Monday, July 21, 2008
The Cover
There have been enough comments, editorials, denials, espousals, and babies and bath water thrown out regarding the New Yorker cover. I won't throw my own two cents into the overflowing fountain of copper coinage. But, I would like to express some displeasure with The New Yorker.
Personally, I love Mr. Blitt's cover commentary. This cover was hilarious, as was this one, this one, and, well, this one, especially. In this week's New Yorker blog entry by the estimable Hendrik Hertzberg, it's noted that "The target (of the cover) was the grotesque pack of lies about the Obamas that have been widely disseminated, not only by the marginal right-wing Web sites and the sicko viral e-mail campaigns but also by such nominally respectable outfits as Fox News."
I have two issues with the New Yorker. The first would be the the usage by Mr. Hertzberg, a writer whose New Yorker pieces always seem to be well thought out and presented, of the words "respectable outfit" in conjunction with "Fox News". At first I thought he was being sly about it but a repetitive reading made it clear he was being sincere. I'm not one to pile on Fox News.....o.k. I am. But the point is I expect a nuclear meltdown before I see the words "respectable" and "Fox News" lying close to each other in connubial bliss.
My second issue with The New Yorker is their weekly issue, or the lack of delivery of such within a reasonable time. There it was. The big New Yorker Cover Scandal on Monday morning. Monday evening. Tuesday morning.... I had to go to the New Yorker site to catch a peak when I should have been able to stare at my own issue on Monday morning. What's with The New Yorker delivery process? I could swear I got my issue on Saturday or, at the latest, on Monday. It's not as if I live in the boondocks. There are lawyers, dentists, and doctors living and working on top of each other here in upper Delaware. I mean their offices require the latest New Yorker decorating their client waiting room. These days, I'm lucky if the current week's New Yorker arrives by Wed., usually it's Thursday.
Ever since I started sending my subscription payment out to their office in Denver a few years back, this latter part of the week delivery status has set in. Hey! I want my (paid)controversy to arrive on a more timely basis! Hear me, Mr. Remnick!
n.b.: NYT opinion page from Missoula, Montana worth reading.
Personally, I love Mr. Blitt's cover commentary. This cover was hilarious, as was this one, this one, and, well, this one, especially. In this week's New Yorker blog entry by the estimable Hendrik Hertzberg, it's noted that "The target (of the cover) was the grotesque pack of lies about the Obamas that have been widely disseminated, not only by the marginal right-wing Web sites and the sicko viral e-mail campaigns but also by such nominally respectable outfits as Fox News."
I have two issues with the New Yorker. The first would be the the usage by Mr. Hertzberg, a writer whose New Yorker pieces always seem to be well thought out and presented, of the words "respectable outfit" in conjunction with "Fox News". At first I thought he was being sly about it but a repetitive reading made it clear he was being sincere. I'm not one to pile on Fox News.....o.k. I am. But the point is I expect a nuclear meltdown before I see the words "respectable" and "Fox News" lying close to each other in connubial bliss.
My second issue with The New Yorker is their weekly issue, or the lack of delivery of such within a reasonable time. There it was. The big New Yorker Cover Scandal on Monday morning. Monday evening. Tuesday morning.... I had to go to the New Yorker site to catch a peak when I should have been able to stare at my own issue on Monday morning. What's with The New Yorker delivery process? I could swear I got my issue on Saturday or, at the latest, on Monday. It's not as if I live in the boondocks. There are lawyers, dentists, and doctors living and working on top of each other here in upper Delaware. I mean their offices require the latest New Yorker decorating their client waiting room. These days, I'm lucky if the current week's New Yorker arrives by Wed., usually it's Thursday.
Ever since I started sending my subscription payment out to their office in Denver a few years back, this latter part of the week delivery status has set in. Hey! I want my (paid)controversy to arrive on a more timely basis! Hear me, Mr. Remnick!
n.b.: NYT opinion page from Missoula, Montana worth reading.
Labels: Humans, New Yorker
Wednesday, June 18, 2008
Tragedy & Sadness
On June 14th, Esbjorn Svensson died while scuba-diving in the Stockholm Archipelago. Forty-four. That's how young he was. As one of the founders of the Esbjorn Svensson Trio (usually simply known as E.S.T.), he had been one of the leaders in European jazz. Some of the group's earlier albums never made it state-side but their releases in the last 5-6 years were readily available here. A critic's delight, E.S.T. has had a tough time breaking in over the Atlantic. Each new album promised to be the key to their stardom. I latched on to them when they released Somewhere Else Before in 2001 and have been a loyal fan since then.
Well, sort of loyal. Early on last year, E.S.T. was scheduled to play at Zanzibar Blue Jazz Club in Philly. Something came up and I opted not to go, figuring the boys were still very young and they'd come around the following year. That April, Zanzibar Blue closed its doors, putting a serious hurt on live jazz in Philly.
Saturday, Esbjorn Svensson died at an all too early 44. My flippant attitude last year comes back to haunt me; I never had a chance to see this talented group.
I can't see the group going on without him. What a tragedy. Perhaps Nick Bartsch's Ronin, Marcin Wasilewski, and Bad Plus can carry on in the spirit of things.
This Sunday I have one of my dj-ing gigs at WVUD. It'll be a heavy portion of E.S.T., for sure.
Other tributes are here, here, and here. He was one of the good guys.
06/23/08: As pointed out by Chazzy G, here's a commentary of E.S.T. from The Bad Plus' blog, Do The Math. There's an interesting bit about the importance of having a great sound engineer.
Well, sort of loyal. Early on last year, E.S.T. was scheduled to play at Zanzibar Blue Jazz Club in Philly. Something came up and I opted not to go, figuring the boys were still very young and they'd come around the following year. That April, Zanzibar Blue closed its doors, putting a serious hurt on live jazz in Philly.
Saturday, Esbjorn Svensson died at an all too early 44. My flippant attitude last year comes back to haunt me; I never had a chance to see this talented group.
I can't see the group going on without him. What a tragedy. Perhaps Nick Bartsch's Ronin, Marcin Wasilewski, and Bad Plus can carry on in the spirit of things.
This Sunday I have one of my dj-ing gigs at WVUD. It'll be a heavy portion of E.S.T., for sure.
Other tributes are here, here, and here. He was one of the good guys.
06/23/08: As pointed out by Chazzy G, here's a commentary of E.S.T. from The Bad Plus' blog, Do The Math. There's an interesting bit about the importance of having a great sound engineer.
Friday, May 02, 2008
Wish I had a Tongue to Get Tied
From the Globe & Mail, a most excellent of articles dealing with funerals and their attendance. A favorite passage,
"Anyway, enough said on the topic of "You should have gone."
Since you didn't, I would say your best bet now is to send your sister a note of both condolence and apology - a note expressing your sincerest "condologies" (memo to Hallmark, you should have this type of card, it'd be a big seller: "I'm very, very sorry for your loss - and also my behaviour during your time of grief.") Be humble, don't try to justify. Say you're an idiot and really, really sorry.
".
Don't know about you, but I am an utter idiot when it comes to funerals/wakes/viewings, if I have the moral strength to come to them. Aside from saying the wrong thing, not saying anything, forgetting people's names (including my own at one occasion), not knowing when to move on in the line, shaking the hands of the grieving family too enthusiastically, and, last and certainly not the least, blubbering at every one of these events as if a closest family member of mine has gone on. You would think that with age would come an acceptance of the inevitable note, You're Gonna Die. It is a less disturbing site for friends and acquaintances to not have me at funerals they are tangentally involved with.
I'll try my best to at lease send a card or bouquet of black roses.
Labels: Family Matters, Humans
Tuesday, April 22, 2008
Food-What you want. What you need.
In my days of youth and meals without guilt, when being a trencherman was not viewed as an odious hobby, parking myself in a greasy spoon with cutlery at the ready and an early morning appetite at full-tilt boogie seemed the enjoyable and harmless thing to do. Nowadays, with health claims/warnings/edicts running rampant and the distant future careening quickly to the pay-me-now present, I am forced to sooth the inner eater in me by tightening the belt and perusing offerings at sites like The London Review of Breakfasts. Such a cholesterol delivery, second-hand, is a life-protracting measure. I guess?!But, a tasty treat is always offered here. An example would be this review, which starts with,
"In Britain we have a problem with breakfasts. In fact, we have a problem with food in general and like a lot of problems in this country it boils down to class. I speak of the great divide between the caff and the café. In the caff you will be served enormous quantities of not very good quality food quickly and with no pretension or fuss. In the café, there may be a mission statement, there may be a picture of Nicaraguan peasants' children dancing happily because their parents have got a good price for their coffee, there may well be a family tree showing the lineage of the pork products. This will all be a mask to hide the fact that they don’t really know what they are doing. The service will be terrible, the sausages will be over-cooked and the eggs will be under-cooked. In places like this, I look at the quality of the ingredients and weep at the waste and weep at the bill too which normally tops £7 for a full English. Complaining is pointless because all the staff are part-time and most of them are as hungover as the clientele.
"
Don't know about you, but my college days memories, as plucked from the haze of encroaching senility, consisted of cheap restaurant meals, great overly loud concerts, one or two profs of distinction, standing room only at the Montreal Forum watching the Habs demolish another team, and eating at Schwartz's (yes, that's two categories of memories regarding food). I mention Schwartz's as it was more of a religious experience than simply a feeding-frenzy one. I seriously considered converting to Judaism after repeated visits there but swayed away from that temptation when a fellow student, a pre-med major who also partook of the smoked meat served there, brought me to my senses when he produced graphs and pie charts illustrating the short life span of a regular Schwartz's diner and a normal human being.
So, now I gnosh on little foods on little plates, while visions of large foods on gargantuan plates dance in my head. Being (somewhat) thin and miserable is not what I'd envisioned my life would be when I was parked at one of the common tables at Schwartz's, wholly enjoying the pleasures of real food.
Wednesday, March 19, 2008
Mysterious Sandwich Saves Philly
Per this article, it seems some sandwich, prepared in the Port Richmond section of town may have been responsible for averting a major vehicular disaster.
Who says Philly sandwiches are heart and life threatening?
The article mentions sausage sandwiches were digested from some restaurant in Port Richmond. Never realized that chomping on sausage was as effective as munching on carrots for improving one's eyesight. But, sausage seemed to do the trick for the eagle-eyed engineer who spotted the rather huge crack in a bridge's support column.
I'm willing to bet the sausage sandwich came from the famous Tacconelli's Pizza joint. I'm sure, there'll be a picture of the engineer, sausage hoagie in hand, posted inside the shop very shortly. So, go with the traditional Philly Sausage Hoagie as the Hero/Hoagie of the Day
Wednesday, March 05, 2008
1,311.5 to 1,211
After yesterday's voting results, all I can do is shake my head and think about the Cubbies. November 2008 looks like one of those grasping defeat from the jaws of victory things. Bush will be gone, the Evil Empire of Rovetenia and the Murky Region of Cheneykistan will fade from the geopolitical maps and yet....
Yet, it sure looks like it to me that the Dems will do their auto-da-fe dance and McCain will be grilling on the White House lawn. How has this happened? I know, I know. The Dems still have issues with this hubris thing.
Go ahead, Gwynne, roast me like a apple-eating pig. Looks like 4 more years of minority party rule.
Labels: Effluvia, Humans, Idiosyncracies
Sunday, February 17, 2008
Let's Talk.......or Not
I have a closed face. Well, that’s what I’ve been told by no less a facial perspective expert than my Ever-Loving Wife (ELW). Easily prompted to fill in the blanks (but not the blankness of my face), she theorized that my Slavic blood and my upbringing by just-off-the-boaters (a club that I include myself in, as well) in the Land of Croats and then in the Land of Asphalt were two factors constituting 90% of the cause of my dour uni-brow look. Throw in being schooled by nuns in 7 of my 8 years of grammar school and you have the balance of the 10% required to walk around life with a look that gives pause to even proselytizing Seventh Day Adventists. My body English translates into the Spanish Inquisition, so the pose that goes along with my face suggests that I’m employed by theStasi, not an organization bristling with friendliness.My Ever-Loving Wife (ELW), on the other hand, has a face that invites conversation from any sentient being. Dogs come up to her and seemingly hold 10 minute conversations. People? Well, people treat her as the Font of Einfühlung. When the ELW was in the Ever-Loving Fiancée (ELF) stage of our relationship, I was working and living in Montreal. I’d been up there around 6 months, unhappily living in Outremont wondering why people were so unfriendly. In my days as a student at McGill U. in Montreal, I’d experienced the somewhat reserved, some would say cold, attitudes of my fellow students. I always chalked it off as the standard self-doubt of the underclassmen and the course overload (Ah, doesn;t that seem so self-delusional these days of worklife?) that made student life unnecessarily miserable.
So, I’d expected the post-student life to be more open to the non-consequential conversations of humans in the social enclaves of stores, parks, and bus stops. I mean, couldn't I even get a "How’s it going, eh?" or even a close-mouthed "Hello"? It never happened or happened so rarely that the social interactions fit better in the "Never" basket.
Well, the ELF came up to visit for a spell while I resided in these "unfriendly" confines and proceeded to tell me of her experiences her first day in Montreal, when I came from work. She talked with so-and-so. Isn't that bus stop the friendliest place you'd encounter? How about that pâtisserie around the corner? How unfriendly; only 5 people spoke to her there (when I couldn't even elicit a merci beaucoup after dropping $30 for a box of pastries to die for, just a week ago)?
The answer was pretty obvious. It was me. It was the odorless gases emanating from me that either made me invisible or made me, well, odious. The ELF, on the other hand, casts her welcoming airs out and humans, dogs, cats, and bees swarm toward her.
(Quite) smartly, I made sure that the temporary "Fiancée" status was changed to "Wife" within a short timespan. I had to ensure that these social attraction agents began to be absorbed by yours truly. Let's face it folks, if I was hoping to be a father it would help if my kids were not immediately averse to my company. I'm not sure how well this absorption thing has been coming along, but I began to notice that dogs became less skittish around me (except for those constantly-underfoot-yelpy things that are more related to rodents than to real dogs) and that friends' kids were not immediately backing away with darting eyes.
Now, the kiddies are in different states but I'm assuming that they're there for educational reasons. Right, kids? Right?
Labels: Humans, Idiosyncracies
Saturday, February 16, 2008
Leningrad Cowboys
In a sporadic search on Netflix and elsewhere for a DVD version of Leningrad Cowboys Go America, I was disappointed, again, to learn only a VHS copy is available in the States. In Europe, where musical entertainment of a wider range is available, this movie is available on DVD, but in a format unplayable on USA DVD players. A shame, that. It is a movie worth seeing every once in a while, especially when you feel your life is in a rut and you need to explore alternate lifestyles. If you still have a VHS player, I would recommend you latching onto a tape of this movie, set a few hours free on a Friday night (because you'll need the weekend to recover from the visions of the movie), and lounge back and be prepared to be transported. Mr. Jarmusch even makes a cameo appearance, returning a favor to one of the actors, Matti Pellonpää, who was in Jarmusch's Night on Earth (which FINALLY came out on USA DVD last year!).
So, unable to get a fix from that film, I opted to take a chance on the concert film, Leningrad Cowboys: Total Balalaika Show. This 1993 live outdoor concert in Helsinki was filmed in the town center, with over 70,000 in attendance. The Cowboys played/sang/danced with the Aleksandorv Red Army Choir.
Featured songs include:
Finlandia
Let's Work Together
The Volga Boatmen's Song
Happy Together
Delilah
Knockin' on Heaven's Door
Polyushko Pole (Oh, Field)
Kalinka
Gimme All Your Loving
Jewelry Box
Sweet Home Alabama
Dark Eyes
Those Were The Days
Truly, it is one of the most interesting live concert films I've ever seen. The mix of a rock 'n roll band with a Russian chorus and band, complete with a brass section, a balalaika section, accordions and full military uniforms works well. As you can see, the song selection included 5 Russian songs. Even if you had minimal exposure to folk songs from Mother Russia, I'll bet you've heard, at least once, each of these five songs, although I doubt you've ever heard the versions as performed by the Cowboys and Red Chorus. Both of the groups obviously enjoyed themselves and the audience caught on quickly that the show was not a joke and was, most certainly, a result of a symbiosis of great talent.
The cover versions of "Delilah" and "Knockin' on Heaven's Door" are sublime. And "Sweet Home Alabama"? Ronnie VanZant would have appreciated the Russian-Finnish version, just to see how the Red Chorus got into it.
Here's the Cowboys & the Red Choir doing a popular Finnish/Slavic composition, "Sweet Home Alabama". Yes, that song.
The extra features on the DVD include 4 song videos and some short films by the director of the movie. All in all, an entertaining way of spending a Friday night in. Nothing offensive, save for the hairstyles and shoe extensions, so family viewing is definitely a possibility.
Crank up the sound and be prepared to hum and laugh.
Friday, February 15, 2008
PITA, Restaurant Style
It has been suggested, quite frequently in fact, by those close to my heart and to my wallet, that I am a lousy restaurant partner. My body sends off Fearmones that infuse all of my fellow dining guests with the uncomfortable feeling that we will be having a lousy meal. Well, let me confine that to the scenario that I will be the one having the lousy meal. Somehow, forking over money for a meal only means I get to taste the prepared food; the moolah does not, in the view of my fellow diners, allow me to comment, above a whisper, as to the quality and quantity of the food. It seems that I have been wrong in concluding that paying for a meal also means I own that meal. Well, I mean owning it as long as natural processes allow for my person to maintain possession thereof. I am a grown man who, unless I'm dining alone, has been took 'n told that I should just sit 'n eat. My food-related commentaries have fallen on unappreciative ears. That's me sitting in the corner of Chez Swank, with my back to you, mumbling, grumbling, and chewing.Succintly, as far as a restaurant guest, I'm your basic PITA. And I'm not talking about capitalized Greek bread.
I admit there is a crumb, perhaps a whole loaf, of truth to that perceived reputation. I've gone to restaurants that I've enjoyed in the past and have been tragically disappointed on a repeat visit. My Ever-Loving Wife once extracted a reluctant opinion out of me of a new restaurant we'd just supped at.
"Actually, it was quite good. Attentive service, without the need to exchange names. Arrival of our meals while we were still enjoying our first bottle of fine wine. Bread baskets re-filled without our need to take up the begging position. No hovering; no "And how is your meal now's". Yes, it was a solid evening."
She looked at me, one eyebrow slowly rising in momentary surprise.
"Well", she exhaled, "that'll be the only good meal you have there...."
Sadly, she was probably right. I can't remember if we've been back to that fine establishment that I've enjoyed as much as our initial visit.
In this NYT article, the writer Jeff Bell, a self-described OCD-er, details some of the agonies associated with folks living within this distressing state of affairs when within the confines of a restaurant. Though beseiged with a plethora of maladies, I can honestly state that I do not have OCD. I have, however, wined and dined with folks of that persuasion and can vouch for Mr. Bell's observations. The one point that he never mentions in his article, however, is the topic of personal choice and menus. My social skills at restaurants have evolved from the premise that the main reason, perhaps the only reason, for my being at a restaurant is to eat food prepared by someone other than me or my immediate family.
The steps from the arrival to the departure of a restaurant experience always seemed simple to me.
1) The menu is handed out.
2) There are choices to be made.
3) One makes choices.
4) One orders said choices.
5) One awaits the inevitable heartbreak of a good meal gone bad.
Witty repartee can be interspersed between steps # 4 and #5. However, from step #1 through #4, I tend toward the behaviour of monks who've committed their lives to silence. A menu is not a pamphlet from the door-to-door religious prosletizers to be ignored or put down on the table to catch bread crumbs. It is a treaty to be perused and then agreed to, in a timely manner. While I find your company enjoyable to the point of squealling, I find a table bereft of filled plates a tragedy of massive proportions. The menu is not a legal document that you must carefully study for clauses that will trip you up half way through your meal. It is what our tax laws should be. Direct connection between a promise of a reward, say an appetizer of Gnocchi with Stewed Portobello Mushrooms in a Sherry-reduced sauce, with the cost of said reward. Yes? No? It's that easy. Please!! Don't ask if the trees shading the Portobellos were oak or walnut! Complications and eating; they don't mix.
Decision-making in a dining environment should not exceed the time it takes to enjoy your first glass of wine, say 15 minutes.
Max.
Any time ticking past that will not make for pleasant table manners for your fellow trenchermen.
Gnawing on your arms will be almost permissible; table-side drooling will definitley be o.k.
(...to be continued)
Labels: Humans, Idiosyncracies, Quirks
Thursday, February 14, 2008
Insulation
Forgetfulness
The name of the author is the first to go
followed obediently by the title, the plot,
the heartbreaking conclusion, the entire novel
which suddenly becomes one you have never read,
never even heard of,
as if, one by one, the memories you used to harbor
decided to retire to the southern hemisphere of the brain,
to a little fishing village where there are no phones.
Long ago you kissed the names of the nine Muses goodbye
and watched the quadratic equation pack its bag,
and even now as you memorize the order of the planets,
something else is slipping away, a state flower perhaps,
the address of an uncle, the capital of Paraguay.
Whatever it is you are struggling to remember
it is not poised on the tip of your tongue,
not even lurking in some obscure corner of your spleen.
It has floated away down a dark mythological river
whose name begins with an L as far as you can recall,
well on your own way to oblivion where you will join those
who have even
forgotten how to swim and how to ride a bicycle.
No wonder you rise in the middle of the night
to look up the date of a famous battle in a book on war.
No wonder the moon in the window seems to have drifted
out of a love poem that you used to know by heart."
Billy Collins
I was going to post a picture of some of my "memory aids" here but, out of concern for personal safety, opted not to. Suffice it to mention that these "aids" are piled/stacked/organized by my bed, by my desk, by my sofa. Basically, any furniture in the house has a "by my" pile associated with it. Yes, the memory has bee slipping for a while. I believe if I read less or had less books, less would be forgotten. I, however, am of the thinking that, perentage wise, the amount of forgetting as a function of the quantity of printed matter located within the property lines is significantly less than if I had a smaller inventory of books. While the books forgotten quantity may be the same, upping the composition of the divisor, i.e. # of books on hand, makes my forgetten books % lower.
That's my rationalized outlook on keeping the printed words around and I'll stick by it.
Besides, it's been rather chilly lately and the books stacked against the house's outer walls has been keeping us warm.
Labels: Home Decor, Humans, Idiosyncracies, Self-Therapy
Tuesday, December 04, 2007
Cheney Chic
I actually empathize with Dick Cheney's coat-du-jour in this 2005 pic. I mean, he must have been freezing and decided decorum is colder than parka. I sit in my office, as I type with my frozen and cringed fingers, with a polartec and a ski jacket on. I'd forgotten my gloves so excuse me if there's a break in the typing as I blow on my fingers.The HVAC folks that we contract with are nice enough fellows. How do I know they're nice? Well, they're here most of the summer tinkering with the A/C. And, they're here most of the winter, yes, tinkering with the heating. These are the same folks who installed the brand spanking new HVAC system as well. Needless to say, I had zero to do with the contracting of this fine HVAC organization, though I have to tip my hat in their direction. During the summer, while repairing the A/C, all of the guys wear long sleeve t-shirts and long-sleeve insualted plaid shirts. When they're camped out in the building allegedly repairing the heating in the winter months, they don short sleeve t-shirts. The wimps in the office (I raise my hand) then feel even more wimpier as we protest (though not looudly) that 62 degrees is a bit cold to be working in. The repair guys just look at us and wipe their sniffly noses as they parade around with tools and look at the ceiling.
AHHHHH- Chooo.
God Bless you, too.
Friday, October 26, 2007
Hearing & Understanding
Came upon this Wiki-How at the bottom of this Wiki-How. This piece of advice was also a link. A thread of mis-understanding, I guess.All three communication advisories shared the following common points.
1) Keep your sentence structure simple.
2) Look in the person's eyes when you're listening or speaking.
3) Stay calm.
4) Be patient.
5) Smile.
I'd add one more.
6) Breath.
Often.
It will help you with points #1 and #3.
All common sense, you'd assume. But, think of your daily communications (an easy task for us introverts as we can number them off on our fingers and still have a whole hand left..or is that right?). How often do you leave the verbal exchange with minimal forward progress on the topics discussed? Work, home, social events, doesn't matter. Maybe it's just an introvert's take on the matter. If one has minimal verbal exchanges a greater level of importance is attached to the events. An extrovert would be having these exchanges from the time their morning head rise from the pillow until the night time head drop back. While their % of meaningful conversations may be the same as an introvert's, the number of meaningful conversations is much higher. As in baseball, averages can cloak the activity level.
When traveling, I tend to pay more attention to the mundanities in the place that I'm visiting than to those same mundanities in the place that I'm living.
(Short aside here: What's up with the word mundanity? One definition of the word is "The quality or character of being intellectually sophisticated and worldly through cultivation or experience or disillusionment" and another is its opposite, "The quality of being commonplace and ordinary").
Back to the topic.
On a recent trip to Pittsburgh, I had a chance to experience quite a few no-no's from this list. More specifically,
Point #2 Recognize that people wrongly think that turning up the volume somehow creates instant understanding. Avoid this common mistake.
I had treble luck.
1) I was a foreigner (Croatian and from Delaware)
2) I have graying hair, signifying I don't dye my hair and I'm over 40.
3) I hum, at times, in a tone that most exemplifies White Noise, thus thwarting any vocal missles launched my way.
I'm sure our waitress had goodness in her heart but she was dealing with me, an atrociously critical customer (well, viewed as such by my family). I was actually in a very positive mood. The October weather was July-like. The outdoor seating was covered by a canopy that softly snapped with each waft of cool air blowing in on us. The sun was shining brightly causing passing pedestrians to squint and duck their heads while we sat in the shade, eyes wide-open. Barbecued meat smells lingered and extra-cold beers sat in tall chilled glasses on our table. Life was good and a fine meal was anticipated.
My camera bag sat opened on the chair next to me. Some brochures of museums and sites poked their titles out of the bag. The waitress came by and saw all the tourist/foreigner sights and proceeded to bellow. My humming stopped; I cocked my head at the source. She was a tall glass of water and a loud torrent of words poured from her. She, being turned to high volume, expected comprehension and compensatory ordering action on my part. I, being swallowed in the thundering mass of words, struggled to catch my breath and to shield my ears. I mumbled something, nothing that I understood nor obviously she as she came back shortly with some fish-like product. My ever-loving wife, flashing her extrovert credentials, ordered something and received the same thing. I treated my meal like chum, hoping it would catch something delectable but, alas, no bite on the bait so no bite for me.
I will hone my Pittsburghese and stretch my facial muscles for the next time. When I'm back'air, it'll be a can a corn to order eats ovedder.
Labels: Humans, Idiosyncracies, Pittsburgh
Thursday, October 11, 2007
Thank You Don,
...I'm not going nuts. In this posting, Mr. Don Lindich of Sound Advice Blog answers a nagging iPod situation I've blogged on (and on and on) about in the past.
Namely, the lousy sound quality of the iPod, specifically when played through any decent stereo equipment or set of headphones (and don't get me started on playing an iPod through a car stereo..).
I'm not posting this to continue any discussion/argument on this topic. Nor am I trying to change anyone's mind on the iPod. Please, go out and buy the newest version as soon as possible! Like, right now! Me, I'll stay here and fool around with my CD's. It's just good to know this old guy isn't quickly, as opposed to slowly, slipping off into senility. Thank you, Don.
The only thing Don left off of his answer was just how much of a loss of iPod hard drive space do you lose by opting for Apple Lossless Compression under the Importing options. Hmm, let's see if he answers that question.
And, stating the obvious, Don's post was just another reason for having his site listed on the Daily Clicks, off there to your right. It's always a place of interest as long as you heed the caveat of "Keep your wallet in a secure and hard to access place."
Namely, the lousy sound quality of the iPod, specifically when played through any decent stereo equipment or set of headphones (and don't get me started on playing an iPod through a car stereo..).
I'm not posting this to continue any discussion/argument on this topic. Nor am I trying to change anyone's mind on the iPod. Please, go out and buy the newest version as soon as possible! Like, right now! Me, I'll stay here and fool around with my CD's. It's just good to know this old guy isn't quickly, as opposed to slowly, slipping off into senility. Thank you, Don.
The only thing Don left off of his answer was just how much of a loss of iPod hard drive space do you lose by opting for Apple Lossless Compression under the Importing options. Hmm, let's see if he answers that question.
And, stating the obvious, Don's post was just another reason for having his site listed on the Daily Clicks, off there to your right. It's always a place of interest as long as you heed the caveat of "Keep your wallet in a secure and hard to access place."
Labels: Humans, Idiosyncracies
Thursday, August 23, 2007
Getting the Once-Over
I'm not sure at what age I was when it first happened, but I know that when the "warmies" were shooting through my nerves (as opposed to the chills) when I was the recipient of the once-over for my attitude/mind/personality rather than for my physical appearance, I could be finally classified as mature. Or, maybe just clingy/desperate for any signs of attention. It's a "thin line"-"coin flip" sort of thing, isn't it?In a electronics super store recently, I was just such a recipient of a positive personality once-over. It had been a while, so it was a most welcome trip back to that land of perceived coolness, even though it was only a 10 minute visa I was traveling on.
It was this past Tuesday that I was combing through the aisles looking for Talib Kweli's new CD, Ear Drum. Tuesday being the industry release date for all new recordings, it wasn't a surprise to see other folks searching for their artist's new release as well. This particular retail establishment uses the $9.99 CD price to lure in buyers so that they spend additional bucks on items they'd had no earlier intention of procuring. So, while the price of the CD is low, the trick is finding the CD's as their filing system is burdened with no logical scheme. Temporary tag-teams are formed by mutually interested consumers. I was parked in the pseudo-Rap aisle which was intermingled with the Country selection. Somebody was using Ray Charles' broad musical sweep as their guidelines for this layout, I assume. After seeing an equally frustrated CD-seeker perusing the bins, I sidled up to her.
Old Fart (Medium height white guy with graying hair (whiter than usual due to minimal beach visits): "Excuse me, who are you looking for?"
She (Medium height athletic African-American woman in very stylish nurse's uniform, max. age of 30, equipped with finely manicured hands that she could, if she wanted to put 2 fingers together, snap me out of existence with a simple move): "Oh, it's an artist who just released a new Cd, Ear Drum"
OF: "Oh, you mean Talib Kweli's new album."
She (Shooting me that welcomed once-over): "Hmmm, why yes. I've looked over in the "K"s.."
OF: "...me too and then I looked in the "T"s as well, cuz you..."
She: "...never know how they file things.."
All Together now: "Here!!
So, with minimal talk, we split off to different parts of the store in search of the same thing. She ended up asking that rare species of mankind, a knowledgeable sale clerk, who grunted and gestured toward a general direction in the bowels of the store (N.B.: This same layout logic applies to the location of milk, butter, bread, p' butter and jam in a grocery store. You have to run a gauntlet of purchase temptations before reaching your initial desired item). I was still applying my quick-fingering skills in the regular CD racks when she came by with 2 copies. She handed me one with another approving musical choice once-over. I thanked her. For the CD. Thanking her for the older-guy-once-over would have negated all of the poz from the look. I then hauled my newly charged personality and CD over to the register.
Clerk (In auto-play mode): "Find everything you were looking for?"
OL (Offering more information than Clerk really wanted, so a "Do I Give a S_ _ _?" flag was being raised as I said.."): "Oh, yes. Found much more than expected. It's been a good day in retail land."
So, off to listen to Mr. Kweli and also Galactic's latest release , which just arrived in the mail. Very interesting combination, as Galactic's new effort, From the Corner to the Block, was done jointly with quite a few hip-hop and rap artists. A review, of sorts, will follow shortly.
As will some blurbs about another visit to that fantastic place in western Pennsylvania, Pittsburgh.
Here's a great recent interview of Mr. Kweli on Studio 360 by Kurt Anderson.
Labels: Humans, Idiosyncracies, Recording Reviews
Friday, July 20, 2007
Crumbs from the Past
The different photo-sharing & viewing sites just keep getting better every day. It's hard to keep up with the ingenuity of some folks. Take, for instance, Mr. Bleak Mouse, who used to post on his blog on a regular weekly basis. Even though his entries were always funny, frequently beyond the horizon, and always expertly put together, the writing portion of his blog seems to have bored him. Sad for us, really. Immerse yourself into this piece or this one. Crumbs from the past. He's been beyond words for a while; it's images that now totally intrigue him. He's well beyond the cutting edge. While we're here waiting for the bus, he's long since boarded his intergalactic space pod. The blog-posting has stopped to be replaced by posting on his Flickr site.Links from there led me to this site, where this picture was posted. That picture, in turn, was jolted to come up with this picture. Simply gorgeous!
("Image from ImageShifter from the Flickr site, borrowed for linking purposes ONLY")
Tuesday, February 20, 2007
Certifiable
When your childhood memories include this remark, "As a young boy, I was beaten a lot by my parents and schoolmasters. This no doubt contributed greatly to my ability to ignore pain and endure...", you know you're dealing with someone who places life's experiences in a different drawer than most of us.
Martin Strel, born in Slovenia of human parents but now some sort of reverse-Darwinian sea/water creature, has tackled another project. Why not swim the full length of the Amazon? No problem. If you've swam the full length of the Yangtze, the Mississippi, and the Danube, among others, what's the short (3,375 miles) Amazon to get all excited about?
Well,
there's
red-bellied piranha, crocodiles, stingrays, bull sharks and snakes of all shapes and sizes that could keep one quite excited.
Then, there's the tiny and infamous toothpick fish, or candiru (which is known as the "vampire of Brazil", the candiru is a tiny parasite-like creature that finds its host through the tiniest of body orifices, the urinary tract being its favorite. There it attaches itself to the unfortunate host's inner tissues and can only be removed by surgery).
I'd be swimming in a lead suit, which would make the journey an eternal one, but at least a safe one.
You can track his progress and his living/dead status here. The link to this site was provided by the excellent Piran Cafe, a site to visit on occassion.
Martin Strel, born in Slovenia of human parents but now some sort of reverse-Darwinian sea/water creature, has tackled another project. Why not swim the full length of the Amazon? No problem. If you've swam the full length of the Yangtze, the Mississippi, and the Danube, among others, what's the short (3,375 miles) Amazon to get all excited about?
Well,
there's
red-bellied piranha, crocodiles, stingrays, bull sharks and snakes of all shapes and sizes that could keep one quite excited.
Then, there's the tiny and infamous toothpick fish, or candiru (which is known as the "vampire of Brazil", the candiru is a tiny parasite-like creature that finds its host through the tiniest of body orifices, the urinary tract being its favorite. There it attaches itself to the unfortunate host's inner tissues and can only be removed by surgery).
I'd be swimming in a lead suit, which would make the journey an eternal one, but at least a safe one.
You can track his progress and his living/dead status here. The link to this site was provided by the excellent Piran Cafe, a site to visit on occassion.
Labels: Humans
Tuesday, February 06, 2007
Astronaut Love
As a proverbial youth,( sans proverbs to mouth to entice young ladies with wit and insight), I was certainly capable of and actually carried through some seriously deranged and stupid acts in the pursuit of love. The most I'll say is that the local gendarmarie never arrested me as they were too busy laughing at the situations I got myself into whilst in the throes of that temporary insanity condition otherwise known as Being in Love.
But, no matter how much the hound needed to howl, I most certainly never "(wore) diapers during the 950-mile drive so (I) wouldn't have to stop" to see anyone I was involved with.
Must be because I simply was not cut out to be an Astronaut in Love. Seems an astronaut's pursuit of that short-lived emotion has wider boundaries than the common person's. For the full details of a most interesting escapade, check out this piece. Navy Capt. Lisa Marie Nowak, 43, a married mother of three, flew in last July's shuttle Discovery mission. I'm thinking a good defense lawyer should be able to use space flight as a legitimate defense position for the things one does for love.
But, no matter how much the hound needed to howl, I most certainly never "(wore) diapers during the 950-mile drive so (I) wouldn't have to stop" to see anyone I was involved with.
Must be because I simply was not cut out to be an Astronaut in Love. Seems an astronaut's pursuit of that short-lived emotion has wider boundaries than the common person's. For the full details of a most interesting escapade, check out this piece. Navy Capt. Lisa Marie Nowak, 43, a married mother of three, flew in last July's shuttle Discovery mission. I'm thinking a good defense lawyer should be able to use space flight as a legitimate defense position for the things one does for love.
Labels: Humans, Idiosyncracies, Only in America
Tuesday, November 14, 2006
An Idle Matinee
"Cheap! That’s what this is about."
I noticed the 100th person in the winding line most probably didn’t hear the comment as he was still engaged in the belt-through-the-belt-buckle-passage quandary. Must have been a long night and an early rising that had him here at the Omniplex for a matinee showing of the movie I was going to, in short time, be regretting soiling my eyes with.
"No.", he calmly replied. "It's thrifty."
"I know thrifty and , trust me, this is not thrifty. It’s cheap, plain and true.", she said turning on him the full fire of her beliefs. If he had a pocket mirror, he would have seen "Cheap" had been branded onto his forehead. (Well, actually it would be "paehC" that he'd be seeing).
The ever-loving wife and I usually get to bantering if we’re queuing (If you want to be clever and combine the 2 words, be my guest. You can even O.E.D. it, although I think they’re past the "B"'s and "Q"'s at this point.). We are not, I think, the Loud People. Usually. Other couples, perhaps still early in their marital bliss, still evidence excessively high levels of enthusiasm for the marital exchanges. So, for the two of us, veterans of public private discourse, this exchange was a trip down memory's lane.
Volume constituted importance and passion.
My ears pricked up and bent slightly in their direction.
The line was much longer than I'd anticipated. Most matinees I attend are sparse of movie watchers. Sometimes, there are more attendants than attendees. That is how I prefer it; the less people, the better. For some movies, only a big screen will do; a dvd at home just doesn’t cut it. A forced march to the local multi-screen is in order.
I favor not attending movie theaters, at all. The level of noise booming on both side walls of the theater you're in takes away enjoyment from the movie you're watching. Then, there's the general low level of social behavior that one has to endure at a movie theater. Talking, predicting, scene-comparing, louder-than-necessary chewing/munching/container-opening, yelling-across-aisles-at-friends-who-are-yelling-back-in-equally-strong-voice, criminally prosecutable bathing habits, etc. You’ve all gone through it and, most probably, it's not a unique experience. It's something that happens each time you’ve gone to a movie theater. Why pay full price for this behavior? It’s not as if the movie shown at 12:00 has lesser actors than that same movie shown at 8:30. And it's more packed at night than during the day.
"This is not only thrifty, it is less wearing on the soul", he offered as an indication of his sound reasoning.
Picking up the handkerchief, she thrusted, "No, I know thrifty. Thrifty is a virtue, like Grace or Empathy . Cheap is a vice."
The rabble was getting louder as we approached the glass-protective ticket booth. We were still within earshot. I debated whether to buy the tickets or hang around for the knockout.
"Sorry, was that vice or vise?", he inquired, sharpening his blade.
"Hmmm. Actually, it’s both. Cheap’s a bad habit that turns into a socially demeaning activity that eventually turns into a vice that probably has some 3 digit criminal code attached to it. Cheap’s also a vise, squeezing the limited social interactions out of your lonely misanthropic life. Don’t you see? Being cheap is a drain on your soul and since I’m here in line with you, a drain on mine as well."
Oh, she was good! Would the movie offer this type of repartee?
"Misanthropic?" he protested lightly, buckling to one knee. "Isn’t that too scathing for 11:00 in the morning? I’d prefer cynical, if you wouldn’t mind."
Silence. Some minor parrying. Some preening. Some licking of wounds.
"Look, we've been in this line for 15 minutes. Cheap or not, can we ride it to the end? If the movie is good, then we got a bargain. If it's bad, we'll feel good that we didn't pay full price for (dreck).", he offered, his neck bared.
She looked up slightly, seeing her words had done more than intended, and nodded.
"O.K., but you've really got to work out this "cheap" thing. It reflects poorly on you, you know. Sort of cheapens your character." Twist !
He sagged a little more. I sighed, in empathy, perhaps a little bit too loudly. His eyes caught mine and we exchanged knowing glances over the generational gap.
It was a most beautiful day out there that day. A day that demanded one's full attention out of the house and not enclosed in a movie theater. A matinee, while saving a modicum of money, was costing them (and us) a stroll in the park in 70 degree weather in November or simply a seat in a backyard, wineglass in hand, face tilted up and following the sun’s path like a sunflower.
The guy had nothing. Nothing except hopes that the movie, with its potential laughs and moments of delight, will lighten the day they've chosen to be in darkened quarters.
As we were to find out shortly, the movie flunked a happy and sunny day. A bite out of our souls. I didn't see that couple once we entered the noisy echoing cave of stall # 3 in the multiplex. I'm not sure if they enjoyed the movie or not. For their sakes, I pray there were some laughs. Their performance was much more interesting. On our way home, we talked about them rather than the movie. Veterans, we were careful about picking sides but, instead, reworked some of their dialogue into an appreciative critique of a couple still struggling for the unspoken understanding.
And matinees? I’ll probably be going solo, with much lower expectations. A cheap thrill if ever there was one.
I noticed the 100th person in the winding line most probably didn’t hear the comment as he was still engaged in the belt-through-the-belt-buckle-passage quandary. Must have been a long night and an early rising that had him here at the Omniplex for a matinee showing of the movie I was going to, in short time, be regretting soiling my eyes with.
"No.", he calmly replied. "It's thrifty."
"I know thrifty and , trust me, this is not thrifty. It’s cheap, plain and true.", she said turning on him the full fire of her beliefs. If he had a pocket mirror, he would have seen "Cheap" had been branded onto his forehead. (Well, actually it would be "paehC" that he'd be seeing).
The ever-loving wife and I usually get to bantering if we’re queuing (If you want to be clever and combine the 2 words, be my guest. You can even O.E.D. it, although I think they’re past the "B"'s and "Q"'s at this point.). We are not, I think, the Loud People. Usually. Other couples, perhaps still early in their marital bliss, still evidence excessively high levels of enthusiasm for the marital exchanges. So, for the two of us, veterans of public private discourse, this exchange was a trip down memory's lane.
Volume constituted importance and passion.
My ears pricked up and bent slightly in their direction.
The line was much longer than I'd anticipated. Most matinees I attend are sparse of movie watchers. Sometimes, there are more attendants than attendees. That is how I prefer it; the less people, the better. For some movies, only a big screen will do; a dvd at home just doesn’t cut it. A forced march to the local multi-screen is in order.
I favor not attending movie theaters, at all. The level of noise booming on both side walls of the theater you're in takes away enjoyment from the movie you're watching. Then, there's the general low level of social behavior that one has to endure at a movie theater. Talking, predicting, scene-comparing, louder-than-necessary chewing/munching/container-opening, yelling-across-aisles-at-friends-who-are-yelling-back-in-equally-strong-voice, criminally prosecutable bathing habits, etc. You’ve all gone through it and, most probably, it's not a unique experience. It's something that happens each time you’ve gone to a movie theater. Why pay full price for this behavior? It’s not as if the movie shown at 12:00 has lesser actors than that same movie shown at 8:30. And it's more packed at night than during the day.
"This is not only thrifty, it is less wearing on the soul", he offered as an indication of his sound reasoning.
Picking up the handkerchief, she thrusted, "No, I know thrifty. Thrifty is a virtue, like Grace or Empathy . Cheap is a vice."
The rabble was getting louder as we approached the glass-protective ticket booth. We were still within earshot. I debated whether to buy the tickets or hang around for the knockout.
"Sorry, was that vice or vise?", he inquired, sharpening his blade.
"Hmmm. Actually, it’s both. Cheap’s a bad habit that turns into a socially demeaning activity that eventually turns into a vice that probably has some 3 digit criminal code attached to it. Cheap’s also a vise, squeezing the limited social interactions out of your lonely misanthropic life. Don’t you see? Being cheap is a drain on your soul and since I’m here in line with you, a drain on mine as well."
Oh, she was good! Would the movie offer this type of repartee?
"Misanthropic?" he protested lightly, buckling to one knee. "Isn’t that too scathing for 11:00 in the morning? I’d prefer cynical, if you wouldn’t mind."
Silence. Some minor parrying. Some preening. Some licking of wounds.
"Look, we've been in this line for 15 minutes. Cheap or not, can we ride it to the end? If the movie is good, then we got a bargain. If it's bad, we'll feel good that we didn't pay full price for (dreck).", he offered, his neck bared.
She looked up slightly, seeing her words had done more than intended, and nodded.
"O.K., but you've really got to work out this "cheap" thing. It reflects poorly on you, you know. Sort of cheapens your character." Twist !
He sagged a little more. I sighed, in empathy, perhaps a little bit too loudly. His eyes caught mine and we exchanged knowing glances over the generational gap.
It was a most beautiful day out there that day. A day that demanded one's full attention out of the house and not enclosed in a movie theater. A matinee, while saving a modicum of money, was costing them (and us) a stroll in the park in 70 degree weather in November or simply a seat in a backyard, wineglass in hand, face tilted up and following the sun’s path like a sunflower.
The guy had nothing. Nothing except hopes that the movie, with its potential laughs and moments of delight, will lighten the day they've chosen to be in darkened quarters.
As we were to find out shortly, the movie flunked a happy and sunny day. A bite out of our souls. I didn't see that couple once we entered the noisy echoing cave of stall # 3 in the multiplex. I'm not sure if they enjoyed the movie or not. For their sakes, I pray there were some laughs. Their performance was much more interesting. On our way home, we talked about them rather than the movie. Veterans, we were careful about picking sides but, instead, reworked some of their dialogue into an appreciative critique of a couple still struggling for the unspoken understanding.
And matinees? I’ll probably be going solo, with much lower expectations. A cheap thrill if ever there was one.
Labels: Humans
Thursday, June 01, 2006
Borat's Speedo
Here, (yes, you'll click to actually see the pic) is the World Famous Borat (aka Ali G, aka Sasha Baron Cohen) @ Cannes, just in time to resurrect a post of mine from last year, the Summer of Croatia. No amount of slivovica could be poured down my throat to be wearing that.
Labels: Effluvia, Humans, People, Quirks
