March 2010 Archives
I know, I've been blogging lightly lately—say that 10 times quickly—but not much has been happening, just doing whatever it is I do. This morning, however a distinct event occurred, so I rushed to the keyboard to tell the world. The mouse was acting funny: In effect, it was clicking on everything I moused over. The last straw came when I moused over the iTunes Store screen and, without meaning to, bought a song by the Jeff Hamilton Trio called "Juicy Lucy." Never heard of either, but before I knew it the little downloady wheel was spinning.
It's a weird feeling, buying a song by accident. It's kind of like one of those movies where you have a yuppie couple with the seemingly perfect life, everything buttoned down and in place, or maybe you have a curmudgeonly guy living alone, withdrawn and not really in touch with how sad he is, and then in either scenario some foster kids fall from the sky and end up in the household, underfoot and turning everything upside down, but in the end everyone finds out What It Really Means to Care. I don't know if I really care about the song "Juicy Lucy" at this point but who knows? Maybe by the end of the film.
So anyway, it's Apple's main mouse that they sell, with a tiny scroll ball and clickable on either side. I thought people should know about this possibility if they're using this type of mouse to do computer-assisted microsurgery, say, or monitoring the launch status of the missiles on a nuclear submarine. If you're using that Apple mouse you want to keep an eye on it.
It's a weird feeling, buying a song by accident. It's kind of like one of those movies where you have a yuppie couple with the seemingly perfect life, everything buttoned down and in place, or maybe you have a curmudgeonly guy living alone, withdrawn and not really in touch with how sad he is, and then in either scenario some foster kids fall from the sky and end up in the household, underfoot and turning everything upside down, but in the end everyone finds out What It Really Means to Care. I don't know if I really care about the song "Juicy Lucy" at this point but who knows? Maybe by the end of the film.
So anyway, it's Apple's main mouse that they sell, with a tiny scroll ball and clickable on either side. I thought people should know about this possibility if they're using this type of mouse to do computer-assisted microsurgery, say, or monitoring the launch status of the missiles on a nuclear submarine. If you're using that Apple mouse you want to keep an eye on it.
Well, a while back I wrote about being up early, watching the snowplows going busily about their business in the frigid darkness, and feeling like the system worked to some extent. I try not to spend a lot of time with people who complain endlessly that everything is screwed up, but I'm aware they're out there. You sit down in a plane, or a bar stool, or go to a business meeting, and people start up. I agree myself that the United States is not a utopia, perhaps, but it's not Somalia, either. The snow gets plowed, right? Somebody got up at three in the morning and filled a thermos with coffee and went out and it was getting taken care of. It felt good simply to appreciate that.
One day before all the snow fell, I had stopped by the borough hall and mentioned to the receptionist that my recycling bin was slowly coming to pieces. It was about half the height it was born at, and would soon lack the capacity to handle the number of liquor bottles I throw out in a week. She said someone would drop a new one off, and scrawled my address on her desk calendar. This seemed alarmingly casual to me—it's how I do things myself, actually, and I don't recommend it as a system to others and it doesn't work that well for me either, really. But I said to myself that I would trust her, and the system. Things mostly work around here, as I say.
But the weeks went by and no recycling bin. I worried that one morning the garbage guy would seize my overflowing bin and send a cascade of bottles to the pavement. The neighbor moved away and left three intact bins on his porch next to me, and I thought of taking one, but decided against it. Those are not my bins. Without rules there is chaos, right? I wasn't upset with the borough—with all the snow, I figured, my small, low-priority problem fell through the cracks. (Not "between" the cracks, folks, OK?) No big deal. I kept meaning to give them a call and remind them about my slowly worsening situation.
But today I looked out on the porch, and there was a brand-new bin. It was a cheerful bright blue, much more fun to look it than the others, which are darker. It was roomy and capacious. I can drink many, many bottles of liquor and not outrun it. And it's mine, officially mine. See? The system does work a little. Thanks, borough folks! I appreciate it. And if you do your job and don't whine and carry on about everything I appreciate you too.
One day before all the snow fell, I had stopped by the borough hall and mentioned to the receptionist that my recycling bin was slowly coming to pieces. It was about half the height it was born at, and would soon lack the capacity to handle the number of liquor bottles I throw out in a week. She said someone would drop a new one off, and scrawled my address on her desk calendar. This seemed alarmingly casual to me—it's how I do things myself, actually, and I don't recommend it as a system to others and it doesn't work that well for me either, really. But I said to myself that I would trust her, and the system. Things mostly work around here, as I say.
But the weeks went by and no recycling bin. I worried that one morning the garbage guy would seize my overflowing bin and send a cascade of bottles to the pavement. The neighbor moved away and left three intact bins on his porch next to me, and I thought of taking one, but decided against it. Those are not my bins. Without rules there is chaos, right? I wasn't upset with the borough—with all the snow, I figured, my small, low-priority problem fell through the cracks. (Not "between" the cracks, folks, OK?) No big deal. I kept meaning to give them a call and remind them about my slowly worsening situation.
But today I looked out on the porch, and there was a brand-new bin. It was a cheerful bright blue, much more fun to look it than the others, which are darker. It was roomy and capacious. I can drink many, many bottles of liquor and not outrun it. And it's mine, officially mine. See? The system does work a little. Thanks, borough folks! I appreciate it. And if you do your job and don't whine and carry on about everything I appreciate you too.
After a long, cooped-up winter I successfully left the house yesterday, and just like I predicted, leaving the house set me up to see something at least halfway remarkable. I went to a presentation and when the woman giving it walked in I stared at her, thunderstruck, because she looked almost exactly like someone I dated years ago. Not just appearance, but height, subtle nuances in gait and posture, type of hair style and footgear, it just went on and on. I tried to talk myself out of it, kept looking for distinct differences, but never managed to find any. If I ever have a chance to talk to a geneticist I'm going to ask if it's possible, in certain very rare instances, for a blonde woman in her forties to have a younger, brunette twin sister.
Another remarkable thing was the strong turnout for this presentation, which was on social-network marketing. Just a few years ago, every business dude kept repeating those words and the phrase "Web 2.0" as if they were mantras like "nam myoho renge kyo" that would make you wildly successful if you just kept saying them mindlessly over and over again, whether you knew what they meant or not. And maybe the idea still retains a bit of mystical allure the less you know about it. Personally I was about at the level most of the other people in the room were—we knew what it was, vaguely, and knew it was probably worthwhile, and also knew it involves extra work. But it's like a law of physics or something that everything worthwhile involves extra work, doesn't it? Can't seem to avoid it, somehow.
I also noticed that the little perennial flowers are blooming, the snowdrops and such. I'll leave it to Verlyn Klinkenborg (who I'm sure is a very nice man) to wring reams of lyrical, rhythmic, pseudopoetic (and at least for Verlyn, obscenely lucrative) prose out of such an observation. They were pretty, certainly. And after all the snow excitement their blooming seemed very matter-of-fact. The storms were dramatic, but the flowers are calm and self-possessed, like people who wake up with pleasantly sleepy smiles, yawn and stretch, and ask what's for breakfast. It's spring again, just like that. That's another thing I noticed, because I left the house.
Another remarkable thing was the strong turnout for this presentation, which was on social-network marketing. Just a few years ago, every business dude kept repeating those words and the phrase "Web 2.0" as if they were mantras like "nam myoho renge kyo" that would make you wildly successful if you just kept saying them mindlessly over and over again, whether you knew what they meant or not. And maybe the idea still retains a bit of mystical allure the less you know about it. Personally I was about at the level most of the other people in the room were—we knew what it was, vaguely, and knew it was probably worthwhile, and also knew it involves extra work. But it's like a law of physics or something that everything worthwhile involves extra work, doesn't it? Can't seem to avoid it, somehow.
I also noticed that the little perennial flowers are blooming, the snowdrops and such. I'll leave it to Verlyn Klinkenborg (who I'm sure is a very nice man) to wring reams of lyrical, rhythmic, pseudopoetic (and at least for Verlyn, obscenely lucrative) prose out of such an observation. They were pretty, certainly. And after all the snow excitement their blooming seemed very matter-of-fact. The storms were dramatic, but the flowers are calm and self-possessed, like people who wake up with pleasantly sleepy smiles, yawn and stretch, and ask what's for breakfast. It's spring again, just like that. That's another thing I noticed, because I left the house.
A couple of weeks ago, I felt some momentarily unidentifiable objects hitting me as I crossed a parking lot, and felt a small shock of recognition: It was rain. I'd almost forgotten that precipitation came in non-blizzard form.
Since then I'm all up to speed on that, though—it poured yesterday and it's raining steadily again today too. But what the hey—spring is about a week away astronomically speaking, it's officially Daylight Savings Time already, the snowdrops and other early perennials are coming out. Here and there a few smears of snow still stand, remnants of the mighty piles the plows built last month. They're forlorn holdouts now, like those solitary Japanese soldiers they would find on various Pacific islands into the Seventies, unaware, or unwilling to admit, that the war was over.
That's pretty much the situation with the seasons—we could have a major snowstorm any day, but winter is effectively done. I'm glad we had the storms, they were fun, actually, but I'm ready for it to be spring for real and I bet I'm not alone in that. Maybe I'll get outside more and find something to blog about besides the weather.
Since then I'm all up to speed on that, though—it poured yesterday and it's raining steadily again today too. But what the hey—spring is about a week away astronomically speaking, it's officially Daylight Savings Time already, the snowdrops and other early perennials are coming out. Here and there a few smears of snow still stand, remnants of the mighty piles the plows built last month. They're forlorn holdouts now, like those solitary Japanese soldiers they would find on various Pacific islands into the Seventies, unaware, or unwilling to admit, that the war was over.
That's pretty much the situation with the seasons—we could have a major snowstorm any day, but winter is effectively done. I'm glad we had the storms, they were fun, actually, but I'm ready for it to be spring for real and I bet I'm not alone in that. Maybe I'll get outside more and find something to blog about besides the weather.
A few months ago we heard that a former leader of Cyprus who was buried because he was dead had been stolen from his grave by grave robbers because that's what grave robbers do, and I thought for sure that I had condemned this at the time but a quick search reveals that maybe I didn't. This blog regrets the omission.
Today we hear the alleged! Innocent until proven! grave robbers have been arrested, and I'm glad, because grave robbers should be arrested, and because I get an opportunity to publicly say that grave robbing is wrong. It's wrong on many levels. Look, you leave a bicycle, a handbag, a camera sitting around, and you're leaving people open to temptation. It's wrong to take those things if they're not yours, but kind of understandable. But a dead body isn't much use to anyone—that's why burying was invented in the first place. Then there are the relatives and friends to consider. LIke most people, I have friends and family who've gone to their reward, and it would bother me considerably to hear that that someone had dug them up and stolen the body. So there's that.
Finally there's the futility of it. I just don't see how your life is going to get better by robbing a grave. The alleged robbers allegedly made ransom demands, but let's face it, this is not like a situation with live hostages. I'm not in favor of taking live hostages either, by the way. I've always maintained that taking hostages creates more problems than it solves. But at least, from the practical point of view, the hostages are alive and harmable. If you took me hostage and threatened to kill me if you weren't paid a certain sum—a couple of hundred bucks, say—somebody would probably pony up. But the key thing you should keep in mind about dead bodies, if you're thinking of robbing graves at some future point, is this: Dead bodies are already dead. It's their most salient feature. What are you going to threaten them with? If you dig up my favorite deceased great aunt and threaten to run her body through a wood chipper, or dress it up in silly hats and put the pictures online, or make it into a coffee table, well, that would be distasteful and I'd oppose it in the strongest possible terms. Anything worth opposing is worth opposing in the strongest possible terms. But if you asked me for some six- or seven-figure sum not to do those things, well, I'd have to wonder about the effects of positive reinforcement. We don't want more grave robbing than exists at present.
So! That's how I feel. In my mind there can be no equivocation, no two-sides-to-every-argument: grave robbing is wrong. If you don't agree, well, just deal with it. In conclusion, I'd like to say that when I was a kid I used to sit up at night and watch movies on TV, and sometimes they'd be film noir movies, and those ones would always freak me out a little because it was about people letting their baser impulses guide them and it never, ever ended well. Those movies always made me swear that I would be a good, decent person and lead a good, decent life. I've logged a few miles and I won't presume to judge myself in this regard but I like to think I've tried. If your own baser impulses have led you to consider robbing graves but you've decided against it because of what I've said here tonight them I'm glad. Sorry to go on at length but I feel strongly about this.
Today we hear the alleged! Innocent until proven! grave robbers have been arrested, and I'm glad, because grave robbers should be arrested, and because I get an opportunity to publicly say that grave robbing is wrong. It's wrong on many levels. Look, you leave a bicycle, a handbag, a camera sitting around, and you're leaving people open to temptation. It's wrong to take those things if they're not yours, but kind of understandable. But a dead body isn't much use to anyone—that's why burying was invented in the first place. Then there are the relatives and friends to consider. LIke most people, I have friends and family who've gone to their reward, and it would bother me considerably to hear that that someone had dug them up and stolen the body. So there's that.
Finally there's the futility of it. I just don't see how your life is going to get better by robbing a grave. The alleged robbers allegedly made ransom demands, but let's face it, this is not like a situation with live hostages. I'm not in favor of taking live hostages either, by the way. I've always maintained that taking hostages creates more problems than it solves. But at least, from the practical point of view, the hostages are alive and harmable. If you took me hostage and threatened to kill me if you weren't paid a certain sum—a couple of hundred bucks, say—somebody would probably pony up. But the key thing you should keep in mind about dead bodies, if you're thinking of robbing graves at some future point, is this: Dead bodies are already dead. It's their most salient feature. What are you going to threaten them with? If you dig up my favorite deceased great aunt and threaten to run her body through a wood chipper, or dress it up in silly hats and put the pictures online, or make it into a coffee table, well, that would be distasteful and I'd oppose it in the strongest possible terms. Anything worth opposing is worth opposing in the strongest possible terms. But if you asked me for some six- or seven-figure sum not to do those things, well, I'd have to wonder about the effects of positive reinforcement. We don't want more grave robbing than exists at present.
So! That's how I feel. In my mind there can be no equivocation, no two-sides-to-every-argument: grave robbing is wrong. If you don't agree, well, just deal with it. In conclusion, I'd like to say that when I was a kid I used to sit up at night and watch movies on TV, and sometimes they'd be film noir movies, and those ones would always freak me out a little because it was about people letting their baser impulses guide them and it never, ever ended well. Those movies always made me swear that I would be a good, decent person and lead a good, decent life. I've logged a few miles and I won't presume to judge myself in this regard but I like to think I've tried. If your own baser impulses have led you to consider robbing graves but you've decided against it because of what I've said here tonight them I'm glad. Sorry to go on at length but I feel strongly about this.
I just realized that people are watching the Oscar dealie tonight. That's nice, if that's what you want to do. I don't want to and can't if I did, because I have no tubes to bring TV into my house. No cable, no dish, no broadcast, no nothing. I don't think this makes me a better person than people who have TV tubes. I don't think I'm a better person than anyone, really, except for, you know, psychopaths. I just don't want to pay for TV, considering what's on. If the Academy, whatever that is, likes one flick better than another, well, fine. I just don't care. I'm listening to Fats Waller. He just did "Your Feet's Too Big" and now he's doing "Honeysuckle Rose." Wonderful stuff. Enjoy the Oscars, if that's what your heart desires. I suppose I just lack the Oscar-watching gene, or something. Ooh! "Ain't Misbehavin'" just started. Bye!
Yeah, I know, days without blogging. Well, let me remind you that blogging is not exactly a civic duty or anything. Perhaps, following my example, people who have nothing particular to say will simply—naahh, it'll never happen.
So anyway, I've been working hard but did actually leave the house now and then in the last few days. And I noticed things! Yes I did. I was walking across the supermarket parking lot and noticed droplets of water pattering on me, and felt a mild shock of recognition. It was raining! Glory be. I'd almost forgotten that precipitation was available in non-blizzard form.
Then the other night, I was at a business card exchange, ostensibly trying to drum up some business but really just being out in the world, amusing myself by seeing what my fellow humans had to say. These things are actually kind of fun, because the sensible people are doing exactly the same thing. You might indeed make a business connection, but if you're all driven and desperate and needy about it, ur doing it rong. It's like dating—you talk to folks, see what they do, how it's going, where they're from, what their hobbies are, this and that. Maybe you actually could help a few, whatever. You need to get out of the house or office or whatever now and then, anyway, it's good for you.
So it was the usual, lots of different folks. The nice thing about being a freelance writer is that people find it interesting and have ideas about what it's like and ask questions and so forth. If you sell office furniture, there's not many places for the conversation to go if people aren't in the market, but if you say you're a writer, they tell you about the novel they want to write or whatever. It's like if an actor went to a business card exchange. Nobody would give the actor any work, but they would ask questions, at least. One woman perked up when she saw I was a writer because she was a designer, and we're like cousins. So I'm talking to her, and I notice this bizarre thing: The right side of her eyes are a gray-green, the left side brown. Swear to God. One half this, the other that. I haven't seen that ever. Contacts? An incredibly rare genetic thing? I wanted to ask about it, was burning to, actually, but her husband was there too. He seemed like an amiable sort, but it just didn't seem like quite the thing to remark upon a woman's eye color with her husband standing three feet away, somehow. The soul of tact, that's me. But it was just one of the things I've noticed lately, out in the world.
So anyway, I've been working hard but did actually leave the house now and then in the last few days. And I noticed things! Yes I did. I was walking across the supermarket parking lot and noticed droplets of water pattering on me, and felt a mild shock of recognition. It was raining! Glory be. I'd almost forgotten that precipitation was available in non-blizzard form.
Then the other night, I was at a business card exchange, ostensibly trying to drum up some business but really just being out in the world, amusing myself by seeing what my fellow humans had to say. These things are actually kind of fun, because the sensible people are doing exactly the same thing. You might indeed make a business connection, but if you're all driven and desperate and needy about it, ur doing it rong. It's like dating—you talk to folks, see what they do, how it's going, where they're from, what their hobbies are, this and that. Maybe you actually could help a few, whatever. You need to get out of the house or office or whatever now and then, anyway, it's good for you.
So it was the usual, lots of different folks. The nice thing about being a freelance writer is that people find it interesting and have ideas about what it's like and ask questions and so forth. If you sell office furniture, there's not many places for the conversation to go if people aren't in the market, but if you say you're a writer, they tell you about the novel they want to write or whatever. It's like if an actor went to a business card exchange. Nobody would give the actor any work, but they would ask questions, at least. One woman perked up when she saw I was a writer because she was a designer, and we're like cousins. So I'm talking to her, and I notice this bizarre thing: The right side of her eyes are a gray-green, the left side brown. Swear to God. One half this, the other that. I haven't seen that ever. Contacts? An incredibly rare genetic thing? I wanted to ask about it, was burning to, actually, but her husband was there too. He seemed like an amiable sort, but it just didn't seem like quite the thing to remark upon a woman's eye color with her husband standing three feet away, somehow. The soul of tact, that's me. But it was just one of the things I've noticed lately, out in the world.
It's Chopin's birthday, or was 200 years ago, so I thought I would do the the old fellow a favor and drag out the one CD I have of his stuff. I'm not a huge fan, but years ago I saw a documentary about pianists and I liked the interpretations of Chopin's work by this one French guy, Alfred Cortot, so I bought the CDs, thinking the piano player was a good piano player and that was that, right?
Well, later on I heard that this Cortot was an enthusiastic collaborator with the Nazis. Eeew! But, being a calm fellow, I didn't take the discs out and burn them, although that's what the Nazis would have done with me if they could have gotten their way. I'm really pretty compartmentalized about these things, for the most part. Maybe he was pretty compartmentalized himself—Cortot's wife was "of Jewish origin," as Wikipedia rather vaguely puts it, and he was related to and friends with Leon Blum, the first Jewish prime minister of France.
Wikipedia basically throws up its hands and says maybe he admired the Teutons because of the music and all. We're all human, are we not? Subject to little biases here and there? And France was a bit muddled and directionless in the Thirties, so maybe he thought that anything—a takeover by the Nazis, even—was a step in the right direction.
After the war Cortot got some heat, but not much, for his supporting the Nazis. But I'm listening to his music at this very moment, and the music is very nice. I guess my feeling is that people have strengths and weaknesses. Alfred Cortot was good at playing the piano and bad at deciding who ought to run the world. Lots of people are bad at the second thing and can't play piano to save their lives, so I feel like I can let Alfred Cortot slide on this. It helps a lot that the Nazis lost the war, but still. I mean, look that the man—are those the eyes of a person whose political opinions are soundly reasoned? I don't think so either. The Nazis would have done what they did whether Alfred Cortot supported them or not. But he played the piano well. I'm willing to leave it at that.
Well, later on I heard that this Cortot was an enthusiastic collaborator with the Nazis. Eeew! But, being a calm fellow, I didn't take the discs out and burn them, although that's what the Nazis would have done with me if they could have gotten their way. I'm really pretty compartmentalized about these things, for the most part. Maybe he was pretty compartmentalized himself—Cortot's wife was "of Jewish origin," as Wikipedia rather vaguely puts it, and he was related to and friends with Leon Blum, the first Jewish prime minister of France.
Wikipedia basically throws up its hands and says maybe he admired the Teutons because of the music and all. We're all human, are we not? Subject to little biases here and there? And France was a bit muddled and directionless in the Thirties, so maybe he thought that anything—a takeover by the Nazis, even—was a step in the right direction.
After the war Cortot got some heat, but not much, for his supporting the Nazis. But I'm listening to his music at this very moment, and the music is very nice. I guess my feeling is that people have strengths and weaknesses. Alfred Cortot was good at playing the piano and bad at deciding who ought to run the world. Lots of people are bad at the second thing and can't play piano to save their lives, so I feel like I can let Alfred Cortot slide on this. It helps a lot that the Nazis lost the war, but still. I mean, look that the man—are those the eyes of a person whose political opinions are soundly reasoned? I don't think so either. The Nazis would have done what they did whether Alfred Cortot supported them or not. But he played the piano well. I'm willing to leave it at that.
