him was "behind Wolverine's elbow"? And if he doesn't trust Wolverine, what interest does he have in stopping him from killing Victor (who did kidnap him, after all)? And if he can generate enough kinetic energy to knock a four-hundred pound man and a two-hundred and twenty-some pound man to opposite ends of a street, how does Wolverine even get close enough to lay a finger on him later?
Later in this fight, Gambit clings to a fire escape that's teetering away from a wall. Wolverine brings him down by disintegrating the escape's metal ladder. He doesn't just shred through it (which his claws are capable of doing). He vaporizes it, like Mario would a hovering block.
Finally, Gambit promises to fly Wolverine to "the island" where the final fight's going to be. At the risk of spoiling this awesome movie, suffice it to say the secret island isn't especially secret. It definitely isn't somewhere you'd have to fly to get to.

Anyhow, the movie ends with so many double-crosses, triple-crosses, heel turns and face turns that, by the end, no one who's died has actually died. Our hero's rewarded for his efforts with the gift of amnesia and staggers off into a wildly successful sequel. Or prequel. Or something. Did I mention Wolverine walks away from an explosion? Because that happens, too.

I know you want me; you know I want you

Professor Coldheart — Tue, 22 Sep 2009 11:00:17 +0000

The Lion in Winter: yes, yes; a classic for generations; brilliant performances, pristine dialogue, etc. It's a phenomenal movie. We know that. Rather than give it a review, which would be silly, I'll attempt some critical analysis in the style of Todd Alcott (albeit not as well). Here we go: The Lion in Winter is about the faces we present to the world: both the literal composure of our face, and the facade that we present. The movie starts tight on Henry II's face (Peter O'Toole) - "Come for me!", he challenges: fifty years old but still hale enough to practice swordfighting with his youngest son, John. We see these same wild eyes and hear this same challenge in the climax of the film, when Henry faces off against three opponents at once. In that fight, as well, the camera stays tight on their faces rather than backing up to take in the footwork: Henry's snarl; his opponents alternately terrified or stoic. Richard, Henry's eldest son, rides a joust in full armor when we first meet him; only after unhorsing his opponent does he remove his helmet, showing us his sweaty and driven face as he contemplates killing his fallen foe. Jeffrey (the schemer, the middle child) sits atop a beachside cliff, conducting war games. His face isn't obscured, but it's not his face that indicates his actions: it's the men below, charging and wheeling and dying on his nod. These pawns are his body; the mailed form attached to his neck is just a vehicle. (Also note: each of his sons is summoned in the same way: Henry's steward has to call their name at least two or three times to break them from some reverie, signified by a crown-to-chin closeup. These men constantly scheme behind the masks that are their faces; when called to interact with the real world, it takes them a second to break free) When we first meet Eleanor of Aquitaine (Katherine Hepburn), Henry's wife, it is at a great remove: she sits by a window in her sumptuous prison cell as a herald near the door announces the Christmas court in Chinon that starts the story. She arrives via river longboat, a grand slow shot that starts with the boat distant and ends with it passing right by us. We do not have many close shots of Eleanor's face until she and Henry have begun to spar, and even then no extreme close-ups (as Henry had) until her plots have fallen apart at the end of the first act. She regards herself in a hand-held mirror, her coiffed hair pulled out of its pins, and despairs. She is eleven years his senior; age has been worse to her than to Henry. Age is another recurring theme of the movie, though that's not much of a stretch. People refer to their ages multiple times. "I'm the oldest man I know," Henry laments at one point. "I've got a decade on the pope!" Age in The Lion in Winter is a currency, a system of accounts for a pre-banking economy. Henry's the oldest male, so he schemes and maneuvers with great success. But Eleanor is older than he is and frequently puts him on the wrong footing with one clever word. The sons triumph in proportion to their age - Richard, the "constant soldier" and great conqueror; Jeffrey, the schemer; John, the sniveling weakling. And yet Philip II, King of France (Timothy Dalton)^*, is younger than all of them save John, and he's able to turn the tables on the entire family with little effort. Why? Because while the whole family craves the respect of age, they want the vigor of youth. Jeffrey wants Philip's armies. Richard wants Philip in the carnal sense. And Henry wants peace with Philip: he (at 50) knows that Philip (at 18) can afford to start a war that France will take ten years to lose. In accounting terms, Philip's youth gives him a great deal of credit and modest assets. Henry has substantial assets, but has leveraged himself into tremendous debt to get them. (And don't underestimate that debt. When Henry threatens to father another heir and disown his sons entirely, Eleanor invokes as strict a margin call as you'd ever find on the NYSE. "Suppose I hold you back for one [year]. I can; it's possible. Suppose your first son dies? Ours did; it's possible. Suppose you're daughtered next? We were; that too is possible. How old is daddy then? What kind of spindly, ricket-ridden, milky, wizened, dim-eyed, gammy-handed, limpy line of things will you beget?" Henry has borrowed too much time; he's now in too great a debt to build any further) One last theme to touch on: the recurring presence of animals. Chinon is a Christmas court. The massive feast that Henry holds there to welcome his family and Philip requires peasant infrastructure to support. Livestock and domestic animals are always underfoot. When Henry and Eleanor emerge to greet Philip, they have to step around dogs and chickens to do so, while the trumpets sound their procession. Entering for dinner, the King and Queen pass through a pack of dogs lounging by the fire. As Henry lurches down the stairs from a confrontation with his sons, a lone dog scampers out of his way. No one pauses or complains about, or even acknowledges, the animal presence in the castle. The animals belong there as much as the humans do. But it's not that the animals are human (none of them have personalities); it's that the humans themselves are animals. Eleanor calls her children "piglets." She evaluates people like animals, examining their parts like a haggler (Richard's eyes look "small and piggy"; Henry's first mistress, Rosamund, had "fine teeth"). Everyone in the royal family is a wolf, constantly circling. There's no scene which does not see the balance of power shift at least twice, if not four or six times. And all that's communicated through dialogue - some of the finest I've ever heard. Every single spoken line in the play, without exception, is an arrow pointing to the heart of the speaker or another character. There's not a word that could be taken away. This is one to watch. Ultimately, The Lion in Winter is about the continued evolution of humanity. Human beings share common ancestry with other mammals, yet it's galling how little distance we've made from the pack and the struggle. "Of course he has a knife," Eleanor says of her bloodthirsty son Richard. "We all have knives! It's 1183 and we're barbarians!" She means it as an invocation of distance - it's eleven centuries since the time of Jesus and we're little more than animals. Animals with human faces that we wear like masks, but animals nonetheless. And that statement creates a paradoxical reflection to the audience - it's eleven centuries into the "Christian" era then, but it's twenty centuries now. What progress has the species made? ______________________________ ^* A James Bond, reviving a role originated on stage by a Bond villain (Christopher Walken)

I've got that rock and roll; I've got that future flow

Professor Coldheart — Wed, 23 Sep 2009 11:00:20 +0000

We've Got The Beat That Bounce Watching the video for "Boom Boom Pow" this weekend - just because, okay? - raised the obvious question: what do the other two guys in the Black Eyed Peas do? Why are they there? You've got Will.i.am producing the songs - and as little as I like their songs, "Boom Boom Pow" has a really catchy beat to it. You've got Fergie on vocals and eye candy. While the latter trumps the former in most pop acts, she has a good voice in her own right. But then there's the other two guys: the ugly one and the guy with the samurai topknot. What do they add? They're not very talented rappers. I can't imagine they have a lot of female fans screaming over them. Now that the Black Eyed Peas have become world-class superstars, why are these guys around? The world seems to have answered that question for me, in that Will.i.am has made tentative crossover steps (like his role in X-Men Origins: Wolverine) and Fergie has a solo career. Whereas no one cares about Taboo's aborted solo projects, or his role as Vega in Street Fighter: The Legend of Chun Li. So, asked and answered. Of course, it would be rather mercenary for a band to drop its less attractive / useful members once it achieved superstardom. And since pop music isn't known for its mercenary attitude, I suppose we're stuck with those two until the end of time. [youtube=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UIK-U6ZfyYE] Things Not To Say, Even At A Whisper, In A Conference Room Full of Coworkers When You Realize You'll Have To Present First "Balls." Have You Come Here For Forgiveness? Have You Come To Raise the Dead? U2 played at Foxboro Stadium, south of Boston, this past Monday. I did not go to see them, though I had ample opportunity. At least three friends e-mailed me, forwarding along info from friends who were trying to offload tickets. One of them needed to get rid of a dozen club-level seats (private bathrooms, free snacks, etc) at $250 a pop. I like U2 as a concept; I'm glad they still exist. But I have no real desire to ever see them live. Certain bands generate an energy when heard live that trumps any of their albums. I can't imagine what hearing U2 live would add, other than "more fireworks" and "Bono's face on a Jumbotron." Here's some anecdotal data: I've gone to karaoke probably one hundred times in the last three years. My favorite haunts all have very extensive songbooks. But I have never heard anyone sing a U2 song from later than 1996. And if we exclude the one time somebody covered "Hold Me, Thrill Me, Kiss Me, Kill Me" (from the Batman Forever) soundtrack, no one goes more recent than Achtung Baby. That's eighteen years of irrelevance. I Guess I Thought You Had The Flavor In conversation with a friend recently, I realized how much the question, "Why do I always want what I can't have?" answers itself. You want what you can't have because you don't have it. If you had it, you wouldn't want it any more - because you'd have it. This is true whether you're talking about romantic partners, careers or a 42" plasma TV. Wanting what you can't have doesn't make you weird or broken or hopeless - it's part of the human condition. "Why do I always want what I can't afford?" is an interesting question. But wanting what you can't have is normal. There's a reason Buddhists say not wanting is such a big deal: because it's really, really hard.

that's why I say hey man, nice shot

Professor Coldheart — Thu, 24 Sep 2009 11:00:34 +0000

A drive-by media blow at high speeds: The Confusion: I liked this more than Quicksilver, its predecessor. Perhaps because it dealt in greater depth with two subjects that fascinate me: the growth of credit markets and pirate swordfights. It introduced the same baffling array of characters as the first novel did, but gives us more convenient hooks on which to hang our memory: El Desamparado, Bonaventure Rossignol, Jean Bart, Lothar von Hackhleber, Edouard de Gex. Stephenson also proved himself a sport in tidying up several loose ends I thought he'd wait until the third novel to resolve: Eliza's vengeance upon the men who enslaved her, for one. I enjoyed it tremendously, and hope The System of the World continues in the same vein. Invader Zim: A delightfully subversive cartoon. Masquerading as a 12-minute zany about an alien invader who disguises himself as a 10-year-old boy in order to conquer Earth, Invader Zim has more depth than its sponsors - Nickelodeon, and thus Viacom - could have expected. It's really about the secret fear of any adolescent: that the private fears and ambitions he nurtures make him an alien. Zim speculates constantly about what the "Earth filthies" might think of him, even as he plots to subjugate them. Consider particularly Zim's fears in "Bestest Friend" or "Parent Teacher Night." But beyond adolescence, Invader Zim also comments on the suburban willingness to conform, ignore the unusual and buy the oddest things. Plus there's GIR. [youtube=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KL3MyU9S_KE] Mad Men: "He'll never golf again." I won't say anymore (though feel free to bandy about spoilers in the comments), except that Season 3 has been my favorite season so far. This holds true for so many of my favorite shows: The Simpsons, The X-Files, 24, The Wire, etc. A good show needs two seasons to build its characters up and place every piece on the board. Then, in Season 3, it gets to change all the rules.

you can't always get what you want

Professor Coldheart — Fri, 25 Sep 2009 11:34:05 +0000

A friend of mine recently brought up some repugnant treatment they'd received at the hands of someone close, a long time ago. When the villain reached out to them recently, this friend speculated if it'd be worth their time to forgive.^* I said, "Maybe, but not for the reasons you think." Even as a humorless atheist, I place a lot of value on forgiveness. I don't do this because I think everyone's flawed ("flawed" compared to what?). Or because I think no one should be judged (even the most tolerant moral code condemns stragglers). And especially not because I think we're all beautiful children in the eyes of a god. I have more practical reasons for forgiving. Forgiveness is great because anger hurts. Someone does something terrible to you - breaks a promise, loses something you lent them, lies about you to a friend, steals from you, strikes you. In the moment, it hurts terribly. But after the moment, how does it feel then? If thinking about the crime still hurts, then you're being hurt by memory, not by additional action. And if the memory of this person hurts you, then you've let that person take up a significant space in your head. Forgiveness means evicting that person from that space. You acknowledge that what they did hurt, at the time, but you're not going to keep dwelling on it. If you keep letting that anger surge back up every time you're accidentally reminded of their sins against you, you'll get mad at the oddest times and for reasons you won't be able to explain to those around you. To the extent that you can choose happiness and reject anger, you'll be better off. Now just because forgiveness is helpful doesn't mean it's easy. For instance, the person who hurt you might already have a lot of space in your head to begin with. A boyfriend who cheated on you, a girlfriend who stole and wrecked your car, etc. There's no easy way around that. But if you're planning on keeping this person in your life, then your first step should be to admit to yourself, and to them, that their crime cost them a lot of trust. You're not evicting them from your head, but they don't get the same real estate they had before. I don't advocate forgiveness because it brings people together in the brotherhood of humanity. I advocate forgiveness because it makes the wounded party stronger. My symbol of forgiveness isn't embracing the person who wronged you; it's giving them a dismissive shrug. Oh, him? Yeah, he screwed me over once. Whatever. It's not easy. There are some wrongs so hurtful that it would take an amazing level of psychic control to let them go. So there's nothing wrong with you if you can't forgive someone. But if you can, the feeling of serene strength that results will amaze you. Few things make you feel better then denying your enemies the power to hurt you. _______________________ ^* This post should not be read as my verdict on whether or not to forgive this particular criminal, as I'm too much a stranger here.

samourai

Professor Coldheart — Sat, 26 Sep 2009 03:39:40 +0000

sommes nous les jouets du destin, souviens toi des moments divins

Professor Coldheart — Mon, 28 Sep 2009 11:00:01 +0000

Le Samourai: Jean-Pierre Melville's Le Samourai (1967) isn't quite a samurai film, and it isn't quite a gangster film. It tells a story that touches on both - three days in the life of Jef Costello (Alain Delon), a syndicate hit man who has no life outside of the job he's hired to do. But the characters are all ciphers, and the city, anonymous. The movie is not about the people in it. Le Samourai is about procedure. France in 1967 was a much more bureaucratic country than American audiences might recognize, and the movie tells the tale of two warring bureaucracies. Costello has his procedure, and we follow him as he executes it: lying fully dressed on his bed until it's time to act, then rising to steal a car outside his apartment, switch the plates at a suburban garage, acquire a gun, visit a girlfriend and some poker-playing comrades to obtain an alibi, and then slip into a nightclub (through the restroom) to assassinate the owner. The police have their procedure as well. The superintendent (François Périer) orders 20 men arrested in each of Paris's twenty precincts ("what's 400 men in a city of ten million?"). He files them onto a stage, four at a time, for the nightclub employees to identify. When Costello is on stage, he produces an airtight alibi: his girlfriend's apartment, between 7:00 and 1:45. He gives the Superintendent his girlfriend's number; the Superintendent lifts his finger just so; a subordinate dials the number at a phone on the wall. Always, the emphasis on procedure. It's not merely enough to know that Costello's syndicate and the police are at odds, but how they go about waging their battle. We see a two-man detective team break into Costello's home to bug his apartment. One man jimmies his lock (using a ring of keys identical to the one Costello uses to steal a car), while the other pads from door to door in the building, listening in on Costello's neighbors. Inside, the older detective mounts one bug, rejects it, then plants another. The two are about to leave when a neighbor comes down the stairs; the cops withdraw and hide. Why are they hiding? They're the police, aren't they? Yes, but they are intruders just as much as Costello is - interlopers in foreign territory. This parallel focus on procedure, for both Costello and the cops, sets the two on equal ground. This illustrates the second theme: Le Samourai is about war. Costello displays such care in establishing an alibi and concealing his identity, yet he does not discard his most distinguishing feature: the tan trenchcoat he wears when he leaves the nightclub. In fact he wears it fully buttoned up the entire time the police have him in custody, removing it only when he gets home. Why? Because it is his armor, as essential a part of his identity as the heavy lamellar of a Japanese samurai. The Superintendent knows, with the mythical certainty of a fictional detective, that Costello is his man. So why not just take him? Because the rules of engagement do not allow that. The Superintendent must catch Costello - nailing him in the act with evidence of his crime. Combine these two: Le Samourai is about a war carried out by procedure. Two bureaucracies - the syndicate that employs Costello and the police - butt heads over the death of a nightclub owner. Between the two of them, they grind up several lives and leave disillusionment in their wake. Costello recognizes the futility of the war he wages - the penultimate image of the film indicates that - but he chooses to fight anyway. Possibly because the code of le samourai gives his life meaning, while the two great powers (law and crime) discard the people they're supposed to protect. That's speculation; the movie's four decades old, and foreign, so my attempts at critiquing it are largely guesses. But I think the text bears it out.

they're quite aware of what they're going through

Professor Coldheart — Tue, 29 Sep 2009 11:00:54 +0000

La Barilla, La Barilla On Saturday I drove to Marlborough to see my friend Serpico's batizado - the annual promo / demo / dance party held by his capoeira school. Outsiders would recognize elements of a religious festival or a block party: the older mestres in the back, strumming rhythms on their berimbaus, while people take turns singing lyrical, pulsing chants into a mic. The casual circle of friends and strangers, watching and clapping to the beat. Then, one by one, the students step in and start doing flips. Capoeira may not focus on self-defense, but there is no doubt that it is a martial art in the literal sense of the word. Consider the tremendous conditioning it takes to drop to a one-hand stand and kick someone in the head with your foot. Now consider the tremendous training it takes to do all that without kicking someone in the head. Capoeira blends the exciting elements of violence with the communal joy of dance. When practiced well, watching it live is a treasure. And even when practiced haltingly it's fun, too. Serpico's capoeira school teaches a small herd of children, ranging from the mestre's curly-haired daughter to a tow-headed kid with thick glasses who could pass for me at age 8. The instructors "play" with them at a diminished tempo: shifting from one foot to the other, lowering their heads to allow the children to try at a sweeping kick. At the end of each circuit, the official batizado, or baptism - dropping the younger student on the floor to teach them humility - is done with gentle affection: scooping them up, wheeling them like an uncle playing Airplane with a nephew, and grazing them across the tile. Always the consciousness for the newest generation - for capoeira is an oral tradition, passed down by the descendents of Brazilian slaves, and the heritage of the dance keeps it alive. Professor Coldheart Fails at Anarchy Walking down busy Arsenal St. yesterday to meet Vickie Victoria for lunch, four kids on bikes buzzed by me. They wove around me on the sidewalk, rattling inches past my elbow or onto the thin strip of grass between me and roaring traffic. My first thought: Shouldn't you kids be in school? I said nothing aloud, though, waiting until I had Internet access to uncover my error. Apparently Boston public schools get Yom Kippur off. Is this typical of public schools? I went to Catholic school for all but two years of my education - and you see how well that turned out - but I don't recall getting anything other than the typical federal holidays when I went to a public school. Also this is the second time in five days that I've forgot about Yom Kippur (had I remembered it when I wrote my post about forgiveness, I would have mentioned the propinquity). Clearly the Jews in my life need to lecture me more. Anyhow, these children had every right to be where they were. They rode past me, heading toward whatever pleasures Watertown Center could offer thirteen-year-olds on a balmy Monday. Biking against the flow of traffic (as the Boy Scouts teach), they weaved in and out of the cars parked outside the Toyota dealership. Leathern men in silk suits paced between the leaves on the sidewalk, murmuring urgently into cell phones. "Hey!", one of the kids yelled to his compatriots. "Stay off the fucking sidewalk!"

well yeah, I guess it's obvious, I also like to write

Professor Coldheart — Wed, 30 Sep 2009 11:00:03 +0000

This post sounded a lot different in its first draft. This post would have been all about how I want to take part in NaNoWriMo, but I think the concept's silly^*, so I'm going to do my own thing instead. It would have been called MyNoWriMo (get it? because I'm a clever guy. I'll explain it to you if you want), and it'd be about how I'm writing a novel in the month of October. The post would have closed with an apology for infrequent posts over the next thirty days, but I would be sure you'd understand. Because you're supportive. And then I took on two new projects at work. So, with regret, I'm not going to try writing a novel in one month. I'm going to write a novel in three months. Sixty thousand words. I already have the entire thing outlined, from beginning to end. I feel better about this one than any project I've started in the last few years, because it excites me. The other two novels had exciting parts, but I felt I had to pad the word count out to get to them. Not this one. Cliffhangers left and right. It's almost a formula. Hell, it is a formula. And I think I have it figured out. So, again, bear with me if posts grow scarce. I'll be busy. ______________________________ ^* Briefly: (A) I believe that reliable, professional work comes from a dedication to the practice of writing, not relying on bursts of inspiration and sudden sprints; as such, while I don't sneer at people who try NaNoWriMo - I applaud all attempts at writing, seriously - I'd be much more impressed by someone who writes five novels over sixty months than one novel in one month; and (B) if you're going to pick a month to challenge people to write 50,000 words, don't pick a month which has the busiest American travel holiday in it. That's just poor planning.

walk like a pimp, think like a macintosh

Professor Coldheart — Thu, 01 Oct 2009 11:00:16 +0000

You're A Very Nosy Fellow, Kitty Cat These three things are true: (1) Roman Polanski deserves to go to jail for raping a thirteen-year-old girl - not merely statutory rape, but coerced, drug-induced sex with a thirteen-year-old. The years he spent outside of the United States do not count as "time served" for his crime, since they clearly did not limit his freedom in any meaningful way: he was still able to make an Academy Award-winning film. Whether there was judicial misconduct in the 1977 case is irrelevant. The lightest that Polanski could likely get off with in this case is a new judge at the sentencing hearing - which he'd get anyway, as the original judge has died - so Polanski still ought to appear. (2) Were one of you guilty of an unspeakable crime - not just accused, but actually guilty - and had the option of fleeing to a country which would not extradite you to the U.S., where you could live and work surrounded by friends, would you be so noble as to say, "No, thanks, I'll stay here and take my medicine"? Especially if that "medicine" were ten to fifteen years in a California prison? I can't peer into your souls and say you're lying if you say, "Sure, I'd go to jail," but I have my suspicions. That being said, point #1 still stands. (3) Chinatown and The Pianist are still great movies. Polanski being a rapist doesn't change that, even if it makes everyone curl their lips back from their teeth, draw in a sharp breath, and nod sadly. I bring this up only because I used to be ambivalent - that is to say, wrong - on the subject of whether or not Polanski deserved to be brought to justice. The new media attention coming from his extradition illuminated more facts on the case, and those facts changed my mind. But beyond that, Polanski's extra-legal status had a sort of Schrodinger's Cat uncertainty to it before this week. You could debate whether or not he should return and face justice, but everyone knew he wouldn't of his own volition. Now that he's in U.S. hands once again, the question should be moot. Like A Bird On The Wireless In a fit of frustration, I yanked the Internet cable out of my ancient Linksys router on Sunday and plugged it back into my desktop. This router (which was too old for Linksys to provide tech support for in summer 2007) has the habit of freezing once every few months, forcing a hard reset - jiggling a pen in the back of the unit until everything flashed, logging into the router interface to create a new admin password, then to create a new wireless password, then to rename the network to something other than "linksys," etc. But the problem is as much with the iMac as with the router. I would use Firefox to log on to the router and (say) change its name. I would click "OK" to confirm my changes. Airport would then flip out, since it could no longer find the router it was just on ("Where's 'Linksys'? What's this thing called 'Professor Coldheart's Apartment'? I don't understand!"), and give me a "Page Not Found" in Firefox. So then I'd have to open up Airport, find what I'd just renamed the router to, click on that, make sure it took, and then reload the router log-on. Then I'd change the wireless password. Repeat the above. All of the above is understandable: using the wireless Internet to change my wireless router settings should be fraught with peril. But when the router itself is so old that it tends to freeze if you give it too much to do at once, the process becomes too frustrating to bear. So no more wireless at the Fortress of Solitude, until I get a slightly newer router. In Soviet Russia, Car Drives You I sifted through my car's glove compartment night before last to find some paperwork that might suggest what my mileage was a year ago (car insurance thing). In this search, I pulled out vehicle inspection reports, oil change receipts and maintenance documentation going back three years and more. I also pulled out a registration sticker. Huh, I thought. How long have I been driving with an expired registration sticker? Answer: one month. This puts me in mind of another Tale from the Brain Trust: Fraley, Hawver and I sat in the living room one evening, lamenting our inability to manage even the simplest financial details of our lives. "You know," Hawver declared, "maybe the welfare state is the way to go." "Have the government make every decision for us!" Fraley chimed in. "Because clearly we can't manage." " 'What would you like to spend your monthly $20 allowance on, Citizen Fraley?' " " 'Pudding!' " " 'Now, now. You really ought to have a more diverse diet than ...' " " 'All on pudding! All on pudding!' " Of course, all three of us got our acts together and are now upstanding members of our respective urban communities.

night swimming deserves a quiet night

Professor Coldheart — Fri, 02 Oct 2009 11:47:59 +0000

My latest post on Overthinking It compares The Demolished Man vs. Demolition Man - the 1951 Alfred Bester novel to the 1993 Sylvester Stallone action flick. They have more in common than a name, you know. (Serpico deserves some credit for inspiring the initial comparison: thanks Serp) # # # Imagine the following two different scenarios.

You and a loved one - a close friend, a family member, a spouse or significant other - get into an argument. It's not a violent disagreement; just some petty nonsense that you really don't have time to deal with. You part in bad spirits. Later, another friend calls, asking you something you've told them a dozen times already: you snap at them in response.
You're getting up from your desk at work. You bang your knee on the corner of your desk. It's not a serious injury - just one of those sharp bumps that makes your eyes water and your breathing tight. A coworker stops by, asking you something you've told them a dozen times already: you snap at them in response.

Which is the more "legitimate" reaction: #1 or #2? Which is you just lashing out? Once you're comfortable with that answer, imagine these two.

A close friend tells you about a loss that a family member or loved one has recently had. In sympathy with their suffering, you feel your breath start to come short and tears prick at the corners of your eyes. You feel rather subdued for a while; maybe an hour, maybe the rest of the day.
You're working out: maybe doing yoga, maybe just stretching after a run. You go into a really deep stretch and hold it until the muscle aches. As the muscle starts to shift out of its tension, you feel your breath start to come short and tears prick at the corners of your eyes. You feel rather subdued for a while; maybe an hour, maybe the rest of the day.

Again: which is the more "legitimate" reaction: #1 or #2? # # # Busy today; my thoughts on the above questions aren't fully formed yet. More to come at a later date.

awkward-family-photos

Professor Coldheart — Fri, 02 Oct 2009 20:54:05 +0000

tis here that truth is known

Professor Coldheart — Mon, 05 Oct 2009 11:00:17 +0000

Professor Coldheart's Keys to the Game Ravens games don't usually get picked up by New England stations. I could go to a sports bar and ask someone to switch a TV over, but this doesn't always go over well. Also, it ties me to that particular bar for three hours and twenty dollars worth of drinks. Of course, this would not have been an issue this past Sunday - when the Ravens played the Patriots at GIllette Stadium - except that I would have been the only guy in the bar in a Joe Flacco jersey. Even the usual crew who I can plead to come watch a Baltimore game with me (Fraley, Hawver, Michelle) would have spurned my treachery. Streaming Internet radio saved the day, though the only station I can reliably get online is Washington DC's Air America affiliate. They do great game day coverage, picking up the WBAL broadcasters live: a more competent crew than four of the last five Monday Night Football lineups. So I sigh when Air America does its "roll call" every hour, running down a list of local businesses that want to advertise their progressive values. A slew of farmer's markets, massage therapists and small law offices, announced in alternating sing-song. My Ravens played their hearts out this past Sunday, leaving two men on the field - Jared Gaither and Brendan Oyanbedejo - and keeping it close throughout. Joe Flacco played like the Tom Brady of four years ago, going 8-for-11 on third down. And Baltimore shut down New England's running game. Unfortunately, several bad ref calls, as well as competitive play by Brady, Maroney and Welker, cost Baltimore the game. I still submit that the Patriots winning this game earned them less cred than the Ravens lost by losing. The Ravens are now a 3-1 team, eminently respectable with a sophomore QB and coach, and stayed within one touchdown of a well-favored team. The Patriots clawed their way to 3-1 in a close game today, still not having won by enough of a margin to reaffirm the world's faith in Brady Christ. The power dynamics of dealing with low-status rivals plague even the canniest diplomats. Hail, Alma Mater I saw my first (and probably only) Boston College home game of the season this past Saturday, watching the Eagles scramble past FSU. Casey O. and I screamed in frustration at Spaziani's prevent defense, stared at each other in shock when BC scored and tried to keep the fans around us classy. Limited success on that front: a BC Superfan got in a shoving match with a Seminoles fan one section over. Two ambitious, collegiate pushes: both arms to the flat of the chest, no follow-up punch. Stadium security came by and summoned the cops. I didn't hear the ensuing discussion, but I saw the Seminoles fan shaking his head. The cops left without ejecting the BC pugilist, who slumped into a seat two rows away next to his embarrassed girlfriend and stared somberly at the field for the remaining quarter and a half, his dignity shredded beyond repair.

fubar

Professor Coldheart — Tue, 06 Oct 2009 04:11:21 +0000

it all depends upon your appetite

Professor Coldheart — Tue, 06 Oct 2009 11:00:53 +0000

HOPE Twice in the span of eight hours on Sunday I saw "Yes You Can!" used as a marketing slogan. Once for a dry cleaning special, once for an online dating site. Aside from the sheer silliness of appropriating a Presidential campaign slogan for, well, dry cleaning or online dating, I have two follow-up questions:

Why now? The election was a year ago. Obama's lost a lot of credibility recently, what with failure to institute the Ruling Party's health care plan, waffling on the Defense of Marriage Act, upholding the Opposition Party's stance on indefinite detention of enemy combatants, trillion dollar national debt, et cetera. Is now the time to invoke his image? Or is the lead time on creating the display copy for sandwich boards and banner ads one year? I can assure you that, for banner ads, it ain't.
Why "Yes You Can!"? Why would a dry cleaner or an online dating service want to invoke that sense of civic optimism, sweeping social change or racial harmony? At long last - affordable same day dry cleaning! America has entered the Twenty-First century, now that you can browse webcam pics of 22-year-olds in the privacy of your home. "My Fellow Americans, Let's Roll ... To The Olive Garden" would be equally weird.

Fed by the Invisible Hand Pemberton Farms had their annual customer appreciation day on Saturday. I can never turn down free food, and the deli couldn't be any closer unless I lived above it, so off I went into the rain. I intended to merely scarf as much free food as I could - two burgers, one hot dog, lots of bread and brie and hummus - and then scamper. But then a kind gentleman offered me a Dixie cup of Trapiche malbec which went down so smooth, so sweet. And when he told me it was only $8.99, what was I going to do? Not buy it? The gents at The Second Glass have trained me to never pay more than $15 for a bottle of wine. This has the unintended side effect of compelling me to buy every bottle of wine (that tastes good) that's below $12. I have collected three unopened bottles of red in this way. You bring the cheese and crackers, I'll bring the kung fu movies.

and he points to his survival, and he points me down the road

Professor Coldheart — Wed, 07 Oct 2009 11:59:53 +0000

Perdido Street Station: Weird, original and engrossing; a blend of Cronenberg and Dickens. China Mieville builds a city full of fascinating characters and baroque institutions: the steampunk slum of New Crobuzon, where cactus-men jostle with insect-headed khepri and where the militia stalk the skies on tramlines, capturing criminals and sentencing them to Remaking. In this dense little world we find Isaac van der Grimnebulin, rogue scientist, chartered by a nomadic bird-man (a garuda) to restore his mutilated wings; Lin, his khepri lover, an artist commissioned by a grotesque crime boss to sculpt a statue in his image; Derkhan Blueday, itinerant journalist, who writes for the underground tabloid Runagate Rampant. The sinister government project that unites these three threads will unleash a murderous terror on the city that no one knows how to stop. Mieville does a lot of detailed, ingenious scene-setting in the first half of the novel, but then devolves into standard Fantasy Quest Problem Solving in the latter half. I suspected Mieville had some tabletop RPG roots, given how the latter half focuses on assembling a party and fighting monsters; Wikipedia confirms it. Not to say that the latter half of the novel is bad, mind you: it just doesn't have the same grand, Neal Stephenson-esque scope. We get no more tantalizing glimpses of a rich world - vodyanoi stevedores on strike, the intricacies of the Mayor's office, the institutional brutality of the militia, etc. It goes from being an urban epic to an urban picaresque. Mieville's politics are evident but not obvious: a sympathy for labor, a faith in the power of journalism and democracy to shake the foundations of power. Also, you have to go into the novel with the understanding that New Crobuzon itself is the protagonist, not any of the humans or xenians involved. The prolix descriptions Mieville devotes to each overcrowded, architecturally jarring neighborhood will convince you of that. I have little use for overly detailed descriptions of scenery, but I recognize this as a personal quirk. It's a tricky read, but I recommend it. The Ophiuchi Hotline: My second time reading this. I remembered a few of the interesting scenes but not it's overall scope: a distant future, where the human race has been kicked off the planet Earth by the fifth-dimensional inhabitants of Jupiter. They survive in underground cities thanks to technological advances beamed at them, in code, from the star 70 Ophiuchius. Not all of these advances are distributed freely, of course, and when our protagonist Lilo gets arrested for illegal genetic manipulations, she's sentenced to death. Yet the mysterious political mastermind called Boss Tweed (really) offers her a way out, if he'll come work for her ... A breezy little read. It shows the tentative beginnings of what we'd today call the transhumanist strain of sci-fi: the idea of humans changing themselves, through technology, into something no longer recognizable as human. Of course, Ophiuchi's far too short and hardly shocking enough to get published today. It would need at least three hundred more pages, more detailed descriptions of fantastic settings, and a few jaunts behind the doors of perception or to the other end of the galaxy.

you know that I wouldn't say something I didn't mean

Professor Coldheart — Fri, 09 Oct 2009 13:44:54 +0000

It took me a while to realize, even after I became a humorless atheist, that my thoughts and feelings come from somewhere. Even if you don't believe in a soul, or a consciousness separate from the biological processes of consciousness, you probably believe in some distinction between the "nobler" passions, like love and hope, and the "animal" passions, like hunger and fear and anger. The English language reminds us of this distinction all the time. We talk about "educated guesses" vs. "gut reactions." We distinguish between "blind rage" and "righteous anger" (does anger ever feel unrighteous?). Of course, emotions don't always get the short straw: oftentimes we're encouraged to "go with our heart" rather than calculating something out. Or we're told to "stop thinking so much" and just "trust our feelings." This isn't always bad advice, of course. But it reinforces the same message: that there's the stuff that happens in your skull, and the stuff that happens in your stomach, and they're completely unrelated to each other. If you believe in a soul that's separate from the body, that makes sense. For the rest of us, who've considered how little the human body is capable of when the brain's shut off, that leaves a lot of assumptions to unpack. Example: the brain is the greediest organ in the human body, consuming 20 percent of all the energy human bodies burn. What happens if we don't keep that fire alive? If our brain needs healthy food and plenty of rest to function, does that mean that we make different decisions when we're hungry or tired than we would otherwise? If our brain is the terminal for all pain signals in the body, does that mean that physical pain can rearrange our decision-making priorities? A week ago, I wrote a post hinting at my thoughts on the mind-body breakdown: a post that some folks liked, some folks didn't get, and one person called "the stupidest blog post [they]'ve ever read." In that post, I presented a couple of similar scenarios with emotional responses and asked which was more "legitimate." Having read other people's responses, and having thought about it in the intervening week, I would contend that both responses are equally legitimate. Getting mad at someone because you just barked your shin is no less legitimate than getting mad at someone for asking you something you consider trivial. Being happy because the sun is shining is no less "real" of a feeling than being happy because you got some exciting news. They're both emotional states. They're both reactions that you have to things. They're both real. It took me a while to become comfortable with this realization: that sometimes I grew impatient with people because I was hungry, or I got depressed because I was tired, or that I was more sociable after I had a drink or two. My religious background didn't help. Nor did being an Ayn Rand-style atheist in high school. What really hammered the lesson home was getting out into the working world: getting a job and an apartment. When you become responsible for how much you eat, sleep and drink, you become a lot more responsible for your emotions. I'm not suggesting that all human relations can be boiled down to the content of your last meal or how rested you are. But I am suggesting we don't give those factors nearly enough credit. Some people find the idea that our feelings arise from how comfortable we are unsettling or depressing. They don't like the idea of being subject to the whims of biology. Not too long ago that idea would have scared me, too. But now I find it comforting. By acknowledging that hunger, fatigue and muscle tension can affect my emotional state, I can take greater control of my emotions. I'm taking on more responsibility for how I feel and react, not less. At least, that's how I feel now. Tap me on the shoulder five minutes before bedtime and see if my story's changed.

there's a clock on the wall and it counts my time

Professor Coldheart — Mon, 12 Oct 2009 13:37:26 +0000

Saw some live music at the House of Blues this weekend. The Islands The first opening act, The Islands combined the best aspects of Radiohead with the worst aspects of The Arcade Fire. Good stuff but I don't feel compelled to buy it. I was really confused since I showed up long after doors had opened and the guys on stage had a drum kit with a Happy Mondays sticker on the bass. "Really?" I said. "None of these jokers looks old enough to have been in the Goo Goo Dolls." The Happy Mondays The Mondays actually showing up did not clarify matters much. The only reason they brought Shawn Ryder along was so they could actually call themselves the Happy Mondays; short of him, there were no original members on stage. And say what you will of his poetic lyrics, the man's not much of a singer. Or not much of a stage presence, either. He stood crooked on stage with sunglasses on and a jacket zipped up full to the collar, one finger in his ear (right, because flatting those notes would disappoint all the Mondays fans), and didn't move much. I danced, because it's good house / rock music. The Psychedelic Furs Phenomenal show. The stage felt spartan in comparison to the previous acts: the same number of musicians, but spread out to all corners of the vast space. Richard Butler, looking for all the world like a 57-year-old lesbian, swanned on to "Love My Way" and a house full of cougars roared. The band marched without pause through the rest of the Furs' biggest hits and dearest fan favorites: "President Gas," "Heartbeat," "Heaven," "Ghost in You," "Pretty in Pink," etc, etc. "Heartbreak Beat" is the only one I missed and I wouldn't be surprised if they're just sick of it.

when your broken heart has learned its lesson

Professor Coldheart — Tue, 13 Oct 2009 11:59:08 +0000

Mad Men: I'm one of the few people I know who defends Betty Draper. (NO SPOILERS, though I may reference events in the episode "Wee Small Hours" in an oblique way) Not to suggest she's not a terrible mother. She lets television do her parenting for her, is completely oblivious to her children's needs - especially her daughter - and throws tantrums when she doesn't get what she wants. She's not la mere terrible that we'd recognize from horror movies or Gothic romances, beating her weeping child for using wire hangers. But in some ways, this makes her more terrible. The audience recognizes her neglect as more plausible; that's what makes it hit home. So, she's a bad mother. But am I the only Mad Men fan who views her through any lens other than that? "I can't believe someone could act so childishly," my dad said of Betty at the end of Season 2. "Really?", I replied. "You mean, 'as childishly as Don'?" Betty is a child, emotionally. She lives a child's life: she plays house every day, pretending at raising a family while Carla does all the work (and in the most recent episode, "Wee Small Hours," Carla's silent looks say volumes). She even gets to play dress-up once in a while, hosting parties for other grown ups. But when she doesn't get what she wants - the governor's office sends a lacquered old maid to address her fundraiser - she pouts. Note how she introduces the governor's aid: stomping across the living room with her arms straight at her sides, the way Sally might march off to bed if scolded. But Betty is a child because she's never had to be an adult. We've never had the X-ray look into her childhood that we've had of Don's, but we get the idea that she was emotionally repressed. Emphasis on the proper time and place to show emotions built her into the perfect model and housewife. But, as her therapy sessions in S1 indicated, there's more to her life than that. Or at least she thinks there is. "What do you want?", someone asks Betty, point-blank, in "Wee Small Hours." When's the last time someone asked her that? Betty catches the eye of an older man with power and class. What does she do? She starts writing letters to him. She craves, more than anything, not a sexual outlet or a source of male attention but someone with whom to share her uncertainty. The letters don't have much substance to them, but in them she speaks more honestly than she has in years. Sadly, the correspondence doesn't seem to last very long. Betty Draper's not a great parent, and probably not even a very whole human being. But she's a tragic figure, not a villainous one. And of course, there's plenty more to say about "Wee Small Hours." The civil rights movement makes its presence felt in upstate New York, albeit only through the radio. Even the most liberal characters on the show treat equality before the law as a gift to be handed to children when they're mature enough to accept it. And for every public battle for rights, there are several quiet battles whose casualties we never count ("...you people"). It's a beautiful weaving of historical events into narrative parallels, the kind of thing Mad Men excels at. Mad Men remains my favorite show on television today. For aspiring writers or actors interested in well-delivered melodrama, it's a feast.

it's my life; don't you forget it

Professor Coldheart — Wed, 14 Oct 2009 13:30:34 +0000

Call me humorless, but I don't find 90% of what people link to on Awkward Family Photos funny. It's people in outmoded styles of dress, with haircuts that we would today consider bad. They clearly love each other, as evidenced by the fact that they're willing to sit in front of a faux-tapestry backdrop in an Olan Mills. Or as evidenced by the fact that they're smiling. I suppose the fact that people in prior generations loved each other is good comic fodder, despite the fact that those people were our parents. What you wore today will look as hilarious in 2040 as this does today: If I could find some way to fuse Awkward Family Photos with Look At This Fucking Hipster, the resulting synthesis would ... solve the energy crisis? bring about the revolution Marxism predicted? punch a hole in time (a la Superboy)? Hell, if I could just do a 301 redirect from one site to the other (and vice versa) for 24 hours the results would be entertaining enough. I'm similarly unimpressed with FMyLife (guess what the F stands for; go on, guess), but most other people I talk to have tired of it with equal speed. For those of you who haven't: two out of every three posts I read on that site barely merit an "oops," much less a "fuck." Taken at random (http://www.fmylife.com/miscellaneous/5602388):

Today, I went down to my accommodation office in fiery wrath, demanding that something be done about my three-days-cold shower. Looking dubious, they sent someone back with me. As soon as we got there he looked at me with deep pity and pulled the cord in the corner that activated the hot water. FML

You said something silly in front of your building superintendent? Oh, hell! Oh, you poor dear. I would never assert it's impossible for people in the First World not to have fucked-up lives. But if you have an uncensored Internet connection, enough fingers to use a keyboard and the capacity to read and write English, the bar for a truly "fucked" life just got set a lot higher.

weird science

Professor Coldheart — Thu, 15 Oct 2009 11:45:34 +0000

New post up on Overthinking It today on the problem with geniuses in movies. Most Hollywood depictions of geniuses come off flat, uninspiring or inaccurate - why is that?

hit me with your best shot

Professor Coldheart — Fri, 16 Oct 2009 13:32:11 +0000

I got a flu shot on Wednesday. When filling out the consent and information form prior to getting stuck, I had to think for a moment on whether or not I'd ever had a flu shot before: that's how long it had been. But I definitely had in college, if not somewhat later. It had been years since the last time, though. My reasoning: I'm a healthy young man. I rarely get sick. There are so many varieties of the flu that clinics have to guess which form to vaccinate against. And the last time I got a flu shot, the symptoms from the mild virus knocked me on my ass for about 24 hours. None of those made it seem worth it. My mind was well made up; I was very comfortable in my beliefs. And then my friend Lynn W. raised a point I'd never considered. Her argument: even if the flu won't put you out of work, you can still carry the flu virus and infect other people. Getting the flu vaccine reduces your risk for being a carrier. Your concern isn't being a victim, but being a vector. And I changed my mind overnight. This happens to me more often as an adult than it ever did as a child or student. I build in my head a reasonable case for a course of action: a defensible line of arguments, a string of evidence and a good logical warrant that connects the whole package. And then one solid counter-argument comes along and I completely change my mind. It has nothing to do with the authority or volume of the opposing party. Lynn W's a friend of mine, but I don't defer to her judgment on everything; I'm not trying to curry her favor. And I've held my ground on things I believe in the past even when nobody agrees with me. Check some of my older posts on voting, for instance. When I see logic that trumps mine, I embrace it instantly and reject everything else. I make note of this because I've been wondering of late about breaking free of the mind-body dichotomy. I'm curious about the contents of my own head: how did they get there? who put them there and why? As such, my stubbornness makes me curious. Am I holding to this contested belief out of peevishness? Out of a neurotic desire to be an underdog? Out of fatigue or impatience? Or am I rejecting any new ideas because I have yet to see better logic? So, as odd as it might sound, these abrupt about-faces of belief reassure me more than they worry me. It means the contents of my head yield to reason. The more compelling the logic, the quicker I change my mind. For someone who wants to make sense of the world, that's a good thing to know.

Dune evil leaders

Professor Coldheart — Sun, 18 Oct 2009 21:18:34 +0000

irulan2

Professor Coldheart — Sun, 18 Oct 2009 21:26:00 +0000

christian-slater

Professor Coldheart — Sun, 18 Oct 2009 21:35:09 +0000

walk without rhythm and it won't attract the worm

Professor Coldheart — Mon, 19 Oct 2009 11:00:28 +0000

This weblog has always had the primary purpose of helping me remember what I've done, with the secondary purpose of being entertaining^*. So when I start updating less frequently, I start forgetting what I've done as a result. A quick recap of the prior week, so as not to lose everything to the sands of time. Misch and I watched David Lynch's Dune on Tuesday. This was my first time seeing the movie in at least fifteen years, and Misch's first time ever. I forgot how goofy and stilted the movie is: how poor the acting, how abrupt the pacing, how incomprehensible the stakes of every dramatic scene. The first twenty minutes of the movie are all exposition (e.g., "Dr Yueh, do you have any information on the worms of Arrakis?"). The scene in which Jessica becomes the Reverend Mother of the Fremen sietch might as well happen in an entirely different movie. [caption id="attachment_1361" align="aligncenter" width="300" caption="Do you know what the hell this scene\'s about?"][/caption] Despite the paucity of its budget, the Sci-Fi channel's Dune miniseries, sixteen years later, dwarfs Lynch's in every crucial respect. The painted backdrops look a little phony; everything else shines. The acting is exceptional, with Ian McNeice stealing the show as Baron Harkonnen: a true Shakespearean villain, equally entertaining and despicable. With the additional time available, John Harrison can address themes of Herbert's which Lynch couldn't: family, trust, religion, politics, natural resources and the way all those factors choke against each other. Not only does the 2000 miniseries adhere more faithfully to Herbert's text, Harrison actually improves upon it, giving a crucial role to the sidelined character of Princess Irulan. That's an object lesson in Harrison's superiority. [caption id="attachment_1362" align="aligncenter" width="300" caption="I\'m not just exposition this time!"][/caption] Peter Berg has been attached to a Dune remake for some time now, and was talking about its franchise potential as recently as a month ago. But IMDB still lists his version of Dune with a 2010 date, which would only be possible if he'd started filming a year ago. Since the script he's going off of currently is 200 pages, and since the future of Peter Berg's career hinges on Hancock 2 and Battleship: The Movie, I'm not holding my breath. Though if anyone can accurately capture the corruption of House Harkonnen and the scheming of the Padishah Emperor, it's the director of Very Bad Things. [caption id="attachment_1363" align="aligncenter" width="300" caption="My name is a killing word, ma-a-an!"][/caption] I've had a .celtx file on my desktop for the last week or so, jotting notes for a screenplay for Dune. As far as writing projects go, this is perhaps one step up from fan fiction: no one's ever going to come asking after my unsolicited spec script for a movie that David Lynch, the Sci-Fi Channel and Peter Berg have all taken a swing at^**. I'm not devoting a lot of effort to it: a few pages every time something occurs to me. But it's good practice. If I can boil down a 500-page novel about every element of the human experience to a 145-page screenplay, nothing should remain out of my reach. ______________________________ ^* "Secondary? I would have figured quaternary or lower." There, see? I made the obvious joke for you. You going to need a ladder for the rest of that low-hanging fruit, or are you all set? ^** I should note this isn't the long-term writing project I've been working on since the beginning of October.

quantum jump, I'm right at your doorstep

Professor Coldheart — Tue, 20 Oct 2009 11:00:12 +0000

On Wednesday I heard Ray Kurzweil speak. Kurzweil gave an abbreviated version of the gospel he's been preaching for the last twenty years: that technology evolves on exponential curves, whereas intelligence has evolved to make linear predictions. "If you can measure the underlying properties of an information technology," he said, "they follow smooth exponential arcs." This is a pattern that has held through the Great Depression, both World Wars and every recession of the last century. When people talk about a technological growth curve plateauing, they're looking at one factor: speed, energy, cost, etc. People have observed Moore's Law plateauing of late. But a slackening in one curve doesn't mean progress stops on all others. Kurzweil gave the example of the MIT lab computer he rented time on when he was an undergrad versus the iPhone he had in his pocket: a billion-fold price/performance increase in 30 years. And the chart of MIPS per Dollar grows at a smooth exponential arc through the past century. The reason technology grows so exponentially, Kurzweil explained, is that it's an evolutionary process. The first computers had to be designed on graph paper; now they're designed by other computers. This generation's technology helps to make the next generation's. As a result, the rate of technology adoption accelerates as well. It took several decades for phones to be universally adopted, only a couple decades for phones and only a few years for cell phones. Smartphones have taken off even faster. Of course, it wouldn't be a Kurzweil talk without some crazy sounding predictions. I copied down the following:

Drugs that can suppress the fat insulin receptor gene in humans, keeping our bodies from stockpiling calories (an evolutionary holdover);
Solar energy has doubled in productivity every two years; at that rate, solar power could meet 100% of the human race's needs in 20 years (granted, those quoted doubling figures are talking about photovoltaic cells, and most engineers agree that further growth in efficiency would require some developments in nanotechnology - that being said, it's not impossible);
By 2029, $1000 in computation will have 1000x the capacity of the human brain (this was a blurb on a slide that he didn't dwell on; did he mean speed? storage space? both?);
Moore's Law refers to the processing power of integrated circuits, what Kurzweil calls the "fifth paradigm" in information technology (vacuum tubes being the fourth). The sixth paradigm - a three-dimensional circuit substrate - could be possible by 2020.

I don't know that I like the flavor of his Kool-Aid yet. But his predictions on information technology have borne out in the past. And - what's most important to me - his reasoning makes sense.

and they brought prosperity down at the armoury

Professor Coldheart — Wed, 21 Oct 2009 11:00:02 +0000

The Dispossessed: One of those novels I wish I'd found sooner. Le Guin has a beautiful economy of language not often found in fantasy writers: making the terse but poetic choice, rather than bombarding a scene. The Dispossessed feels like an epic, though it comes out fairly slim. And like all good science-fiction, the story focuses less on a naturalistic depiction of how a What-If would come to pass than what such a What-If would mean. Le Guin rejects the notion of a true utopia, depicting the lunar colony of Anarres as an anarchist state slowly ossifying into a socialist oligarchy. Anarres is poor, while its neighbor Urras is rich. But it's the richness of cloying food and it makes the protagonist - Shevek, an Anarrean physicist visiting Urras, the first person to do so in over a century - literally ill. Le Guin has always excelled at making the alien seem truly alien, and her depiction of how a true anarchist would react to a capitalist society reads very true. She doesn't use Shevek as a platform for anti-capitalist polemics: people on Urras are wealthy, happy and comfortable with their station in life. But to someone who doesn't want property, life on Urras is mystifying and weird. Adequately conveying the stilted weirdness of a capitalist society is no mean feat - considering that Le Guin, her audience, and the publishers who made such a novel possible spent their whole lives in one. (As an economist, I always read anarchist fables looking for solutions to the calculation problem. The Dispossessed doesn't provide one, although a good portion of the book deals with a famine on Anarres. Maybe it's implied) Why We Fight: A meticulous recounting of the history of American presence in the Middle East would be enough. Start with the Iranian coup against Mohammed Mossadegh in 1953; continue through the U.S.'s efforts in training, arming and bankrolling the Taliban in the 70s, our installation of Saddam Hussein in the 80s and the troops in Saudi Arabia in the 90s. Why We Fight accomplishes all that. Documenting the growth of the defense industry in the United States since the Eisenhower era would be enough. Begin at the end of the second World War; continue through Korea, the Philippines, Okinawa, Vietnam, Laos, Cambodia, Chile, Honduras, Colombia, etc. Add the nature of American representative politics and the inextricable link between defense contracts, jobs and votes which guarantees escalations in defense spending. Taking a look at the aftermath of the September 11th attacks would be enough. The world went from universally supporting America (there were marches of solidarity with the U.S. in Tehran and Pakistan in the days after the attacks) to distrusting and fearing America. What changed in that time? A movie that did all that would be enough. Where Why We Fight triumphs is twofold. First, the documentarians interview several prominent conservative voices to answer these questions. And not in an attempt to bait them. And not cherry-picked fringe cases either: William Kristol, Richard Perle and John McCain are among them, as well as several Naval pilots. The movie's prejudices are obvious, but these speakers don't get the sneering dismissal that (say) Michael Moore would give them. Second, the way the movie manages to weave together disparate threads into a single story. The narrative begins with a retired NYPD cop who lost his son in the September 11th attacks. A Vietnam veteran, he decides that an appropriate tribute might be to get his son's name written on a piece of munition - like an aerial bomb - to be used in Operation Iraqi Freedom. This story weaves in and out with several others, like the story of a Boeing weapons technician who helped invent the "bunker buster." Only later in the film do we hear that this technician, Anh Duong, fled Saigon near the end of the Vietnam War - a war that the retired NYPD Officer fought in. And only much later do we learn that the bomb with his son's name on it - like all bombs dropped in the first 60 days of OIF - missed its primary target. Why We Fight was the name of a series of propaganda films made by Frank Capra during World War II. The U.S. has established a military presence in over 130 countries around the globe since that time, and fought a variety of police actions, covert operations and wars in that time. This documentary seeks to answer the same question Capra's films did, albeit with a more critical tone. And it finds no definitive answer. The documentarians interview an eager young recruit, two Naval stealth bomber pilots, a retired Lt. Colonel from Pentagon intelligence, Dwight Eisenhower's son, Gore Vidal, a few military historians and a CIA consultant to get an answer and finds nothing. It's no one person's fault - certainly not President Bush's. But when you combine a perpetually growing defense industry, a global military presence, a first-in-class hunger for resources and a doctrine of pre-emptive warfare, the question becomes not why we fight, but why wouldn't we. "It is nowhere written that the American Empire goes on forever." - Chalmers Johnson

when you laugh and run free with the thought, pull the line in and try to see what you caught

Professor Coldheart — Thu, 22 Oct 2009 11:00:30 +0000

When I'm not reading books or watching movies about Hating America by America Haters that promise to teach me How to Hate America Better^*, I'm getting some writing done. In an ideal week, I stick to the following:

Write one hour a night, two nights a week. This produces between 1500-2000 words each night.
Write one or two nights a week, 1000 words each time. I can usually bang this out in 40 minutes.

I do this as many nights as I need to to produce 5000 words a week. If I gave up jiu-jitsu, a job with health insurance and a social life^** I could probably do more. But I think this is a fair pace. My initial goal was to write a 60,000-word manuscript. I just wrote my 20,000th word tonight, though, and the story feels, at most, a quarter done. So I may clock in at closer to 80,000. Considering I'll probably need to lop 5000 to 10,000 words off the top to make it saleable, that's a good target to aim for. As with all my writing projects, this one requires some interesting research and speculation. Asked and answered so far:

What sort of court records could a person find just by walking in and asking at a city courthouse?
What's a half-assed but survivable way to disarm someone who's waving a knife at you and shoving you with his free hand?
What sort of clue could someone plausibly find if they only had thirty seconds to ransack an office?
If you have injuries that require stitches but are conscious and lucid, will the paramedics immobilize you before carting you off to a hospital?
Hell, would they even put you in an ambulance, or would they say, "Drive yourself; you're fine"?
Where would a middling Boston attorney (in practice on his own) take his family on summer vacation?
What sort of information would cops withhold from the press about a murder in order to validate a legit confession?
What does a photographer for a city paper do most of the day?
What's a survivable but incapacitating form of gunshot wound to the head?
What does it taste like when you bite someone's ear hard enough to tear it?

I came up with answers good enough for a rough draft. But if you have theories of your own, please shout them out. ______________________________ ^* They all begin the same way: "Step 1: Subscribe to The Guardian." Couldn't make that up. ^** Because heaven forfend I give up this vital weblog.

there's someone in my head, but it's not me

Professor Coldheart — Fri, 23 Oct 2009 13:28:51 +0000

While visiting Chicago, waiting for a bus at Addison with my man Hawver, two street hawkers approached us. "Would you like to try some Laughing Cow light swiss?" "Sure," I said, being hungry. One handed me a sample pack of swiss cheese, about the size of my thumb; the other, a pack of crackers the size of a matchbox. I also got a coupon for $1.00 off a pack of said cheese. It was tasty enough that I bought a pack the next time I went grocery shopping, to see how well it would complement my lunch. And that went so well that I've bought Laughing Cow several times since, even without a coupon. I had next to zero consciousness of Laughing Cow cheese before this, my primary exposure being the yellow Vache Qui Rit bowl Fraley kept in our cupboard when we lived together. A free sample and a coupon converted me from agnostic to believer in about a week. Four months ago I had no desire for this product; now I have a modest desire. A corporation paid some marketers to sit around a conference table and instill in me a desire where none existed. As a marketer myself, I find the process curious. As an amateur student of autoepistemology, I find it absolutely fascinating. This desire for Laughing Cow cheese was created in me by someone else. I can track the steps that it took to happen. Which other desires of mine originated in someone else's mind? What about my preference for Coke Zero over Diet Coke? My taste in beer? My willingness to drive a rusting import rather than trade up for a newer car? My desire to live in Cambridge? My impulse to live alone? My need to write? My preferred self-image? My religious beliefs, or lack thereof? Who put these thoughts in my head? Really radical progressives blame modern capitalism for about half of the above. "The consumerist market," one might say, "encourages people to buy things they don't need. It touts conspicuous consumption as a way to distinguish yourself from your neighbors, or to alleviate the stress of your job. Consumerism obscures your true desires." The funny thing is: I'd agree with them. Up until the last sentence. Most of us believe in some notion of an ego, or a soul, or some inviolate core that makes decisions. It sits inside our body, either in the center of our brain or in our (metaphorical) heart, and "watches" what happens to us, as if on a screen. When we make a decision, the ego or soul sends instructions to the limbs to move. Descartes didn't invent this theory of consciousness, but, with the whole cogito ergo sum thing, he made it most popular. The problem is: (1) the idea of an ego/soul that's separate from the body it inhabits has no empirical grounding, and (2) it's not even a satisfactory explanation. I'm paraphrasing Daniel Dennett here: suppose there is an ego/soul, sitting inside our body, responsible for making our decisions. The answer to the question, "What's going on in my head?" is "a mini-self is pulling the levers." That doesn't answer the mystery of consciousness, though. It merely raises another question: "okay, how does the mini-self make decisions? what's going on in its head?" Dennett offers an alternative: there is no one "seat of consciousness" within the brain:

The book puts forward a "multiple drafts" model of consciousness, suggesting that there is no single central place (a "Cartesian Theater") where conscious experience occurs; instead there are "various events of content-fixation occurring in various places at various times in the brain". The brain consists of a "bundle of semi-independent agencies"; when "content-fixation" takes place in one of these, its effects may propagate so that it leads to the utterance of one of the sentences that make up the story in which the central character is one's "self". Dennett's view of consciousness is that it is the apparently serial account for the brain's underlying parallelism.

"Interesting stuff, Professor," you're saying, "but what does this have to do with cheese?" If what we call "consciousness" is really the body carrying out the instructions of different agencies of the brain at different times, then there is no central ego/soul. If that's the case, then there's no distinction between the "true desires" of the self and the "false desires" implanted in us by corporations, politicians, churches, peer groups, etc. They're all equally legitimate inputs. My desire for Laughing Cow cheese, which I was barely conscious of six months ago, is no more artificial than my desire to hang out with a new friend, whom I hadn't met six months ago. I'm still not settled on what this means for my decision-making process, except that it makes my job as a marketer easier to swallow.

don't throw stones; you don't know

Professor Coldheart — Mon, 26 Oct 2009 11:00:51 +0000

On Friday I had the neighbors, Ryan and Erin, over for wine and cheese. We sifted through each other's movie piles to find good films to laugh over. Neither Erin nor Ryan had seen Road House, so we put that in first. If marginal utility theory means anything, then I should get more value out of most purchases than I spend on them. But sometimes the ratio skyrockets so far out of whack that I give thanks to the healing power of capitalism. My Dickies messenger bag, for example: I spent $50 on it three years ago and it has easily brought a thousand dollars of convenience into my life. Or my copy of Mind Performance Hacks. Or the Bed of Ages: a Simmons model that the company no longer makes, that I dropped just over a grand on (including frame and headboard) five years ago. I spent enough on the Bed that it's a close thing, but I still come out black. Road House has vastly exceeded the $8 I paid for it in the Target discount bin. In the two years I've owned it, I've watched it at least six times. Maybe one of those times I watched it alone. Every other time, I've had friends over, cracked some beers and introduced them to Patrick Swayze's magnum opus. Why does Road House work on every level? The fight scenes are fun, as I've said before. The hayseed, outdated setting allows for some ironic laughs - particularly when the locals gawk over Swayze's tanned bod. "He looks like he's from a coast!", Erin commented. But what makes Road House so oddly great is that it's a well-paced film on a picayune subject. You can almost watch the hero's status rising and falling on screen, as if on a stock ticker. Anyone who wants to write an action movie should own this on DVD and watch it until it breaks. I am not kidding in any way. Afterward, we watched Demolition Man, which has a similarly tight plot even if the setting makes us snicker. Stallone, Bullock and Snipes each have one setting (smart-aleck, perky and cocky, respectively), and the movie suffers whenever it asks them to deviate. The story shepherds our heroes from setpiece to setpiece, even if we have to swallow some improbable coincidences to get them there. Perhaps that's one of the benchmarks for a good action movie: how easily we can believe the transition between car chase and shootout.

helvetica

Professor Coldheart — Tue, 27 Oct 2009 02:06:08 +0000

I've got something to tell you far outside the black and white

Professor Coldheart — Tue, 27 Oct 2009 11:00:22 +0000

Sylvia called me up on Sunday and asked if I wanted to watch Helvetica, the 2007 documentary about fonts. "Do I ever!", I exclaimed. Helvetica is a very dry documentary about a very fascinating subject: the role that typeset has in introducing us to products or concepts. It covers this larger theme by recounting the story of the design of the Haas Neue Grotesk font, which we today call "Helvetica": the most common typeset in the world of Roman characters in the 20th century. Every street sign in New York, most forms of U.S. government paperwork, and practically every corporation uses it. The film raises the question of why Helvetica has become so ubiquitous. Does everyone use it because elements of its design seem so appealing: the firmness of the lines, the encapsulation and separation of white space? Or does Helvetica appeal to us because everyone uses it? This debate intrigued me, having started a conversation on Friday over whether mind/body unification means outside forces create our desires, or our desires look for outside forces to fulfill them. Which came first - the crossbar or the em? The documentary as a film: good. The conversation, as I said, gets a little dry at times, with the individual words fading into the background like the strokes of a character fade into the word-picture it creates. Then you get a character like Erik Spiekermann, who compares the most common font in the world to McDonald's, and you perk back up. Worth the 90 minutes of your time.

don-draper

Professor Coldheart — Wed, 28 Oct 2009 02:31:50 +0000

you told me again you preferred handsome men

Professor Coldheart — Wed, 28 Oct 2009 11:00:16 +0000

And Who Are You Supposed To Be? How good was this past Sunday's episode of Mad Men ("The Hobo and the Gypsy")? So good that I don't know if I want to go as Don Draper for Halloween anymore. That's how good it was. I probably will, anyway, as I've reached that point in my life where I pick Halloween costumes by cheapness and the breathability of the fabric. I already own an appropriate suit: I just need to shave my sideburns, slick my hair into the part I wore for the first quarter century of my life, get a pocket square and walk around with half a glass of scotch. And I already do half of that the other three-hundred and sixty-four days of the year. You know I'm all about the pocket squares. "The Gypsy and The Hobo" put me in such a mood that I not only questioned whether I want to adopt this fictional protagonist as a costume, but what I'm doing with my life. But that's what happens whenever I watch a good TV show, or a well-framed movie or a really moving song. Good art has the power to throw me in profound and unexpected moods. I'm a blank slate on which media gets to draw. Which is ironic, because not only is that what Don Draper's about (advertising and shaping the popular consciousness), but that's what "what Don Draper's about" is about. Jon Hamm's character is popular because he looks like an alpha male who gets to drink all the time, screw around, dismiss his underlings with casual contempt, and luck his way into the halls of power. Every guy wants to be That Guy. Don Draper is selling an image. Matthew Weiner, producer of Mad Men, is selling Don Draper. So I applaud this fictional character's ability to sell because I myself have been so thoroughly sold. All that aside, dressing as a tormented ad executive for the company Halloween party would be too meta to pass up. I'm Not Here to Tell You About Jesus I got my opportunity to play Don Draper at an on-site meeting for TVClient in New York yesterday. Our travel arrangements required that I be up by 5:00 to catch the Acela Express from South Station by 6:00. I've taken Amtrak several times in the last few years, but never the Acela Express, with its unfolding business class tables and spacious cafe car. The four of us did some rehearsing for the work presentation, then shared war stories for the rest of the ride. My role doesn't put me in regular contact with the clients; I'm more akin to Ken or Peggy than Don. But I still speak in meetings, and yesterday I spoke to a conference room full of website developers on how we could work better with them. I fielded some technical questions, improvised my way through some new slides, and avoided stammering. Things to work on: eye contact, not clearing my throat. Our cabbie from TVClient to Penn Station murmured something under his breath the entire time he drove us. Every ten seconds, he would click a handheld counter that he cupped in his palm. Prayers? Pedestrians he refrained from killing? We'll never know. The Acela Express seats aren't quite tall enough to support my head and don't recline far enough to let me slump. I slept with a stiff neck on the train ride back. When I got back to Davis, the sky was as dark as when I'd left.

bow down before the one you serve

Professor Coldheart — Fri, 30 Oct 2009 13:31:45 +0000

When I wrote last Friday about where my desires come from, I used the example of Laughing Cow cheese. My desire for this cheese went from non-existent (before I tried it) to compulsory (after). I thought that was pretty extraordinary. Some folks, commenting on my LiveJournal, observed that the manufacturers of Laughing Cow cheese didn't literally create my desire out of nothing. I had to have some predisposition for soft, sweet cheeses before I tried it. It's not, as commenter phanatic put it, as if they handed me a ball of roofing tar and I lapped it right up. And I have been presented with free samples in the past - mango-kiwi juices, pre-packaged cookies, tequila shots served by women in cut-off tees - that have not compelled me to buy. So clearly these new experiences tap into some extant disposition in order to create a desire. That makes sense but doesn't satisfy. We run into the same problem here that we do with the Cartesian theater. Okay, so desire is created when a new stimulus taps into some extant disposition. Where did the disposition come from? "Evolution" answers some of that - I'm a mammal; I like salt and calories - but not all of it. The human race is similar enough to interbreed but different enough that menus have to warn people about spicy food. So our predispositions have to come from somewhere. Did they arise in a similar fashion - a combination of exterior stimuli and even earlier predisposition? Let's go with that for now, as I'm not sure what the alternative would be (god or aliens or ancestor spirits, perhaps) and it makes sense. We enter the world as creatures of pure instinct, survive on mothering until we start collating our experiences, and turn into complex calculating libraries. Makes sense. Ultimately, then, every desire I have - and thus every action I take - comes from either biology or experience. What does this mean for the notion of free will? "Free will" is one of those subjects that requires a lot of brush-clearing before two people can even start screaming at each other. No two people mean the same thing by it. So let me lay out what I mean when I talk about free will first. In my head, it certainly feels like I have free will. Every action I take is either to fulfill some desire, which seems to arise as if from nowhere, or to respond to some instinct. I'm either closing the blinds to keep the light out of my eyes or I'm jumping in fear because something in the movie startled me. Instinct I can write off as subconscious reflex, but the choices feel free and uncoerced. And yet we established a few weeks ago that the brain is an organ, and a hungry one at that. We also theorized last week that there is no mini-self sitting in our brain pulling levers - no central ego, soul or homonculus that's the true core. So when I say "it feels like I have free will," that might not be a useful statement, as "I" might not be a qualified judge. Who is the "I" saying what it feels like in "my" head? Which part of my decision-making process is the "I" evaluating? Is there such a thing as a decision that doesn't come from the brain? For purposes of my discussion, no. If I'm sleeping with someone and I kick them to stop them from snoring, that's different than if I'm sleeping with someone and I kick them because my legs jerked in a dream. So everything that I intend to do, consciously, has to pass through the brain at some point. Is there any part of the brain that does not have organic components? No. We can debate souls or homonculi if you like, but if you've followed the series so far you'll know I place little weight on them. Therefore, is there any decision that does not originate from an organic component? It would seem not. Does this mean there's no such thing as free will? It depends on what you mean by "free will." If you mean that there's an Aristotelian "unmoved mover" sitting in the brain that makes decisions for us, then yes, your notion of free will is in trouble. But if you mean that there's a difference between consciousness and instinct - that there's a worthwhile distinction to draw between kicking someone for snoring and kicking someone by leg spasms - then yes, "free will" makes sense. But is the difference one of degree or one of type? Is consciousness a different process from instinct, or is it just a really complicated nest of instincts? And if what I call "free will" is just an instinct, then what internal instincts and external stimuli are driving me to ask so many questions about it?

monkey-bread

Professor Coldheart — Mon, 02 Nov 2009 04:15:22 +0000

it is not dying; it is not dying

Professor Coldheart — Mon, 02 Nov 2009 11:00:27 +0000

I Still Like Him Better Than Steinbrenner For my Don Draper costume, I had to shave my sideburns off for the first time in at least six years. This took considerable effort, as attacking six years' growth with a disposable razor will, and left the skin underneath a little raw. But it looks fine now. Shaving since then has been disconcerting, however, since I typically start at my ear line by muscle memory alone and have now had to start cutting even higher. I put little effort into the costume itself (nicest suit I had, dress shirt, conservative tie); the accessories made it work. I showed up at the office Halloween party with a highball glass full of "scotch" (ginger ale) and a cigarette dangling between my fingers (unlit; borrowed). Most people identified me on their first or second try. Full Dance Card Counting work, I hit up five Halloween parties this weekend, including:

90s Night at Common Ground, which gave away $100 for the best 90s costume. Logistics proved an issue, as management couldn't convince Allston's drunkest hipsters to circulate before the judge's table, parading their wares. A horde of kids surged at the DJ booth, waving their hands and squealing like teenage zombies. I thought the kids in the Nickelodeon GUTS outfits had it locked, but Carmen Sandiego stole it.
Joanna and Brian's Halloween party. I knew which subway station they lived nearest, but didn't know if it was on the Cambridge or Somerville side of the border. I guessed Cambridge at first. My GPS promptly led me to a Jewish dorm outside Harvard.
Katie and Sylvia's Halloween party. I wore a different suit for the Don Draper costume - double-breasted, even less period than the first. But people still got it, especially after I borrowed another cigarette. Half the party circulated in the kitchen, eating delicious sweets; the other half planted in the living room, watching The Craft. Remember those quaint days when Wiccans and goths were exotic?
The Gorefest cast party. I congratulated the players on another successful and blood-drenched show. Our host baked a plate of monkey bread - essentially, a massive pile of butter, cinnamon, sugar and dough. We picked at it like savages until Paul challenged everyone at the table to eat one last piece and then stop. An hour later, three people were sitting on the floor with chunks of butter-soaked dough clenched in their front teeth (but not swallowed) and there was a pot of sixty dollars. Let no one say improv people don't know how to party

The Patriot Marked for Death is Hard to Kill Under Siege After a brief hiatus, I returned to the Overthinking It podcast last night. We planned to talk about Halloween costumes, haunted houses and the cultural rituals surrounding scaring each other. Then someone brought up Steven Seagal. Guess what we spent most of our time discussing.

SUV dogwalker

Professor Coldheart — Tue, 03 Nov 2009 12:25:29 +0000

streets like a jungle, so call the police

Professor Coldheart — Tue, 03 Nov 2009 12:45:51 +0000

Avoiding All Work, 'Cause There's None Available My new office looks down on the ceiling of a nearby parking garage. Every afternoon, between 2:30 and 3:00, a woman drives her SUV up to the top level. She lets out a small dog and then begins idling her vehicle in a slow circle around the roof. The dog follows her. At first I thought she had a leash trailing out the window behind her. But when I got the attention of everyone in my office for a second opinion, we agreed she was just waving her hand or snapping her fingers. The dog follows unceasingly. She does one lap of the roof, maybe one and a half, and then lets the dog back into her SUV. I considered the possibility that she's handicapped. You Go On Ahead! And Carry Me With You! I got in an argument on the Boston Livejournal community yesterday about the ethics of requiring credit card machines in Boston cabs. My argument was that there was an ethical question involved; the poster's, that there wasn't. His post, if you don't want to click through, read as follows:

my cabbie last night was all like, "[the credit card machine]'s not working!" then i pointed out that it's illegal for to drive a cab with a broken card terminal in boston and that he either take the $8 in cash i had for the $18 fare, or let me pay with my card. cabbie: you put the tip on the screen me: yeah, i know how to do it ---seconds later--- cabbie: you didn't put a tip! me: yeah, i'm aware. maybe you shouldn't give your fares a hard time when they try and pay with a card cabbie: they take 8% when you pay with a card me: that happens in every industry, it's called the cost of doing business. deal with it.

I responded:

You're not doing a lot to diminish my sympathy for the cab driver here. It sounds like he doesn't particularly want a credit card machine in his car, but was compelled by law to accept one.

To which he replied with some variant of, "Whatever; that's the law, tough shit." I realized the argument could not even be engaged, much less won, since anyone who thinks "that's the law, tough shit" is a salient response must have slept through the 20th century. So I made one more cursory response ("convenience is not a sound basis for law") and gave up. But shit like this is what annoys me about Boston. The cab driver loses a portion of every credit card transaction to charge fees. He clearly doesn't want a credit card machine in the car (since he lied about it being broken). But the law compels him to take one. Then, when he tries to hustle a way around it, some asshole gives him a hard time about it and stiffs him on the tip. And more than half of the people he told this story to agreed with him. I'd say at least three-quarters; someone want to count? I don't mind Boston's liberal attitude. Hell, I'm more liberal than I was four years ago, so living in Boston suits me just fine. But that frustrating yet common blend of liberal attitude and consumer entitlement drives me up a wall. Consistency is all I seek. I can respect a guy who reads Worker's World because he's been in the IBEW for thirty years, but not if he's a college student. And Boston is mostly college students. (And I'm not generalizing that far here. I've been a member of the Boston LJ community for years. I know these people; I've seen them argue before) For thinkers who spend so much time railing against "privilege," Boston progressives loathe to surrender theirs. Edit: several commenters on my LiveJournal have pointed out that, hey, Boston cab drivers are part of a state-enforced monopoly, so fuck them. And I agree with that: the taxi medallion monopoly in Boston is pretty ridiculous. It costs about $250,000 to legally drive a taxi in Boston. But I don't buy the notion that accepting government license in one aspect of your life compels you to accept government regulation in every aspect of your life.

girl-talk

Professor Coldheart — Wed, 04 Nov 2009 12:51:41 +0000

play your part

Professor Coldheart — Wed, 04 Nov 2009 12:54:31 +0000

I saw Girl Talk at House of Blues on Monday night. I had nothing but good things to say about the venue before visiting on Monday; after, I had my doubts. When we got in line outside, one of the staff checked our tickets and sent Serpico, Kim and I to the upstairs mezzanine, RJ to the floor. We'd arrived early enough that there was still space on the floor, but our tickets dictated otherwise. Having to split up a party bugs me. Serpico, Kim and I squeezed up to some space near the front of the upstairs mezzanine. Senior Discount, a punk band in that nasal style that the late 90s gave its sanction to, opened for Girl Talk. They rocked through a couple fast and loud covers and a few fast and loud original songs. I liked them better when they were called Lit, I texted. After a long wait, the stage was cleared save for a long metal table with two rugged, plastic-wrapped laptops on it. Gregg Gillis danced out in a high-stepping jog, complete with cheap white sweatshirt and headband. He fired up one of the laptops. A horde of kids decked out in 80s gear, chosen in advance by the floor staff, swarmed him. Then the music started, and for ninety minutes straight it didn't stop. Even at the highest energy electronic shows (RJ and Kim later confirmed), you intersperse one or two downtempo songs just so the DJ can stop moving for two minutes. But Gillis kept up the pace of pop hits and fast beats throughout the entire set. I walked out of there aching, sweaty and exhausted.

I watched the children scurry in circles around a two-way mirror

Professor Coldheart — Fri, 06 Nov 2009 14:09:58 +0000

From a high enough perch, all of us are hypocrites. Conservatives praise the power of the free market to fulfill desires, then rant about indecently dressed pop starlets and the drunken crowds downtown. Liberals insist that the government "keep its laws out of my bedroom," unless, while in your bedroom, you enjoy consuming trans fats or homeschooling your children. Press either side on the apparent inconsistency and they can argue their way out of it (it's a question of degree; this is an entirely different case; I'm not saying it should be illegal). And in many cases their arguments hold water. But inconsistency isn't hard to find. And I'm not excluding myself in this. I complain about how easy credit and cheap oil are ruining this country all the time. But I know how long I'd survive without my disposable contacts and allergy meds (smart money says nine months; I'm starting a pool). So none of us are perfectly consistent. I don't raise this point to drag everyone down in the mud with me ("we're all bastards; let's own up to it; immanentize the eschaton; WAAAGH"). I raise it because I think consistency is a false flag. It's not a useful tool for weighing ethics. Break it apart: why is inconsistency such a bad thing? If I accuse someone of inconsistency, I say, "You chose one thing in one context and you chose another thing in a different context." But we've already challenged the notion that there's a single homonculus living in our brains that pulls the levers to make us go. Empirical science and the philosophy of consciousness suggest that our mind consists of multiple calculating modules. There's not one "you" that's "choosing" things, but several. So if you wrote a six-part article series for the Globe exposing nursing home abuse, then sat on the subway today while an old woman with a cane stood, that's inconsistent. But the latter action doesn't make your former choice a mere posture. Maybe you were wrapped up in your reading and didn't notice her. Maybe you were tired after a long day and decided that someone else ought to offer a seat before you did. Not offering an old woman your seat is a dick move, to be sure. But it doesn't render all your previous pro-elderly efforts invalid. We make different choices when hungry, or tired, or surrounded by people we want to impress, than we do when we're writing an essay, or watching the news, or driving past the scene of an accident. We do this because the human brain - the result of evolutionary processes - did not evolve to be consistent. It evolved^* to fulfill our needs, safeguard and propagate our genes, and to run a series of complex parallel calculations. But since it evolved into the form we recognize today, humans also invented a thing called culture. Culture changes a lot faster than the genetic makeup of its inhabitants, complicating the process even further. We have a lot of competing data points that go into our decisions. Our declared ethical code is one of these points. Consistency simply isn't a natural behavior in the human brain. If it were, morality would be easy. You'd simply make the decision to adhere to a given code of ethics, once, and that would be it. Flip the switch to "Good" and keep walking. But every code of ethics describes the process of "being tempted" or "acting irrationally" or "losing one's way." This is inconsistency rearing its head. A young priest vows eternal celibacy; ten years later, he takes notice of a statuesque blonde. A finance manager volunteers four hours a week at a soup kitchen; coming out of a train station on a business trip, he shoulders by a man asking for spare change. If we view the ethics as natural and humans as inferior, then these acts are frustrating lapses. It's not useful to call behavior that every human being engages in a "lapse" (lapsing from what?). If we view ethics as an invention and humans as natural, then these acts make perfect sense. The mind isn't designed for consistency; it's designed to constantly recalculate. Why am I harping on this? Because I'm still curious about "what's the best way for humans to behave," and I don't think "with perfect consistency" is part of it. Every ethical system has its inconsistencies. And even if someone invented a perfectly coherent and logical system of ethics, no human could consistently adhere to it. We're all hypocrites. We're all struggling to figure out what's right. P.S. Of all the posts in the mind-body dichotomy series, I'm least happy with this one. But none of my thoughts on the matter have been fully polished, so why should I feel self-conscious today? That's why it's a weblog, not an article for the Atlantic: so I can get feedback from friends and ill-intentioned strangers. Hitting "Post"; have at it. _______________________ ^* When I say "it [the brain] evolved," I mean "the human species evolved in such a way as to have a brain which possessed these characteristics." Forgive me the shorthand, as we forgive the shorthand used by others.

what would you say if I took those words away

Professor Coldheart — Mon, 09 Nov 2009 11:00:53 +0000

Paper or Plastic Short of a few phone calls with friends, I had no conversations on Saturday that weren't transactional. Spending $7 on a takeout dinner doesn't count as "human contact" in my book, any more than letting someone board the bus in front of you counts as "making a friend." You're pointing to a menu, handing over a few slips of paper, and waiting until your number gets called. A sophisticated machine could replace one or both of the partners in that dance. I find that solitude - the ability to immerse myself in a city full of people without having to engage them - refreshing, so long as I take it in small doses. I was out late drinking with coworkers, then dancing at the Middlesex, on Friday night. On Sunday I went to see Lynne D's one-woman show at ImprovBoston, then had a few beers with friends. Last weekend was busy (Halloween) and the coming weekends look to fill up my diary as well. So the break doesn't hurt. But there are thousands of people in this city, and every other, who go like that for a week at a time or more. Get up, get on the bus, punch a clock, take your break, punch out, bus home, watch TV, drink, sleep, repeat. The city does not discourage this lifestyle. Dozens of institutions exist to make such a life of populated solitude possible - even easy. The Wasted Chance That I've Been Given Pop music has not lacked for shitty covers ever, so if I wanted to bitch about that I'd have my choice of targets. But lately I've heard enough covers that defy sense, aesthetics or any prediction of What The Market Demands. Exhibit A: "Careless Whisper" by Seether [youtube=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=I7imqO-OBVk] That's what George Michael's slow-jazz throwback from twenty-five years ago needed - a groan-rock cover with extra shredding. In the original, the sublimely ridiculous line "guilty feet have got no rhythm" makes some sense - the tidal wave of horns and congo drums suggest a nightclub in the 40s, slow dancing with your best friend's girl, etc. It calls to mind the silver screen. But no one would dream of dancing to a song by a band named Seether, unless standing with your feet shoulder-width apart and headbanging counts as "dancing." It's fun, but it doesn't. Exhibit B: "More Than Words" by Owen At least Seether's cover of a George Michael standard justifies itself by changing the song's genre. Translating Wham! to screamo is a poor choice, sure, but it's evidence of thought. But Mike Kinsella's cover of "More Than Words" adds nothing. It's one guy with an acoustic guitar, as opposed to the original, which had two guys - Gary Cherone singing, Nuno Bettancourt playing and harmonizing. It has the artistic integrity of a webcam video posted to YouTube, except the fact that I'm asked to spend $0.99 on Kinsella's version makes it comical. [youtube=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1xRARmrorGU]

shut the door; have a seat

Professor Coldheart — Tue, 10 Nov 2009 12:49:23 +0000

Monster post on Overthinking It today, overthinking Mad Men Season 3, which just wrapped this past Sunday. Preview:

Mad Men is a story about men and women searching for meaning. Mad Men can tell this story because it’s set in an ad agency. Consumer capitalism, which really came into its own following World War II, sells products that add meaning to people’s lives. If Americans don’t believe that their choice of cigarette will make them happy, or that a slide projector can restore the innocence of youth, then Don Draper and his crew are out of a job. The language of advertising transforms products from the utilitarian to the spiritual. You don’t stay in a Hilton Hotel because of price or convenience. You stay in a Hilton Hotel because it brings the comforts of home to a foreign setting. Pepsi can reinvigorate our tired routine; AquaNet can capture the man who’ll provide for us; London Fog can take us on stimulating romantic adventures. Most of the characters in Mad Men started 1963 with a brand in lieu of a soul. Roger Sterling was the silver fox with a trophy wife; Hilton was the golden treasure that every ad agency sought to claim; Don Draper, the genius with his finger on the pulse of culture. But we discovered that the brand and the product behind it don’t always relate. Roger is more of a lost boy than a dignified man; consider his Kentucky Derby party, or his growing feuds with his new wife. Conrad Hilton turns out to be a cranky, implacable eccentric. And Don? Behind the mask, what is Don Draper?

Share and enjoy.

we never did too much talking anyway

Professor Coldheart — Thu, 12 Nov 2009 11:00:07 +0000

I would like the following euphemisms excised from polite speech:

"It is what it is." No. I disagree. Now let's fight over it. It doesn't much help that "it is what it is" most often surfaces as a sort of cheery fatalism, an unwillingness to tackle a problem. We can't change the facts! If I wrap this statement in tautology, it becomes self-evident! It is what it is, and it can't be what it's not, which we'd rather, so let it be. (We mock "it is what it is" on the Overthinking It podcast pretty often)
"Now, more than ever ..." I find millennialism repulsive in all its forms, but this euphemism dates back centuries. We live in Interesting Times, completely different from any Times that existed in the Past! For one, children disrespect their elders! Illness is rampant in the cities and the lower classes groan in poverty! Also, there are barbarians in the outermost provinces! I can't think of many crises, ills or challenges that affect me and my friends now more than they ever did a comparable group of people in the past.
"I just wanted to say that ..." Right. I understood that you wanted to say that, as evidenced by the fact that you said it. You don't need to remind me that you're a sentient being, my recent experiments in biological reductionism notwithstanding. This one doesn't seem harmful. It's the sort of throat-clearing we all engage in before getting to the interesting part of a sentence. But verbiage that doesn't communicate information or mood is harmful. We read or hear it often enough and we start glossing over it. And glossing over speech puts language in the service of evil.
"Society ..." as the subject of a sentence. "Society" is not an agent of action. Society doesn't tell men or women to do things. Society doesn't take away your job. Now while there are impersonal, institutional forces at work that circumscribe the lives of people that no member of that force will ever meet - i.e., I can be limited by the Church's views on marriage even if I never set foot in a church - it aids nothing to call that force "society." No one ever got butter on their bread by talking more abstractly.
"There are two kinds of people in the world ..." The distinction between x and non-x rarely bears fruit outside of pre-school pedagogy, collegiate logic textbooks and high-level programming, yet you can find it in the Washington Post editorial page with sad regularity. This distinction never works. Half the time, it's so tautological as to be useless ("there are two kinds of people in the world: members of The Rolling Stones, and the rest of us"). The other half, it draws a false dichotomy. A peer educator in my high school once passed along the following wisdom from his grandmother, about the two kinds of people in the world: "those who learn from experience, and those who learn from everyone else's experience." And while it was an interesting point at the time, useful to the moral of the lesson (namely, Don't Do Drugs), it's a false dichotomy. What about people who don't learn and keep making the same mistakes? What about people who learn from fictional experience - who were scared off of heroin by Requiem for a Dream? What about people who expect a situation to turn out poorly, like a midnight road trip to Vegas, but who do it anyway because they want the experience? All of these could be acknowledged and glossed over, if the speaker hadn't framed the story with the "two kinds of people" trope.
"You owe it to yourself ..." Then I default on the obligation. Who's going to come collect?
"Tiny favor" / "Huge favor" Have you noticed that the effort requested by that phrase is inversely proportional to the word used? Moving a couch is a "tiny favor"; answering the phone while you pee is a "huge favor."
"At least I'm doing something!" This sentence only lives in rebuttals. Someone advances a plan: let's hold a bake sale to save our school; let's burn the house down and use the insurance money to pay off our debt; let's bomb villages to catch terrorists, et cetera. Someone else points out that the plan might not work: we won't pay off a ten thousand dollar debt with brownie money; insurance companies employ sophisticated arson investigators; bombing villages will create the sort of dissatisfaction that terrorists arise from, and so forth. The response, "Well, at least I'm doing something. What are you doing?" Most of us get embarrassed when we realize we forgot a crucial variable in the success of our plan. But "at least I'm doing something!" trumpets your apathy boldly. So what if my plan won't work? Plans don't have to work in order to be good. They just have to be bold! Action trumps thought; all forward motion is progress; idle hands are the devil's playground.
Blog / photoblog / liveblog / vlog / bleg. I mean, come on.

you respect the one who got shot; I respect the shooter

Professor Coldheart — Fri, 13 Nov 2009 14:54:47 +0000

I'm putting the mind-body dichotomy series on hold for a while in order to read some more on the subject. Currently I'm Kindling my way through Stephen Pinker's How The Mind Works, which has astonished me and lost me a dozen times already. You're all disappointed at not getting to hear my half-baked theories on a subject the human race has been debating for thousands of years, I know, but be patient. Some day, the pablum will return. But I can discuss why this matters to me. My friends regularly exhort me to open up more, to them and to others. "That's what the website is for," I tell them, but they insist this doesn't count. They insist that I'd meet more interesting people and get less frustrated at my internal dialogue if I "took off the mask." But this suggestion never really speaks to me. So I've been doing a lot of thinking about masks. If all behavior arises from consciousness, then we're always choosing to present some face to the rest of the world. In social settings, we put on our charming face; when we're tired and distracted, we put on our bitter face; when we're overwhelmed and confessing fears to the ones closest to us, we put on our vulnerable face. But we always make a choice which side of ourselves to present. There's no "true face" that emerges when we stop choosing to present. It's masks all the way down. At the same time, though, the idea of a "true self" makes sense to us. We distinguish between the world Out There (people and streets and hot dogs and engraved pens) and the world In Here (memories and fears and imagination and fantasy). That's what it means to be self-aware: to distinguish between Self and Other. It's an experience that everyone who can put thoughts into words has in common. So we all think that there's something true or ideal inside our heads. But is an experience that everyone calls the same thing necessarily real? That's what my experiments in auto-epistemology have been about. I'm curious as to whether the notion of an "unmasked self" is part of the same cognitive illusion as the Cartesian homonculus, or whether it's something with a real basis in biology and psychology. As I said, I've got some reading and some thinking to do. Thanks for bearing with me. "Great," the audience muttered, shifting in their seats and checking their cell phones. "Someone tells the Professor to open up more and his response is to read a book."

black-book

Professor Coldheart — Sun, 15 Nov 2009 22:13:14 +0000

black book

Professor Coldheart — Sun, 15 Nov 2009 22:16:14 +0000

the_prisoner

Professor Coldheart — Mon, 16 Nov 2009 03:34:04 +0000

ian-mckellen

Professor Coldheart — Mon, 16 Nov 2009 04:07:21 +0000

the-prisoner

Professor Coldheart — Mon, 16 Nov 2009 04:28:52 +0000

I lose a dream when I don't sleep; I'm slumbering

Professor Coldheart — Mon, 16 Nov 2009 11:00:12 +0000

A man wakes up on a desert plateau. The staccato pops of automatic fire draw his attention; looking over a ridge, he sees an old man in an outmoded jacket tumbling down a hill. He picks the old man up and carries him out of the sun. The old man dies; the younger man buries him. Alone, the younger man staggers across the desert until he finds: The Village. The notion of a remake of The Prisoner, Patrick McGoohan's legendarily inaccessible 1967 BBC series, thrilled me more than it bothered me. I don't like remakes. I don't like the idea of dredging the same river for new fish. But the original Prisoner, for all the thunder of its premise, lacked something in execution. McGoohan wanted the audience to draw their own conclusions, but a little more explicitness couldn't have hurt ("yes, Patrick dear, but what do the monkey masks mean?"). And toward the end, the show drifted from challenging-weird to just weird-weird. The same ideas, given a fresh start and a proper budget, would devastate. Number Six (Jim Cavielzel) stumbles through the Village. Exhausted from walking in the desert all day and afflicted by hallucinations of life in New York, he falls off a rooftop. He awakes in a clinic - The Clinic - under the warm gaze of Dr. 313 and the blue-eyed fatherliness of Number Two (Ian McKellen). "Why are you keeping me here?", Six demands. Two shrugs: "I see no locked doors." This is the insidiousness of the Village: it responds to direct confrontation with gentle redirection. Aside from Number Two, no one denies the existence of a world outside - Isaac Newton, Alexander Graham Bell, David Beckham, Manhattan. But they don't understand why it's so important to Number Six. They just want to help. The beauty of the original Prisoner was the distinct visual and auditory style of the Village. Shot in Portmeirion, Wales, the use of gay colors, cheery announcements and signs in Albertus typeface all contributed to the air of stiff, enforced conviviality. AMC's The Prisoner has a style all its own as well. Identical 60s-era bungalows, duplexes and diners form neat little rows in the middle of a vast desert. The occasional flashback to New York or to static-ridden surveillance footage jars Six out of his attempts to focus. There are no walls and no guards: there are the simple limits of sand and sky. But Number Two keeps control in other ways. He can't suppress every citizen's desire for escape or their search for something more, so he gives it to them: the Escape Resort! The nightclub More! And just to remind you that this world isn't right, there's the occasional touch of weirdness for its own sake, like the soap opera Wonkers or Brian Wilson's "In Blue Hawaii" or the twin therapists, Number 70. And no, they don't have anything that's not a wrap. I love Ian McKellen as the new Number Two. He brings a sinister warmth to the bland pronouncements that he bestows on people: "Every day above ground is a good day." He lives in a pristine opulence that the rest of the Village aspires to. And yet behind everything there's an air of instability. Everyone gets very still whenever he enters a room, as if he and Mommy were just having a screaming argument in the kitchen downstairs and it's imperative that we be good. He carries a grenade with him everywhere, pulling it out of his pocket once or twice an episode and tossing it to make a point. He is the capricious tyrant, just as likely to bestow prizes - a free vacation, a medal for service - as punishments. It takes a brilliant actor to pull that off and still appear sane. Jim Cavielzel as Number Six, I'm not as sure on. He plays crazy very well, while McGoohan was always proud and stiff. This is essential: Number Six is the man on the fringes of society, and people on the fringes are "crazy," even if they're not disordered. When he's trying to convince 313 or Two that his memories of a world before the Village are real, he fumbles for the thread of his own thought. He lacks the thunderous contempt that McGoohan's Six had for the other conspirators in the Village, but that's for the better. Cavielzel's is a more sympathetic Six. He bites back, but he doesn't bark. What doesn't quite work for me are the slow-mo shots of Six running through the desert, dropping to his knees when faced with some implacable object - the twin towers, the weird anchor - and screaming. They seem a bit too forced. The horror of the Village comes from its cheerful banality and its absolute impermeability to logic, sprinkled with the occasional bit of grotesque: a giant bubble bouncing down the street and absorbing someone. The horror shouldn't be something that we sit and watch with flashing lights: hey kids! Here's where the horror is! I watched the first two episodes, "Arrival" and "Harmony," last night (and thanks to Sylvia M. for being a gracious host). So far we already know more about Number Six in two episodes than we ever did in the prior series: he worked for a company, Summakor, that collects CCTV footage to analyze trends in human behavior. We already have a hint of why he resigned as well. Interestingly enough, no one in the Village seems to want to know why: a major plot point from the original series. But this cute and accessible woman he picked up on the streets of Manhattan in flashbacks - Lucy - won't let up on it. But if she's the only one who's curious, why can't Six leave the Village? And if Two wants to know, why hasn't he asked yet? Ultimately The Prisoner is not about Number Six. We are not supposed to see ourselves in Number Six; we are supposed to see ourselves in the rest of the village. The Prisoner is about how the institution of society deals with a man who will not conform. Perhaps he's not conforming because his brain is chemically imbalanced; perhaps it's because no one around him can supply what he wants. Or perhaps he has memories of a past that no one shares and every time he tries to pursue them, a giant bubble attacks him. Regardless of why he feels that way, he can't fit in. He rejects all attempts to make him fit in. So how do we respond? Some of us watch him with sad compassion. Some of us write him off ("she's a crazy"; "he's an old drunk"). If he gets too loud or violent, we lock him away. And if he persists in being unmutual, we gently nudge him to the far edge of the herd. Two more episodes tonight and two on Tuesday. Expect my final thoughts on Friday. Be seeing you.

Edward Woodward

Professor Coldheart — Mon, 16 Nov 2009 22:17:12 +0000

breaker-morant

Professor Coldheart — Mon, 16 Nov 2009 22:17:45 +0000

breakermorant

Professor Coldheart — Mon, 16 Nov 2009 22:18:00 +0000

the horse he kept running; the rider was dead

Professor Coldheart — Tue, 17 Nov 2009 11:00:11 +0000

(Note: as soon as I opened up IMDB on Monday evening to confirm some details about the movie below, I saw that its star, Edward Woodward, had died. A hell of a loss, though he left a full career behind him, including Becket, the TV series Callan, the original The Wicker Man and, of course, the following) Breaker Morant: A Few Good Blokes. Unpolished but still fiery. Lieutenant Harry "Breaker" Morant (Edward Woodward) begins the movie in a full court-martial in the last days of the Boer War. He led a small company of irregular colonial soldiers, fighting against the Afrikaaner guerillas (known as commandos) by adopting their tactics. Such tactics have ended with Lieutenant Morant and his fellow officers, Peter Handcock (Bryan Brown, whom audiences will recognize from Cocktail or F/X) and George Wittow, to be charged with six counts of murder. Major J.F. Thomas, an officer with experience executing wills back in New South Wales but little more law training, is assigned to the case one day before the trial begins. Though he fumbles initially, his insightful questioning ferrets out the truth: that the unorthodox methods the Bushveldt Carbineers used were not only endorsed, but ordered, by the highest levels of British command in the field. When Morant, Handcock and Wittow executed prisoners without trial, they did so under orders. The movie does not paint Morant as entirely heroic. He and Handcock conduct the war with a casual brutality. They both demonstrate a fiery temper, Handcock peppering the court-martial with sarcastic remarks and Morant being provoked into a tirade: "We shot them under Rule 303!" But these touches merely make the men darkly romantic, not outright villains. Breaker Morant still couches its stars in cloth of gold, depicting Morant as a poet, a singer, a leader and stalwart in the face of death. Instead, the movie reserves its harshest condemnation for the British Empire itself. Taking its screenplay largely from George Wittow's 1907 account of the trial, Scapegoats of the Empire (did I mention this was based on a true story?), Breaker Morant casts the British command as aristocrats, shielded from the horrors of war by the gentility of their sitting rooms. It's not only implied but stated outright that Lord Kitchener and the Prime Minister would have no problem sacrificing three "colonials" to appease the Boers, thus ending the war sooner and keeping Germany out of it. And the film also depicts how, in sinking to the level of the Dutch commandos, the British Army may have lost its way. Breaker Morant heralded the start of the Australian "New Wave" of cinema, preceding such films as Gallipoli, Mad Max 2 and The Year of Living Dangerously. The film feels like the early work of a film student, experimenting in camera angles for their own sake. The initial statement of Lieutenant Morant is shot in extreme left profile, dead on and extreme right profile for no obvious reason. At some points in the courtroom the frame holds both the witness and the attorney questioning him, eight feet away, in the same focus - not uncommon in the 80s, but still awful looking today. And while most of the flashbacks are timely and well-staged, some cut in and out of the present moment like misplaced stills. But, these bits of amateur work aside, the movie's still good. Burra in South Australia stands in admirably for the Transvaal: a green, sweeping country that almost begs to be ridden with rifle in hand. And the dialogue itself is sharp enough, full of rough Australian wit, outrage at injustice and warm poetic sentiment. It's a timeless story and well-told.

But, Johnny, ere we "go to grass" - Ere angel wings are fledged to fly - With wine we'll fill a bumper glass, And drink to those good times gone by. We've had our day - 'twill not come back! But, comrade mine, this much you'll own, 'Tis something to have had it, Jack- That time when we could ride ten stone! - Harry "Breaker" Morant, "The Day That is Dead", 1893

start by admitting from cradle to tomb isn't that long a stay

Professor Coldheart — Wed, 18 Nov 2009 11:00:52 +0000

Black Book (Zwartboek): One of those movies that the DVD case doesn't do justice to. The plot feels like a cliche: Jewish girl in the Netherlands, separated from her family during World War 2, dyes her hair blonde and seduces a German officer to aid the Resistance. She finds herself torn between her affection for the officer and her desire to avenge her parents. The "seduction-and-betrayal" story has been told before. What makes Black Book different is Paul Verhoeven (Robocop, Starship Troopers) behind the camera. Verhoeven moves the film along at a breathless pace, catapulting our heroine from placidity to tension to danger to a temporary respite with little pause between. He doesn't skimp on the gore, either, shredding civilians, partisans and Nazis with blizzards of automatic fire. Sex is frequent and graphic. These are bleeding, sweating, fucking human beings. Verhoeven also assembled a hell of a cast. When telling a seduction-and-betrayal story, directors have to take special care to keep their heroines from looking like prostitutes or victims. Carice van Houten, as Rachel, has no such problem. Rachel is confident, opportunistic and, while capable of deep tenderness, also frank in her sexuality. When Mr. Kuipers, a resistance leader in Amsterdam, asks her how close she'd be willing to get to an S.S. officer, she asks, "You mean, am I willing to screw him?" After a pause: "I'll go as far as he's willing to go. Okay?" The S.S. officer in question, Captain Ludwig Muntze, is played by Sebastian Koch (who was equally excellent in The Lives of Others a few years earlier). He's not a reluctant Nazi: when he brings Rachel back to his apartment, he brags about having seized it from "the capitalists" (for which read "the Jews"). But it's clear he believes in fighting a more civilized war than his comrades in the Gestapo do and has a touch of poetry in his soul. And the mercy and tenderness he shows Rachel leads the audience to, if not cheer for him, at least hold their breath when things get tense. War makes monsters of us all, Black Book tells us; even the Resistance is full of betrayals and cruelty. The movie doesn't end with the surrender of Germany. In fact, it's the genius of Verhoeven's tight, suspense-thriller plotting that the liberation of Amsterdam makes things worse for our heroine: once a Jew hiding among Nazis, she's now an S.S. sympathizer hiding from vengeful Dutchmen. Verhoeven goes to deliberate excess here, as he is wont to do, subjecting our heroine to pornographic levels of melodrama. A world of shit rains on her head. Spiritual and physical brutality aside, Verhoeven turns what could have been a cliched tale of victimhood and prostitution into a tense, compelling and innately real story of heroism. The heroes and villains keep surprising you and the plot twists unload like a Sten gun. The movie keeps you on edge until the very end, when the titular black book that one character has used to document all the others is finally revealed. (Postscript: I wonder if the subtitlers were having a bit of fun with the English-speaking audience. The German officers refer to the Dutch resistance as "terrorists" instead of a more contemporary term like partisans or guerillas. This leads to a few ironic scenes, like one German officer accusing Muntze of "negotiating with terrorists" when Muntze secures a cease-fire with the resistance. Muntze defends his actions as sparing German soldiers from danger behind the lines; his comrade accuses him of "defeatism." I don't believe Verhoeven intended to compare the 21st century West to the Nazis; that's a blunt, extreme analogy and the rest of the film doesn't bear it out. And it may just be the choice of the subtitle editors. But if Verhoeven were making the point that monsters exist on both sides of a war, the film succeeds there)

someone to hear your prayers, someone to care

Professor Coldheart — Thu, 19 Nov 2009 11:00:31 +0000

Oh, hey, it's my 500th post. Wave hello. In addition to watching surreal TV and a variety of war movies, I've also been reading. Specifically: a steady diet of thrillers. Lee Child: a retired British TV producer who turned his hand to the novel, his first book, Killing Floor, introduced the character of Jack Reacher. A discharged Military Policeman from the U.S. Army with a 50" chest, he wanders the country with no fixed address and no permanent ties. He stumbles into trouble and cons, plans, cheats or brawls his way out of it every time. I've read two books of Child's: Persuader and One Shot. They're formulaic but that doesn't detract from their allure. Reacher may have the unreasonable martial prowess of all action movie stars - in One Shot he takes on five guys at once and kills a man by bear hug - but he doesn't rely on it. Most of his mysteries he solves by outsmarting someone, or at least knowing a little more about the world. Jason Bourne meets Hercule Poirot. Overthinking It has weaned me off the phrase "guilty pleasure," which I would normally use to describe Child's novels. Instead, I'll say they speak to only one emotion: the laugh of triumph over a defeated foe. Fun beach and airport material. Harlan Coben: I started reading thrillers on the advice of an agent and an editor, in order to improve my own writing. In that regard Coben's writing has been the most instructional. Every novel of his I've read opens with a first paragraph that hooks me, strings it out to a first chapter that keeps me going, then turns it into a first half that carries me until the plot twist. His stuff isn't perfect, granted. The most interesting character in each novel is never the protagonist. The plot twists are predictable only in that they're always the one thing that would turn the story most on its head at that moment (she's not really dead!, etc). But his writing grips you and drags you into the heart of the action. It may be a formula, but so is Coca-Cola. I've read Gone for Good and No Second Chance, and I may yet read more. # # # Why is the thriller genre so easy for me to read? As I speculated earlier, thrillers tap into the lust for revenge we all have: the joy of a brutality sanctioned by polite society.

I think it speaks to that fundamental animal rage which all of us – who share more than 95% of our DNA with animals – carry. The “laugh in triumph over a defeated foe” that Orwell talks about: the brutal, pre-rational appeal of nationalism. We want to kill, and we want our killing to be sanctioned by a moral code. He hurt my family, therefore it’s okay if I cut off his fingers. He killed my wife, so it’s all right if I slaughter everyone he knows and burn his house to the ground. No impartial jury or outside observer would think that’s a proportional or fair response – but come on! I’m the Good Guy, so my savagery makes me driven. They’re the Bad Guys; their savagery makes them subhuman. But ultimately, in stories like that, the tissue-thin distinction between Good Guys and Bad Guys suggests more than it divides. We don’t cheer the Good Guy because he did the right thing by stabbing the Bad Guy in the top of the skull. We cheer the Good Guy because he totally fucking killed that dude! Did you see that? We identify with him because he has his reasons – they took my job, they hurt my family, whatever – but that’s secondary. The chaotic, reptilian roar of victory after bashing someone’s neck seals the deal.

prisoner-and-two

Professor Coldheart — Fri, 20 Nov 2009 16:40:21 +0000

jim-cavielzel

Professor Coldheart — Fri, 20 Nov 2009 16:41:17 +0000

ian-mckellen-grenade

Professor Coldheart — Fri, 20 Nov 2009 16:42:25 +0000

we'll give ourselves new names, identities erased

Professor Coldheart — Fri, 20 Nov 2009 16:43:04 +0000

As promised, my final thoughts on The Prisoner. Short Version (Spoiler Free): The ending was better than the original ending (which isn't hard), but the interstitial episodes were worse than the original interstitial episodes (which also is not hard). Final verdict: decent. Longer Version (Contains Spoilers): Well. When I wrote about the problem of genius in movies, I referenced Mr. Scott's "transwarp beaming" in the new Star Trek movie. Transwarp beaming is supposedly a genius breakthrough, but it doesn't seem any more "genius" than flying faster than light or teleporting to a planet. In a universe where all tech is handwaved, calling another piece of handwaved tech "genius" tells the audience nothing. I had a similar reaction to the middle (middling?) episodes of The Prisoner. Everyone in the Village acts weird - including the one "normal" man, Number Six. We don't know who's acting weird because they're crazy, and who's acting weird because they're hiding something, and who's acting weird because that's how they always are. As a result, the moments meant to shock - like 1112 stabbing 909 in the neck - just confuse us. Was that supposed to happen? If so, why? If not, what went wrong? We never know, and the show won't bother to tell us. Add to this the fact that the Village follows no consistent physical laws and all tension goes out the window. Are Six, Sixteen and the Winking Lady going to find the ocean over that sand dune? Maybe. Is Six going to finish rifling through this apartment before Two shows up? Could be. Is a fiber-optic camera watching Six right now? Probably. There's no situation that can not be changed, as if by magic. So our heroes are either in constant danger or no danger at all. The visual and narrative cues we would rely on to tell us if they were aren't available here. [caption id="attachment_1463" align="aligncenter" width="300" caption="Oh crap! Everything\'s normal!"][/caption] The best episodes of the original series - and as much a fan as I am, I must admit they weren't all gems - hinged around two compelling questions: why did Six resign? and who is Number One?. Simple questions, but exploring them and their ramifications made compelling drama. Why did Six resign his intelligence agency post? What did he know that was so valuable that he'd be thrust into this Village-prison to uncover it? And why won't he save himself a lot of heartache and just say why? Similarly: if Number Two isn't in charge, then who is? And why do the Number Twos keep changing? Bizarre little enigmas, especially for primetime television. The new Prisoner briefly addresses both of these questions in the third episode, "Anvil," and then abandons them. Six resigned (we learn in the flashbacks with Lucy) because he learned something he didn't like about Summakor. And there is no Number One in the Village. Problem solved! Next! Of course, removing these tensions pulls the teeth from the rest of the series. We have no idea why Two is keeping Six in the Village. And we have no idea why Six would engage Two on his own terms, instead of spending every waking minute walking toward those ghostly twin towers on the horizon. So the exchanges between them have no venom, the battles no suspense, and the odd little satires of suburban life no satirical edge. The finale, "Checkmate," revisits the interesting questions about the social order that the original series was known for. Can you fix someone against their will? If you can, should you? How aware are the Village residents of the "super-conscious" life that Mr. Curtis's wife imagines them in? And what of the people who die in the Village - 1112, Lucy, 147's daughter? This was fascinating. You could have built a whole series around this. Instead, you get protagonists toeing the sand uncertainly or screaming melodramatically. If I were showing this to someone who'd never seen it before, I would skip "Harmony" and "Anvil" entirely. The rest, keep as they are. [caption id="attachment_1464" align="aligncenter" width="300" caption="NOM NOM NOM"][/caption]

I'm in love; what's that song; I'm in love with that song

Professor Coldheart — Mon, 23 Nov 2009 14:42:06 +0000

Last week. Monday

"I'm just not sure if I'm doing the right thing," she said, shrugging. I thought for a moment, settling back into the couch. Then: "What's the one thing you could do right now that would make you feel in control?" "Driving somewhere." "Where?" "The beach." A pause. "Salem. That would do it." "Okay," I said. "You want to go?" "Yes." Then she did a double-take. "Wait; do you?" I checked my watch. "It's only 10:00 now. There'll still be a bar open when we get there."

Tuesday [youtube=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0gzk4M3OA0U] Wednesday

Someone on the Davis Square LiveJournal community asked a few months back for volunteers to practice Rubenfeld Synergy on. I volunteered because I thought it would be interesting. Rubenfeld Synergy relies on gently shifting or pressing the subject's body while they lay back. The subject describes how they feel while this goes on: what parts of their body are in contact with the table, how the realignment of weight affects the rest of their body, and so forth. It's not a massage, or even acupressure. The subject has to remain present and vocal throughout. It's like assisted meditation. Constantly narrating how your body feels keeps you grounded in the present moment. You focus on sensations and abandon the stream of background chatter we all have in our heads. I came out of the session feeling the opposite of detached: very present, as if continually being told, "I'm standing, I'm walking, I'm sitting." A very Zen type of concentration. I wouldn't ascribe any more mystical aspects to this than I would to meditation or massage. But it was interesting.

Thursday [youtube=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FXNN7PkViRs]

sleep-no-more2

Professor Coldheart — Tue, 24 Nov 2009 15:05:18 +0000

sleep-no-more

Professor Coldheart — Tue, 24 Nov 2009 15:05:43 +0000

I lay a puzzle as I backtrack to earlier times

Professor Coldheart — Tue, 24 Nov 2009 15:06:30 +0000

Truly great art makes me want to make art myself. Knowing me for the conceited bastard I am, you'd think the opposite: that I'd be inspired by Dan Brown novels or Oliver Stone movies or Nickelback songs to create my own rebuttals, showing them up. But bad art just depresses me. Good art entertains me. And great art compels me to run and catch up. I thought I'd have a handle on Sleep No More, the interactive theater installation sponsored by the American Repertory Theatre. The CCE, the premier collegiate-level interactive murder mystery theater troupe, did this sort of thing twice a year. Sure, Punchdrunk Theatre, the British troupe that originated Sleep No More, probably had a higher budget and better actors. And taking Macbeth as inspiration would make things creepy. But I knew what to expect. I had no idea what to expect. After idling in a packed bar, Misch and I, along with twenty other audience members, were ushered into a long hallway. We were given white plastic masks, instructed not to talk but to touch anything we liked, and then led up a flight of stairs. What had been an abandoned Brookline high school a moment ago became a decaying hotel, covered with odd photographs, stuffed chairs, marked-up books and other knicknacks. Misch and I poked around the hotel lobby and the adjoining sitting room until a Hitchcock blonde with a pillbox hat hurried through the hall outside. We followed her. We followed her down two flights of stairs, where she ducked into an office. A dozen audience members crowded along the walls, watching her rifle through a desk for something - a photograph. She stared at it, lost in shock, until a short man with a small mustache, dressed in dinner jacket with suspenders, stalked in. He snatched the photograph from her hands. He glared at her; she smiled at him, pleadingly; no words were exchanged. He seized her in his arms and kissed her. The air filled with feathers. The two of them separated. I followed the man; Misch followed the woman. And that's the real genius behind Sleep No More. Not (just) the atmospheric minutiae with which they strew every room in the "hotel" they've created. Not (just) the wordless performances, acrobatic gyrations and haunted looks that recreate the story of MacBeth. Not (just) the nightmarish surreality created by the artful use of light, sound and space. What makes Sleep No More work is that the story changes drastically depending on whom you follow. And you have to choose, because the characters don't wait for you. The man I followed most of the night (Malcolm, I believe) took off at a sprint several times, forcing me to hurry in turn. This led to the image of a man in a dinner jacket fleeing down the halls of a hotel, pursued by white-masked figures: a bit of theater which the audience helped in creating. I followed Malcolm as he and the other courtiers carried off the King's body, where it lay in state. When Malcolm and the others went to drink in a basement speakeasy covered in sawdust I followed them. Therein they played a card game of unclear meaning, which I endeavored to understand until one of them charged me with a hammer. I backed out of the way, but he wasn't going for me: he was going for the wall behind me, to which he tacked a Nine of Spades. And this was all before the banquet. If these proceedings sound like a nightmare, that was the effect intended. Every element - visuals, sounds, staging, timing - contributed to a reality that looked recognizable but jerked to a different rhythm. At times I found myself standing in a crowd, watching one woman try to feed another poison. At time I found myself alone in a room with a woman and an empty crib. Had I been in another room, I might have seen a murder, or a still birth, or a drunken dance. Without a meticulous attention to detail and a genius grasp of the surreal, it wouldn't have worked. But it worked perfectly. See it with someone you trust.

starship

Professor Coldheart — Wed, 25 Nov 2009 15:12:17 +0000

metamorphosis-alpha

Professor Coldheart — Wed, 25 Nov 2009 15:13:18 +0000

I'll be the fire escape that's bolted to the ancient brick

Professor Coldheart — Wed, 25 Nov 2009 15:14:11 +0000

Charles Stross, author of Accelerando and other sci-fi books, wrote a fascinating post two weeks ago (thanks to Ari for linking it). He talked about the challenge of designing society for posterity: how to make a social order that could run a "generation ship" without falling apart.

Generation starships: they're not fast. If you can crank yourself up to 1% of light-speed, alpha centauri is more than four and a half centuries away at cruising speed. To put it in perspective, that's the same span of time that separates us from the Conquistadores and the Reformation; it's twice the lifespan of the United States of America. We humans are really bad at designing institutions that outlast the life expectancy of a single human being. The average democratically elected administration lasts 3-8 years; public corporations last 30 years; the Leninist project lasted 70 years (and went off the rails after a decade). The Catholic Church, the Japanese monarchy, and a few other institutions have lasted more than a millennium, but they're all almost unrecognizably different. [...] I've been (inconclusively) batting around some ideas with Karl Schroeder — how do you design a society for the really long term? There are a couple of levels to consider: notably, decision-making and economics. And it doesn't look as if we've got any good solutions to either.

You should read the whole post; it's fascinating stuff. And if you think about it, there's a hidden question in there. A society that could remain stable aboard a generation ship - an enclosed biosphere hurtling through space - is, of course, a society that could remain stable aboard Spaceship Earth. Too bad the question itself makes no sense. Don't get me wrong: "how do you design a society for the really long term?" makes perfect grammatical sense. You can even start imagining along those lines, as Stross and his friend Schroeder evidently did, for several 'grafs worth of thought. But if you consider what those actual words mean - specifically, design, society and long term - the question becomes impossible. There is no way to answer it. Let's say Stross, or NASA, or even you, come up with a way to answer the question. And let's say a generation ship - a vessel capable of interstellar travel along a lifespan of hundreds of years - gets built. Here's what it'll look like on Day One.

NASA Project Director: Okay, guys, remember what we told you ... Generation Ship Crew: Right, right, we remember. NASA Project Director: ... you're an oligarchical commune with rotating leadership roles and multiple redundant judiciaries ... Generation Ship Crew: Mm-hmm, got it. NASA Project Director: ... lower the radiation shields every 400 days to prevent genetic drift ... Generation Ship Crew: It's all in the three-ring binder. We've got it. NASA Project Director: Okay. Just checking. Good luck, people! (ship door seals; generation ship takes off) Generation Ship Crew: SPRING BREAK! WHOOOO!

Okay, maybe things won't fall apart that fast. But the entire premise of Stross's question ignores an obvious hurdle: if some social scientist theorizes the Perfect Society for a generation ship, who's to say anyone inside the generation ship is going to follow it? Especially once they're light years away from the home world? NASA can tell the crew, "The engineers are in charge; if what they say isn't law, the ship stops spinning and O2 stops filtering and you all die in six weeks." But that doesn't matter, unless every non-engineer aboard the ship also agrees. To be fair, Stross isn't suggesting that the Perfect Society be dictated from on high. He closes the post with the question, "What sort of governance and society do you think would be most comfortable, not to mention likely to survive the trip without civil war, famine, and reigns of terror?" But the question is still irrelevant. Stross can prove, using all the equations social science has to offer, that (say) an anarcho-syndicalist state where the Chief Engineer, the Head Gardener and the Captain of the Dodgeball Team act as a non-legislative judiciary is the only stable state for a closed, high-maintenance biosphere that has to have a population greater than x in 450 years. But that proof is irrelevant to the people inside that biosphere unless they believe it. If I scrub the oxygen filters, I might be convinced after a few years that I'm the most important person aboard the ship. After all, without me, everyone dies. And even if NASA somehow indoctrinates every member of the first generation of the crew in their Perfect Social Theory, there's a reason this sci-fi construct is called a generation ship. It will take more than one generation to get where it's going. Four and a half centuries from here to Alpha Centauri at 0.1c; that's eighteen generations. Who's to say your kids will hold to the anarcho-syndicalist ideal with the same fervor you did? Or their kids? It only takes one generation to decide the reactor only needs sixteen control rods instead of twenty for the entire project to fail. Far more important than the question of what should happen is the question of what will happen. So let's say we lock 250,000 engineers, biologists, chemists, physicists and janitors inside an asteroid and slap it toward Alpha Centauri. We tell them, in the strictest language we know, what they have to do in order to stay alive. But once they get airborne, it's anarchy - not in the "jungle savagery" sense, but in the "no recognized law" sense. What form of social order will evolve? My guess: the same ones we've seen throughout history. The human race evolved in an open biosphere with no set instructions on how best to live. A generation ship changes two of those variables, closing the biosphere off from mutation and leaving a three-ring binder of Best Practices. But otherwise, we'll probably see what we've seen throughout history: warring tribes, dueling factions, a period of disorder that leads to a strong preference for law and a powerful state that arises as a result. A quarter of a million of Earth's best and brightest go in; forty-five decades later, Augustus Caesar steps out. # # # I am going to read a little into Stross's post now. I suspect that implicit in the definition of "Perfect Society" is stability. Stross hopes that the Perfect Society will in fact be so utopian that it will not change, because no one will ever have a reason to change it. Not only will it fulfill everyone's needs, but everyone within it will recognize that it will fulfill everyone's needs. It's a perpetual motion machine, requiring only its own input to keep going. (The first question - if you discover this perfectly stable social order, why do you even have to leave Earth? - might merit another post) This implicit premise - if I'm right in ascribing it to Stross - highlights a regrettable belief in technocracy. Technocracy is the belief that if we only put the right experts or the right rules in place, the social order will run itself. Our current problems, like poverty, corruption, ignorance and violence, do not well up from human nature. They're artifacts of an outdated culture. If we pass the right laws, we can get rid of anything we don't like. Both conservatives and liberals are guilty of this. Conservatives follow it in the form of "legislating morality." Outlawing abortion springs to mind. "If abortions are outlawed, then no one will have any abortions!", conservatives believe, contra all sense and experience. In reality, outlawing abortions means that women will terminate their pregnancies in dangerous, illegal ways. You cannot change the desire of a woman to own her own body by passing a law. Liberals follow it in the form of "managerial liberalism." A recent example: the stimulus package! The federal government passes a $787,000,000,000 "recovery package" to distribute money to local agencies and companies. Shockingly, some of this money has gone to waste. The most recent example: four Congressional districts in Hawaii that don't exist received over $40,000,000 in stimulus money. Similar bookkeeping problems exist in Arizona, where the fictitious 86th Congressional District has already received $34,000,000. "That's not what we intended to happen," say liberal economists like Paul Krugman (who argue that there wasn't enough stimulus) and Dean Baker. Of course it isn't. But your intentions are irrelevant. You cannot change the desire of people to scheme for a little extra once the money faucet gets turned on. Whether on the Left or the Right, technocracy supposes that human nature and cultural trends can be changed by top-down legislation. Draft the right rules, put the right people in charge, and the generation ship that is our world can sail on, untouched and unchanging, until we all turn into Star Children and join the galactic Overmind. In the real world, though, unintended consequences always crop up. We're all trapped in this biosphere together, hurtling through the galaxy far below the speed of light. And if we don't learn a willingness to rule ourselves, throw out the systems that don't work and take responsibility for our own screw-ups, we're not going to reach Alpha Centauri alive.

Professor Coldheart — Sat, 28 Nov 2009 02:21:41 +0000

Taking a few days off for the Thanksgiving holiday. Expect a new post on Tuesday or Wednesday or thereabouts.

jerry-remys-sports-bar

Professor Coldheart — Wed, 02 Dec 2009 01:01:05 +0000

jerry-remys-sports-bar

Professor Coldheart — Wed, 02 Dec 2009 01:02:05 +0000

merona-shoe

Professor Coldheart — Wed, 02 Dec 2009 01:15:13 +0000

everything you know is wrong

Professor Coldheart — Wed, 02 Dec 2009 11:00:30 +0000

Jerry Remy, announcer for NESN and the Boston Red Sox, has a local chain of Tcotchkes-style restaurants. This bit of trivia - the existence of the chain and the importance of its owner - lives in a weird limbo between "apropos" and "boring," depending on the audience. People who live in Boston need hear nothing further than the restaurant's name before instantly knowing every item on the menu and the decor. People who don't live in the New England area will nod politely - oh, a sportscaster owns a restaurant; how unlikely - and forget the man's name once the story ends. Anyhow, there's one in Logan Airport right next to the Airtran terminal. It used to be a Legal Seafood and it's about six months from becoming a Johnny Rocket's. Every space in an airport that's zoned commercial oscillates between just having been or just about to be a Johnny Rocket's, depending on the Dow Jones Industrial Average and the airport's proximity to Chicago. I ordered a hot dog with a Caesar salad (because that makes it okay); I got a 3/4-pound beef log drizzled with cheese, relish, and onions. And the side salad. "That's a big dick," said the 50-something man behind me, "I mean, a big dog." If his stories were to be believed, he was on his way to his third wedding, this time to a 70-year-old woman for money; if not, he was really bad at delivering a joke. The Departures screen had said my flight was pushed back 30 minutes when I entered Jerry Remy's Sports Bar and Grille; when I exited, it had changed its mind. I have never seen this happen. I have never seen a plane arrive earlier than announced, especially when it had already been posted late. The takeoff window shrank from 60 minutes to 25 minutes, and I had yet to pass through security, and my pre-printed boarding pass reminded me, in its smug little Helvetica, that the plane shut its doors 10 minutes before departure. Trying not to fume, I slipped into the security line, emptying my pockets of metal and slipping off my shoes. "Put your shoes flat on the belt!", a guard would announce from time to time. "Only things that go in the bins are laptops and loose items. Jackets, bags, shoes - flat on the belt." Ten minutes before departure, I stepped up to the X-ray machine. I walked through. It beeped. "Do you have anyth--", the guard asked. "My belt," I said, backing up and whipping it off like Jet Li vs. Billy Chow (watch all the way to the end). [youtube=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0w1NLFBHBRw] Passing security, I scooped up my wallet, cell phone, ring, loose change, belt, boarding pass, messenger bag, jacket and backpack and began padding down the halls of the Airtran terminal at a decent clip. I made it about one hundred feet before I realized how comfortable the ground felt. Turning, I made it as far as a 65-year-old TSA screener, his Orville Redenbacher hair fringing his face like a halo. Had I been charging the security gate at a full sprint, screaming "Surely the Party of God will be triumphant!", he might have tripped me. Maybe. "Are you trying to get out?", he asked. "I left my shoes there." "Just go get the man in the blue shirt," he said, blue being the TSA uniform. "He's the supervisor." I flagged the man in the blue shirt down. "I left my shoes on the belt! Brown? Size 13?" Fortunately, I was the only person to have made that mistake (that hour), so security quickly reunited me with my shoes. I made it to my gate, discovering that my flight had been pushed 30 minutes back. The next morning, waking up in the family homestead in Maryland, my father suggested we take the dog for a walk. As I put my shoes on - Merona, Target's in-house brand; brown, leather, worn but sturdy - I noticed an unfamiliar notch in one of the soles. Curious, I turned the shoe over. A ragged slit had been torn in the entire sole from left to right, cutting all the way through the rubber to the very base of the shoe. This wasn't just a hole in the bottom. This was a rough horizontal line that had cut clean through the sole of the shoe and stopped at the leather. The right shoe had been thinking about snitching; the left shoe had made an example of it. Am I saying that the TSA, in the twenty seconds that I left my shoes unattended, shredded one of them with a government-issue razor blade? No, but I'll imply it with all my might. I don't spend a lot of time staring at the bottom of my feet, but I would have noticed a tear that size when I put them on in the morning. The only time they were out of my control the entire day was when I put them on a conveyor belt ("flat on the belt! the only things that go in bins are laptops ...") and forgot them. And if I hadn't thrown these shoes in a closet in Maryland, I'd post a picture to show you. This isn't a puncture; this isn't a hole that worried itself wide. This is an even cut that runs between the tarsus and the metatarsals, deep and ragged. My shoes bear the scars of malice aforethought. By an odd coincidence, these are the second pair of Target shoes to disintegrate catastrophically in 15 months. Am I wrong in suspecting a conspiracy? No. I'm never wrong. Especially not about conspiracies.

and if the law don't get her then I will

Professor Coldheart — Thu, 03 Dec 2009 11:00:20 +0000

To get a car registered in Massachusetts, you will need to do the following:

Acquire auto insurance. This isn't hard; you can do this online. But I should caution that it's not quite as easy as buying a book on Amazon. Every insurance company wants to give you a quote if you enter a few vague details. This draws you in, making you a lead. Once you start the application process, giving your driving history and VIN, shit gets real. "Oh, you're that Professor Coldheart? Yeah; double the quote we just gave you." Seriously.
E-mail the insurance company to get proof of insurance.
Presuming you got collision insurance - you're not dumb, are you? - go get a photo inspection of your car. This isn't very hard, but it takes some time out of a busy day. You will receive a form that you need to fax to your insurer, which, given the number of people who still use fax machines every day, won't be a problem at all.
Go to the RMV and collect a number.
Spend some time browsing in Best Buy and Target next door, waiting for your number to get called.
Approach the RMV lady with your title and proof of insurance. What's this? My insurance doesn't take effect until tomorrow? Well, then I guess there's nothing I can do with the rest of my day, is there? Certainly not the nine other errands that hinged on my having proof of registration of the car that I drove here.
Stomp into the rain.
Sigh, accept the hand that you've dealt yourself, and go buy groceries.
Take a nap.
The next day, go to the RMV first thing. Collect a number.
Spend some time browsing in Best Buy and Target.
Approach the RMV lady with your title and proof of insurance.
Fill out a form to waive any sales tax that you might owe on this car that you bought out of state.
Fill out the same details on a second form that you already filled in on a first. Whatever.
Get your plates! And your registration!
Affix these plates to your car.
Get your car inspected for the Massachusetts safety and emissions test.
What's that? My car will fail the test if I don't replace this one $12 light bulb, out of the eight light bulbs in the rear window? Well, go to town, buddy!
Get a parking permit for your apartment complex.
Get a parking permit for the town you live in.
Go home; park your car.

Dear Mr. President, Remember when you compared mandatory purchase of health insurance to auto insurance? That's not helping. Yours, Professor Coldheart.

yoga means union

Professor Coldheart — Fri, 04 Dec 2009 14:58:11 +0000

The sports club hides beneath Boylston Street like a supervillain's lair. A narrow doorway leads to a winding staircase, opening into a huge subterranean expanse. Otherwise, it's the same as any BSC: they swipe the membership pass on your keychain, suggest that you have a good workout and send you on your way. A shoe ad confronts you as you enter:

Next season don't care if it's cold! RUN!

You wind your way through the ellipticals, stair machines and treadmills to the men's locker room. A printout sign taped near the entrance reminds you that tomorrow (when you don't normally train), the men's and women's locker rooms will be switching so that maintenance and electrical work can be done in the women's room. Precious snowflake that you are, this baffles you for hours. Why would they need to switch locker rooms? Only once you visualize the exchange does it occur to you: because there's no such thing as an all-female electrician team. Why is that, you wonder? There's nothing about the work a woman could not do. The pay is certainly good enough: median annual wage for an electrician (per the BLS) is $46,420, which you could help support a family on. Then again, electricians are one of the few jobs in this country that still function like a medieval guild, with mandatory apprenticeships and esoteric ritual. Some of the trades still wear special rings. And labor unions have always dragged their feet at admitting new members en masse. So it's not so shocking that you don't see a large number of female electricians, even though women are now common in many traditionally male fields. Labor unions or women's lib; take your pick. This speculation occupies you from the men's locker room back out into the workout area, down the hall and into the dim yoga studio near the back. Now you pass from a male-dominated field to a female-dominated one. The Boylston Street BSC draws a larger number of men than any yoga class you've ever seen, but you're still in the minority here. You cross to the closet at the far end, taking a rolled-up yoga mat from a stack, and plop onto the floor. Every movement feels ragged and awkward compared to the poised students around you, as if they're expensive vases you might knock over by accident. It's adolescence all over again. You sit down and work on breathing until the instructor arrives. You will never touch your toes. You accept that. Perhaps if you'd spent every day of your childhood practicing flexibility you could manage. But your hamstrings are like wet towels coiled tight and your lower back screams at you. Wrapping all five fingers around both ankles merits a celebration. Drinks on me, guys: I bent a little today. But you go anyway. You make time once or twice a week to go to the yoga studio, sit down, and force your body to relax. That's one thing jiu-jitsu has taught you: relaxing in a productive way. People think tension unlocks power. They hold their breath and grit their teeth while they lift weights, or groan and strain at crunches. But that just routes energy to all the muscles in your body other than the ones you want to work. True control consists of relaxing every muscle except the one you want to work. You know you're bad at yoga. More important, you know that, no matter how hard you try, you'll never be great at yoga. Every day since you were five, you've been looking for things to be great at, or trying to improve at your few strengths. And while growth (for which read life) comes from improvement, you don't always need to be the best. You don't always need to compare yourself to the rest of the room. One sign of maturity is a willingness to do something you're bad at in front of a crowd. You don't know that you're there yet. But you're closer. So you go to the dim yoga studio. And you pile your rangy limbs onto the too-short mat. And you breathe.

Twilight Moms

Professor Coldheart — Mon, 07 Dec 2009 14:43:37 +0000

hermione-granger

Professor Coldheart — Mon, 07 Dec 2009 14:44:00 +0000

hayden-panettiere-got-milk-ad-755295

Professor Coldheart — Mon, 07 Dec 2009 14:44:30 +0000

wet bus stop, she's waiting, his car is warm and dry

Professor Coldheart — Mon, 07 Dec 2009 14:45:21 +0000

Dear Internet, What do you mean, "if"? Cordially, Professor Coldheart

Mary_-_Kate_and_Ashley_Olsen

Professor Coldheart — Mon, 07 Dec 2009 14:46:54 +0000

kimbo-slice

Professor Coldheart — Tue, 08 Dec 2009 03:56:07 +0000

ted-leo

Professor Coldheart — Tue, 08 Dec 2009 14:12:54 +0000

but when you can't afford a broken nose, how can you afford to fight?

Professor Coldheart — Tue, 08 Dec 2009 14:13:19 +0000

I got to the concert early. I get to every concert early. Doors open at 8:00, the ticket says, and like a chump I'm there at 8:30. Of late I've grown better at avoiding such foolishness, sitting patiently at home with an improving book until two hours after the printed time. But promoters have changed their game to accommodate me, the crafty rogues, so I still end up sitting through half an hour of some opening act from Jersey called The Mackerlain or Sixpenny Strikers or Chisholm Face or something like that. The first act (of three) was still on when I slipped into the basement at the Middle East. So I found an open seat at one of the corner bars, ordered a domestic beer, and watched the Kimbo Slice / Houston Alexander UFC fight. Alexander embarrassed himself, dancing in a perpetual circle away from Slice's reach for the entire first round. I sneered, urging a man three time zones away to close ranks, put himself within arm's reach of a brawler, and risk permanent injury in order to inflict some himself. Kind of unsettling, when you think about it. How dare you defend yourself sensibly? Drop your guard! Charge the son-of-a-bitch! GYAAARRGH! But I won't pretend to be above it. I want blood, and thankfully mixed martial artists provide. We should be glad the UFC exists to give these men an outlet for their aggressions, lest they take up arms and become provincial warlords. Ted Leo, by way of comparison, is a perfect gentleman. A lot of acts hide backstage during set changes, letting the roadies do the tuning and the sound check, and save themselves for the big reveal. But Ted was out there plugging in guitars and thumping mics with the best of them. The audience cheered when he first came out; he gave a friendly wave, then went to work. And they cheered again when he came on, officially, and opened up with "Heart Problems." And after every song, he said, "Thanks." Ted doesn't sacrifice any of the energy in his songs by being friendly and accessible. You can still hear the anger in his lyrics - not a bitter disillusionment, but a perpetual encouragement to look past the illusion and keep moving.

After listening all morning, as I drove down 95 To a story of detainees who were barely kept alive I could deal with trying to process pigeons acting like their doves But not with interference from the power lines above

I describe Ted Leo to friends as an edgier Elvis Costello: swap out the mod for punk and put him in flannel. But his songwriting combines that same subversive genius with upbeat, catchy riffs. He put that cleverness to work in a few new songs (though he didn't announce a date or title on a new album). And he closed on a crowd favorite. Because he's a nice guy.

But I'm here (but I'm here!), and you're here, and it's true There's a whole lot of walking to do And you're cool (and you're cool!), and I'm cool, and it's true There's a whole lot of walking to do There's no fuss (there's no fuss!), and I trust, I trust you! There's a whole lot of walking to do And you're strong (and you're strong!), and I can be too There's a whole lot of walking to do

(Better pics coming later)

eight days a week is not enough to show I care

Professor Coldheart — Wed, 09 Dec 2009 15:00:39 +0000

Browsing through random comics on XKCD the other day uncovered this old gem: No one should expose me to ideas like this. As much as I love creative ideas, sweeping gestures and damning the details, I also like tinkering with fiddly numbers to make things come out different. So when someone tells me that 6x28 = 7x24, I start doing some additional factoring. So then I wonder: what other weeks can I make? The Eight-Day Week: Sleep for six hours, then wake for fifteen. If you start this by going to bed at midnight on Sunday/Monday, you'll be up by 6:00 and at work as usual. Next morning, you'll be up by 3:00 AM, but you can still leave work at 5:00 PM and be in bed by 6:00. Unusual but not unreasonable. The day-cycle gets a little odd from then on, as you're up at midnight on the third day - what the pagans would call "Wednesday." You'll need to leave work early that day, as you have to be in bed by 3:00 PM. If your boss makes a fuss, tell him you were up at midnight and in work by 1:30 AM. This will be true, albeit unsettling. Fourth day: up at 9:00 PM, still "Wednesday" to those seven-day slackers. Crank out another fifteen hours of productivity, then pass out at noon. On the fifth day, you'll wake up at 6:00 PM, do a full night's work, and then tuck yourself in at 9:00 AM on the dot. I suggest buying some blackout curtains on the ride home. But now the true benefits of the eight-day week emerge: a three-day weekend! On day six, you'll wake up at 3:00 PM, just as folks at the office are entering their Friday slump and checking their watches. You can stay up until 6:00 AM, partying with the best of them! Then it's time for another six hours of sleep, waking up by noon on Saturday - just in time for brunch, most of the stores to be open, and a pleasant weekend. Stay up another fifteen hours and go to bed at 3:00 AM. The ability to party late into the night two nights in a row should impress the few friends you have left. You get 9:00 AM until midnight on Sunday to finish off your week, and then start all over. I'm not sure what the eight-day week improves over the seven-day standard. But it has to do something.

sushi

Professor Coldheart — Fri, 11 Dec 2009 14:44:56 +0000

I'm giving you a haircut, walking to the sushi bar

Professor Coldheart — Fri, 11 Dec 2009 15:05:55 +0000

Good news, everyone: I've discovered I like sushi. My first hint that I might enjoy a food I'd written off as pretentious, weird or just inaccessible for so many years came at Hawver's wedding. He served raw tuna steak, which tasted delicious. This planted a seed in the back of my mind: the idea that raw fish could taste good (what the hell is this, Thomas Friedman's op-ed column? fish growing from seeds? fix this before you publish). Visiting Baltimore for Thanksgiving, my old pal Liz B. took me to XS on the outskirts of Baltimore. I ordered the chef's Sushi Sampler, as it looked standard and unintimidating. It wasn't until the platter arrived, stuffed with tuna rolls and sashimi, that I made my confession. "I've never had sushi before," I explained. "Really?" "I never got around to it. It's one of those things I felt you had to try at a certain age or else it was too late to cultivate a taste for it. Like reading Catcher in the Rye." Liz was a perfect tutor, giving me just the right combination of coaching and tips to let me discover on my own. And it was all good! Tuna rolls: fantastic! California rolls: still good! Whitefish sashimi: loved it! Shrimp sashimi: incredible! "Take a little bit of ginger," she suggested. "Just a tiny sliver. Hold it in your mouth but don't chew it yet. It's very potent." Since then, I've hunted for more opportunities to find and eat sushi. When Misch and I grabbed lunch on Monday, I passed up my usual heaping mound of chicken teriyaki for a sushi platter. It came in a densely-packed plastic bento with a pair of chopsticks that splintered as I pulled them apart. And the soy sauce was a little too tangy for my liking. But I ate everything on the plate and loved it. I would even have grabbed a sushi takeout dinner from a deli on Mass Ave on Tuesday night, but they didn't look very tightly sealed. Why do I like sushi so much? Yes, yes, it's healthy, fish tastes good, new and exotic taste expanding my consciousness, etc. But what I really love about sushi is the texture. A well-formed tuna roll blends al dente, firm and chewy textures into a single morsel. It yields to the teeth and then dissolves into sticky bits of rice with a meaty center. My mouth has no idea what's going on. The guys at The Second Glass said that a good glass of wine should appeal to all the senses: taste, sure, but smell, vision and even the fluidity of its feel. I think sushi appeals to me in the same way. There's the perfect tessellation of tiny rolls in a bento box, with everything arranged just so. There's the wide variety of tastes. There's the mixture of sensations. The meal does more than fill me; it engages me. So: I like sushi. If only I lived in a country where it were readily available.

if you're lonely, you can talk to me

Professor Coldheart — Mon, 14 Dec 2009 16:01:19 +0000

Media blow: Talk To Me: Uneven biopic. Don Cheadle plays Ralph "Petey" Greene, a fast-talking ex-convict who becomes a DJ in the D.C. area in the Sixties. Chiwetel Ejiofor plays Dewey Hughes, the radio producer who takes a chance on the street-smart jiver who talks to The People! And so forth. While the details of Petey Greene's broadcasting career are pretty entertaining, the movie suffers from flat dialogue and stilted pacing. For instance: when Greene's agitating for a radio job proves too disruptive for Hughes' station to ignore, Hughes proposes to meet Greene at a nearby pool hall. Greene suggests that they shoot a game of nine-ball, with a disc jockey job as the stakes. Hughes agrees. As soon as this happens, we know that it's going to be a close game - because Hughes (the producer) would not agree to offer Greene (the ex-con) a job on the air if he had any doubts in his own abilities at shooting pool. Hughes then proceeds to take off his jacket, unbutton his sleeves and lay a side bet that Greene won't drop a single ball off the break. Not ten seconds have passed, and we know that Hughes is going to run the table. The language of film - dialogue, shot placement, pacing, music - all tell us this for certain. So this whole scene takes about six minutes. Greene's rise to local stardom, once he finally has a radio job, takes about four minutes. Add to this the most frequent problem with any biopic - characters commenting on how important they are at This Moment In History, rather than doing important things - and the resulting picture drags. Don Cheadle playing a hustling ex-con soul DJ who talked smack about Berry Gordy, broadcasting from the heart of D.C. during the race riots of '68, should have been captivating, moving and hilarious. Instead I found myself checking the DVD sleeve at the 80-minute mark: "God damn! There's still half an hour left?" [youtube=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2-eitsutpOc] The Slutcracker: at long last, a burlesque adaptation of The Nutracker Suite. In this high-spectacle, high-energy production, Clara and Fritz are boyfriend and girlfriend, inviting friends over for Christmas dinner. When Clara's grandmother tries to give her a large pink dildo as a Christmas gift, Clara is horrified and Fritz (feeling a little inadequate) jealously kicks the grandmother out. But she sneaks back in that evening and demonstrates the dildo's magical powers to Clara: it transforms into the handsome and athletic Slutcracker Prince. The two of them dance away to a fairy wonderland, where dominatrices dance en pointe and male pole dancers vault to Arabesque strains. The Nutcracker is a natural fit for this sort of story ("moreso than Macbeth", I commented to Liz and Hugh, with whom I saw it). A postmodern audience could read the entire ballet, with little difficulty, as the story of a girl's sexual awakening. Adolescent girl becomes fascinated with virile man (the Nutcracker) who takes her on a tour of exotic lands - Spain, Arabia, China - and epicurean delights. It's a natural fit. Maybe they could tackle Swan Lake in the spring?

honda_bnr468x60

Professor Coldheart — Mon, 14 Dec 2009 20:44:54 +0000

different strokes for different folks

Professor Coldheart — Tue, 15 Dec 2009 11:00:36 +0000

If you're curious about what I do for a living, or about internet marketing, you might find the following post interesting. Companies love internet marketing - search engine ads, banner ads, e-mail newsletters, etc - because they can track it with greater clarity than any other form of advertising. Advertisers like Nielsen and ClearChannel may provide estimates of how many users see a TV ad or a billboard. And those estimates might even be accurate to a statistically significant degree. But they can't say with real certainty how many people follow up with the sponsor because of that ad. They can guess, and they've grown really good at guessing. They can post a special phone number or URL that only people who've seen that ad would use. But it's not precise. Internet marketing stomps on that limitation. We can tell where you were when you saw an ad. We can tell when you clicked on it. If the ad popped up in a search engine (a Google ad, a Yahoo! ad, a Bing ad), we can tell what you were searching for when the ad surfaced. If you click on the ad, visit the sponsoring website and don't buy, we can tell which other sites you visit afterward. All of this, and probably more, we know. Not about your demographic, or about your personality type - about you, personally, the man or woman doing the browsing. (Clearing your cookies prevents this, though technology to get around that will soon be widely available) Very few agencies manage all of a company's advertising, however. A company might do SEO in-house, contract out for search ads, buy banner ads direct from the publisher, use e-mail marketing templates and trackers from a small agency, and get one overworked intern to handle social media. So you have data streams pouring in from half a dozen different sources. But these data don't all represent separate people. A lot of these data points might cover the same person. For instance: you're thinking about buying a new car. You do a Google search for "used sedans in Boston." You see an ad in the Sponsored Links column (on the right) for certified pre-owned Hondas at a dealer in Quincy, MA. The "Honda" grabs your attention, subconsciously, because you've been seeing a lot of banner ads for a Honda year-end sales event. So you click on the dealership ad and poke around at some of the models they list. You visit several other sites that same day, either by searching or by clicking through sponsored links on trusted sites (like the Boston.com/Cars page). A few days later, you see a banner ad for the Honda dealership in Quincy you clicked on first. This isn't a coincidence. You've been retargeted - cookied and triggered to serve banners from a site you visited but did not buy or sign up from. The ad mentions one of the models you were looking at (the Accord, let's say) and says there are some new cars in stock. You click through and look around. Sure enough, there's an Accord that meets your needs. You fill out the online form to get more information. A detailed quote is sent to you from the dealership. This puts you on an e-mail list. A week later, the list sends you its weekly e-mail, listing a handful of used cars that have just arrived in the showroom. You click through on one, decide you like it, and call the showroom to arrange an appointment. The customer service rep asks where you heard about the car. From the e-mail list, you say. For that one transaction - getting you into the showroom - you've touched on the following marketing vertices:

Banner ads (Honda year-end sales event)
Search ads
Placement-targeted links (from Boston.com/Cars)
Retargeting
E-mail marketing

Five different forms of marketing, advertising or lead generation. The ultimate goal here is to get you into the showroom so the car salespeople can go to work on you. Which ad gets the credit? The e-mail marketing? That was the last thing you touched before calling customer service. Technically you could have gone to the showroom at any time, but you weren't compelled to until you saw an e-mail you liked. But you never would have signed up for the e-mail if you hadn't revisited the site and filled out the form. And you never would have revisited the site if you hadn't been retargeted - meaning you needed to visit once and get cookied. And so on, and so on, and scooby dooby doo. Does the last touch get credit? The first touch? Do we evenly distribute credit among all marketing efforts? Marketing departments need to know this in order to know who gets more budget next year. And if they don't get a compelling answer, they'll guess. In the above example, the e-mail marketing clickthrough was the only behavior that got you to sign up for an appointment. Through a glass darkly, the first banner ad looks useless - you didn't even click on that! No revenue generated by the banner ad, so cut display advertising for next year. But without that Honda year-end sales event banner ad, you wouldn't have clicked on the Google ad. Fewer display impressions means less brand awareness, fewer clicks on search and fewer visitors to the site. Then marketing comes back to you next year, asking why the hell traffic to the Quincy Honda dealership website is down when search volume is higher than ever. What you (the ad agency) need is a way to integrate data from those five different sources into one single platform. That's called attribution analysis. There are a few companies that offer this as a service. A lot of companies try to do it in house, integrating their display reports with their search reports and their e-mail reports and mixing it into a bowl. There's no definitive method - yet. But the demand is growing. Because after 2008 took a dump on everyone's budgets, every marketing department in America has had to do more with less. They want to spend their budgets where they'll do the most good. For that, you need a holistic look at all marketing data from all sources - online and offline. What I'm doing currently (among other things) is researching attribution analysis providers. There's no one-size-fits-all program: different companies need different attribution systems. For some clients, we might recommend a trusted partner agency; for others, we might do it ourselves. But we need to know more about the state of display, offline marketing and attribution management before we can recommend anything. That's where I come in. ... I said you might find this post interesting.

my face woulda been beet red

Professor Coldheart — Wed, 16 Dec 2009 13:56:28 +0000

On Monday night, I stayed out way too late at the ImprovBoston Fun(d)raiser at the Estate in downtown Boston. Rather than narrate a party you didn't attend in droning detail, I'll call out some of the local and rising comics who performed. Keep an eye out for these names. MC Mr Napkins, a/k/a Zach Sherwin: hilarious, Jew-froed indie-rap backpacker / comedian / anagrammatist from the Boston area. I've heard that he's moving to the West Coast soon to try and Break In, which would be awesome. "Street Cred" was one of the two songs he performed last night. [youtube=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=js1QS-MmEZo] Tony V: legendary local on the Boston scene. A foul-mouthed but friendly old man. The following video's old material, but it's indicative. [youtube=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WH1R04dhtEU] Myq Kaplan: really clever local comedian with a quick delivery. He's going to be on the Tonight Show with Conan O'Brien tonight (Wednesday the 16th). But I already saw his material. Except for the swearing. [youtube=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8gPOhnYI1YY] Shane Mauss: if memory serves, he did a bit for The Waste Land Comedy Hour Starring T.S. Elliot that went over like a Stratus off a cliff. But the material in this show was all fresh and he delivered it pretty well. Shane has already been on Conan; he is supposedly coming out with a comedy album soon. [youtube=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=IFkV__01ijw]

you gonna save me or not?

Professor Coldheart — Thu, 17 Dec 2009 11:00:49 +0000

Last week, I wrote about discovering sushi, something I avoided for a while (in part) because I feared it was pretentious. I copied this post to LiveJournal, where rival asked, "You mention that you had been writing sushi off as a pretentious/inaccessible food. I have heard this sentiment from other people. Where does it come from?" rival, permit me to demonstrate: Last Sunday, I went to the grocery store in Porter Square. I got some sushi from the seafood aisle. It came in a pre-packaged little tray: eel, tuna, salmon, all in little ricey rolls. It had been made that morning, but would supposedly keep until the 19th (five days later) if I were in no hurry. I took it home and ate it. And I really liked it. (sits back, waits)

the-dispossessed

Professor Coldheart — Thu, 17 Dec 2009 18:40:41 +0000

shutter_island

Professor Coldheart — Fri, 18 Dec 2009 14:28:36 +0000

no-country-for-old-men

Professor Coldheart — Fri, 18 Dec 2009 14:30:24 +0000

kitchen-confidential

Professor Coldheart — Fri, 18 Dec 2009 14:31:23 +0000

red-mars

Professor Coldheart — Fri, 18 Dec 2009 14:32:20 +0000

brief-wondrous-life-oscar-wao

Professor Coldheart — Fri, 18 Dec 2009 14:33:49 +0000

neil-strauss-emergency

Professor Coldheart — Fri, 18 Dec 2009 14:34:49 +0000

lee-child

Professor Coldheart — Fri, 18 Dec 2009 14:35:56 +0000

50 books: 2009

Professor Coldheart — Fri, 18 Dec 2009 14:37:52 +0000

Best Science Fiction / Fantasy Nominees: To Say Nothing of the Dog, The Stress of Her Regard, Accelerando, Earth Abides, Perdido Street Station, The Dispossessed Winner: The Dispossessed, Ursula K. Le Guin. Le Guin's strength has always been to illustrate the odd quirks of human society by depicting them through the eyes of aliens. In lesser writers, this might come across as a condemnation; with Le Guin, it's simple re-evaluation. How does the commodification of labor, food, comfort, shelter and everything else we take for granted in a capitalist society shape us? It may be the most efficient means of distribution yet discovered (as I believe), but it is if nothing else odd. Le Guin's The Dispossessed makes that clear.

Best Mystery / Crime / Espionage Nominees: The Tailor of Panama, The Surgeon, Persuader, No Second Chance, Shutter Island, Paranoia, One Shot, Gone for Good, The Hard Way Winner: Shutter Island, Dennis Lehane. A tough one, really. All the Harlan Coben and Lee Child novels were roughly equivalent - good, diverting, fast-paced but ultimately just a little too contrived to merit a Best In Year title. But Lehane has a smooth, strong style like the pull of gravity. His tale of two federal agents investigating a disappearance in an insane asylum keeps the reader rattled, uncertain and hooked all the way through. Read it before the movie comes out.

Best Literature Nominees: The Master and Margarita, The Brief Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao, The House of Sand and Fog, Brave New World, No Country for Old Men, The Baroque Cycle Winner: No Country for Old Men, Cormac McCarthy. Stephenson's penchant for long-winded asides, though entertaining and informative, keeps his novels from being the focused vectors of craft that they ought to be. And Bulgakov's whirlwind satire of Stalinism vaults confusingly - though whimsically - from point to point. It's McCarthy's highly regarded novel that earns the top slot. Though all of his best novels concern the absurdity of human plans in the face of mortality, No Country makes those plans easily accessible to a modern audience (how to steal two million dollars of the mob's money). And he gives mortality a face and a name, in the person of Anton Chigurh.

Best Non-Fiction Nominees: Fast Food Nation, Kitchen Confidential, A Brief History of Time, Your Religion is False, Gang Leader for a Day, Wanderer, Nemesis: The Last Days of the American Empire. Winner: Kitchen Confidential, Anthony Bourdain. I wanted to give it to one of the political depth charges I read this year - Bacevich's The Limits of Power, Sharlet's The Family, Chalmers Johnson's Nemesis. Ultimately, however, they all padded their word counts with exhaustive details that showed the depth of their research but sacrificed the grace of their story. Bourdain's Kitchen Confidential, on the other hand, paints a vivid, unflattering and engrossing picture of the transactions going on in each restaurant kitchen in America. It's a wild ride, and Bourdain deserves the fame this book has brought him.

Best Reread Nominees: Declare, The Stars My Destination, Red Mars, The Ophiuchi Hotline, This Immortal Winner: Red Mars, Kim Stanley Robinson. Perhaps I'm cheating somewhat here, as I never finished Red Mars as a teenager. But that gave Robinson the greatest burden to fight against. I knew what to expect from Powers, Bester, Varley and Zelazny going in, but I had low expectations for Robinson. "I couldn't slog my way through this before," I thought, "what hope do I have now?" Boy, was I off. A sweeping, detailed, realistic and ultimately very human look at how a disparate group of humans might terraform our neighbor planet.

Biggest Surprise Nominees: The Brief Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao, The Surgeon, Xenos, The Confusion Winner: The Brief Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao, Junot Diaz. Picking up this critically acclaimed novel, I was expecting a dense bildungsroman set in the Dominican Republic, one of those Important Novels that everybody reads but nobody enjoys. Instead, Diaz treated me to a breezy trip through three generations of laborers, hustlers, players and geeks. He sprinkles his anecdotes with note-perfect references to sci-fi and early 80s RPGs as well - and trust me, I would have noticed if he got them wrong. Read it, love it.

Biggest Disappointment Nominees: Button Button, Emergency, Jack and Jill, How the Mind Works. Winner: Emergency, Neil Strauss. Jack and Jill I should have known would let me down; more than enough critics have heaped their derision on James Patterson for me to be wise. And my inability to plow through How The Mind Works says as much of my short attention span as Pinker's dense, myopic writing style. But Emergency was pitched to me as "how to be Jason Bourne [...] a veritable encyclopedia for those who want to disappear" (thanks, Tim Ferriss!). Instead, I got a series of self-indulgent anecdotes by Neil Strauss on how he could have obtained the documentation and survival skills to go off the grid. But didn't. It's part of the growing genre of Do Something Weird Just For The Sake of Writing A Book About It (The Year of Living Biblically, Julie & Julia): the niche blog as bestseller. It's interesting to read. But if you want actual useful information, go elsewhere.

Most Fun Nominees: Boomsday, Anansi Boys, Kitchen Confidential, Paranoia, One Shot Winner: One Shot, Lee Child. Really, any of the Lee Child books could have answered here. Jack Reacher, his sullen, hulking ex-MP hero, is like Sherlock Holmes meets Jack Bauer: competent enough to take anybody down with his hands or with a gun, but usually capable of outwitting them first. Perfect beach or airport reading.

get-carter

Professor Coldheart — Mon, 21 Dec 2009 15:51:42 +0000

robert-walker

Professor Coldheart — Mon, 21 Dec 2009 15:52:05 +0000

will I see you tonight, on a downtown train?

Professor Coldheart — Mon, 21 Dec 2009 15:53:17 +0000

While Boston didn't get it as bad as the rest of the East Coast, nine inches of snow fell on us from late Saturday night into early Sunday afternoon. This wouldn't have been enough to dissuade us from jiu-jitsu (grr! we're tough!), but since Watertown declared a snow emergency, we couldn't have parked on the street our dojo sits on (we obey the law!). That sounds like a mis-translated Shaw Brothers movie, actually: Tough Guys Who Obey All Laws. Starring Gordon Liu and Sun Chien; directed by Chang Cheh. So I stayed inside all day Sunday and watched movies. Including and limited to: Get Carter: Brutal and compelling, of a style that found frequent imitators through the 70s and 80s but retained little of the source's art. A young Michael Caine (whom Matt W. told me I resembled once, back when my hair was curlier and my sideburns longer, plus I was carrying a shotgun and slapping around the proprietor of a Newcastle B&B; only now do I get it) plays Jack Carter, a London mob enforcer who goes north to investigate his brother's death. He sinks waist-deep into a genuine mystery, popping pills and assembling clues until he uncovers the predictable, yet still galling, truth. What puts Get Carter a head and shoulders above its imitators (including Tarantino) is its art. The cinematography is excellent: from the opening shot of Carter, backlit in an apartment window and staring over London with a drink in his hand, to the crane shot that follows him as he flees pursuers on foot and jumps into a waiting car, to the film's tense climax. Midway through the film, a local youth group parades down a main street in full mufti. They play some stirring march in a kazoo chorus. The cookie-cutter rowhomes of the street they march on frame a massive factory and burbling smoke stacks at the bottom of a hill. ThinK Pittsburgh without the charm: it's a beautiful juxtaposition. Jack Carter is a psychopath. He lets the people who help him get beat up, robbed or even killed without much in the way of tears. He holds nothing sacred except family. And even that, we feel, is not out of some duty to the hearth but as a way of redeeming his past. "Frank wasn't like that," he yells at one point, shaking his listener by the shoulder. "I'm the villain in the family, remember?" Carter wants proof that the sadism he engages in is a choice, not in his blood. The fear that his family - his brother Frank and Frank's daughter Doreen - might have fallen as far terrifies him. And like a terrified dog, he bites and never lets go. Strangers on a Train: One of Hitchcock's sharpest. Two men meet on a train ride from New York to D.C.: a handsome young tennis player, Guy Haines, and a rich, idle bachelor, Bruno Anthony. The two get to talking - Haines reluctantly - until it comes out that Guy wants to divorce his unfaithful wife, while Bruno chafes under his father's thumb. Bruno suggests that two people who'd met by accident - like he and Guy - could swap murders and solve each other's problems. Guy patronizingly agrees in order to get away from Bruno. But when he arrives in D.C. a day later, he discovers that his wife has been murdered ... All the usual elements are here: a man falsely accused. A woman uncovering a mystery. A maniac with a twisted relationship with his mother. Odd psychological contrivances. Races against the clock. Climactic battles in odd locales. Example: In the film's climax, Guy must win a tennis match as quickly as possible in order to hop a train to Connecticut. While avoiding the police who are tailing him. So he can catch Bruno planting evidence. But at the same time, through Hitchcock's genius we find ourselves rooting for Bruno as well. We hope that nobody spots him, or that he doesn't lose the crucial piece of evidence - because that would deflate Hitchcock's meticulous ending into an anti-climax. Compare this to J.J. Abrams, whose idea of cranking up tension involves making everyone run (q.v. Star Trek, Mission Impossible 3). Robert Walker as mama's boy Bruno Anthony is the real gem here. He wavers between harmless eccentricity and casual brutality in a way that Anthony Perkins - to say nothing of Anthony Hopkins - must have mirrored. We find him fascinating in the way that a snake fascinates a rat. Sadly, Strangers on a Train was his last film. In August 1951, he suffered an acute allergic reaction to a dose of sodium amytal, administed by his psychiatrist for nerves. He died (like Brittany Murphy, who just passed this Sunday) at age 32.

boston-at-night

Professor Coldheart — Wed, 23 Dec 2009 14:29:22 +0000

there were three of us this morning; I'm the only one this evening

Professor Coldheart — Wed, 23 Dec 2009 14:31:42 +0000

Against all sense and evidence I walked from Copley Square to Park Street on Monday night, in teens-degree weather against prevailing wind, to get a drink with Hawver and Fraley at Silvertone. I needed to get in touch with my city again. I love Boston in the fall and winter, lit up at night during the holiday season: the crowds, the traffic, the dash from windbreak to windbreak. I love cities at night. "You still thinking about moving to Chicago?", Hawver asked. "Not really," I said. "I've got things coming up in spring, like the show. Writing has started coming together again. Working downtown is nice. And my efforts to get out and be social are actually paying off." "So you're putting down roots?" "As much as a man in his late twenties without a child or a mortgage can, yes." Taking a few days off to fly to Baltimore and visit the family. Merry Christmas if that's your poison. Posts coming next week, but I may not be copying them to Livejournal. All must labor and rest in their due time.

crouching-tiger

Professor Coldheart — Mon, 28 Dec 2009 14:34:45 +0000

crouching-tiger

Professor Coldheart — Mon, 28 Dec 2009 14:35:07 +0000

memento1

Professor Coldheart — Mon, 28 Dec 2009 14:36:14 +0000

fellowship-of-the-ring

Professor Coldheart — Mon, 28 Dec 2009 14:37:17 +0000

pirates-of-the-caribbean-the-curse-of-the-black-pearl-johnny-depp-knightley

Professor Coldheart — Mon, 28 Dec 2009 14:38:13 +0000

the decade in film: 2000-03

Professor Coldheart — Mon, 28 Dec 2009 14:38:43 +0000

On vacation this week. This post was scheduled long ago. The end of a decade brings out the End Of Decade lists. I have little qualification to talk about the Best Movies of the Decade. Better critics than I have already put their lists together (see Leonard Pierce's 20 best of the decade, for instance); I could only re-arrange the order. So the following list does not contain the Best Films of the Decade. But it has films that all meant something to me, personally. Call them my Signature Films of the First Decade of the Second Millennium. Or something snappier. Part One: The College Years: 2000-03 In 2000, after Boston College's alt-tabloid Naked Singularity grew too liberal for me - also, we never managed to put out more than one issue every semester, if that; add to that the fact that, like any random sampling of college progressives we could never agree on what was the most pressing issue that BC needed to take a stand against, Israeli mobilization on the West Bank or the lack of organic food in the Rathskellar; publishing burdens to which none of us really objected, because the paper was a great excuse to get together once every two weeks and drink in a cool off-campus apartment, opportunities which, as a shy freshman, I harvested like diamonds in a Jwaneng mine, plus I had a crush on two of the editors; and somehow they put me in charge of budgeting, a process I botched terribly, which probably led to the fact that they didn't publish a lot of papers in subsequent years, but if we hadn't canceled a meeting to all go listen to this visiting professor rant about the WTO I would have put in more of an effort - I started reviewing movies for the regular student paper, The Heights. The weekly Arts and Entertainment staff meeting consisted of the editor sitting at the head of a table in BC's upper campus dining hall, waiting for enough writers to show up to constitute a quorum. He would then divvy up assignments for the coming week. The divvyables were a pile of promo CDs, concert tickets and passes to free screenings for shows and movies around town. Unless a more senior writer had already spoken for one, the pile was first-come, first-served. I made my bones by showing up regularly, turning in decent if not astounding work, and volunteering to see movies no one should have been forced to see (Saving Silverman; Sugar and Spice; Blair Witch 2: Book of Shadows, etc). Late in the year, Jeremy (the A&E editor) sat at the head of a largely empty table. Just a few of the regulars had shown up with me. Sifting to the bottom of the screenings pile, he pulled up a folded letter with an embossed sticker on the bottom. The sticker was a common studio tactic to keep reviewers from photocopying passes for friends. "Anyone free on Tuesday at 11:00 AM?", he asked. "I have one here for a 'martial arts romance' from Ang Lee, called Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon." "I'll take it," I said. Thus began a ten-year love affair with martial arts cinema. I'd seen Yuen Wo-Ping's work before (The Matrix, naturally), but nobody had told me kung fu films could be such stirring spectacles. Of course, they wouldn't have thought to tell me: Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon is a very atypical kung fu film. It uses none of the jump cuts or sudden zooms that are common in Shaw Brothers pictures but which would jar a Western audience. Its pacing and scope call to mind Sense and Sensibility more than an action flick. Seeing Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon with a theater full of critics also tuned me into the delicious high of being an insider. I saw the movie months before it debuted in the States. I felt like quite the connected little mastermind as the buzz surrounding the film began to trickle out. This insufferable snottiness has been hard to shake. I had a similar reaction to Memento, which I saw in limited release with a few members of the Boston Objectivist Network. Can't recall everyone who was in attendance, but it was a sizable turnout. Give a group of people who talk philosophy every month a movie like Memento, with its epistemological and ethical implications, and they'll have discussion fodder for weeks. Following the movie, we retired to S&S in Inman Square, the sprawling deli which would become a haunt of mine years later. We debated until the staff were stacking chairs on the tables around us. Today if I want gripping suspense thrillers that challenge my notions of causality, I have a wider palate to search through. But at the time Memento broke ground for me. It challenged my conventional notions of storytelling, editing and pacing. But it also introduced some interesting ethical quandaries: what's the difference between justice and revenge? is justice worthwhile if you never remember getting it? if so, to whom and for what end? and is a goal-oriented life worth living if all your goals are artificially manufactured? and do we have any choice in the matter? I had a long analogy here about how The Lord of the Rings: The Fellowship of the Ring was the first movie I saw in theaters after the September 11th razing of the World Trade Center. It's the sort of anecdote that's rife with significance: I saw it with my family; I saw it in a packed theater; I saw it on Christmas Day, etc. In the end, I deleted that paragraph, so you don't get to read it. It would have been too forced, and more than a little trite. But if the first decade of the Twenty-First Century was the decade of Good vs. Evil, then starting it with The Fellowship of the Ring is apropos. Though it wasn't as crypto-Christian as Lewis's Chronicles of Narnia, Tolkien invested the Lord of the Rings series with Catholic flavor, especially the love of the traditional English countryside. Peter Jackson reproduced the epic scope of the Fellowship's march not just faithfully, but better than faithfully, evicting Tolkien's most boring and odd segments in favor of desperate chases, exciting battles and wondrous landscapes. It gave birth to a host of imitators, but it also proved that epic fantasy and sci-fi wasn't dead yet in film. Finally, I have Pirates of the Caribbean: The Curse of the Black Pearl to thank for several things. Black Pearl was a surprise to everyone: I don't think anyone expected a Jerry Bruckheimer picture based on a Walt Disney World ride to be any good at all, much less an entertaining adventure. But the writers took Disney's budget, invented their own mythology, and had fun with it. Black Pearl got me back into gaming after a long absence: while I'd been playing for a while, I wouldn't have run anything if Depp, Bloom and Knightley hadn't inspired me. And since the first game I ran introduced two of my dearest friends - John Fraley and Melissa Carubia - whom I would end up marrying eight years later, the movie has a deep, personal significance as well. They entered the wedding reception to Klaus Badelt's boisterous theme and, of course, applause. On Wednesday: the Post-College Years (2003-06).

BatmanBegins

Professor Coldheart — Wed, 30 Dec 2009 14:27:51 +0000

collateral

Professor Coldheart — Wed, 30 Dec 2009 14:28:18 +0000

kill-bill

Professor Coldheart — Wed, 30 Dec 2009 14:28:43 +0000

the decade in film: 2003-06

Professor Coldheart — Wed, 30 Dec 2009 14:30:18 +0000

once_l

Professor Coldheart — Fri, 01 Jan 2010 14:58:07 +0000

the-departed

Professor Coldheart — Fri, 01 Jan 2010 14:59:38 +0000

no-country-for-old-men

Professor Coldheart — Fri, 01 Jan 2010 15:01:01 +0000

the-dark-knight

Professor Coldheart — Fri, 01 Jan 2010 15:01:57 +0000

the decade in film: 2006-09

Professor Coldheart — Fri, 01 Jan 2010 15:02:51 +0000

The end of a decade brings out the End Of Decade lists. I have little qualification to talk about the Best Movies of the Decade. Better critics than I have already put their lists together; I could only re-arrange the order. So the following list does not contain the Best Films of the Decade. But it has films that all meant something to me, personally. Call them my Signature Films of the First Decade of the Second Millennium. Or something snappier. Part Three: Growing Up: 2006-09 My hatred for musicals began in high school, when RENT came out and everyone I did theater with started playing it at high volume. If I had to pick one thing I hate about this perversely popular show, it'd be the theme, and the characters, and the story, and the CTRL-H substitution from La Boheme, and the song about how many minutes there are in a year (Q: "How many minutes are there in a year?" A: "Love!"). It bothers me that this musical made people famous, and that mawkish sentimentality trumps clever lyricism in this new century. (This hatred morphed from an informed and unyielding criticism into outright pathology in the summer of 2003, when my car was jacked from outside my apartment in Allston. Eight weeks later, when the Boston PD sent me a letter asking me to pay parking tickets the car had acquired during the time I reported it stolen, I called them and got the tickets removed. Then I realized a bunch of the tickets were assigned at the same address. Grabbing my roommate Hawver, we pulled up Mapquest, punched in some street names, and found that my car had been abandoned less than a mile from where it had been stolen, and three blocks from our current apartment. The rear passenger window panel had been smashed in and the stereo had been stolen. The scumbags had also taken a CD wallet with about forty discs in it, and replaced it with the original cast recording of RENT. "So they thought RENT wasn't even worth stealing?" people ask. "No," I explain. "I didn't own RENT." "Oh." Then: "Ohhhh.") So when everyone I knew waxed enthusiastic about Once, I remained skeptical. But there was a recurring tone to their endorsements: glowing language, stern admonishments to see it, but a lack of explicit detail. They couldn't put into words just why it was so great, but they all agreed it was. Seeing it on the big screen, I agreed with them: Once is a hell of an experience. I don't know why a grainy indie movie about a guy and a girl, both getting over heartbreaks of their own and tentatively discovering each other, floored me when set to folksy music. But it did. Sure, it's sentimental, but it's powerful sentiment, shot straight into the vein. It's the last movie I saw with my friend Josh before he moved to the West Coast, so that might also grant it some significance. I spent Thanksgiving 2006 in Boston, my first Thanksgiving outside of Maryland in all my life, due to work. Since I still had the day off, I resolved to put it to some use by going to the Loews Boston Common and theater-hopping. Hopping in the Loews poses no challenge: the second floor boasts a dozen theaters and the minimum-wage ushers can barely handle the holiday crowds. So I was able to see Casino Royale and The Departed with little difficulty. The one-two punch of gritty crime and action left me wandering, shell-shocked, for the rest of the day. In the fall of 2007, I helped out with one of the most ambitious and rewarding theater projects of my life: The Waste Land Comedy Hour starring T.S. Eliot. Some of the most talented people at ImprovBoston pitched in to produce 7 original shows in 7 weeks, mixing live and video elements, and we all still agree it's the best thing we've ever done. It had a raw and crazy energy that I hope to one day duplicate. One evening after rehearsing some new material, Matt T., Eric P., Eric's wife Hannah and myself all trucked to Kendall Square Cinemas to see No Country for Old Men. I warned them we'd have to get there early, as I'd tried to see the show last week but had been turned away once it sold out. The Waste Land had also been selling out early and turning people away. And like The Waste Land, the Coen Bros. hit on some untapped vein of creative juice. It took me several tries to get The Big Lebowski and Fargo. While I love Miller's Crossing and O Brother, Where Art Thou? to pieces, I recognize them more as homages and pastiches then as some compelling new works. But No Country for Old Men clicked with me. Maybe it was the unity of the Coens' nihilism with McCarthy's existentialism. Maybe it was getting a really good cast. Regardless, I took to it like I've taken to no other Coen film. Finally, I saw The Dark Knight the day it opened, having taken the day off to fly to Baltimore in the afternoon. This breaks a long-standing rule of mine about seeing a genre movie on the day it opens, but nobody goes to the theaters in Batman costumes anyway. And it was worth it for me. Not just because I love the Batman mythos and what Nolan has done with it. But because, like I said on Wednesday, someone's using Serious Art techniques to tell an action film. That's important to me. As I said, not necessarily the best of the decade, but the most memorable for me.

to-live-and-die-in-la

Professor Coldheart — Mon, 04 Jan 2010 01:18:06 +0000

willem-dafoe-counterfeit

Professor Coldheart — Mon, 04 Jan 2010 01:36:33 +0000

sherlock-holmes

Professor Coldheart — Mon, 04 Jan 2010 02:18:54 +0000

robert-downey-jr-sherlock-holmes

Professor Coldheart — Mon, 04 Jan 2010 02:39:09 +0000

we were so in phase in our dance hall days

Professor Coldheart — Mon, 04 Jan 2010 11:00:55 +0000

To Live and Die in L.A.: 1985: The Motion Picture. Everything about this movie screams "it's the 80s!" The jackets. The slang. The edgy selfishness. The gritty crime. The soundtrack. The montages used to set scenes. Put this movie in a time capsule so future generations will know that no, we weren't kidding about the sunglasses. Count with me: William Petersen (C.S.I.) plays Richard Chance, an adrenaline junkie Secret Service agent who doesn't play by the rules but gets results. He's after master counterfeiter Rick Masters, played by Willem Dafoe, who treats his crime like art and drips weird homoeroticism into every interaction. Chance's partner, who's like a father to Chance and who only has three days left until retirement, gets blown away while investigating one of Masters' hideouts. Now Chance has to take on a naive new partner and push the envelope - perhaps even breaking the law himself - in order to bring Masters to justice. Wang Chung composed the entire soundtrack. To Live and Die in L.A. is about counterfeiting. Every crime film needs at least one sequence of process (except Le Samourai, which was all process): the car being hotwired, the assassin setting up in a sniper's nest, the cocaine being cut and packaged. Here, we get a gorgeously detailed montage of Rick Masters counterfeiting twenty-dollar bills. We see the plates being designed, paint being applied, serial numbers being forged, and miniature brushwork being applied with a master's eye for detail. Trivia has it that the film's technical adviser was a convicted counterfeiter himself, and that some of the counterfeit money got into circulation. We watch these bills being manufactured in Masters' garage, bills just like the ones we have in our wallets. Watching the process of a fake being assembled makes us question what we know to be real. Money isn't the only counterfeit commodity in L.A., though. Chance spends a good portion of the movie testing his new partner Vukovich (John Pankow, Mad About You), seeing if he'll go as far as it takes to bring in Masters: is Vukovich "real" or not? Chance tests himself as well: the first time we see him, he's about to go BASE-jumping off a bridge with his Secret Service buddies putting bets on him. Masters pays for favors in counterfeit money that he produces, which everyone willingly accepts, knowing it's close enough to the real thing. And when Masters follows a man in a unitard backstage after a modern dance show and makes out with him, the audience wonders for a second - until the dancer pulls off her wig. (Not to suggest that she was "counterfeiting" as a man, but a guy-on-guy kiss like that would have been very edgy in 1985). When Chance goes undercover to lure Masters in, there's some artful ambiguity as to whether or not Masters knows Chance is for real ("love your work"). That question hangs over every interaction in To Live and Die in L.A.: between Chance and Vukovich, or his jailhouse snitch (John Turturro), or the C.I. he's sleeping with, or Masters himself. Is this other person the genuine article? If not, can I make use of them anyway? Is it a perfect film? Hardly. There are two gaping plot holes, one never resolved and one resolved only as an afterthought. Many of the key players never get any characterization to speak of. And, as described above, the movie bulges at the seams with corniness. But you could call kabuki theater corny too, if you looked at it with a jaded eye. To Live and Die in L.A. is a kabuki action movie: a stylized depiction of a world too inflexible to actually exist. Were it less serious by one quantum, you couldn't watch it without guffawing. But only by embracing its attitude with a complete lack of irony can Friedkin pull this off. And I don't care what you think: "Dance Hall Days" is a good song. [dailymotion id=xis7s]

you can choose a ready guide in some celestial voice

Professor Coldheart — Tue, 05 Jan 2010 11:00:33 +0000

Sherlock Holmes: first, a word about the source material. The Sherlock Holmes novels and short stories, written by Arthur Conan Doyle, are a lot of fun. I could read them for hours, and, as a bookish teenager, did. But you could hardly call them classics of detection. Doyle didn't assemble clockwork mysteries for his protagonist, the asocial savant Holmes, to solve. He decided what he wanted to have happened, and then summoned a series of clues which would support that outcome. Take for instance this section from the very first Sherlock Holmes novel, A Study in Scarlet:

The train of reasoning ran, 'Here is a gentleman of a medical type, but with the air of a military man. Clearly an army doctor, then. He has just come from the tropics, for his face is dark, and that is not the natural tint of his skin, for his wrists are fair. He has undergone hardship and sickness, as his haggard face says clearly. His left arm has been injured. He holds it in a stiff and unnatural manner. Where in the tropics could an English army doctor have seen much hardship and got his arm wounded?'

The annexation of Burma? The Siege of Khartoum? The Battle of Abu Klea? A railway accident the day after he got back?

'Clearly in Afghanistan.' The whole train of thought did not occupy a second. I then remarked that you came from Afghanistan, and you were astonished.

Ah, right. Of course. Clearly in Afghanistan. A good Sherlock Holmes story is not about the mystery, rather, but about the man himself - Holmes, a master at chemistry, biology, geology, fencing, jiu-jitsu and the soils of London - and about the grotesqueness of the crimes he investigates. In both these regards, Guy Ritchie's Sherlock Holmes excels. Plus it's a lot of fun to boot. The plot jolts along at a rattling pace, obscured somewhat by Ritchie's crack-the-whip editing and some questionable English accents. But Holmes, conceited genius that he is, always takes the time to explain things to the remarkably patient Dr. Watson. He also has a foil in femme fatale Irene Adler (Rachel McAdams), whose place in the overall mystery I don't quite get. She can never make up her mind whether she's hindering Holmes or helping him, and the director seems equally confused. She hires Holmes to find a man, who ends up buried in a coffin that he's summoned by the police to investigate. So ... what did it profit her to hire Holmes, since events which they knew about were already nudging him in that direction? But Ritchie never slows the coach long enough for us to inspect the damage that his tour of London has done to the undercarriage. From bareknuckle boxing pits to opulent hotels, from clanking shipyards to occult lodges, we see a city grim with industry. Holmes is a product of the Victorian Age's fantasies of itself: a self-made expert in all the modern sciences who's equally versed in the exotic customs of the colonies. He's a man who can tread comfortably in all worlds. Ritchie, and his excellent cast, let us indulge that fantasy for just enough time to make it fun.

lone-wolf-mcquade

Professor Coldheart — Wed, 06 Jan 2010 02:43:28 +0000

david-carradine

Professor Coldheart — Wed, 06 Jan 2010 02:46:21 +0000

lone-wolf-mcquade2

Professor Coldheart — Wed, 06 Jan 2010 02:57:13 +0000

freedom, that's just some people talking

Professor Coldheart — Wed, 06 Jan 2010 11:00:06 +0000

Lone Wolf McQuade: Wow. Everything that's ridiculous about this movie can be gleaned, like nuggets panned from a river, in its first 10 minutes. After a credit sequence that begins with a photo-negative montage of a wolf crossing sandy scrub, we cut to a convoy of Mexicans rustling horses. The local sheriff and some deputies stake them out from a hilltop. J.J. McQuade watches them. As the sheriff and his men ride down to arrest the horse thieves, McQuade shakes his head in disgust. What should the sheriff's men, who outnumber the rustlers, have done? I don't know, but probably what J.J. McQuade did:

Waited until the rustlers took several deputies hostage;
Shot out the gas tank of their truck with a hunting rifle;
Stood up where the head rustler can see you and get a good bead on you;
Watched while the sheriff got shot;
Came down and surrendered your rifle and sidearm;
Kicked everyone in the head

To be fair, McQuade shot a lot of guys, too. Lone Wolf McQuade takes the foreign stereotype of Americans - beer-swilling, gun-toting, violent, unwashed, antisocial louts - and turns it into a virtue. Drinking Pearl Beer (which he keeps in his glove compartment), hoisting an illegal sidearm confiscated from arms smugglers, kicking people's teeth in and showing up to his boss's office sweaty and gross is what makes McQuade a hero. His strength comes from his filth. It's the prissy Rangers in the downtown offices, or the pansy sheriff's men, or the leather-shoed FBI, who've traded in their masculinity for style. But McQuade's such a man, he doesn't even wear a shirt at home! Contrast McQuade with his nemesis: the amulet-wearing, metrosexually-sweatered Rawley Wilkes (David Carradine). When Wilkes shows up at a racetrack (in a foreign car with the license plate 'CARATE'), a woman tells McQuade that Wilkes won the "European Karate championships" a few years back. What's the matter, Rawley? American Karate championships not good enough for ya? Anyhow, Wilkes gets into a boxing ring and kicks a variety of martial arts practitioners in the head, because someone thought that would be a good time. Then he calls out McQuade! But McQuade doesn't fight for sport. Frustrated, Wilkes later sends a few of his lackeys to pick a fight that McQuade will have to break up, in order to test him. When Lola Richardson (Barbara Carrera, Never Say Never Again) falls in love with McQuade, she shows up at his house one afternoon and begins cleaning it up. Never mind that they've been on one date to this point. Never mind that a shack full of filth rarely makes a man more attractive to a woman. Richardson cheerily throws out his beer and makes with the vacuuming. McQuade tries to scare her off, but then regrets making her cry. He resolves to let her into his disgusting life, and soon the two of them are making out in a mud puddle. Seriously. And yet, this is probably one of the saner Chuck Norris movies. Even with the Mexican midget mob boss. In a wheelchair.

dragonage

Professor Coldheart — Thu, 07 Jan 2010 14:27:38 +0000

dragonage2

Professor Coldheart — Thu, 07 Jan 2010 15:19:52 +0000

dragonage3

Professor Coldheart — Thu, 07 Jan 2010 15:21:45 +0000

this is not the greatest song in the world

Professor Coldheart — Thu, 07 Jan 2010 15:22:07 +0000

Dragon Age: Remember when I said of Mass Effect that I'd almost rather read a novel set in that universe than play a game in it? With Dragon Age, I feel as if I've already read that novel. Follow along: in a world where magic is heavily regulated by a religious order (Wheel of Time), a secretive order of knights defends against irregular incursions of demonic creatures (A Song of Ice and Fire). Our young hero sets off from the home he once knew into the unknown world (everything, really; it's Campbell's Hero With a Thousand Faces monomyth, but just to keep to the trope I'll pin it to Edding's Belgariad) and meets exotic strangers along the way (The Lord of the Rings). And so on. Dragon Age turns a genre convention from previous Bioware games into an outright, obvious flaw. I'll explain by way of example: one of the lands you can explore is Redcliffe Village, a hamlet under siege from hordes of undead that pour out of its castle every night. Here's how a talented production team with an eye for direction might have introduced you to this dilemma. How It Might Have Gone

(The party approaches the village at night, fog wafting up from the canyon on which Redcliffe sits. Suddenly, a shambling figure bolts from the mist - a miller from the village, bleeding from many wounds!) Miller: The ... hordes ... (dies) (Suddenly, a bunch of skeletons show up. AWESOME FIGHT SCENE!) (As the skeletons are dispatched, the village mayor, Murdock, runs up, his blade black with the ooze of the undead) Murdock: Thank the Maker! Whoever you are, we're in dire need of help. Walking corpses are assaulting our town! (The party follows Murdock into the village, where skeletons assail panicked knots of spear-carrying villagers. ANOTHER AWESOME FIGHT SCENE!) (Once the last corpse is put down, Murdock approaches) Murdock: Thank you again for your aid. This was the closest battle yet. If any more of those creatures had come out of the castle, we'd've been done for. You: Out of the castle? Murdock: I'll explain. For the last three nights, (EXPOSITION DUMP)

Fun, right? It puts you right in the heart of the crisis and starts the action at a good pitch. How Bioware Actually Did It

(Heroes amble up to village in broad daylight) Alistair (who's in your party): By the way, when we get to the castle, there might be some awkwardness. Regarding me. You see, (EXPOSITION DUMP). You: Ah. Well, thanks. (Heroes walk another five feet) Town Guard: Thank the Maker you're here! Our town is under assault by the undead. You: What, now? Town Guard: No, at night. Every night. You see, (EXPOSITION DUMP). You: Ah. Town Guard: You should go speak to our Mayor. You: Right. Town Guard: And to Bann Teagan, who's in the Chantry. You: Right. Town Guard: And to Ser Perth, who's leading the defense. You: Okay, got it.

And so on. There's a minimum of twenty minutes of conversation - dialogue trees, running up and down hills, fetching and delivering items for NPCs - before you slay your first walking corpse. I don't know why this didn't bother me more in prior Bioware games, but it's exasperating now. Though the plot may be cliched, Dragon Age tries to innovate a little in combining MMORPG gameplay with console controls. But the result confused me more than it helped. Take crafting, for instance. As you level your characters up, they can learn how to combine herbs and make useful potions. So let's say you've gathered a mess of herbs and want to start brewing healing salves. Do you click on an herb? No. Do you go to the Character Record screen and click on your Herbalism talent? No. Do you click on an empty flask? No. You open up the radial menu using the left trigger, select Potions, then select the Herbalism talent - oh, you're already on a character who knows Herbalism, right? if not, back out and start again - and then pick the potion you want to brew. It makes a certain kind of sense, but why the designers felt the need to get creative was beyond me. What bugs me the most is my lack of investment in the story. You start with one of six origins, depending on the race and class you pick. I was a Human Noble, schooled in the arts of war. I played through a little vignette where my noble father sent off a detachment of retainers to fight against some darkspawn. A Gray Warden, one of the knights traditionally charged with defending against darkspawn incursions, shows up at the house. When a treacherous relative betrays my family, the Gray Warden helps me escape, on the condition that I join his order. My father, with his dying breath, agrees. (You have enough control to decide whether to join reluctantly or willingly, but you have to follow this guy out of the house) This backstory complete, I'm now thrust into the middle of a demonic invasion. I have almost no investment in how this turns out: the war sounds nasty, sure, but a traitor sits in my ancestral keep! And shortly thereafter, I'm given the quest to travel to various points around the country and draw more recruits for the Gray Wardens. But I've seen nothing yet to suggest they're more capable of defeating darkspawn than anyone else. All I know is that I have to go to these three cities because the game won't progress until I do. Contrast this to Mass Effect, where I was getting evidence to bring in a rogue Spectre, or Jade Empire, where I was rescuing my kidnapped master, or Knights of the Old Republic, where I at least saw evidence of what the main villain was capable of in the destruction of Taris. I'm only eight hours or so into the game, maybe 20% of the way through, so I'm not passing final judgment yet. But Bioware's starting to remind me of Kevin Smith. We all got excited by Clerks: what a bold voice! what a creative talent! Then each succeeding movie grinds the shine off his reputation, until he's producing unremarkable stuff like Dogma and Jersey Girl. Dragon Age isn't quite Dogma-bad, yet. And, again, I haven't finished the game entirely. But Dragon Age reminds me a lot of Jay and Silent Bob Strike Back: a whirlwind tour of cliches and genre elements, a series of entertaining moments with a threadbare plot to wrap them together.

but we've got the biggest balls of them all

Professor Coldheart — Mon, 11 Jan 2010 11:00:37 +0000

Talking with a very good friend of mine last week, we mentioned a mutual female acquaintance whom, I said, "had the ovaries to pull something like that off." "Huh?" my friend asked. "Like saying, 'she had the balls to pull it off.' Only, y'know, ovaries." "Right, right; I got that." I still got the quizzical look, though. "I figured it's diminutive to refer to a woman as 'having balls' to do something because she's confident. 'Oh, congratulations at having presence. You've been promoted to 'Male.' " "I'm with you," my friend said. "But at the same time, I'm not comfortable with females getting special female-only titles that distinguish them from male roles. Like 'actress,' which is the same thing as an actor, but female. As if there's some inherent difference in a woman's performance than a man's." "Fair enough," I said. (We settled on cojones, which means "balls" but is obscured by the language barrier and retains neutrality) But the question lingers in my mind. There's a wealth of jargon in English to encourage someone to take bold action, and all of it points at a guy's crotch. A guy with confidence has "balls"; astonishing confidence, "big brass ones." Someone who needs to show confidence is told to "sack up" or "grow a pair"; someone who lacks confidence is a "pussy." One of my favorite lines from The French Connection comes when an American mobster needs to convince his boss that French druglord Alain Charnier is a cold-hearted operator. "This guy's got 'em like THAT!", the mobster yells, making a cupping motion under his crotch. It's a guttural, striking image, and it conveys the message in a heartbeat. So how do you describe a woman with confidence? Let's ignore for the moment the tendency of many people to refer to women exhibiting confidence, a refusal to be interrupted or a low tolerance for errors as "bitchy." Not because that's not a problem, mind, but because that'd be its own 1000-word post. For now, let's settle on the problem of language. We can't erase ten thousand years of linguistic development, so we can't get people to stop referring to confidence as "ballsy." That's not an option. So our remaining options appear to be:

Appropriate that language for women as well, reproductive irony be damned. That chick's got balls; you see that?
Invent parallel language for women. Doubting yourself isn't going to get the job done. Now egg up and get back out there.
Create some gender-neutral term that'll work well for both. Now this one's got some real gametes, walking up and saying that.
A fourth option that I haven't figured out yet.

I ask not because I'm looking for the Orthodox Answer From Feminism (there isn't one, and that's a good thing). Rather, I want a good colloquial way to talk about the women I respect. Also, I like stirring up interesting discussions about language on Mondays.

girl-with-the-dragon-tattoo

Professor Coldheart — Mon, 11 Jan 2010 15:37:19 +0000

girl-with-the-dragon-tattoo

Professor Coldheart — Mon, 11 Jan 2010 22:04:01 +0000

tell all of your friends what you've seen

Professor Coldheart — Tue, 12 Jan 2010 11:00:40 +0000

The Girl With the Dragon Tattoo: Amazing. Gobsmacking. Addictive. One hell of a novel. Many novels begin with some epigram, used to illuminate or foreshadow, before the opening chapter. Stieg Larsson's posthumous debut novel begins with the following:

Eighteen percent of the women in Sweden have at one time been threatened by a man.

No follow-up, no context and no prescription to cure it. Larsson's not proposing a way to treat this endemic culture of violence and abuse. He's just telling us about the setting and what we should expect from it. Our tour guide through this cesspool is the titular Lisbeth Salander, a borderline Asperger's who dropped out of high school and works as a researcher for a security consultant. She responds to affection with blank stares or active distrust. But behind her unblinking facade is a rigid code of self-written ethics and a penchant for vigilante justice. And it doesn't hurt matters that she is (by the admission of other characters) Sweden's best hacker. She is Larsson's champion: a woman who appears to be the typical victim-in-waiting, but is actually a Fury made flesh. To the story itself: we first meet Mikael Blomquist, an attractive, stubborn and fiery financial reporter, as he's walking out of a Stockholm courthouse where he's just been convicted for libel. His reputation in tatters and the magazine he publishes on the brink of bankruptcy, he still has the presence of mind to hesitate when offered an unusual job. But the job, offered by retired industrialist Henrik Vanger, captivates him: find out who murdered Vanger's grand-niece, Harriet, thirty-six years ago. Before too long, circumstances drag Blomquist's path across Salander's, and the two of them soon team up to bring a dormant murderer to justice. I haven't found a novel this compulsively readable in months. I went out of my way to find excuses to read it. Smart, passionate, clear and engaging. Recommended without qualification. [youtube=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JlF-hk3IJQE] A TV miniseries based on the novel was recently released in Sweden, and the film rights have supposedly been optioned in America. Maybe I've been watching too much Community lately, but I can picture Alison Brie (Pete Campbell's wife Trudy on Mad Men) as Lisbeth Salander very easily. She can pull off that unblinking repression very well. I'd post a photo of her, but they're all too glamorous: picture her in punk hair and nose ring. Update: I found a picture of Alison where she isn't smiling. Still a little too glam, but you get the idea.

alison-brie

Professor Coldheart — Tue, 12 Jan 2010 12:29:18 +0000

I'm calling all the shots tonight, I'm like a loaded gun

Professor Coldheart — Wed, 13 Jan 2010 11:00:49 +0000

My big project for the spring has kicked into full gear. Rehearsals start next week for ImprovBoston's Comedy Lab show for April 2010: Discount Shakespeare: As You Like It In Forty-Five Minutes. I held auditions the Sunday and Monday after New Year's, watching 30 people try out for 10 roles. Rachel V. and I whittled the cast down that Monday evening, over a bottle of red wine and a sea of headshots. This is my first full directing project since Dial [Ankh] For Murder in college. I think I've learned a lot since then - most importantly, how to unclench a little and not make people cry - but I'm still a little nervous. Fortunately, I've prepared a checklist of crucial steps to directing a good show, and I think I'm hitting most of them.

Secure Rehearsal Space Early. Boston's a theater-heavy town, so if you don't have a studio that can accommodate a dozen people early on, you're not going to find one. Fortunately, IB and other locals have been generous.
Use The Internet. How did people produce shows before Google Calendar, Google Groups and Google Docs? Did they use Sharepoint? Microsoft Outlook? Lotus Notes? I can't imagine those working nearly as well.
Do Your Own Publicity. ImprovBoston's a great venue, and part of a thriving artistic community, but their budget's limited. Fortunately I have access to a lot of different soapboxes. And I'm pretty shameless about promoting shows, like the one I'm directing, Discount Shakespeare: As You Like It In Forty-Five Minutes, premiering on Wednesdays this April at ImprovBoston.
Relax. Better shows have come together on smaller budgets at the last minute. You don't need absolute control over every detail. Especially when you're working with grown-ups instead of college kids; that helps tremendously.
Pick an Assistant Director Who's Your Opposite in Key Aspects. Rachel gets calm when I get fidgety, inquisitive when I get naive, probing when I get blase, and enthusiastic when I get tired. She's not all of those things all the time, mind, but she seems to live on a cycle opposite me. Which will help.
Have Fun. It's a community theater adaptation of a Shakespeare comedy, not Operation Overlord. Enjoy yourself, Professor.

I think that covers it. If I missed something, let me know so I can start panicking.

my girl wants to party all the time, party all the time

Professor Coldheart — Thu, 14 Jan 2010 14:16:16 +0000

I had some time off in the last week of December. Checking my calendar, I realized that I had a lot of social nights scheduled. Moreso than usual for me, even on a day off. So I decided to push it and go out drinking as many consecutive nights as I could. How'd I do? Sunday: Dinner and Christmas gifts with Fraley, Melissa, Hawver and Dea. We tried out The Local in Newton - decent plates of tasty food, but I don't know that they put that much gastro in the gastropub. Monday: Yelp Elite event at Teatro. After a few drinks to unwind and some catching up with Serpico, Kim and Sarah, I circulated and socialized. I made several new friends out of the evening, got a caricature drawn and took a shiny Yelp lunchbox home. I followed the Elites to the "afterparty" at a bar in the Theater District Alley and got progressively looser, though not ridiculous. I hope. Tuesday: After jiu-jitsu, I drove into the city to meet Meghan O' and friends for birthday cocktails at Drink. After kvetching over A Song of Ice and Fire plot developments with the birthday girl, I spent a while chatting up Michelle McN. and Ben S. I only had the one drink, since I was driving several folks home. Wednesday: Met Rebecca M. for drinks at Flat Top Johnny's in Kendall Square. We intended to play pool, but ended up shooting the shit for over an hour instead. Ducked into the Blue Room downstairs so we could hear ourselves talk. Good cocktails and good duck ravioli. I ended up at Asgard, like I do, and had maybe one more drink. Thursday: New Year's. Friday: Saw Lisa F. off on one of her last visits to Boston (... sniff). Then I caught the train into Allston and rocked it out at 90s Night at Common Ground. Six consecutive nights of drinking and staying out late. In an unrelated story, next week I caught a cold. Here's the scary part, though: I could see myself living like this. For years I've operated under this assumption that I can't go out too often, or I'll get weird and crusty. I base this off of times that I've gone to bars or parties, felt out of place, and gone home disappointed. But now I wonder if those nights were nights I should have stayed in, or if it were the result of getting my hopes too high. "This is the party that's going to make my week!", I would think. "It's gonna be off the hook!" And then I'd get there and the party would remain nestled comfortably on its hook, everybody nodding politely and drinking quietly. But if I set my expectations lower - just get there and have drinks - I do fine. And even if six nights a week are excessive, it wouldn't be hard to go out boozing three or four nights a week. Even for someone as antisocial, cranky and stubborn as I am. Facebook, e-mail and text messaging have made gathering a posse - or finding a posse mid-hunt and riding up alongside them - easier than ever. All I'd need to do is give up writing, cut back on jiu-jitsu, and maybe put this directing thing on hold for a bit. How hard could that be?

we're so glad you could attend; come inside, come inside

Professor Coldheart — Fri, 15 Jan 2010 11:00:04 +0000

Last September, I realized that I'd bought tickets to see three shows in three consecutive months: Psychedelic Furs in October, Girl Talk in November and Ted Leo and the Pharmacists in December. The monthly spacing hadn't been deliberate; it was just one of those coincidences you read about. But I stay in Boston, or I tell people I do, because of the thriving art and culture scene. I could probably keep the pace of "one live show a month" up for some time. The question: for how long? And thus began The Show That Never Ends: my quest to see one live music act every month in Boston for as long as I possibly can. My only rules:

They have to be a moderately big name. No open mic nights, no local bands chomping at the edges of the scene. The band doesn't need to be internationally known, but, if they're local, they need to be top of the list.
I have to want to see them. January was a tough month to shop for; I had Cheap Trick and Timbaland as options, but neither thrilled me.

This Saturday, I'll be seeing Beatlejuice - the late Brad Delp's Beatles cover band - at Johnny D's in Somerville. Beatlejuice is about as far down on the "local" spectrum as I'd go. Fortunately, that'll be less of an issue in coming months. I've got the Editors in February and Spoon in March. My one dilemma: I set this date before Baltimore got in the running for the AFC title. They'll be playing the Indianapolis pseudo-Colts on Saturday night. I know Johnny D's has a TV, but it sort of defeats the purpose of seeing a band live if I keep one eye on the stage and one eye on Ray Rice's 5.3-yards-per-carry ass. But if I don't see Beatlejuice, I'm out of options for January. And the whole point of an arbitrary bit of blog fodder like The Show That Never Ends is so I don't miss a month. So let's hope the Ravens put this one away early. There is precedent, after all.

sell your soul to sign an autograph

Professor Coldheart — Tue, 19 Jan 2010 11:00:56 +0000

There's a special election being held in Massachusetts today. See, after a nine-term senator died of brain cancer - and let me tell you, nothing restores my faith in representative government than the son of America's most popular political dynasty drowning a woman after driving while drunk, then going on to serve another seven terms - a seat opened up in Congress. This would merit nothing more than a historical footnote, except that this puts the Ruling Party's balance of power at its most precarious point ever, at least since winning the Presidency and a majority in both Houses. So the Ruling Party nominated Massachusetts' attorney general to run for the Senate seat, a prosecutor who (successfully) lobbied for a demonstrably innocent man to be denied parole, defended the most tragicomic overreaction of emergency personnel in the first decade of the War on Terror, and argued (unsuccessfully) before the Supreme Court that defendants should have no right to cross-examine the lab experts whose evidence may condemn them. The Opposition Party, never one to offer substance when style might serve, nominated a former centerfold who supports increased troop presence in America's Least Winnable War (three-way tie), supports torture, and gives the same reluctant, caviling, yes-but-wouldn't-it-be-nice-if support to a woman's sovereignty over her own reproductive organs that any hardcore Opposition Party member who doesn't advocate anarchy must give. This election wouldn't be half as critical were it not for the health care reboot bill trundling its way through Congress. If the Ruling Party maintains its tenuous hold on power (with the President and the majority in both Houses and all that), they just might manage to pass a bill that funnels money from the working poor to insurance companies by making health insurance mandatory. This bill was inspired by Governor Mitt Romney's health care reboot in 2006, which the Opposition Party candidate voted for and still defends. But he opposes the current national plan. Meanwhile, the Ruling Party candidate drew some flack for saying that private morals were not a sufficient reason to deny someone contraception. And yet she would probably be called on to support the current health care reboot bill, which states that being on the "public option" is sufficient reason to deny someone an abortion. So we have one candidate who supports expanding health care coverage, except when he doesn't, and one candidate who believes no one should be denied access to abortive medicine, except when they can be. "But Professor," people tell me, "if you don't vote, you have no right to complain." You think I'm complaining?

the memories will linger on; the good old days, they're long gone

Professor Coldheart — Wed, 20 Jan 2010 11:00:27 +0000

I still sit in dumb amazement, sometimes, at the power music has over me. Standing in Johnny D's on Saturday, watching the Ravens lose, Bobby pointed out a particular Beatles song that Beatlejuice was covering. It reminded him of the old shareware game Scorched Earth, which he used to play for hours with a friend while listening to Beatles albums. I saw his reminiscence and raised: one of the first CDs my parents got, when they upgraded to a CD player and a full stereo, was Revolver. I remember listening to it while playing my dad at Conquest of the Empire. "It's odd, the associations we make," Bobby observed. After the Ravens finished failing, I stumbled home. A sudden wave of nostalgia for Baltimore and childhood overtook me, and I turned to the surest remedy: The Band's self-titled 1970 album. [youtube=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=oHy_XeBMagU] As a scientist, I have to discount the effect that nostalgia may have on me. I remember listening to Levon Helm's crooning on summer road trips with the family: Baltimore, MD to Cape Hatteras, NC in eight hours or less. I've always had a facility for lyrics and rhythm: it only took a few times for the songs to be ingrained on my consciousness. And yet Martin Scorsese agrees with me: there was something about The Band that made them uniquely talented. They displayed the same penchant for odd but touching harmonies that the Beach Boys had. Combine that with the folksy strains that resonate with half of the American continent and you have a factory for classics. Rolling Stone, always a tough audience, was amazed that "The Night They Drove Old Dixie Down" wasn't a century-old spiritual. It wasn't. It was written by a Canadian. That's how fucking good The Band was. Blend once-in-a-generation talent with the lure of nostalgia, and you get a powerful brew. I would learn to play the guitar just to cover half of these songs, and I could never do it as well as Robertson. As it stands, I could never see myself turning to drugs so long as music like this exists in the world. [youtube=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tODPH-3pofM]

what's the matter with kids today?

Professor Coldheart — Thu, 21 Jan 2010 13:59:28 +0000

New post up on Overthinking It today, comparing the attitudes of juvenile delinquency in A Clockwork Orange and No Country for Old Men. Check it.

it is not dying; it is not dying

Professor Coldheart — Mon, 25 Jan 2010 12:46:44 +0000

Returned to the Overthinking It podcast this week, talking about the two-year anniversary of the site, Conan O'Brien's tumultuous departure from The Tonight Show and the SAG awards. I highly recommend downloading the podcast. But, if you can't, my thoughts on late night: I feel nothing so much as a profound pity for Conan O'Brien, who's put in twenty years climbing to the top of a pyramid that is just now being buried by sand. Late night talk shows have never been less essential. They're a dying venue in a dying medium. From a strict economic perspective, their current function is to produce Hulu clips at tremendous expense. Show of hands: how many of you followed the Leno-v-Conan feud of the past few weeks by staying up until 12:35 EST to watch every minute of both shows (plus Letterman and Kimmel's commentary)? and how many of you followed it by watching video clips on entertainment blogs the morning after? and how many of you haven't followed it at all? One of my fellow podcasters suggested that Conan ought to be hired by Google, as a flagship presence for a new Google entertainment portal. I don't know if that idea would work; the idea of Google producing its own entertainment content (a la Yahoo!, or Howard Stern with Sirius) makes as much sense as Google providing their own webmail, or GPS software, or cell phones. But it's a crazy century so far. And my point remains: the late night talk show is not a dying creature; it's a dead one. We're witnessing the throes. The sanctity with which Conan spoke of The Tonight Show, and how terrible it would be to move it past 11:35 PM, sounded like a eulogy to me.

all of this makes me love you more

Professor Coldheart — Tue, 26 Jan 2010 11:00:53 +0000

The older I get, the more I believe that the secret to staying young is finding excuses to party. This Friday, I went to the Yelp Elite Event for January at Revolution Fitness, a gym within walking distance of my office. Revolution has done its best to combine the "basement gym" look with the "boutique gym" feel. The layout ranges from intimate studios for the de rigeur yoga and pilates classes to a row of fluorescent-lit weight racks in front of mirrors. And there's a room off to the back with reinforced rubber walls and a mess of equipment that you can just play with. Like a 150-lb tire to flip end over end, or rings to hang on, or medicine balls that you can fling at the wall while screaming. You're encouraged to experiment. Saturday was the Snowflake Social, hosted in Arlington. Friends and locals threw a party to raise money for Haiti, dressing up in formal wear and dancing the night away. I posed for prom photos, slow-danced with several friends and drank at the Elks bar. We retired to a friend's house afterward to have a few more drinks and chill out until the evening crept up on me. As grown-ups, we look for reasons to put on nice attire and go out dancing: weddings, family affairs, holiday parties and school reunions. If we brought that same questing sense of experimentation to everything we did, how much quicker would it go, and with what energy? Crank up Shaimus and dance with your baby on your hip while you put away the laundry. Invite half a dozen friends over to write with you. Title the next work meeting that you're responsible for "Awesome Fiscal Responsibility Fun Times 2010." Smile at strangers. Adopt antiquarian politeness. Open your face to the world. (This is more a reminder to myself than the rest of you, but let me know if it works)

all you had to do was give humpty a chance

Professor Coldheart — Wed, 27 Jan 2010 11:00:40 +0000

Three months, three weeks. Good enough for government work. I need fact checkers and critical eyes now, people who know about law and journalism and Boston and are willing to tackle 60,000 words of almost-clever prose. I have nothing to offer you but gratitude.

most friendship is feigning; most loving mere folly

Professor Coldheart — Fri, 29 Jan 2010 12:54:04 +0000

Directing Discount Shakespeare: As You Like It In Forty-Five Minutes has made my weeks more exciting. For one thing, I picked a really good cast. They show up every night enthused to tackle the material. For another, I'm happy to be back in the theater again. I love having a show in production. But mostly, directing's been fun because it gives me a chance to play John Barton twice a week. [youtube=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=D8hL4gL0598] I have to restrain myself from turning every rehearsal into a Lecture on What Professor Coldheart Thinks About Shakespeare. That'd be immensely boring. Plus, while I think Shakespeare's continual performance over the last four centuries is no accident, I don't think he had a God-like command over language. There's not an hour's worth of debate to be had over each word choice, each change in accent, or each metaphor. Shakespeare was a pro, and pros work under deadline. But reading Shakespeare with an eye toward performing it does yield a tremendous amount of insight. And if I can't bore my cast, I can certainly bore you. Here is an excerpt of a monologue from Jaques, companion of the exiled Duke, from Act II, Scene 7 of As You Like It:

I must have liberty Withal, as large a charter as the wind, To blow on whom I please; for so fools have; And they that are most galled with my folly, They most must laugh. And why, sir, must they so? The 'why' is plain as way to parish church: He that a fool doth very wisely hit Doth very foolishly, although he smart, Not to seem senseless of the bob

First, the obvious bits: what is Jaques actually saying in plain English? Jaques is petitioning the Duke to become the fool in his exiled court. He's explaining the ways a fool enforces order in the court: those whom he offends the most must laugh the most as well. If a court jester offends you, you should laugh louder than anyone else. Making it clear that you feel offended jeopardizes your reputation. That's just a matter of careful reading and interpretation, but it's essential. Shakespeare wrote his lines in blank verse (iambic pentameter) to make them easier to remember and deliver. As such, it's very easy to deliver a Shakespearean monologue prettily without having the slightest idea what it means. Anyone who has an ear for rhythm, can fake a British accent and can project their voice can stumble their way through a soliloquy. Second, why did Shakespeare use the words he did? This we can only guess at, since he didn't leave footnotes. In fact, the surviving texts we have aren't written in exactly his hand: they were copied from show notes, meant to be read and memorized by actors but never kept. So, my guesses:

And why sir, must they so? The 'why' is plain as way ... that a fool doth very wisely hit doth very foolishly ...: There's a lot of opportunity in here for a quick-tongued actor to play with words here. We have "why," "why" and "way" in rapid succession, as well as "fool doth very wisely" and "doth very foolishly." There's opportunity for good sing-song bouncing between internal rhymes here.
as plain as way to parish church. Shakespeare devotes a lot of text to making fun of churchmen. As You Like It is no exception, with the bumbling vicar Sir Oliver Martext. This is probably meant sarcastically, especially considering the reasoning that follows is hardly "plain."
fool / wisely / foolishly / smart / senseless. Parallels and inversions on the notion of being wise or smart and being foolish or senseless. Note that Shakespeare doesn't use the latter two in that same meaning: "smart" means "to feel a pain" here; "senseless" means "not feeling."

And that's only about half of the line. This isn't just fodder for English majors, mind you. Think how odd the idiom "you can't teach an old dog new tricks" would sound if you heard it without the emphasis on "old" and "new." Those are the most important words in the metaphor: the contrast between old and new, and the implication that past a certain point learning is impossible. Shakespeare used similar contrasts and parallels in his metaphors. Recognizing them, and learning how to call them out, will make your performances more memorable. If you still don't believe me, watch some more of those Playing Shakespeare clips online. The difference between watching a half-good amateur stumble through King John and watching Patrick Stewart deliver it should make it clear. There's more to Shakespeare than being loud and British.

boston-windchill

Professor Coldheart — Mon, 01 Feb 2010 14:44:38 +0000

battlestar galactica board game

Professor Coldheart — Mon, 01 Feb 2010 14:46:14 +0000

pour salt water on the wounds

Professor Coldheart — Mon, 01 Feb 2010 14:46:51 +0000

Things I learned this past weekend: New England is Cold In The Winter I tried going to Razzy's for Karaoke on Friday night, since some Yelp folks had put out a call. We'd tried going the week before, but had found a half hour line just to get inside - not to sing, just to enter the bar - at 10:30. That's unreasonably early for a bar that doesn't charge a cover. So this week, we tried getting there at 9:15, noting that the back room - with all the karaoke - doesn't even open until 9:00. Again, a knot of people outside, waiting to get in. So we turned around and headed north to drink at Porter Square. I wouldn't call the walk from Porter Square to Razzy's long by any stretch - it's a quick ten minutes. But the biting wind that had been at our back on the walk down slapped us in the face on the way up. Tears streamed down our faces; the wind checked our stride. We choked out small talk in bitter gasps. Windchill was at -12 F after midnight on Friday. Over forty degrees below the point of freezing. When I looked in the bathroom mirror back home, a face raw with windburn stared back at me. I wonder how long I might have lasted before frostburn set in. I Need To Work On Sincerity Sunday, after sampling some micro-brews and homemade pizza with jiu-jitsu friends at Keith T's house, I stopped in at Greg's in Cambridge for an evening of Battlestar Galactica: The Board Game. Presuming some familiarity with the TV show: BSG:TBG sets you aboard the Galactica and Colonial One, besieged by Cylons and running low on everything. Your mission is to keep the human fleet alive until you can jump to Kobol. Every turn, new crises pop up that'll force you to make the better of two awful choices (lose 2 food, or lose 1 population and 1 morale; etc) or deploy more Cylons in space around your ship. The complication: every player has a chance of being a Cylon. You get a card at the start of play, and another halfway through the game, that determines whether you are a Cylon or not. If you are, your goal is to secretly undermine the group's efforts to survive crises while keeping your cover. You can reveal yourself as a Cylon at an opportune moment, causing havoc on the ship and unlocking a whole host of new Cylon powers. In last night's game, President Tom Zarek (yours truly) released some Cylon mugshots early in the voyage, insinuating that Captain Lee "Apollo" Adama (Greg) was a Cylon. Sadly, while everyone suspected Apollo, Zarek couldn't muster the support of the rest of the crew, leading to Admiral Saul Tigh (Amy) to declare martial law and seize the presidency. Zarek, realizing the tide was against him, called for a new election and put Sharon "Boomer" Valeri (Joanne) in the President's chair. Apollo then ordered Zarek's arrest. In a desperation move, Zarek gave his evidence to "Chief" Tyrell (Fraley) in the hopes that he could arrest Apollo. But Apollo stalled his trip to the brig long enough to reveal himself as a Cylon, ordering Tigh's arrest and then vanishing. Boomer outed herself as a Cylon thereafter. Losing the Galactica's two best pilots proved fatal, as this led to a desperate scramble to defend civilian ships from Cylon Basestar attack. With Kobol merely one jump away, the fleet was wiped out. I'd have been more upset about not being believed when I accused Greg of being a Cylon (I'd looked at his card! the President can do that!), but I was having too much fun playing up Tom Zarek's smarm. Still, important lessons for future confrontations: make sincere eye contact and let your accusation stand for itself. And don't let the Cylon put you in the brig.

you don't know love like you used to

Professor Coldheart — Tue, 02 Feb 2010 11:00:50 +0000

In This Light and On This Evening: So we're cool with Tom Smith being this generation's Ian Curtis? I wasn't around when we took the vote; sorry. But it seems to be a done deal? I'm cool with it, don't get me wrong. But it seems like any claim Editors had to not being Joy Division all over again got chucked out the window with their latest. Combine their indie lyricism and their emo sentimentality with a full electronic symphony and you get this gem, In This Light and On This Evening. The effect may not be original, sure, but it is potent. You get beautiful dance-hall hits like "Papillon." You get songs that sound like dungeon music from Zelda II ("The Boxer"). And you get the occasional track that just cuts me down at the knees, like the hit single "You Don't Know Love." Seeing these guys later in February; will report more in detail. [youtube=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=IaH_S8wWf0c]

I'm a hustler, homey; you a customer, crony

Professor Coldheart — Wed, 03 Feb 2010 12:42:31 +0000

New post on Overthinking It today about how gangsta rap and Seinfeld validated each other. Check it out.

now every chain has got a weak link

Professor Coldheart — Fri, 05 Feb 2010 14:31:38 +0000

I watched Sneakers again on Saturday, out of a desire to learn more about screenwriting. (In unrelated news, how great is the Internet? Twenty years ago, I couldn't have learned how to write or format a screenplay without schlepping to the public library, checking out one of their four dog-eared books on screenwriting - which would itself be eight to ten years out of date - and then taking copious notes. Today, I Google "three act screenplay structure" and I'm up and running. Now all I need is a lucrative license, a bankable star and extensive contacts within Hollywood) Though the rise of indie auteurs have given it a shake, the three-act screenplay structure is still the most recognized language of movie storytelling. Act One (the first quarter) introduces The Hero and The Problem and compels the Hero to address the Problem. Act Two (the middle half) throws obstacles at the Hero, bringing him to a low point roughly midway through. Some revelation helps him climb back up to the final confrontation. That's Act Three (the last quarter), where the Hero engages and overcomes the Problem in a momentous climax. Understanding that's easy. Seeing it in practice is difficult. Let's use Sneakers as an example (warning - COPIOUS SPOILERS to follow):

Act One: This gave me the most trouble. Sneakers is a job movie: Martin Bishop (Redford) and his gang of sneaks are hired to retrieve a MacGuffin from mathematician Gunther Janek (Logue). If the end of Act One is when the Hero decides to tackle the Problem, then Act One ends at about the 19:00 mark, when Bishop convinces his team to take the job. Right? I don't know. Act One doesn't just set our Hero on the path; it also bars the gate behind him. Working for the (supposed) NSA is a big step for these guys, but it doesn't feel momentous. Our heroes aren't really locked onto their path until they discover that Janek's been murdered and walk away from the hand-off with their employers. But that would make Act One forty minutes long - roughly 1/3 of the movie's entire running time. That's atypical, but not impossible. Job movies are tricky. If the movie starts with our heroes hired to do something they do every day - assassinate a politician, rob a bank, drive a Dodge Challenger from Colorado to San Francisco - then there's nothing really compelling there. Does Act One end when the first complication is introduced? The twist that makes it clear that this job won't be like all the others? So I'm going to compromise: Act One ends when Bishop convinces Liz to take him to Janek's lecture. Though he's agreed to take the job a while ago, it's not until this point that The Team is assembled (even though Liz protests she's not part of The Team). We now have every player we'll need to accomplish the mission and overcome the Problem. This happens at roughly the 25-minute mark.
17-Minute Mark: One of the sites I read on screenplay structure observed that whatever's happening at the 17-minute mark usually speaks to what the Hero needs to change, personally, in order to overcome the Problem. This is because the subplot (the Hero's personal development) alternates with the main plot (overcoming the Problem), and the main plot has to come first to whet our appetites. So the first chance we get to breathe is roughly halfway through Act One: the 17-minute mark. I don't know how universal this is. But the author gave the example of Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade (one of the top 10 adventure movies of the 80s). Young Indy is being shushed by his father at the 17-minute mark and is having the Cross of Coronado taken back by the thieves he rescued it from. Indy's stilted relationship with his father is the personal obstacle he has to overcome throughout the movie. In Sneakers, Bishop is revealing his past - the outstanding warrant under his original name - to the team at the 17-minute mark. Sneakers is about trust. While this isn't shocking for a movie about cryptography, every character we sympathize with grows when they learn to trust the folks around them. Bishop rebounds from his Act Two crisis (q.v.) by apologizing to Liz for not trusting her. Crease (Poitier) distracts the guards holding him at gunpoint by finally opening up about why he left the C.I.A. ("my ... temper."). Whistler (Strathairn) saves Bishop, Liz and Carl by trusting Bishop to navigate him through a parking lot.
Act Two: The bulk of the running time. Our heroes surveill Janek, break into his office and acquire the MacGuffin. Then, complications begin arising. First, the MacGuffin is much more powerful - and therefore dangerous to them - than they realized. "There isn't a government on the planet that wouldn't kill us all for that thing," Crease observes. This also leads to a crisis of trust between Bishop and Liz. Second, it turns out that the people who hired Bishop and his spooks aren't who they claimed to be. This leads the team to start acting out of desperation, not careful planning - "I'm going to a concert," Bishop explains, loading a revolver. Our Heroes' actions become more frantic and tense.
Midpoint: The mastermind behind all these schemes is Bishop's old college buddy, Cosmo (Kingsley). Cosmo offers Bishop a chance to join him, which Bishop rejects flippantly. As a result, Cosmo ruins Bishop's life with a few keystrokes, implicating him in the murder of a Russian consular officer. This is the Act Two midpoint - at almost exactly one hour in. It's the low point for our Hero. He's lost the MacGuffin, he's been beat up, his friend from the Russian embasssy is dead and his alias is compromised. Our Hero spends the rest of Act Two climbing back toward the top. He and the rest of the gang make incremental gains throughout the Act: reaching out to the NSA, learning where the goons took Bishop, surveilling Playtronics headquarters, setting Liz up on the blind date, etc.
Act Three: Infiltrating Playtronics to retrieve the MacGuffin. We have about 30 minutes left in the film at this point. From here on out, the tension never ramps down. The Heroes can overcome obstacles, but they can never feel truly safe until they get out and home free.

Is that a fair summation? Did I miss anything? Am I doing this right? I know I have some more experienced movie pros in my readership; help me out, guys.

don't wanna go down in the tube station at midnight

Professor Coldheart — Mon, 08 Feb 2010 11:00:36 +0000

Elizabeth B., a friend of mine from high school, visited Boston to look at grad schools this past weekend. I showed her the best the city had to offer:

90s Night at Common Ground
Tour of the college campuses she was applying to
The Cellar near Harvard Square
The mainstage show at ImprovBoston

She picked a good weekend to get out of Baltimore, as a sudden snowstorm blanketed the city. So she enjoyed Boston's balmy 30-degree temperatures and wide, windswept streets. I like showing Boston off to tourists, especially those from Baltimore. It reminds me of how awesome a city I live in. When my younger brother came to visit two years ago to see a Celtics game, he literally stared with a slack jaw at the Boston skyline. "I'm not used to seeing buildings this big," he confessed. My first night at Boston College - over a decade in the past, now - I walked to the Green Line terminus just outside the main campus. The pink glow of light pollution told me which way the city was: due east of my current position. I was young, healthy and unchaperoned for the first time in my life. I started walking, with some ill-formed notion that I might walk to downtown Boston and just soak up the fluorescence. I didn't make the walk that night - young and poetical, I had no conception of what seven miles actually looked like - but I've since traveled every part of that route. Last Thursday I bought lunch at a corner deli in the South End. I can see it from the window of my office, twenty stories above the Back Bay, but it's still a fifteen minute walk to get there. The route cuts past the gleaming metal and marble offices of Copley, past the First Bank of Boston (established 1784), over the Massachusetts Turnpike, and into dense red brick rowhomes. I've lived in this city for a decade and the South End could be in a whole different state, for all that I know of it.

hey, baby; are we losing touch?

Professor Coldheart — Tue, 09 Feb 2010 11:00:54 +0000

The subject of Andy Kaufman came up in my Livejournal on Friday. Kaufman frustrates me beyond words, partly because I can't stand his schtick and partly because I can't articulate why I can't stand his schtick. It's like waterboarding: it's so obvious to me that it's evil that it precedes reason. I have a hard time constructing arguments for why waterboarding is torture and torture is wrong, because whenever I'm confronted with someone who sincerely asks, "Why exactly is torture wrong?" my first reaction is mute horror. Andy Kaufman's the same way. But, in the interest of being a good sport, a pop culture pundit and an amateur blogger, I'm going to tackle why exactly I don't find Andy Kaufman funny. A lot of this stems from my own personal taste, which I can't pretend is objective. Some of this stems from my theories on humor. Some of this is just common sense. Follow along if you like. As I've said before, humor relies on (among other things) the exposure of the absurd. You point out something that doesn't make sense and engender a laugh rather than a shriek of horror. A 225-lb man menacing a 125-lb woman isn't funny; a 125-lb woman menacing a 225-lb man can be. Of course, social institutions - school, the office, the family, church, politics - enshrine a lot of traditions that are absurd on their face. Humor's a useful way to attack these absurdities; it's sometimes the only way. King Philippe VI did not hear of the French defeat at the Battle of Sluys in June 1340 until the court jester made a jibe at the bravery of the French knights. And consider all the mocks that organized religion has taken at the hands of the Monty Python troupe (Life of Brian being the best example).

All I did was say to my wife, "That piece of halibut was good enough for Jehovah!"

Sadly, each of us finds some cherished tradition sacred and not open to mockery. This means that a lot of this corrective humor is at someone else's expense. Keith Olbermann gets huffy if you make fun of Democrats and Bill Donohue can't take a Eucharist joke no matter how you tell it. So a lot of times, even if the joke is really funny, someone's still going to cross their arms and pout. Not everyone can be in on the joke. And that's fine. But while being offensive doesn't disqualify a joke from being funny, it's not a sufficient quality. In other words, while many jokes are offensive, not everything that's offensive is a joke. The Daily Show made its bones, years and years ago, by staging faux-serious interviews with ridiculous people. These people no doubt got offended once they discovered they were the butt of a joke. But we didn't care, because the victims were usually members of a small enough subculture that we had a hard time sympathizing. I'm sure if I grew up in a family of hardcore Lunar Landing hoaxers, the interview with the guy who got punched by Buzz Aldrin might have stung me. But everyone else would have laughed. More importantly, The Daily Show wasn't just hurting opportune targets. They were also really funny. Da Ali G Show also lifted Sacha Baron Cohen to prominence by keeping performers in the dark. When Ali G interviewed Newt Gingrich, Bhoutros Bhoutros Ghali or a DEA agent, they didn't know that the interview was a spoof. This was part of the humor: watching these normally poised public officials stammer and go off book when confronted by Cohen's inanity was hilarious. It deflated the mighty. Cohen pushed that envelope a little with the Borat movie - in my eyes, not always with good cause. Some of the scenes, like his dinner at a Southern estate or his "confession" at a Pentecostal prayer meeting, were hilarious. But I had a harder time with some of his other schticks, like tricking the driving ed instructor into saying offensive things or breaking things by pratfalling in a Texas antique shop. Even if good satire is allowed to be hurtful, I don't think that everything that's hurtful can be labeled "satire." That shop owner didn't ask to be visited by some clumsy, destructive asshole - but hey! Comedy, right? [youtube=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ulupTy1Ojjo] And at the saddest end of the spectrum, we have Tom Green. The Tom Green Show had a lot of great ideas with potential that Green (again, in my eyes) completely failed to execute on. For instance: Undercutters, the pizza restaurant that follows pizza delivery cars to houses and tries to underbid them. I chuckled when I saw the prank starting to unfold. Then I quickly grew bored. Green lacked any ability at manipulating the other people involved, except to get them angry. He could never have played an interview straight-faced for as long as Cohen did. For another thing, Green picked people that no one wanted to see deflated. Making fun of Moon Hoax theorists or Newt Gingrich is comic gold. Making fun of suburban homeowners with their faces blurred out? Who does that appeal to? I'm probably giving Green too much credit by suggesting that he had a point that his pranks were missing. Green didn't have a point. He did the first thing that came into his head. If you get hold of the intercom speakers at a department store and the funniest thing you can think of to say is, "Tasty corn, tasty corn, tasty corn," you have no business marketing yourself as an entertainer. For fuck's sake, man. At least page Heywood Jablowme or Hugh Jass. Have some dignity. So then there's Andy Kaufman. Kaufman at least had a vaudevillian's sense of timing:

Kaufman first caught major attention with a character known as "Foreign Man," who claimed to be from "Caspiar" (a fictional island in the Caspian Sea) and would appear on the stage of comedy clubs to play a recording of the theme from "Mighty Mouse," lip-synch one line—"Here I come to save the day." He would proceed to poorly tell a few jokes and perform a number of lackluster impersonations (Archie Bunker, Richard Nixon, et al.). Some variations of this performance were broadcast in the first season of Saturday Night Live; the "Mighty Mouse" number was featured on the premiere October 11, 1975, broadcast, while the joke-telling and Bunker impression were included in the November 8 broadcast that same fall.[5] He might speak in a fake accent and say, "I would like to imitate Meester Carter, de President of de United States." He would continue in the same voice: "Hello, I am Meester Carter, de President of de United States. T'ank you veddy much." The audience would be torn between outrage at seeing such a bad act and empathy for the hapless entertainer, who would cry onstage once heckled enough. At that point, Foreign Man would announce, "And now I would like to imitate the Elvis Presley," turn around, take off his jacket, slick his hair back, and launch into an Elvis Presley impersonation so good that Presley himself described it as his favorite. After the wild applause that almost always came after his Elvis impression, he would take a simple bow and say in his "Foreign Man" voice, "T'ank you veddy much!" The audience would realize they had been tricked, which became a trademark of Kaufman's comedy.

The problem was, as Kaufman grew more successful / sick / deranged / experimental, he forgot that last bit. He forgot to include the audience. And a joke which doesn't include any of the audience at any point isn't a joke. For all you know, the man shouting in a lisp in Creole on the subway to no one in particular might be in the middle of a hilarious stand-up act. You want him to host Saturday Night Live? This post veered (as I suspected it would) from my issues with Andy Kaufman and performance art-comedy to my theories on humor. Again, humor doesn't need to be clean, or conventional, to appeal to me. But I need to be able to guess whom it might appeal to. And Kaufman's later schtick, or the entirety of Tom Green's career, or certain portions of Sacha Baron Cohen's act, go completely over my head. It's not that it's "not funny"; it's that it's not funny.

I give a little to you, I give a little to him, I give a little to her

Professor Coldheart — Wed, 10 Feb 2010 11:00:02 +0000

I had two encounters with comical anger on Saturday: Item the First: chauffeuring Liz B. around on Saturday, I thought I'd lucked into a parking lot on the far end of Newbury St near the public gardens. I saw a car pulling out of a spot and swerved across an open lane to take it. I was just wondering how to correct my initial approach when an SUV barreled toward me in reverse, rocking to a halt a few feet away. My eyes had glossed over the SUV without pause when I first saw it: a double-parked vehicle with its hazards blinking on Newbury St on a Saturday doesn't merit the evening news. But apparently he'd been waiting for this guy to pull out. Yet here I was, already in the spot. It had been so long since I'd contested a parking spot with someone that I wasn't sure of the procedure. Am I in the right here?, I wondered. Should I back out? Is he going to give up? SUV precipitated the decision for me, not by rolling down his window to scream obscenities but by opening his door. However, he was in such a hurry to get out and confront me that he forgot to remove his seat belt. He wrestled with the strap while standing next to the open driver side door, lips creased in a snarl. I already had one hand on the stick shift (D to R) and the other up in an "easy there, killer" open palm. Seeing me reverse, the driver gave a curt nod and a "move along" gesture with his hand. I didn't linger to watch the aftermath. I don't know how that would have gone down if he hadn't become tangled up in his seatbelt on his way out the door. Check that: I know I wouldn't have started a fistfight on Newbury St over a parking spot. But that moment of pure slapstick defused the tension for me. I recognized the man for what he was - someone very vested in a Lockean notion of property rights re: parking spots; he had mixed his labor (waiting with the hazards on) with the soil (nine feet by four next to a meter) and expected it to yield fruit. My life is richer for avoiding crazies, not confronting them. (And I shouldn't call the man "crazy" based on twenty chaotic seconds of interacting with him. He doubtless had a different anecdote to share that evening: "So I'm circling Newbury St for, like, twenty minutes looking for a spot. Then I see a guy pulling out, so I park right in front. But then this prick in an Audi swerves across to try and snatch it from me! I'm sittin' there, in plain daylight, and he tries to poach that shit. So I get out to give him a piece of my mind, and he backs right the fuck down.") I ended up parking two blocks away, just over the Pike. Added maybe five minutes to my walk. Item the Second: I took Liz to see ImprovBoston's mainstage show that evening. Afterward we lingered in the bar, chatting with the performers and house staff. I introduced Liz to Narragansett, Boston's answer to PBR (which I hadn't thought needed answering, but hey). A woman in platform heels and a colorful, ill-fitting outfit walked out of the back hallway, probably coming from the Cabaret studio. She stepped outside to light up a smoke. Another woman followed her in short order and conducted a brief, quiet argument with her. This second woman then came back inside, to where Natalie B. was working the bar. "Do you guys serve alcohol here?", she asked. Natalie nodded. "Lemme get two raspberry Stolis and lime." "We don't actually have hard -" Natalie began explaining. "Okay, two Coronas." "We don't -" "Two Heinekens, then." Natalie, an adorable ball of energy, smiled and gestured at the fridge behind her. "We've only got a few beers stocked here. Harpoon, mostly." The woman got a few Harpoons and some bottled water and vanished. Twenty minutes later, the 9:00 show let out. She and a similarly dressed crew emerged, tottering and shrieking, to wait in the lobby for their ride. "And they don't even have fuckin' Heineken," the original woman was explaining. "They've got some bullshit beer. What was it? Fuckin' O'Doul's?" She asked this of Ted, possibly the nicest human being on the face of the planet, who was reading a book behind the cash register. "It's Harpoon," he explained. "Harpoon? Whaddaya, whaddaya." If I hadn't suspected they were out-of-towners before, the Brooklyn accent and the ignorance of Harpoon proved it. The Brooklyn ladies waited in their swarm until their stretch Hummer pulled up on Prospect St. I don't have a lengthy explanation for the above; sorry.

three stacks of high society

Professor Coldheart — Fri, 12 Feb 2010 14:11:06 +0000

I don't know if this will become a regular feature, but I'm not stopping until Spielberg returns my calls. So here's my next amateur script breakdown: 1998's Rounders. As usual, substantial spoilers follow. Act One: We meet Mike, our lovable poker-hustling protagonist (Damon), his nemesis Teddy KGB (Malkovich, in simultaneously his most compelling and worst performance in years), his childhood buddy Worm (Norton) and his love interest Jo (Mol, and remember when everyone thought she was going to take off like an express train?). The most important players are all assembled. The flashback that introduces us to Mike and his problem takes a little while, but it's effective: Mike loses a poker game for $30,000 to Teddy KGB. This sets him on the straight-and-narrow path we find him on as the movie proper starts. It also establishes the tension that defines him: his perpetual caution. 17-Minute Mark: Mike tells Jo that he stopped in on the judges' poker game last night. He defends what he was doing as a way to network. She talks to him like a recovering addict: full of warmth but unyielding in her concern. Act Two: The turning point for the first Act is when Mike goes back to the poker game that Worm has scoped out in upstate New York. Up to that point, he is still on the honest path: law school, hot girlfriend, respectable prospects. But he can't turn his back on his childhood friend. From this point on, things start spinning out of control for our hero. Jo finds the "gangster roll" of hundreds that Mike won at the poker party. Worm, thinking he has Mike on his side again, starts running up Mike's tab at the underground casino that Petra (Janssen) runs. This leads to Mike getting called out of meetings with his mock trial team. Midpoint: Mike reaches his lowest point when he bombs out at the mock trial, embarrassing himself in front of the Dean (Landau) and the judge he'd hoped to impress. His legal career isn't necessarily over, but the upward arc he'd enjoyed in the first half has now plummeted. Further, he's losing touch with his law school friends, which forces him to spend more time with Worm and Petra. This is Mike's lowest point, which might be a surprise, considering: Act Three: ... Act Two ends with Mike and Worm getting brutally beat down by the Binghamton, NY police department. I recalled this scene vividly when popping the DVD in and figured it to be the midpoint. But it comes about three-quarters of the way through the movie. Odd, I thought. So Mike embarrassing himself in moot court is a lower point than Mike getting the shit kicked out of him by townie cops? To which the answer is an obvious yes. Mike loses everything he held dear - his girlfriend, the respect of his peers, his shot at a promising career in law - by stumbling into moot court after an all-night Atlantic City bender. He loses nothing more than a few ounces of blood in the beating. Moreover, he makes an important turning point: he cuts Worm loose. As important as Worm's friendship has been, Mike realizes that Worm's behavior will only drag him down. Act Three is not perfectly executed. A good Act Three should never let up on the tension, and Rounders gives us several pauses for breath. Mike gets the money from the Dean. He tells an entertaining but long story about Johnny Chan to Knish (Turturro). And, most damningly, we see his hole cards in the climactic hand against Teddy KGB. So there are flaws. But the story is as it should be. And even if the arc is a little mellower than it ought to be, we still follow a hero's rise, fall and redemption - the heart of modern movie-making.

slow down, little one; you can't keep running away

Professor Coldheart — Tue, 16 Feb 2010 14:15:57 +0000

I hadn't planned to spend six hours drinking with Yelp people on Friday. I only knew one person there (the indubitable Emily G), so how long could I stay? You can't approach any social engagement without a plan - at least not when you live in my head - and I had one. Stop in, have a beer, say hi, maybe make some introductions, and then retreat to the other side of the river where you actually know people. Six hours, two beers and a shot of Jameson later, I caught the last train home. Not the first time this has happened with Yelp people, either. To be fair, it happens in my other social circles too (friends, ImprovBoston people, jiu-jitsu students). But it always works this way with Yelp. Why is that? Since I clearly can't figure it out, I leave the answer to you:

Since I don't have any expectations for how the evening will turn out, I approach each event with an open mind.
Yelp draws in people in similar straits: twenty- and early thirty-somethings who aren't hanging with a crew that evening, and are therefore just as eager to make new friends as I am.
We all drink a lot.
Other (supply your own).

Show your work; partial credit will be awarded.

but thou must

Professor Coldheart — Wed, 17 Feb 2010 14:55:04 +0000

New article up on Overthinking It today about video games and the categorical imperative. Excerpt:

You don’t need to question if killing everyone you see, stockpiling on shuriken and climbing cliff faces while birds fling themselves at you like meteorites (these damn BIRDS) is getting you closer to your end. You never stop and wonder, “Is any of this bringing me closure on my father’s death?” You just keep going. So long as you kill everything you see and keep your life bar full, you’re doing the right thing. You’re on the path. And so long as you stay on the path all the time, you’ll get to the end. You’re following the categorical imperative.

Enjoy!

	*God exists*	*God does not exist*
*Wager for God*	Gain all	Status quo
*Wager against God*	Misery	Status quo