This may come as a SHOCK!!

I showed up slightly late to school today, way behind in my preparation for the section I was supposed to teach at 9:30. As I was frantically trying to figure out what I was going to say about Virginia Held's "Terrorism, Rights, and Political Goals", and Bat-Ami Bar On's "Why Terrorism is Morally Problematic", I started hearing little bells, sleigh bells, if you will, down the hall in the otherwise deserted 7th floor. What followed was perhaps the oddest scene I've ever been a party to.

I ignored the bells for awhile, thinking that Pippin or one of the staff members must be dressed festively (for some reason), and that he or she had slipped under my notice as I was making my way past one closed door after another to my office. But the bells just kept ringing. If it had been a staff member, I would a) hear their voice, b) stop hearing the bells after a certain point, or c) see them walk past my office. None of which actually occurred. I was starting to get a little nervous.

Then, all of a sudden, the bells started getting louder and were moving, decidedly, toward my office. I could no longer ignore them, and looked up from my lesson-planning session. I then observed the source of the bells: a very small wiener dog trotted into my office, looked up at me briefly, smelled my bag, and trotted back out again, merrily ringing the whole time.

This struck me as strange. Once again, the office was deserted. There was no owner of the dog following it around, there was no one calling out "here [name of dog]!" There was, apparently, some miscellaneous wiener dog roaming around the 7th floor checking out people's offices.

Frankly, it's a little disconcerting at nine in the morning.

P.S. For those of you interested, I've remixed the song I was working on earlier. There's a new ending, if you'd like to check it out (I think it's better). It's on the Castrato page.

They come a' runnin' just as fast as they can.

It's been a phenomenon throughout my young life that I've had the staggering ability to piss people off through no fault of my own. Around me, misunderstandings abound. For some reason either I have a tendency to irk people when they're in some sort of mood, or don't make my intentions totally clear, or whatever, but it seems as though I'm always making somebody mad for whom I bear no ill-will whatsoever.

Highlights of this phenomenon include:

1. The time I pissed off the lead singer of Hot Stove Jimmy. Before our set (and right after theirs), I said (at the mic) that it was against Dr. Castrato house rules for jerk guys to bug and annoy women. The HSJ lead singer thought I was referring to him and his attempts to get a couple of girls to dance during their set. In fact, I was referring to some asshole who was getting a little touchy-feely with my girlfriend at the time.

2. The time that Mr. Trumpet Greg High threatened to shove a music stand up my ass. Apparently he was in some sort of a mood, and I turned around in rehearsal to watch him give a solo. Little did I know that looking at him while he gives solos is a cardinal sin. Following rehearsal, I got the invitation to have a music stand deposited where the sun don't shine. He (much) later apologized.

3. More recent examples include the time I sent around an email to the other grad students in our department attempting to quell fears of faculty leaving (fears that were, as it turned out, justified). J. suggested in an email that I was being a "fucking asshole." This confused me. Turns out he was in a mood. He later apologized.

4. This weeked - during our latest softball drubbing, I was joshing my teammates about allowing 20 or so runs with two outs in an inning. A. thought I wasn't joshing. This turns out not to be a failure on his part. I have a tendency to be unduly hard on myself when I screw up; he was probably thinking that I was displaying the same level of frustration with the team in general. In any event, the miscommunication was (I hope) later resolved.

I don't know why this has a tendency to happen to me. Maybe I should be a little less cryptic about my non-ill-will-bearing intentions toward other people. Except when I do bear them ill-will. Yeah. That's right. You know who you are.

She bears the burden of a pretty face.

Wow. A long absence. Don't really have all that much interesting to say. This weekend has been sorta' slow. I slept for a very long time yesterday trying to bury the last vestiges of the sore-throat-and-cough combo I've been fighting. It's almost completely gone; gone enough to describe myself as "better". Sweeeet. I hate being sick. I'm a bit of a weenie about it; I have a tendency to complain far more than necessary. Oh well.

On Friday I had the pleasure of watching Three Amigos! Great, funny, funny, stuff. I was struck by how funny the "Amigos Theme Song" is right at the beginning of the movie. Not just because they hold that note for a ridiculously long time, but also because there's this little vocal harmony bit that's just, I dunno, totally out of context for those bumbling morons. You know the bit: "We are the Threee A-haaah-migos. We are the threeeeee A-HAAAH-migos!" That 'haaah' is a really funny moment in the song. Check it out for yourselves. Also, I never knew this, but it was written by Steve Martin (naturally), John Landis (who directed it), and Randy Newman. Randy Newman?!?! The piano guy with the weird glasses and strange voice, the one who sings the intro song to Major League? Yup. I never knew he was a comedy writer, but apparently, in addition to penning such classics as "My Little Buttercup", he also wrote a few of the jokes. Good for him.

Last night I played a rousing game of Monopoly and was, of course, the victor. Ended up with Monopolies on Medeterranian/Baltic, Connecticut/Vermont/Oriental, and St. James Place/New York/Tennessee. Fantastic combo. I had those sides of the board covered. Rematch soon, and I'm looking forward to it.

I actually didn't have a copy of the game when I decided I wanted to play last night. So I ended up going to this shopping center with a store called "Game Empire". This place doesn't have, you know, the staples (Monopoly, Clue, Scrabble), but it does have all these weird, cool strategy games; the type of game where you try to beat the other person by building the Paris Metro quicker. I'd like to try one of those sometime, but this place wanted like $35 for each one of those. Fat freakin' chance.

You must'a' took a whole hour just to make up your face, baby.

Finally managed to ride the bus today in my effort to conserve gas and avoid paying $30 every week to fill up the tank of my Honda Civic. I tell ya', it's a funny experience, riding the bus in San Diego. Basically nobody rides the bus unless they absolutely have to. It's so inconvenient - people who ride the bus are generally those who can't afford cars or who are unemployed, etc. Many of them are Mexican immigrants, most would rather be anywhere else. But somethin' in me likes riding the bus. There are so many interesting characters (a couple of which I ran into today) that populate the #41 from Fashion Valley to UCSD. Here's are a few of my favorites (keep in mind, my relationship with these people is one of a spectator only; for only one of them do I have a real name):

Cowboy Jim: This guy is one weird duck. He gets on the bus, oh, three or four blocks from where I pick it up and rides precisely two stops. He does this EVERY TIME. I call him "Cowboy Jim" because he looks exactly like the paradigmatic old cowboy in Hollywood westerns: long white beard, grizzled looking visage. Also he wears this black vinyl cowboy hat (in addition to, no matter what the weather, a very thick winter coat). My only interaction (alluded to before) with him was one point during the 30 or so seconds he's actually on the bus, I was sitting in the front and he happened to shift (he was standing right over me). From somewhere on his person came a bunch of cigarette ash, which landed on the lid of my newly purchased cup of coffee. Man, I was pissed at Cowboy Jim that day.

Mr. Itchy: Mr. Itchy has some serious demons to work out. I'm not quite sure what his pathology is, but it's a major one. He sits there in his chair, pleasantly rocking back and forth; nothing too odd. All of a sudden, he'll violently jerk his hand up to his head and start scratching incredibly forcefully and vigorously. During all this scratching, he has an incredibly disappointed look on his face, and takes that disappointment out on his hand immediately after he stops scratching by biting it extremely hard. This process repeats itself every minute-and-a-half or so. I don't like riding with Mr. Itchy much. Makes me feel a little strange.

Plastic Man: Plastic Man is, as far as I can tell, completely mentally aware, but he is always wearing the same outfit and dragging several huge packages full of plastic bags with him. I mean huge. They take up at least his whole seat and the aisle whenever he's sitting there. He also, I'm sure, has plastic bags taped underneath his shirt (which is the same every single day). Gets on and off at the same place every day, but it's very strange that the size of the plastic bag bundles never seems to increase or decrease. I would think that if this guy were homeless and were saving plastic bags for the recycling money, he'd have good days, bad days, etc., i.e., that the size of the packages would vary. Not so. I wonder if he treats these merely as his belongings and carries them everywhere. If so, maybe he's not totally aware.

Bob and the Pirate: Bob and the Pirate come as a pair. Actually, the two monikers refer to the same guy; there's a guy named Bob who always wears a Pittsburg Pirates hat. His partner I don't have a solid nickname for, so I've just given him the name "Bob", mostly because he's constantly yelling: "Bob! Look over there at x!" These guys seem to be friends, they appear to look after each other, but it's weird. They're like a mentally challenged old married couple. They constantly bicker on the bus about meaningless stuff, when Bob isn't annoying another passenger with renditions of old Kingston Trio songs. (His favorite is the one about the guy who gets trapped on the subway because he doesn't have the exit fare.) The Pirate actually appears to live in my apartment complex - or he could just be wandering around my building aimlessly, which I wouldn't rule out.

There are several other interesting characters that are on the bus on a one-off basis only. These guys are regulars. They make the ride on the bus somewhat interesting, but for some people who aren't exactly open minded (like me on some days) they make riding the bus a bit of a chore. There are a few others that appear occasionally, but these are all the dudes for whom I have nicknames (or names at all).

You might think I'm crazy, but I don't even care. 'Cuz I can tell what's goin' on.

So guess whose rental car was not returned last night when I drove home? I'll give you, oh, three guesses. NO, not Boris Yeltsin's. NO, not the diaper guy from Parliment-Funkadelic's. YES! MY ROOMMATE'S!! Turns out all that bullshit I went through yesterday was all for naught. And boy, did I sure feel good about that last night.

I recently got my acceptance letter to the ISUS 2005 conference at Dartmouth this August. So if you happen to be in the Hanover, New Hampshire area then, you should let me know and we can partay. I'm not sure what there is to do in Hanover, New Hampshire, but if the rest of New Hampshire is any indication, it's got to be a happenin' burg if ever there was one.

I jest, of course.

My experience with New Hampshire has been limited to the following: going to friends-of-parents cabin when I was, oh, six? Something like that. My only memories of that time are of the cabin and being told not to rock back and forth to get to sleep by someone who was decidedly not my dad. Can't says I appreciated that one all that much. I also spent a cursory amount of time in NH when Iived in Boston, but it was basically land I had to drive through to get to other places I was going. Maine, mostly, but Montreal once, too. Although the Montreal trip happened in the dark both times, so there wasn't really much to see. And, as I recall, the Maine trips happened mostly in the dark, too. It'll be a hell of a revelation to see NH during the day. It's probably Xanadu.

Even in the future, nothing works.

So I was supposed to have a nice post today about the colorful cast of characters with whom I ride the bus sometimes; Cowboy Jim, Danny the Patrolman, Mr. Itchy, Bobby and the Pirate, Plastic Man, etc. I was really going to have fun with it. But, as it happened, I didn't ride the bus today. There's a story in there somewhere. In fact, it's right here. Because my apartment complex is shitty, my roommate and I have to park one-behind-the-other in our parking space. Which means if I want to go to school while he's still sleeping, I have to have the spare key to his car to move it and get my car out. Well, for the last few days my roommate has had a rental car, to which I had the spare key. Of course, last night he told me that he was going to return the car today, so he needed the spare key in the morning, after I moved his car. Fine. Fast forward to this morning. I get out of bed, the sun is (not) shining, and I decide to take the bus. Now, it's a bit of a walk to the bus. I get TEN FUCKING FEET from the bus stop and remember that I still have my roommate's rental car key that he needs that day. After several minutes of cursing, I walked back to my apartment (for a total of about 45 minutes walking), returned the key, and said: "Screw it, I'm driving."

So I drive to school at around 8:30. Now, I've never had a problem parking off campus if I get there before 10am. NEVER. Until today. Can't find a spot to save my life. Meanwhile, the gas gauge (which I have been neglecting because of the ridiculous price of gas in my neighborhood - $2.60 at last reckoning) starts creeping toward E. Finally, I find a spot about a mile and a half from campus and once again, start a'walkin'.

All for want of a brain that would have reminded me to put the goddamn key on the coffee table. Then you'd be reading about the time Cowboy Jim ashed all over my un-touched cup of Starbucks Coffee. But alas, 'twas not to be.

We know where we're goin', but we don't know where we've been.

I think I've come to the conclusion that, as a class, considered of themselves, I hate undergrads. Of course, there are some exceptions. Some of them are perfectly well-adjusted, hard-working, etc. But most of them are whiny, annoying little children who expect everything to be handed to them and think that when they get it, it's some major accomplishment that should be recognized. It's just so annoying. And I'm not just talking about my students, either. Although this is certainly true of many of them. Just undergrads in general. They're right on that cusp between being children and being adults - many of them still haven't thrown off all the trappings of adolescence. And they piss me off because of it.

Take the cadre of jackasses that we've been playing in softball. From the other side there seems to be a constant need to be recognized as awesome, or the best, or having just done something incredible. This causes them to take steps that end up making the game unfun, or to talk trash, make fun of people none of whom they know.

My students also display many of these properties, but fewer, mostly because they have to act reasonably under control when they're in my presence qua instructor. But when I interact with them just as person to person, it's clear that they don't have any clue. None whatsoever. But therein lies the problem: they have no clue, and yet they think, because they're in college now, they have some right to be treated as if they do have a clue.

I hope I'm not just sounding like some old dude yelling about the younger generation. I'm really not. I'm just absolutely surprised at how much growing up many of these undergrads have to do. Some of them never will. But this brings me to a topic I've been thinking about a lot lately: many, not all, but many high school seniors are simply not ready to attend college the following year. Doing good work in college, being focused, being able to take advantage of everything it involves requires a degree of maturity that most 18-year-olds don't have. They just don't have it. They should wait. It's not imperative for everyone to enter college right after high school. A difference of two years might make the difference between them sleeping through their classes because they were out drinking the night before and actually being able to learn something.

Most people do a lot of growing up in college. I did, I'm sure. I didn't grow into this paradigm of wisdom, wit, and wonderful-ness in a day. Sometimes I wish I could just be sequestered into some graduate student-only conclave. That would be sweet. I think I could do without interacting with undergrads for, oh, a long time.

That is all.

And I said: "Baby, don't waste your time!!"

My cold (or whatever the sumbitch is) continues to bother me. It's still hanging out in the general throat area, but it steadfastly resfuses to calm down for anything but aspirin. I mean I've tried everything. Halls, Sucrets, Cepastat, or whatever that shit is, Cepacor, Cepalog, Sucalog, Hallarets, Suc-eeze, you name it. Aspirin works. It's funny how aspirin has a tendency to cure freaking everything under the sun. (Or, at least, delete the symptoms of underlying problems; which is just as good as a cure.) Heart trouble, pain, fever, hangovers, rheumatism, horse-mouth, hot-dog fingers, the ol' jelly eyes. You name it. I once heard some NPR report from a guy with a British accent (may not have been actually British) saying:

NPR REPORTER WITH POSSIBLY FAKE BRITISH ACCENT
Aspirin: it's the drug that's so bloody cheap, nobody takes it seriously.

The worst thing about my continuing cold symptoms is the fact that I have to go over to my ex-wife's apartment today to pick up her part of the tax money. Suckage and more suckage. Not that I don't like going over there or that I'm mad at her or anything, but it's still a little weird. I do get to see my kitty, though. And maybe I'll rip a few more CDs she stole from me, by way of asserting her legitimate ownership of them. Then I have a softball game that I may or may not be able to play in, depending upon my physical prowess at that time. A full report on that tomorrow, if you care.

Not much news, besides my general feeling of physical disintegration. Hyperbole? Nah.

A warm glass of shut-the-hell-up.

Finally finished watching Fitzcarraldo last night. Wow. What a spectacular movie. I was impressed by every facet of the production. Kinski's performance has got to be one of the best by a male lead I've ever seen. He goes from a bobby-hatch-worthy lunatic (during the bell-ringing scene) to the pinnacle of joy, to the final, proud, if tragic, figure. Great, great stuff. For anyone who hasn't seen it, I strongly urge you to check it out. Herzog continues to impress me. This movie is even more well-developed than his previous "boat-goes-down-the-river" movie, "Aguirre, the Wrath of God". It also has a somewhat more optimistic tone, even though it is, ultimately, insanely tragic. On that note, there are several great "boat-goes-down-the-river" movies. My top five:

1. Apocalypse Now
2. Fitzcarraldo
3. Hot Shots, Part Deux
4. Aguirre, the Wrath of God
5. The Mosquito Coast

For those of you sitting on the edge of your seats waiting for me to post new philosophical material, I should have a readable draft of "Epiphenomenal Respect" up on my papers page later today. I've been going back and forth between using the term "supervenient" and "epiphenomenal". I'm not convinced there's a difference at least as far as the content of my paper is concerned. So I went with the cooler-sounding word.

My cold seems to have narrowed its focus from my entire body to my throat. I'm able to walk around just fine, no longer have the chills, but I do have a nastily scratchy voicebox. For those of you who are tired of my constant talking, it should be a godsend. For those of you who can't get enough of my witty banter, I'm afraid you might be deprived of the stuff you crave for at least a little while. Oh, what am I saying? I can brave the pain. Don't say I never did nothin' for ya'.

Our next weather report will be in four days.

It's amazing the way the weather pattern works here in San Diego. I wake up this morning and it's grey. Grey grey grey. I'm thinking: long sleeve shirt, perhaps a sweater, would be appropriate. But I'm looking out the window now, a mere 2 hours later, and it's sun sun sun as far as the eye can see. It's as if that fog never existed. Basically this is the way the weather works here. If you only were awake from, say, 4am to noon each day, this place would be the gloomiest environment this side of Olde London. But if you're smart, you won't get up until noon - it's like living in a Corona commerical.

And now, a Pledge Break!

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Remember, thosewhodig depends on members like you to bring you the quality time-killing posts you depend on every day. Unlike other blogs, we don't try to stay afloat by cramming links to amazon.com down your throat or by whoring ourselves at the alter of corporate America. So become a valued part of our thosewhodig family today.

S(xy) = x is sick as y; d=Dale; g=dog; S(dg).

Man, I'm exhausted. A cold (or something) hit me like a ton of bricks last night at around 8:30 while I was trying to watch Fitzcarraldo. Didn't get a wink of sleep. Well, maybe two winks. But not much more than that. I went to bed at around 9, and since I was really only slightly tired (thought I should sleep to fight the cold), I had trouble getting to sleep. So I switched on the TV, let it play in the background. Nothing good on. Dale getting annoyed, finally nods off until 10pm-ish. Needs food (you know, hypoglycemia and all that). Gets up, goes back to bed. Flips around, finds "Frontline". Continues to be unable to sleep because Frontline content=the rise of Karl Rove and GWB. Getting angry. Wait until "Daily Show". By now 11:30. Overstimulated. Turn off TV. Sleep for an hour, get up. Rinse, repeat until 6am.

Man, I'm freaking exhausted. I was nauseous driving to school today, partly thanks to the truly annoying stop and go traffic on the 52, partly thanks to NPR's cavalcade of graphic medical stories. It was all I could do to stop myself from horking in my car.

I feel better today, besides being super-tired. Maybe I'll relax and watch some "Revelations" tonight.

She'll put it right there on my tongue.

1. Twix.
2. Caramello.
3. Snickers.
4. Hershey's with Almonds.
5. 100 Grand.

What kind of weapons have they got??

Somehow, on nights like last night, I always end up at Tower Records. I was supposed to go to a grad. student talk last night, but the reason I couldn't go was delayed. I found this out after I left the department. Anyway, A. and I had some decent mexican food (too much cilantro in the corn salsa this time, if you'd like my humble opinion of the cuisine). And, of course, Tower is just around the corner. I wasn't planning on spending any money, just listening to a few of the records to see what the young and hip are listening to these days. But, of course, I ended up spending, like, $25 on CDs.

I was actually looking for David Byrne's "Look into the Eyeball", but noticed that Tower wanted 19 bucks for it. Thanks, but no thanks. I ended up getting his "Feelings", which was a measly $15. Of course, in the grand scheme of things, what's the difference of four dollars when I could have gotten the record I really want? Well, hindsight is twenty-twenty my friends. So stuff it.

Next, I replaced at a ridiculously cheap price of $8 one fantastic record that was also stolen with UO's "Saturation". I'm speaking, of course, of The Flaming Lips' masterwork "The Soft Bulletin". Wow. What a fantastic record. From start to finish. So freaking good. So freaking good. As Klaus once told me, it's incredibly lush. From the first cheesy MIDI pitch-bend notes of "Race for the Prize" to the slow mournful howl of the square wave synth in "Sleeping on the Roof". Absolutely sublime.

Now, it goes without saying that this record is far superior to the followup, "Yoshimi Battles the Pink Robots" (I'm leaving out that one record where you have to use four different CD players to hear the thing). I like "Yoshimi", but "The Soft Bulletin" is really beyond anything that appears later. Perhaps I'm akin to hyperbole, but I really think this record is close to "OK Computer." It's perhaps not the best record I own, but it's very very close. I forgot how good it was until I bought it again after having it stolen. No wonder I haven't been listening to much music lately, all my good records were ripped off!

For some reason listening to TSB always reminds me of my first summer in Boston when I had a temp job working for Irrational Games in south Boston. (I think it was off the Broadway station on the red line, if I'm not mistaken.) Because they were a computer game company they, of course, didn't start work until 10:30, so I was able to sleep late. There was also a really good cheesburger place on the corner where I sat and ate lunch several times. And because I was basically there to just answer the phone, I was able to play games and listen to this record all day long. The job only lasted two weeks, but for some reason I won't ever forget it - it was the first place I really listened in depth to TSB. And I made some pretty good money there, too, if I recall.

I rarely talk to strangers, but she's so pretty.

Softball today was a complete disaster. Well, not a complete disaster. We had a nice final inning. Good hitting, timely fielding. But the rest of the game we pretty much stank up the joint. But that's not the entire reason it was a bust. We were playing against a team who was shamelessly sandbagging, playing in the 'A' division (the least-competitive division) when they clearly belong in the 'AA' or 'AAA' division. Also, they were complete jerks. Twice they didn't wait for our fielders to get back into position before pitching (you pitch to your own team in our league). The second time, after we politely asked them to wait, the asshole who was pitching said something disparaging like, "well, none of the other teams care." Dude, gimme a break! You were leading like 20-1 at that point! You can't wait two seconds?

Then, at one point, I was running from first to second when this second basewoman attempted to tag me out in the middle of the baseline giving me nowhere to run, but right into her. So I did, and she fell over. I immediately started apologizing profusely (even though it wasn't my fault) but she stays pissed, throws some shit on the ground, starts cursing. What bullshit! Again, you people are clearly destroying us. Must you act like children, too?

Ugh. Well, the upshot is we're 0-2. We had a nice last inning, so we have something to build on. But we need to do a lot of building.

I can't resist. Here's an awesome picture of Prince:

Leukemia, Schizophrenia, Polyethylene.

Hey all. It's been awhile since I've updated this here 'blog. I guess I've had some sort of blogger's block, or something. There's been stuff to write about, but this definitely isn't the forum for it. I've been a little paranoid lately that too many people I don't know are reading this thing, which makes me nervous about what I post, but then I think: no! If every Tom, Dick, and Harry wants to read this, they're welcome. If anybody wants to catch a glimpse, I say enjoy the show. I just can't post all of my deep dark secrets. (Those are available by email.)

I just recently rediscovered Radiohead's mini-album released between OK and Kid A, "How Am I Driving?" It's pretty uneven, but it has one of my favorite all-time Radiohead songs on it: Polyethylene (Parts 1&2). This is an example of the sort of Radiohead I like: brash, brassy, bravado, bravura, with a little twist on the standard rock and roll structure. I generally like the songs where they turn Johnny Greenwood loose on the ol' six-string. But I don't want to be rehashing old topics.

I've found that having some means to record music has really gotten me back into a songwriting frame of mind. I just sat down today and came up with at least one lovely progression. I don't know if I'll have time to do anything with it for awhile now, but it's nice to know that I can still do stuff that's entertaining for me, if not for anyone else. Eventually I'm going to record a song with some huge trombone parts, maybe some that are even this big.

Showed up at Lancer's again last night. I think my billiards game is getting progressively worse. Played two games, sank one ball. One. Granted, I didn't have more than three or so turns (the guy I was playing was, frankly, talented), but it's still a little disappointing.

Wow. No unifying threads this time. Only a jumble. Sorry 'bout that. I'll have highly polished thoughts on life, the universe, and everything tomorrow.

Got a face of stone and a ghostwritten biography.

I don't know why I bother.

All day long I try to convince people out here that Kansas really isn't this shit-ass backward hick state, that there are actually some pretty amazing cultural institutions, fabulous music and art scenes, etc. I try, mostly in vain to convince them that the countryside is actually quite beautiful, that it's not the drab, flat, uninteresting stretch of land that it's been portrayed as in miscellaneous popular (and not-so-popular) culture establishments. It's the received view that Kansas is a lame place. I've been fighting that trend, trying to give my home state a run for its money. There have been rocky times, of course. When I was leaving for Boston, the Kansas board of education banned the teaching of evolution. (Actually, they didn't ban the teaching of evolution, they mandated that students would not be tested on evolution, and beefed up the other subjects they would be tested on, leaving instructors no choice but to skip evolution altogether.) But I stuck by her. "Even the governor," I said, "rejects that decision and he's a flaming Republican!"

Then I learn today that Kansas has banned gay marriage.

I mean, that's not a huge surprise, after all. Most midwestern states have either banned it or are on their way toward banning it. I shouldn't be particularly surprised or disappointed. But I am. I feel like an abused wife who constantly sticks up for her husband who is genuinely loving and tender in spare, solitary moments, but who gets back to the business of beating her up just as she's defended him yet again. I just can't bring myself to leave. Every time I say, well, she's just hit me again. But we'll have more good times, I'm sure of it. I said that in November when every county in Kansas (besides Douglas County, incidentally, my home county) went for Bush.

I wonder if I'll ever just give up. I don't want to. I mean, I love Kansas. Really, deep down, I have a very strong connection to the area around which I grew up. But I just can't stand reading news articles all the time displaying, once and for all, that Kansas is the lame place I've been struggling to maintain that it isn't. The last time I was home, after all, I was at one time surrounded on the road by trucks, all of which had confederate flag vanity plates. I mean, in a FREE STATE! Kansas was a FREE STATE!

And it's not just that Kansas has banned gay marriage, it's that Kansas banned gay marriage by an overwhelming margin. It's as if all the residents of Kansas were hearded into an auditorium and someone asked if people liked chocolate. Apparently, it was that easy a decision. Chocolate, yes; oh, and by the way, let's dump gay marriage, too. Let's write it into our fucking constitution.

I miss my home town. I miss Lawrence. I wish my memories were of the good times, the music, the friends, the (truly) fantastically gorgeous scenery. It's breaking me up that my memories are slowly shifting from that to no gay marriage, no evolution, confederate flags.

There are glimmers of hope. Not only did Douglas County, my hometown, go for Kerry, it also was the only county in the state to reject the gay marriage ban. And I'm guessing that some rogue teachers kept teaching evolution in Lawrence High. Or maybe I'm just hoping.

I'll come back to you one more time, Kansas. I'll keep sticking up for you. But it's breaking my heart that I'm losing such faith so quickly.

You think that's what you think that's what they all say before I blow you away.

It's Dale's time to 'fess up. I'm a Johnny-come-lately in the extreme.

No, it's not about my extremely late-coming Red Sox fandom.

No, it's not about my dragged-kicking-and-screaming appreciation of The Beach Boys.

And no, it's not about my recent discovery and abuse of the word "fresh" as a term of approbation.

It's about my incredibly late discovery of The Shins' great record "Oh, Inverted World." In fact, I'm so late here, they've already appeared on a soundtrack (Garden State) that everyone else (besides me) knows about.

But damn, it's a fantastic record. Thanks to A. for getting it to me. It's so warm. It's just about the only record with lyrics that I can write to and actually think to myself that the work that I'm doing makes sense and is worthwhile. (On an related note, I'll have a new paper I'm working on: "Epiphenomenal Respect" up on my philosophy page for those of you who know where it is.) I've been trying to figure out just what sort of effect the engineers used on the vocals - it sounds as though it's an incredibly slow rotary speaker, or a split-track that was double-chorused or something like that. But whatever it is, it's done very very well. So fresh.

Shelby disagrees. He claims: "pretentious sounding and annoying". Dead wrong, I say. Dead wrong. I'm throwing down, here, Shelby. Shins: yay.

On an unrelated note, isn't "fuck you and the horse you rode in on" the most exquisite insult anyone's ever heard?

Wanna staple bacon to my face.

Wow, that kitchen was smokey. It was all I could do to avert the fire marshalls being called in. Frankly, I'm lucky to be alive.

Wait. Hold it. Hit reverse.

Last night, I decided that a lovely dinner for myself would include a can of Wolfgang Puck's splendid "Roast Chicken and Vegetable" and a nice plate of white basmati rice. Well, the soup went off without a hitch. Nevertheless, for the absolutely stupid (like myself), cooking basmati rice can sometimes endanger one's life and the life of one's family. This has a tendency to happen when you a) put the rice in a pot of water, as per instructions; b) set the burner on 'high' to bring the water to a boil; c) a la Homer Simpson, see something minutely distracting for one brief moment and completely forget that you have something on the stove set on high; d) forget about that something for upwards of twenty minutes.

Instant smoke machine. But oddly, it was very aeromatic.

After that totally embarassing episode, I went on to do a first draft of the song I've been working on, Deface. It's located in the Castrato page for those who give a damn. I'm not quite sure what to think of the ending I've tacked on there. It's a bit abrupt, but I'm still tinkering. I want the vibraphone sound to be prominent, but I'm not sure whether mimicking the analogue sequencer track is the best way to do it. Oh well, comments, critiques would be welcome.

After that, I read the final chapters of L.A. Confidental. What a fantastic book. I highly recommend it. In addition, it looks as though Brian De Palma is going to attempt The Black Dahlia. This should be interesting, especially since it stars Scarlett Johansson as Kay Lake and Hilary Swank as Madeline Sprague. Those are good choices, but I'm not quite sure what to think of Josh Hartnett as the tough ex-boxer lead. We'll see. It will be bad.

Tell my bride to bury me in Stull.

Hey all. I found this interesting history of Stull Cemetary, about 15 miles from my hometown, which is supposed to be some sort of haunted/demonic patch of land. Apparently the old Church was mysteriously destroyed recently. Oh well. It's an interesting read, anyway.

Rhythm and Light and Sound

So both of my baseball related experiences were a little disappointing yesterday. My softball team put up a valient effort but was thwarted by a vastly superior foe. Furthermore, the Red Sox stammered against RJ and the Yanks last night, which was equally, if not more disappointing.

However, to cheer myself up after the Sox game, I threw in the ever-classic "This is Spinal Tap". There were a few good jokes that I never caught in the six bazillion times I've seen the movie before. The funniest of which is, I think:

NIGEL:
It seems that Sex Farm is on the charts in Japan. Number five last week, actually.

DEREK:
Spinal Tap's recording of Sex Farm?

Ha. The movie is full of stuff just below the surface like that. Another bit is where Tap is playing "(Listen to the) Flower People" and Nigel starts his Sitar solo, but he doesn't actually react to it until halfway through the first bar. Funny stuff.

The other eye-opening part of this viewing of Spinal Tap for me was how catchy a song "Stonehenge" is. I mean, that middle section where Nigel is singing about, you know, the dewdrops and cat's meow, is actually kinda' cool. I wonder if anyone's ever done a cover of that.

Utilitarianism and the Argument for Potential: Are Utilitarians Cozy with the Theo-cons?!?!

Dig it, hepcats. We hear all day long from utilitarians that abortion is a-ok, that fetuses don't feel pain, they aren't persons. So why is there trouble in paradise? Turns out that ain't the end of the story, daddy-o. Remember those anti-abortion Theo-con shitbirds that like to countenance the argument from potential in response to the above? Well, turns out consistent utilitarians are drinking from the same bottle of bourbon. Utilitarians like Peter Singer and his band of welfare-counting brothers can only get half the story. If the Singster wants to be a utilitarian, he's got a lot of 'splainin' to do when it comes to the permissibility of abortion.

ITEM! Utilitarians are committed to judging increases in population based solely upon the value of the resulting state of affairs. So, when I'm judging whether or not I ought to have a kid, it's based only on whether that kid's welfare will increase, or decrease, the overall welfare when it comes into full personhood (whenever that is).

ITEM! The resulting state of affairs is only evaluable based on the potential of the kiddo to achieve a positive level of welfare (that is, a life worth living). But dig this: whether or not a fetus will add value to the resulting state of affairs depends only on her potential, not on whether, at the time of fetus-hood, that fetus is a person.

ITEM! Whether abortion is permissible is thus a matter of population ethics: and for utilitarians (remember the Repugnant Conclusion?!?!?!), everyone who will have a positive lifetime welfare must be brought into existence. Aborting a fetus, for a consistent Sing-o, is only permissible if the resulting state of affairs is neutral or worse than carrying the fetus to term. Current ways of solving the RC don't do the job either: the critical level Sing-o's are still committed to the impermissibility of abortion for any fetus that would have a lifetime well-being above the critical level.

Dig: the only response is the welfare of others, especially the mother. But this is going to be a high burden, because in most cases, the kidsky is going to live longer than mommy dearest, giving it longer time to accrue positive welfare values. The bottom line: there is no blanket permission for abortion.

So there you have it, hepcats. Utilitarians are committed to (something like) the argument from potential. Remember, you heard it here first: off the record, on the QT, and very Hush-Hush.