The Unasked Questions

This blog post is to remind those who have stumbled upon this page that I'm still here. College classes are doing their level best to bury me, but I'm quite indomitable. Or indefatigable. I'm not really sure what either of those words mean, but they have a certain strong quality about them, so I'm just going to let it hang out there, and hope you've skipped this part of the post.



This new program for Mozilla called 'Performancing' is quite nice. It lets me blog from any page--no need to log in to Blogger. It also contains some nice features which I'll have to explore more fully in the future.



Rich and I spent a good amount of time tonight watching "To Catch A Predator" on NBC. It is a show that certainly stirs debate. Obviously, men who prey on children need prison or psychiatric help, and there is untold good to be had by removing them from our streets. On the other hand, when watching the show you notice that the men are always charged with attempting a lewd act with a minor. Is there no stronger charge that can be leveled against them? If so, why isn't it being used? And if not, does that mean that what these men are doing doesn't provide enough evidence to warrant more serious penalties? How many of these men are convicted of the charges they're arrested on? I'd like more data on the results of this show.



What is beyond dispute is the abject absurdity that is the program's host, Chris Hansen. The man looks like the captain of the lacrosse team who is pretending to be a journalist. He is far to coiffed and tanned to be a journalist, as it suggests he spends the preponderance of his time doing pilates rather than chasing down leads, burning up the phone lines, writing blistering copy, and other newsroom movie cliches. I would be rather surprised to find the man speaking without a script. His chief qualification for being a television personality is an undying and ceaseless quest to tell you [the predator and the viewer at home] that he is Chris Hansen, from Dateline NBC. Even when the man in the sting has confessed that he recognizes our host, and even correctly identifies the program, Blonde-bot 4000 looks dazed and bleats out "I'm Chris Hansen, from Dateline NBC." Only then does the look of smugness and assurance wash back to his face, knowing that he didn't go off-book for too long and that he's back in his comfort zone.



The show, while controversial in many ways, is worth watching if only to see if Hansen short circuits at the prospect of not audibly identfying himself to a camera. Make some popcorn and check it out.

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The Real Politik World

This is the best NY Times article I've read in a long time, as it reinforces something I've long hoped for, which is that politicians are more like regular people then we might have guessed. The very notion of 2 US Senators, powerful ones at that, and two Representatives living in one house during the work week is inherently hilarious. Throw in the fact that they fight about cereal and making the bed, and you've got the Odd Couple, if Felix and Oscar weren't a photographer and sports writer but instead voted on federal appropriations bills. I was also heartened with the evidence that these guys can be funny, and are certainly funnier than I imagined senators and congressmen were. Read it, you'll like it. Or not, what do I care?

The title might be a bit obvious, but sometimes we sacrifice creativity for the easy reference. We can't be brilliant all the time. (Note: In the previous sentence, the author employed the royal 'we.')

Never Mind The Why and Wherefore

I've been back at school for a few days now, and already my professors have this absurd notion that they can assign me reading to do. I had no idea they held such authority. I am researching the recourse I have to flatly refuse to do such work, but my guess would be that none exists.

After a streak of incredible, logic defying luck similar to that which explains the success of Sarah Jessica Parker, winter has arrived in Manhattan. We had it so good for so long, that when it made its presence felt on Tuesday, it was very much like getting smacked in the face by the icy hand of reality. To be fair, we were living in a fantasy world where a New York January involved 67 degree weather, ice cream vendors and flip flops. It was like living in Los Angeles; not something that anyone should find out they've done overnight. In a way, it is nice to see cold weather heralding the change of the seasons as it confirms that all is right with the world. But in another much larger and more real way it is not nice at all because we had very pleasant weather and now I'm living in frozen hellscape where my eyebrows freeze and are in danger of being broken off. It hardly seems fair.

And if that weren't enough, my kitchen cupboards are entirely bereft of tea. I've had to content myself with drinking water before writing this. That's no good for anyone. I'm a huge ponce, and I need tea before I sleep otherwise I feel like a poor person. Hoping against hope that I remember to pick some up tomorrow.

If you've defied my orders to watch the videos for Brothers in Arms, you've no excuse. The links are in the previous post. Watch them both, as they contextualize each other. Or some other word that makes sense in that sentence.

It Ain't Keats, But It Hits As Hard

I usually hate it when people post song lyrics in their e-mail or instant messages. Especially because most people pick terrible songs, like Dave Matthews or Spice Girls. However, I will break this normally firm rule in favor of the song "Brothers in Arms" by Dire Straits. Indeed, in this case I have done more than post lyrics, I've put up a link to the video, because I am a hypocrite and this song is one of the few that can make me emotional in any sense. I am ordinarily a robot about these kinds of things, but when I hear those last words, it chokes me up. If you really want to see craftsmanship at its finest, Aaron Sorkin used it in the season two finale of The West Wing, where the President has to admit that he covered up his MS and announce his intentions to seek a second term. It's quite a stirring scene, one of the best written by a man who has written so many great scenes. Watching the President's senior advisers walk through the West Wing of the White House together, marching beside a man who has given them so much, whom they view as a father, it recalls one of Sorkin's central themes in his work: the office as a family. These men and women are less coworkers are really are brothers in arms. This is that rarest of songs that can pull a sad string in me. If you watch that West Wing scene or hear this song, and upon reaching those last lines you don't feel that sense of melancholy or regret over the tragic inevitability of things like war or those who sacrifice so much for so few, then you're a cynic and you've lost that empathy that makes living wonderful. I've long since abandoned the point of being over the top, and I know it isn't cool to be so moved by a Dire Straits song, but I am. Sue me.

Now the sun's gone to hell
And the moon's riding high
Let me bid you farewell
Every man has to die
But it's written in the starlight
And every line on your palm
We're fools to make war
On our brothers in arms

Urbane Ill Manners

As regular, medium, or grande readers of my blog may know, I spend a good amount of time developing ways to confuse or frustrate people I encounter in new social situations. I've previously described my penchant for inventing new words and using them in conversations. That works pretty well a lot of the time, but I find it can be too simple. I have been trying out an updated, and probably a bit meaner, version of this which I call "Name Drop"


Don't be fooled by the title, it has nothing to do with mentioning famous people I know, mostly because I don't know many famous people. Name Dropping here refers to repeatedly forgetting someone's name after recently being introduced to them, or in a more advanced form consistently replacing it with some (potentially absurd) substitute. This tends to provoke more of a reaction from women than it does from men, for reasons I couldn't prove but might be able to guess. Not very long ago I met a guy named Julius (unlikely, but it's true) and over the course of that evening I called him 'Barry', 'David' and 'Lars', and each time he would correct me by simply pointing at his chest and saying "Julius", which made me wonder if only his torso were named Julius and the rest of him was actually called "Lars". On the same night, I was introduced to a woman named Sandy. Now, I say woman, but she was probably about 19, and therefore on that cusp of questionable nomenclature. I'll use the term woman for no reason other than executive decision. Sandy is not a name I encounter often, but this only made the game more fun. In her case, I went as exotic as I could with the names. I pulled out a 'Greta', a risky move because Sandy was Asian and might realize that the fact I picked something so patently Swedish means I was playing some game. Fortunately, that didn't occur to her as she merely said in a very earnest way, "No, I'm Sandy. We met half an hour ago." I apologized profusely and moved away, pretending I saw someone I recognized. Later in the night, I came up to Sandy and said, "Hey Diane, we're about to leave if you want to come with us." As soon as the words escaped my lips, I wondered if this game might genuinely hurt her feelings. I doubted it, because my name has been mangled like it went through a combine harvester so many times in my life that I don't take it seriously, and I honestly don't believe someone being bad with names is some sort of character flaw, although I hear people confess it to me as though it were a meth addiction. But Sandy was not even mad, more confused, bemused, amused, but not used. She asked me, "Why do you keep messing up my name? It's Sandy." I was slightly shocked. Nobody ever has questioned me on this before, probably they just assume that I'm bad with names. But I've also built safeguards against through some basic strategic guidelines. It's a crucial element of the game to apologize sincerely after every "strike" to make sure there are no hard feelings. If you sense they're a bit miffed, you have to fly back to base camp before you decide to engage another target. Sandy gave me no impression that she found my antics anything but a minor annoyance, but now she asked me a question without anger, but genuine curiousity. Is it possible that I made her feel bad by implying that she wasn't important enough to remmeber? I couldn't just go on like this, treating people I've just met as playthings and making them doubt their worth as a human. I realized that it was probably best to be honest with her and tell her the truth, a rare moment of honesty and a chance for personal growth.


Luckily for me, I fought that instinct off and instead created some convoluted and thoroughly unbelievable story about how I can't remember names because as a child I ate too many carrots and they release some protease inhibitor that makes it hard for me to recognize and recall the names of objects or people. I told her that in restaurants this makes it hard for me to ask for simple things like "bread" because I first go through a minute of calling it "chimpanzee" and "tidal estuary". Amazingly, Sandy found this to be plausible enough to convince me that I got away with it. Sucker.



But as I think about it now, I can't really say why I play these games. Mostly, it's because they're fun, but also because I have a strange desire to stir things up and push, in a very small way, the boundries of social behavior. It's probably why I also like "Curb Your Enthusiasm" or Oscar Wilde and other comedies of manners. Manners are weird things, and all social conventions should be prodded and poked from time to time to see if they stand up or collapse like some popsicle stick structure that eight year olds build. I also secretly wonder what I would do if somebody snapped at me or cried because I called her 'Inga' instead of Jennifer. It would be a new and interesting social situation, one that I wouldn't feel that I've been in before. It would probably force me to be quick on my feet and diffuse a tense situation with humor, two things I love to do. I also derive secret but strong thrills from the feeling that I'm getting away with something, and the idea that I can purposely call someone by the wrong name or make up a word like "omnisentatious" and use it excites me in a very odd way. I don't really plan to stop, but I need a new way to amuse myself while playing with strangers. If you have any ideas, let me know. Keep in mind that I live in Manhattan, and as such have an endless supply of anonymous clumps lurching around the streets just waiting for me to vex them. Just throwing it out there.

Heliocentricism Is A Subject Of Debate

It's been a while since I posted, and while there is no good reason for it, you bloody scavengers get all this delicious content for free. In light of this, how about we just appreciate what we have and not emptily pine for the what may be?

New Year, same shit. The celebration of New Year's Eve is an odd construct, but an accepted one. I'm going to digress from my normal curmudgeonly style here, as you probably expected me to say "The celebration of the New Year is completely arbitrary and pointless, and we might as well just assign ourselves a day at random and at the stroke of midnight shove our fingers up our noses." I mean, that's sort of true. The New Year as we see it is not, in any cosmic sense, a new year. It's just a year since the last time we celebrated. Of course, a good party is always something to look forward to, but it's a bit strange to be told "December 31st is designated as a party night. You may all go home, get drunk with your friends, count backwards from 10, shout all at the same time and kiss the person next to you. But dammit, you better be here bright and early on January 2nd." Why couldn't we do that (the gathering and fun bit) whenever we wanted? It's a bizarre sort of externally imposed and rigidly timed joy. At 12:00:01, New Year's Day is just another day. For one second, we are permitted to have fun. I might be the only one, but it strikes me as a tad Orwellian. Maybe if the party lasted a bit longer, I wouldn't mind it so much. And this wasn't as much of a digression as initially advertised, so chew on that.

I also don't like New Year's Resolutions as a premise, as they rely on the supposition that there is something wrong with me and that I need to change. I don't feel that the alternative has been fully interrogated and disproved: that it is I who should remain at stasis and the world should adapt accordingly, a Me-centric universe wherein all other universal entities revolve about me as I clap and affix myself with a knowing grin. It seems a lot more likely than me making even the humblest of alterations to my heretofore demonstrably infallible existence.

If I were to turn the resolution lens at you, the audience, I would resolve for you to listen to me and my multifarious, albeit capricious, recommendations. That starts here, where I proclaim Liverpool band 'The Coral' a group to whom you would be wise to listen. Introduce yourself to the song 'Dreaming of You.' Get on that, would you?