How Scandinavian of me.

My students applauded for me today. It was a little weird. A bit of a strange moment. It was the last day of class, I was wrapping things up; the last half of class had been a little surreal, because there was some sort of cheerleading or dance group right outside our window, and they were dancing to "I Want Candy", which was a) loud, b) incessant. It was a little distracting, and I think led to some of the students not really being as engaged in Parfit's "What Makes Someone's Life Go Best?" as they might otherwise have been. Oh well. In any event, after we were done talking, I sort of wrapped things up, and told them I'd see them at the final, and they applauded. Which was, as I said, strange. I've never been applauded for teaching before, and I didn't know that students still did it. They did it in that movie The Paper Chase, but that was Harvard, and probably had some sort of tradition of something. In any event, I like the tradition. I say students should applaud after the last lecture of a course. Views?

Math Rock has had a running description of artistic/mechanical items he considers perfect. I want to add one thing to the list: the first 2:00 of Bjork's "Hunter". That huge, lifted chorus is the absolute perfect complement to the somewhat sinister bits that came before it. I'm not as compelled when the song goes back to the A section, but the transition from A to B, and then the B, is absolutely sweet. Perhaps that doesn't count as labelling something as perfect, because I still made a critical comment about the whole song. But that first two minutes is unimpeachable.

I also did a mixdown of the latest thing I've been working on in Cubase. This one I've played around with for a considerably longer time than the other ones, so I think the production is much better all things considered. We'll see, though. I can't post it to the web because my web server dude hasn't gotten my account up and running after his server crashed. Ugh. In any event, I'll post it when I can.

She's got the smoke in her eyes.

I saw the latest Werner Herzog movie tonight, "Grizzly Man". The movie is total Herzog: one man's misguided obsession with a nonexistent goal seems to be the only thing sustaining his life, and eventually he's killed for it. A truly great, great film. I really enjoyed it. Herzog does something that's rare in documentaries about single subjects: he doesn't romanticize his hero, he treats him as the flawed and ultimately mad man that he really is. He doesn't shy away from showing him plumbing the depths of absolute insanity, and he openly and explicitly disagrees with his subject at a few points (Herzog serves as the narrator).

Still digesting it, but a truly fantastic movie.

And I know that it's right, 'cuz I hear it in the ni-ee-ite.

Final week of class. WOOHOO! This whole experience has been pretty exhausting. Trying to cram a 10-week course into 5 weeks is definitely for the birds. I also wonder if I've been a little hard on the students, I mean, trying to give them stuff that's a little too challenging (i.e., Kantian ethics via Kant, rather than some Kantian commenter). I think also perhaps I've got a little bit too far into the philosophical nitty-gritty, without giving them an adequate sense of the big picture. Or maybe not, I'm not sure. I suppose the papers and final exams will give me a decent indication, and perhaps the evaluations. Ugh. To top it all off, I have to have all the papers and final exams graded by next Tuesday, which is going to be a real chore, especially since I'm giving the final on Saturday.

Not much else is going on around here. I decided to get a respite from the heat and headed off to the beach yesterday. Sun, sun, sun. Despite my best efforts, and a huge amount of sunscreen, I managed to get sunburned on my shoulder, a clear annoyance. The water was quite nice, though, and the beach I went to had nice sand and wasn't too crowded.

In conclusion, here's a pretty sweet recipie I tried out the other day:

2 pounds green beans (the kind you get in the produce section, not in the can)
1 4-ounce pkg feta cheese
2 tbsp olive oil
1/3-1/2 cup of red wine vinegar (or balsamic), more or less to taste
1 tbsp (or thereabouts, to taste) dijon mustard
1/4 cup chopped basil

Mix the oil, vinegar, mustard and basil. Taste. You might have to add a little more vinegar or mustard, depending on your preferences. Mix in cheese, set aside. Steam green beans. When green beans are done, use the oil mix as a dressing, and make sure they're coated.

Yummy. Good hot and cold.

I cut myself shaving and they're dropping the bomb.

Today was laundry day, as evidenced by the way-too-short shorts I wore to 7-11 to get bills small enough to put into the change machine. It had been awhile, and very few of my articles of clothing didn't deserve a wash. Anyhow, I got up and out at around 8:30, carrying my heavy basket of laundry the few blocks to the laundromat. (I should note that the alley behind my apartment complex could get me to the 'mat much more quickly, but is disgusting. This will be relevant later.)

So I get there, and plunk down my $3.75 for three loads into the washer. The machines tell me in big block numbers: 34 minutes. Satisfied, I leave my basket and detergent, and stroll over to the local coffee shop to wait it out. After a reasonably pleasant coffee shop break, I return to the 'mat, where the first two loads of laundry are progressing nicely (3 minutes left each), but the third seems to be, well, going rather slowly (it reads 13 minutes). And by 'slowly', I mean 'nowhere'. The cycle was stuck. Which is definitely unfortunate because at the 13 minute mark, the whole dang thing was filled with water, clothes sopping wet.

Well, I says to meself, you have two options. Option A: wring out your clothes and toss 'em in the dryer. Option B: throw your clothes in neighbor washer, run it again, then throw in dryer. I reasoned that option A wouldn't take any less time than Option B, and potentially more money, so I threw an extra $1.25 into the neighbor washer, the other two loads into the dryer. During which time, I return home, intent on calling SBC to get my bill changed to reflect an un-reflected $35 credit (this is another interesting story which I simply can't go into now; suffice it to say, there's no reason to think that the SBC phone people are any more competent than the SBC DSL people). So, while walking home, I was developing a reasonable fume-level. I mean, after all, I had to spend extra quarters at a time of the month when money's tight, and I have to spend more time shuttling back and forth to the 'mat in the middle of an unprecedented San Diego heat wave. (And I do mean unprecedented; it's freaking hot.) In addition, I had to throw most of my good clothes into another wash cycle, which can't be good for them.

As I'm fuming, walking back to my place, a gigantic possum jumps out at me from behind a fence! I swear, the son of a bitch was on a mission, and the mission had something to with his teeth and my legs. He took off after I stomped a bit, but man, that thing...freaky.

Time passes.

I go back to the laundry to collect my dryer items and change over the problematic load. As I'm emptying the dryers, the washer with my other clothes stops. 0 minutes. I continue removing my clothes from the dryer. I look over at the washer again. 31 minutes. Hmm...that's not right...ACK! IT STARTED OVER AUTOMATICALLY! I run over there, but by the time I got there, the thing had filled all the way up with water AGAIN. Ugh. So this time, I went with option A, which left most of my clothes reasonably damp at the end of a 50 minute dryer session. Some days, you know? It's the little things.

Facts are never what they seem to be.

I had the unfortunate displeasure of having to catch a bus today. This is unfortunate generally, but today it was especially unfortunate, given that the temperature has gone through the roof and the hot sun is beating down, burning my feet just a'walkin' around. The whole experience turned ugly when the bus finally showed up, a busload of people de-bus, and the driver tells us we can't get back on. Bus driver just sits there. No admittance to the bus. It's a little weird, really. She had this expression on her face like she just played her last trump card to buy some time before she could hightail it to the border, and it would be freedom, freedom, freedom all the way to Venezuela. Anyway, because it was an ungodly hot day, and this particular bus stop had no shade to speak of, we were getting very sweaty and very smelly very quickly.

Finally, a new bus showed up to replace the old on, which had some kind of mechanical problem, apparently. Anyway, I get on, and I swear it's a new bus. It's got, I'm crappin' you negative, that new bus smell.

After that, I did a little work and went to go see The Aristocrats, an interesting movie about what must be the most repulsively, disgustingly, disturbingly dirty joke ever told. Something like 70 different comedians were all telling their own versions of the joke, which ranged from the merely scatalogical, to the bestial, to the incestuous, to the pedophelic, to the necrophelic, etc., etc. The movie was definitely funny in parts, but it was directed by Penn Jillete, and midway through the movie I started to feel like I was being a little manipulated by Penn, i.e., he was using this dirty joke and all these unsuspecting comedians to make some sort of political statement about censorship, etc. I just felt used, to some degree. Penn generally pisses me off with his pseudo right-wing libertarian rants about this that and the other thing, but I was definitely feeling manipulated here. I felt like the comedians were being used as mere means, not ends in themselves.

Up for tomorrow: writing a Rawls lecture, and putting together my brand new Ikea wine rack. Woohoo!

??

?

Crickets.

Hey all. A heartfelt, sincere apology for the lengthy absence. Factors beyond my control (including, but not limited to, teaching). Anyway, I have a quick observation:

The San Diego Padres are 62-63.

Sub .500.

Nevertheless, they're leading their division.

Which is odd.

But the kicker is: they're leading their division by FIVE GAMES. They could be 58-68 and STILL be in first place.

It's a crazy world.

Now I'm here, now you're here.

Gotta hand it to Shelby. While cruising his movie board today, I noticed his post on a bit of news (which I missed completely) concerning the Cure's plans for a new album. This prompted me to visit the Cure's website, to see if there was any more information. There, I found what has got to be considered good news, viz., that Porl Thompson has re-joined the Cure. I take this to be an unqualified good thing. During my long-winded analysis of the problems with the Cure's "Wild Mood Swings" (did you ever notice that I can never decide whether I'm going to put something in quotes or italicize it? I guess it depends on my mood...), I came to the conclusion that Thompson's departure was a major reason for the flatness of the record. Though the website suggested that he was back playing guitar for the summer, I'm assuming (given the language the news was phrased in), that he'll continue, hopefully contributing to the new record. If so, my expectations for the new thing are high. Of course, I expect to be harshly criticized by said Shelby, but nonetheless, I remain optimistic.

Betcha' five dollars he'll kill you dead.

There's some phenomenon, I don't know what it's called. It's, you know, where you hear about something for the first time, and then you notice that very thing occuring, or just happen to catch evidence of this thing over and over, where you never seemed to notice it before. Ok. That was a little abstract. But, you know, say you just hear about, er, Johnny Damon, or something. His hair, or how good he is, or something. Then you happen to catch a glimpse of his name here and there, or overhear conversations all over the place talking about Johnny Damon and related topics. There's some name for this phenomenon, and I'm not describing it very well, but whatever.

Anyway, something very much like that has been happening to me, only somewhat more strangely, and with less of a possibility of some rational, i.e., non-cosmic-coincidence-related, explanation. Everywhere I go, for the past four or so days, I've been followed by the song "Iko Iko". Heard it on the radio for the first time in, what, 15 years? a few days ago. A day after that, I was watching a DVD of SCTV that I got from Netflix, and the musical guest was Dr. John, doing a version of it. The next day I went to see the somewhat underrated thriller "Skeleton Key", in which that song plays a prominent role. The NEXT DAMN DAY I watched Rain Man, and for some unexplained, strange, reason, that song plays during the opening credits.

I can't get away from it, I tell ya'. It's everydamnwhere. Jacamo fee nane.

In other news, during a (long) break from grading, I watched Stanley Kubrick's Paths of Glory today. It was very good, although I felt it lacked some of the power of his later works. It definitely has great Kubrick moments - it's a nice bridge, I think, between The Killing and his later, more mature, works. One of the things that struck me most by it was how young Joe Turkel looks. I've just always imagined him as the old codger Tyrell from Blade Runner and Lloyd from The Shining. But he's young here, so it's a nice counterpoint.

We caught a rattlesnake.

I go back and forth. My opinions are like gossamer, especially on the subject of music and movies, etc. But the current state of my thinking is that "(Nothing But) Flowers" by the Talking Heads is the perfect pop song. Absolutely sublime in every way. I was inspired to think about this by reading Math Rock's post on perfection. Like him, I don't think many things are perfect. 2001, perhaps. But this song is the perfect pop song. Absolutely. Absolutely perfect.

Now, this is not the same thing as saying that it's the best. It is merely saying that it is unsullied in anyway. This does not preclude any other songs from being unsullied; that would simply imply that it is of the same quality as "(Nothing But) Flowers". But it does imply that there are no pop songs that are better than "(Nothing But) Flowers", because something's being better than something else implies that the former makes up for some deficiency in the latter, the existence of which I deny in the case of "(Nothing But) Flowers". Of course, it might be the case that "better than" is intransitive, in which case you could have "(Nothing But) Flowers" better than some other song, which is better than some third song, which is then, in turn, better than "(Nothing But) Flowers". But a pairwise comparison between the third song and "(Nothing But) Flowers" would have to retain the deficiency made-up-for relation, which I deny is possible in the case of "(Nothing But) Flowers".

I wonder if this has implications for normative aesthetics? It is surely a truism that one oughtn't to listen to "(Nothing But) Flowers" every chance one gets; listening to other songs is OK, too. But this seems to imply that, at least in the case of normative aesthetics, the right is not determined by the maximization of the good. Is there such a thing as normative aesthetics? Somehow I doubt it. Aesthetics seems to me to be the kind of thing that is concerned solely with the good. Comment withdrawn.

End transmission.

More Songs about Buildings and Crappy Telephone Service

A while ago, I decided to order DSL service, with accompanying wireless adapter, for my humble abode, considering that unfettered internet access is pretty much essential if I'm going to do any meaningful work at home, rather than on campus. Yesterday was supposed to be the glorious day; that glorious moment when finally, after two weeks of waiting, my DSL is finally turned on. As you can probably guess, the day ended with an enormous hodgepodge of dale yelling angrily at people on the telephone, people on the telephone not listening, DSL service not being connected.

So I wake up in the morning yesterday and the light on the wireless modem is red. Not good. This means it's not getting a DSL signal. So I call them, and ask them when it's going to be turned on. The first woman I talked to said: "Oh, it's already been turned on." I said, well, there's no signal. Woman: "Ok. I'll transfer you to technical support." I talk to the technical support guy, who opens a "trouble ticket", and says that the technicians will call me back in "four business hours."

So I wait four business hours, no dice. Wait a little longer. Still no dice. I call back. After waiting on hold, another woman tells me that "Your signal might not be turned on." I say, well, the first woman told me that it already had been turned on. "All it says here is that it's scheduled to be turned on today, but hasn't yet been turned on, but let me connect you to a technical service rep, maybe they can get you moved up in the queue." Ok, I said. "Hmm," the technical service rep said, "I can't seem to see your modem on the network at all." Hmm, I thought, starting to worry. Is that bad? Does that mean there's something wrong with the lines, etc.? Did she try to connect me, and fail, somehow? Is this gonna take years to fix? All I want is my crappy DSL!!! "Yeah, I definitely can't see it. You're just not hooked up yet." Ugh. What a let down. "It should be up and running by 8 pm."

I go to dinner, and come back around 11. Still red. I call again. I get some really weird, as in stoned, sounding technician. "So, are you plugged right into the wall?" Yes. "Are there any other devices plugged into a phone jack?" No. The only thing that's plugged in is the modem in my house. "Is your phone plugged into a phone jack." NO. THE MODEM IS THE ONLY THING PLUGGED IN. "Fax machine?" NO. THE MODEM IS THE ONLY THING PLUGGED IN. "Any alarm systems at all?" NO! THE MODEM IS THE ONLY THING PLUGGED IN!! Sounding very out of it, he replies: "Ok, ok. Now, why don't we try to turn it off and turn it back on?" I just told you I did that. "Ok, ok. Now, are you talking on a phone that's going through a filter into the phone jack?" NO!!! THE MODEM IS THE ONLY THING PLUGGED IN!!!! "Ok, ok. Do you want to try to powercycle the modem." I JUST DID THAT! I TOLD YOU THAT TWICE!! "Ok, ok. Well, I can't start a trouble ticket, because since you were scheduled to start today, I have to wait until tomorrow." Silence. Anger.

Wake up this morning. Still red. But I had recieved an email (using my neighbor's network), that said that, at 5am, SBC sent me an email confirming that my modem was hooked up. Ok. Maybe it just took awhile, but why, then, is it still red? I call again. I get a recorded message. "Users in Birmingham, AL, Austin, TX, and San Diego, CA, will not be able to connect to the internet this morning." AAAAAAAHHHHHHHH!!! So I finally reach a representative, and he says he can't put in a trouble ticket on my modem because there's an outage. Call back when the outage is over.

This pisses me off. I hate it when people can't give me a straight answer and when stuff doesn't work.

Scenes from Dartmouth

The Plane Ride

So, in my last post about my trip to Dartmouth, I didn't really say much about the plane ride over, although a few interesting things occured. The first and most important was I listened in its entirety, all the way through, from start to finish, in one sitting, Philip Glass's epic "Einstein on the Beach", recently shot to me by Math Rock. A hefty undertaking. It measures something like 2 hours and 45 minutes. And it's no ordinary 160 minute opera. It's fucking Philip Glass, which means endlessly repeated segments, more flute and synthesizer than you can imagine, and a chorus, when they're not simply counting the beats in the measure, they're singing nonsense syllables, or speaking in random phrases, about the virtues of Toyota or Mr. Bojangles. But I quite liked it, I think. It's highly impressive. Especially the final "Knee Play", which is absolutely gorgeous, after the hugeness of the piece that went before it. It begins with a simple statement of the knee play themes, and about 2/3rds of the way through, a solo violin enters, and a male voice reads the following excerpt:

Two lovers sat on a park bench, with their bodies touching each other, holding hands in the moonlight.

There was silence between them. So profound was their love for each other, they needed no words to express it. And so they sat in silence, on a park bench, with their bodies touching, holding hands in the moonlight.

Finally she spoke. "Do you love me, John?" she asked. "You know I love you, darling," he replied. "I love you more than tongue can tell. You are the light of my life, my sun, moon and stars. You are my everything. Without you I have no reason for being."

Again there was silence as the two lovers sat on a park bench, their bodies touching, holding hands in the moonlight. Once more she spoke. "How much do you love me, John?" she asked. He answered: "How much do I love you? Count the stars in the sky. Measure the waters of the oceans with a teaspoon. Number the grains of sand on the sea shore. Impossible, you say?"

That bit is really quite touching.

If I had to make one critical comment, I would say that Glass absolutely murders the high register. Unlike Koyaanisquatsi, which I think is much more balanced, he rarely ventures below middle-c. I would have liked to see one of the movements with, say, a bari-sax and low register organ doing the Philip Glass thing, but c'est la vie.

House of Dick

The first night at the conference, we walked to a boathouse on some pond for dinner; it was only a few blocks from the conference site. Anyway, along the way was an enormous colonial style mansion, really impressive house. Any other place, I would guess it's the president's house, or some other really really important residence. But this particular mansion had written above the door in HUGE black letters: "Dick's House."



Possible explanations, ranked in order of plausibility (highest to lowest):

1. Dick could have been the name of some huge donor, who wanted some house dedicated to the university. Problems: why would this person want their names tatooed all over the front of the, otherwise gorgeous, mansion? And usually, if a building is going to be named after a donor, it would usually be, say, "The Horace Q. Dick Memorial House" or some crap, not "Dick's House."

2. The residence of the campus private detective. Problems: usually, if a campus is going to hire a private detective, it would likely be covert, rather than horribly conspicuous. Also, this thing is a mansion. And it's pretty rare to come across a private dick who's also incredibly wealthy. Unless he's, you know, Poirot, or something, but he probably wouldn't be called "Dick."

3. It could actually be Dick's house. Problems: though this isn't a problem with plausibility, Dick would have to be one arrogant guy, to plaster an advertisement of his house ownership on a huge mansion for all to see. Now, I could see people calling it Dick's house, but that's a far cry from Dick actually throwing it up on his front porch that it's his (Dick's) House.

The mystery remains unsolved.

Sleepers

It's natural, during any philosophy talk, to have a few people in the audience drift off, potentially have one fall asleep, especially at a long conference like this one. What's unusual is for the same person to drift off to sleep in every session. And what's even more unusual is for there to be two people who are sleeping in every session. No names, but one of them I recalled from the last conference like this, when he was actually running the thing. He would be sitting up on stage, with the keynote speaker, falling asleep in front of everyone. I guess he's an equal opportunity sleeper; on stage, off, etc.

Kappa Kappa Lewis

Since it's the summer, there's decreased activity on most college campuses, so I didn't think it would be a big deal when I saw a fraternity house right next to the conference building. No worries, the kids are all gone. Apparently not. My evidence for this? Everytime I walked to a session, I got an earful of the gigantic speakers they had going, pointing OUT. And apparently, these speakers were connected to a stereo system that had the Greatest Hits of Huey Lewis and the News set on ad nauseum repeat. Instead of listening to the speaker during one session, I was desperately trying to get "Do you believe in love??" out of my head. As I walked to lunch, I happened to catch the intro bars of "The Heart of Rock 'n' Roll."

They say New Hampshire can be a strange place. And from what I've seen, I believe 'em.

A heapin' helpin'.

New England is a funny place. Not funny, you know, "ha-ha", but funny in that sort of David Lynch-Twin Peaks/Beverly Hillbillies/Chevy Chase in "Funny Farm" sort of funny. Just, you know, a little off.

So today was something of a homecoming, since the last time I saw New England was May 14th, 2002, as I was staring out the back of my fiance's as-yet-unstolen 1992 Honda Accord, fiance in the passenger's seat, fiance's dad driving the Penske. I'll be the first to tell you, I liked Boston while I lived there. There were things I would change, but overall, I think it's a much better place to live than San Diego. About the same number of fake personalities, but fewer fake body parts. By far. And a nice public transportation system.

But, as I alluded to above, there are some things that are just a little, well, different, about New England.

As I tried to leave the rental-car parking lot, in my rather nice Hyundai Sonata (Blue), I was stopped by the ubiquitous person in the little hut who makes sure the car matches the rental agreement. Only this person looked about 80 years old, and I swear to you, had a wooden leg. Thing is, it wasn't just a wooden leg; it wasn't like some pegleggy kinda' thing, the sort of thing that MCA raps about in "Shake Your Rump", but rather a fully fake leg, complete with fake shoes, fake socks. But it wasn't prosthetic; it was definitely a wooden leg. No mistaking this leg for an actual leg. It's just that this old guy had decided that, lest he offend people with his wooden leg, he oughtta wear matching socks.

So I pulled up to the guy and showed him my rental agreement and asked, nonchalantely, "What's the best way to get to the 93?" And he tells me: "Here, I won't tell ya', I'll show ya'. Gimme your map." I give him my map. "So you take this street here for a mile and a quarter. EXACTLY a mile and a quarter, that's the airport exit." Dale interrups: "And that'll put me on the 293?" Old guy: "NO! YOU DON'T GET ON THE 293 UNTIL I TELL YOU TO GET ON THE 293!!"

Whoa.

That was an unexpected outburst. I basically stopped listening, and followed the signs (which were perspicuous enough).

One of the simple pleasures of living in New England is Dunkin' Donuts coffee. Their donuts are pretty much neither here nor there, but the coffee is seriously where it's at. So before I got on the 293 (whenever I damn well pleased, I might add), I made sure that I stopped off at a half gas station/half Dunkin' Donuts. Only I didn't realize this when I pulled in, but apparently the Carnival had stopped at this very gas station. Guys in stilts were walking around harrassing people as they were trying to pump gas. Two guys in New England accents (you know the one) were yelling into a microphone something about a raffle. I tried to slip by unnoticed. So I get in there, and order myself a medium coffee.

Let me repeat that. A medium coffee.

Now, anywhere else in this great nation of ours, you order yourself a medium coffee, and don't specify anything else, it comes black. You want cream or sugar, you add that shit. Not in New England. If you want black coffee, you better say "black", lest it come with about 200 extra calories. Much to my dismay. That's something I'm going to have to remember.

I'm tired. I'm going to go to beddy-bye, considering I've slept approximately three hours in the last twenty-four. Gotta love me some of that New England air conditioning, though.

Nancy boys a' poppin'.

I might be a little light on the posting for the next few days. I'm going to be in Hanover, New Hampshire giving a paper. It's going to be more than a little tiring; I'm taking the red-eye tonight, hanging out in the Charlotte, NC airport for four hours, and then hopping a plane to Manchester, NH, and driving a car two hours until I get to Manchester. It's going to be a full 13 hours of travelling. That's better than going to Lisbon, though, which was 24 full hours of travelling. That sucked.

I'm excitedly nervous, and nervously excited. And tired from lecturing on Bentham and Mill. Oh, the things I do for you people.

Chuck's Splurge-o-Rama.

A couple of days ago, my sister sent me a little "Get 30% Off at the Gap August 4-7th cards". And, well, since I've been hampered by the wanton destruction of several of my favorite pairs of pants recently, I figured that it was high time I took a trip up the 5 and stopped off at the Carlsbad Premium Outlet mall. Now, this card is supposed to work at Gap Outlet stores, too, so I figured what the hell. I'll try to bilk every penny I can out of the consumerist reward system.

So I took the approximately 20-minute drive up there today, all ready to do some serious pants-replacement, when, as I was pulling into the place, I realized that I had forgotten the card. That really pissed me off for a while, until I realized that there was only one thing that wasn't horrendously ugly at the Gap Outlet, and the card would have saved me a scant $2. No big whoop. But I did end up spending in the vicinity of $65, getting a new pair of brown linen pants, a new pair of jeans, a shirt, a pair of blue socks, and a kitchen dishrag from the Crate and Barrell outlet.

I splurged a little.

It was probably a little irresponsible, considering that a) I'm a graduate student and b) graduate students make no money during the school year and c) it's the summer and d) graduate students make even less during the summer. But dang it, I needed pants. And a dishrag. The socks were free. I didn't really need them. But who argues with socks gratis?

In addition to it being irresponsible for the above reason, I also might have to replace one of them rubber strip-dohickeys that run between the roof of my car and the passenger-side doors. Something must have happened while I was getting my car washed this morning, because as soon as I hit the 52, there was a giant THWAK! coming from the back window. Apparently this rubber thing was flailing around in the wind aimlessly, held on by God knows what. I was able to reattach it with no further mishaps, but it scared the pants off me while I was driving at like 80 or so.

I thought of all the different ways I had to make you groan.

It was not my finest karaoke hour. So was suggested to me by the Turtle, who had acquitted him nicely via spendid renditions of "Baby One More Time," "Particle Man," and some song I don't remember. It didn't start off so well for me. During an impromptu dance move during "Hip to Be Square," my glasses flew into the front row of spectators/strangers, and I couldn't exactly decide whether I wanted to do "Delirious" falsetto or standard. Also, "Delirious" was the album version, and not the single version, which includes a lengthy instrumental break, only to return for another five utterances of "Delirious!"

I was finally able to pull it together for "Just a Gigolo," with the help of an ounce or two of quite possibly the worst Kentucky Straight Bourbon Whiskey I had ever tasted. Normally when you ask for "bourbon" at the bar, you get something in the Jim Beam/Early Times range. This was definitely Evan Williams or worse. Could have been Zachary Boone. Could have been gasoline. That's what you get for ordering bourbon at the bowling alley. (The Turtle helped me get revenge by carrying out his normal karaoke MO, i.e., bringing a hip flask full of Maker's Mark and using the bar's glasses.) But apparently, during JaG, Math Rock started dancing with a woman/monster dressed in a "Super Star" wifebeater. She was attempting to monsterhandle him, and he was attempting to extricate himself. Turned into a comedy number. Not that the David Lee Roth version of that song isn't a comedy number, but I'm just sayin's all.

I went home early, almost directly after some chucklehead attempted a version of "Just Like Heaven". Now, I know not everybody spent their entire high school careers listening to this song and memorizing every vocal inflection, but this guy clearly didn't have it. I'm almost willing to guarantee he had heard the song but once, possibly at somebody's wedding. Possibly while drunk. Not that the screen was helping him out much. I counted no fewer than ten lyrics errors, some of them mildly annoying ("you, lost and lonely" becomes "you look lost and lonely"), ("daylight licked me into shape" becomes "daylight whipped me into shape"), to the obnoxious ("stole the only girl I loved" became "sank the only girl I loved"), to the downright eroticized ("I had to make you glow" became "I had to make you groan"; what is this, a Prince song? Groan!). Went home early and got some dang sleep for once.

Gearing Up

Tomorrow is round two at the bowling alley/karaoke joint. I'm pretty excited. I'm currently trying to figure out what songs I ought to do. Last time, in the words of Harry Fluegleman, I strayed from the formula, and I paid the price. Tomorrow it's all Prince and James Brown. And maybe a little Tina Turner. And maybe "Burning Down the House."

The last couple of days have been a little slow. I've been working on my Smart and Williams lecture, which should be fun. Smart is the guy famous for declaring that all responsibility is nonsense, and instead we should be asking "who is it useful to blame"? Ha! Fun stuff.

Ugh. That's all I got fer now. I leave you with the following picture of Matt Barr:

The Unstoppable Trivia Machine

Trivia is getting to be an obsession with me. Not so much as with Uncle Barry, our fearless, but sometimes oppressive and annoying leader. Last night it was me, the Turtle, Uncle Barry, a gaggle of the Turtle's neighbors (who drove, supererogatorily enough), and me. By my reckoning, we trounced the competition. By the official score-keeper's reckoning, we won by one point, but the official score-keeper thought that Janet Leigh was still alive, so he's untrustworthy and unreliable.

I'm really really really tired this morning. I thought last night that for sure I was going to end up with a cold this morning but knock on wood, no cold. But tired. Unbelievably so. Worse yet, I have to talk about one of my favorite articles today in the class I'm teaching, but I doubt I'll have the energy to really put everything I have into it. Sucks. Maybe I'll get a second wind after I have lunch. And some coke.

I'll close with a puzzle. Though I love the Mighty Mighty Bosstones, some of their lyrics are downright puzzling. Of course, we all know about the problematic "Impression that I Get" line, where he says "I never had to knock on wood, but, whatever, it would suck if I had to," (I'm paraphrasing). It's clear that you knock on wood when things are precarious, but good. So when you knock on wood, that's a good thing. There are others, one of which I was noticing last night. Consider a great song, all things considered, "Jump Through the Hoops":

My job, it's a 9 to 5 nightmare.
I'm serving whiskey, stale wit, and beer.

Ok. So he's working at a bar. But is there a bar in existence that employs a bartender 9 to 5? I mean, maybe, but then he goes on to say that he's talking to all these customers, etc. Totally unrealistic. There are others (see "Our Only Weapon"). I could go on. But I won't.

Where's Cliff Clavin when you need 'im?

Freakin' mail. Not only has my super-large check from Geico not come, but the Netflix disks that I've been at pains to send back for over a week continue to be ignored. I went down to the post office today to complain, and the woman basically told me that the outgoing mail procedure I've been using is busted, so I'd have to come to the post office personally whenever I want to send anything. SHITTY! This puts a serious damper on the overall convenience of Netflix. Not that it's enough to outweigh the sheer joy, but it definitely sucks. Also, when I told her about the twice-failed Geico check delivery, she basically told me: "If I were you, I'd get a P.O. Box."

Huh.

A P.O. Box.

This pisses me off. Who knows how much mail I've been failing to get? So far, I've gotten most of the stuff I've been expecting, but how much stuff have I not gotten that I haven't been expecting? It boggles the mind! I could have been, like, getting all sorts of free stuff in the mail. I'll never know! Freakin' mail. Neither rain, nor sleet, nor whatever. Screw 'em.

My Proposed Name: Planet Funkenstein.

Did this story go completely unnoticed? Why am I the only one freaking out about this?? I also love that the url for this story on the NASA site includes the string: "planetx.htm". Sweet.

It's trivia night; oh what a night.

So, despite my reservations about Uncle Barry, I decided to shimmy down to trivia last night. It was the last night I would have free before I started teaching for the summer, so I felt like a few overpriced pints of Stella Artois were in order. The rest of the day, however, was surprisingly productive. I found a pretty amazing coffee shop that meets all three of the coffee-shop-good-making properties (wireless, plastic, non-annoying clientele). Before this, I had only been able to get two of the three. Brilliant!

After that, I came home and decided to do some experimenting on Cubase, my music recording software. They have this "Truetape" mode that's supposed to produce a more faithful-to-analogue sound, so I did a quick cover version of "Leave in Silence" by Depeche Mode. The thing is a little frustrating, though. It's hard to do a lot of editing. The sound is great, I think, but I basically was unable to punch in-and-out to fix some of the more egregious errors.

Trivia night was really fun. We came in second place. We lost on a totally ambiguous question: "What is the world's largest fresh-water lake?" Well, largest on a map is Lake Superior. Largest by volume of water is Lake Baikal in Russia. The trivia woman refused to disambiguate her question. We guessed Baikal. She said Superior.

Actually, I don't even feel that bad. It wasn't like we deserved second place anyway. Apparently, Uncle Barry is a hardcore cheater. Cheats like crazy. We would have come in much worse than second had Barry not cheated. But as it was, we got fifty bucks of our bar tab paid. So the Stella Artois wasn't even overpriced after all.

After I cam home, I had another talk with Fink-Nottle. The guy's upset, and I can't blame him.