The Desiccation of Wit

welcome back

2006-08-31T12:29:00.000-04:00

First there were suits. Then there was competitive phone call answering. Now there is reading and all the old routines. God sent rain to remind us that the summer is officially over.

Should you need to take your mind off the grind, go watch the boys at Top Gear do Pimp My Ride British-stylee with a Lada.

Status Report

2006-07-17T16:17:00.000-04:00

1. Lex and I are on hiati (unenforced) until roughly September.

2. Hiati: Probably not a word.

3. Hiati: Not a misspelling of Haiti, either.

4. Co-religionary: Not really a word, even though it was used on 'Meet the Press' yesterday. OED cites it to 1929, and never again.

5. "Kim has reduced the average height of a North Korean adult by three inches." Newt Gingrich, yesterday, "Meet the Press".

6. My suspicion is that Kim has done worse things, unless this shortening was done with torturous devices or sharp downward strokes on the top of the head, rather than as a result of malnutrition, which is my suspicion.

7. Had he actually figured out a way to shrink people by smothering them in lard, that would've been quite a trick.

8. I have a cat. Her name is Hannah Albin Countergambit. She's half mine, and half not mine. The left foreleg and left torso are mine, in particular. None of the three of us play chess.

the bite of a dog into a stone

2006-06-12T01:06:00.000-04:00

Now, that we have enough distance from the law for it to once again be amusing...

From msnbc.

TAMPA, Fla. - A federal judge, miffed at the inability of opposing attorneys to agree on even the slightest details of a lawsuit, ordered them to settle their latest dispute with a game of “rock, paper, scissors.”

The argument was over a location to take the sworn statement of a witness in an insurance lawsuit.

In an order signed Tuesday, U.S. District Judge Gregory Presnell scolded both sides and ordered them to meet at a neutral location at 4 p.m. June 30 to play a round of the hand-gesture game often used to settle childhood disputes. If they can’t agree on the neutral location, he said, they’ll play on the steps of the federal courthouse.

Moviegoer

2006-05-04T12:50:00.000-04:00

Who's the black private dick who's a sex machine with all the chicks?

SHAFT!

What's the black-humored debut film about a high-school dick and a sexy chick?

BRICK!

Who's that guy in the aforementioned film playing Assistant Vice Principal Gary Trueman?

SHAFT!

Go see Brick. See it today. See it tomorrow. Don't wait to see it until it's got the 'cult film' label; help give it that label.

best of

2006-04-25T16:57:00.000-04:00

Current front-runner in the contest for Best Congressperson Name:
From Wisconsin's fightin' 7th: Representative Dave Obey.
Because nothing reads as well as "the Ranking Member, Rep. Obey."

Official Blog Seabird

2006-04-25T10:33:00.000-04:00

Clearly, the Ohio Penguin is our Official Blog Seabird. No two ways about it. But what's with the scarf? It can't be that cold in Youngstown. Certainly he could huddle for warmth in an abandoned steel mill, if necessary, wouldn't you think?

Some things...

2006-04-24T18:26:00.000-04:00

1. It is rare that something I read will make me laugh out loud. No, for those of you whom it may concern, I do not do so to provoke you to ask me, "What's so funny over there?". But, Lex, you're way off base about last week's New Yorker, which was frankly hilarious, particularly the piece about the development of maps and map-making technology (citing SNL's "Lazy Sunday" sketch) and Anthony Lane's journal of his excursion to Vitoria-Gastez (which, from firsthand knowledge, I can attest is in fact in the Basque region of Spain) and the other ups and downs of budget in-continent air travel. (I'd be curious to know what his experiences have been regarding un-hyphenated incontinent travel on low-cost providers.) So, apart from your misconflation of the umlaut and my beloved dieresis, it appears I have good cause to disagree with your assessment of the issue on the whole.

2. In today's final class of Constitutional Law, the antepenultimate class of the semester, all things considered, New York's most beautiful brainiac pulled out of his beltless, narrowly tailored pants a word which, according to my best sources, went into obsolescence a mere 676 years ago:

duree, dure, n.

[a. F. durée (12th c. in Hatz.-Darm.) duration, f. durer to endure.]

a. Power of endurance. b. Duration.

c1330 R. BRUNNE Chron. (1810) 16 e kynges folk was litelle, it had no dure. On the nyght he fled away, at non suld him se.

(Rough translation? 'The few people who were there didn't stay around long, not long enough to see him leave.' Olde English scholars, please do correct me.)

Back on point. His usage of it grafted the French accent aiguille onto the "e" sound, though not with that "Look at me, I'm using a French word" navel-gazing that might well have been expected, but rather with a sort of "I'm saying this word as though it were spelled D-U-R-A-Y like in 'duration'." Thus I can infer that his intent was to use this word as though it were English in his response to my point that federalism is, for all intents and purposes, dead and that therefore, in interpreting the intent of Reconstruction Era-senators, it is most appropriate to do so with disregard for their desire to protect a structural entity which, as argued above, has long since gone by the wayside. Like, for instance, the English word duree.

*************************

3. Apr 23 Texas Rangers 2B Ian Kinsler (thumb), working out in Arizona with a dislocated thumb, has started taking batting practice in a swimming pool, according to T.R. Sullivan of Texas.Rangers.MLB.com. (Emphasis added)

Why, pray tell, is he taking batting practice in a swimming pool?
Anyone?
Anyone?

it's in the computer

2006-04-21T09:24:00.000-04:00

I have realized that the law school lockers all carry small labels indicating that their steel bodies were manufactured in Youngstown, Ohio. I imagine some law professor years ago who got appointed to the Works Committee over his strident obligations chuckling to himself in his office as he ticked them off on the catalog order sheet.

eating my words

2006-04-20T00:25:00.000-04:00

Okay, I've screwed up my courage and I'm just going to say it: Yes, damn it, I subscribe to The New Yorker. It's a pompous and arrogant periodical that is not as good as it was in the [insert editor of choice] period. It reviews opera in long format, apparently presuming that there is still a large segment of the public that arranges its life around when a favorite mezzo might appear. It persists in using an umlaut when a prefix ending in a vowel runs up against another of the same vowel (coöperation), which I think died as a general practice around the same time as Caesar. (Julius, not Augustus.) Sometimes I don't understand the cartoons. I never understand any of the ads.

But it still publishes poetry (poetry!) in a general interest magazine. Sometimes the cartoons are very funny. The profiles, all superciliousness overlooked, are often brilliant. And there's still some very good original investigative journalism in its pages, albeit heavily influenced by the Local Color and the I State This Blandly While You Catch My Other Meaning* schools of journalism.

This week's issue, however, has reminded me thrice over of why I do subscribe:

Nancy Franklin's lovely simile that crops up in, of all places, a restaurant review: The restaurant is just a hundred yards or so away from the mayhem of Union Square, with its hordes of young people running after a good time as if it were about to roll under a couch.

Anthony Lane's use of the much forgotten "conurbation" in an article on European budget airlines, a word he must have pull out from under the aforementioned couch and dusted off expressly for this article.

Finally, Jonathan Stern's "The Lonely Planet Guide to My Apartment." While weak in spots (you're horny, we get it), the parody of a much-beloved but perhaps too-big-for-its-britches-becoming publication does an excellent job of lampooning the guidebook's mission of making its readers feel at once intrepid cultural explorers (More adventurous eaters might try standing over the sink, as the locals do.) and safe in their new society (Dangers & Annoyances: The ongoing economic recession has led to a large increase in petty crime. For the most part this is limited to the "borrowing" of personal items and the occasional accidental disappearance of the neighbor's newspaper.)

Go forth, wordsmiths! Go forth and… smith. Produce for me these things of beauty in your Upper East Side sort of way. Make of your smirk a sword of insight. But please stop trying to convince me that I need to buy a roll-up Panama hat handwoven from straw in Ecuador (p157) or a ring with my family crest (research included!—p155). Affording the subscription price has meant giving up lunch for a month.

*This is sometimes referred to by British commentators as the "Wink, Wink, Nudge, Nudge School."

Mmm.....Jebus

2006-04-17T12:42:00.000-04:00

Can someone provide me with either:
(a) a theologically sound repsonse to,
(b) a witty retort to, or
(c) a refutal of the premises underlying
the following question:

Can vegetarian Catholics eat communion wafers? Does it matter whether or not you intinct? (<--- new word I'm very proud to have learned yesterday at church (!) from the Rev. Doug Fisher, M.Div.)

Happy Easter to all
(P.S. It's still Passover)

to half and to hold

2006-04-16T20:32:00.000-04:00

I know that when the Treasury Secretary thinks of halves, his pie is spilt into 99% and 1%. (I can only assume the 1% is green.) I also know he's a moron.

But America is the land of opportunity, and so no matter who we are, no matter how many moronic speeches officials of the Bush administration give, I think some part of all of us still believes that we can be anything: the President (perhaps! see above), an astronaut, a billionaire.

Then I actually read about that half/1% and realize: it's never going to happen. Oh, sure, some of us will make more money than others. Someone we know will probably make their first million before thirty. (Probably not someone with a BA in the humanities-- but you never know.) Yet no matter how much bootstrap-pulling-up-by might be accomplished, there are some dizzying heights I just don't think I'll ever manage to scale.

Case in point: the following sentence from a NYT article about the heir to the Kreiss furniture fortune who is proving that he's "an heir with a mind of his own." (You probably didn't know the Kreiss furniture fortune existed, did you? You East Coast peon.)

Mr. Kreiss writes his graphic novels on his BlackBerry while working out on an elliptical trainer at the gym.
[Edited in response to a very good question from Des to point out that Mr. Kreiss only writes his graphic novels. He hires other people to illustrate them. Probably because you can't draw straight lines on an exercise machine.]

That gurgling you hear, ladies and gents, is the sounds of all my high society aspirations collectively drowning their disappointment in cheap wine. Is it too late to become an astronaut? How about to get rich quick in a turnaround scheme that sees me sell Canal Street knockoffs out of the trunk of my (theoretical) car to people in Iowa?

Words of the Day

2006-04-10T14:03:00.000-04:00

1. Defenestration: The action of throwing out of a window.

Defenestration of Prague, the action of the Bohemian insurgents who, on the 21st of May 1618, broke up a meeting of Imperial commissioners and deputies of the States, held in the castle of the Hradshin, and threw two of the commissioners and their secretary out of the window; this formed the prelude to the Thirty Years' War.

1863 NEALE Ess. Liturgiol. 238 Which commencing at the defenestration of Prague..terminated in the peace of Westphalia.

2. Uxorilocally: Applied to or denoting residence after marriage in the area of the wife's home or community.

1963 Brit. Jrnl. Sociol. XIV. 24 So that now you may read about individual couples ‘marrying avunculocally’ or ‘living uxorilocally’. This seems to me an abuse of terminology.

**********
Dear Wiktionary,

A few weeks back you rejected my submission of the word 'platscham' to your open source dictionary. Apparently my citations were not up to snuff. I direct your attention to the venerable OED, which is beyond reproach, and yet seems to not find it problematic if citations for its entries themselves suggest that the word is nonsensical. (Cf. 'uxorilocally')

Sincerely,
dw

Of Mice and Men and Blue Cheese

2006-04-09T21:00:00.000-04:00

I moved into my apartment around the first of November, after the previous tenant decided following just a few months in Manhattan that she was homesick for the Midwest and fled the big city for home. Whether or not there was already a mouse in residence at that time, I can't say. Within a month or so, he had presented himself, and traps had been purchased and installed: one behind the refrigerator, one in the corner between the garbage bin and the painted-over fireplace.

(After a bit of consultation with sorts who care about things like the Rights of Mice, I purchased the spring-loaded bar-snap type, rather than the stick-'em-with-glue-wait-as-they-chew-their-own-legs-off type.)

And I waited. And waited. As directed, I did not load the 'Cheese Pedal' with actual cheese. I continued to wait. November turned to December without incident, and December nearly to January when, late at night after 2005 had turned to 2006, Mouse reappeared, dashing across the tops of my sink and stove. After a particularly harrowing incident a week later, when I was awakened by his rummaging in my bedroom wastepaper basket, I changed my plan of attack: No fake cheese pedals would entrap this mouse; Gruyere it had to be.

And again, with the waiting. And nothing. And yet -- the cheese, it disappeared! Such sophisticated tastes had been acquired by this mouse who (co-)inhabited a 3rd floor, 1BR walkup here just north of the West Village-Chelsea borderline. And such cunning! Was it possible? Had he snuck his nose in between the cheese pedal and the wooden panel to snatch the wedge of gruyere without detection?

Months came and went. More waiting. Less trapping of mice. Perhaps, once or twice, I thought I heard rumblings from where he dwelt, but no results.

Then yesterday, thanks to the keen eyes of my comrade Sr. Martinez, the little bugger was detected again. And then, again. And then, after I reloaded the traps -- one with some Raw Milk Morbier, the other with Roaring Forties Blue -- he snatched it out again, right from under our noses!

And then again, across the countertop he scurried, disappearing straight into my rear right burner! Fiery attempts to smoke him out unavailing, we re-examined the mechanisms with which we (for A.J. was now steadfastly committed to this project) intended to nab him.

Aha! We detected a misrigging of the traps, through entirely my own fault. And rerig them we did, with particularly enticing bits of these finest cheeses offered by Westside Market. And yet, no results.

The best laid plans of mice and men, they say, are 'aft gang agley'. (Why do I know that in Scottish, or whatever that is? Damned if I know. But Bartleby supports me.)

Or not so agley! 8.38 p.m. Sitting on my bed, reading Planned Parenthood v. Casey (did this really need to go on for 40 pages?), watching the Rangers-Devils game...Snap! from the other room I hear the unmistakable ricochet of metal bar against wooden plate. No, nothing as gruesome as the crushing of mouseketeer bones, but indeed: upon close inspection, there he was.

How nauseous! How disgusting! See if you can choose which of the following actions I subsequently undertook:
1. Threw up in the toilet.
2. Threw up on the mouse.
3. Threw the mouse in the toilet.
4. Threw the mouse up (in the air).
5. Threw the mouse in the garbage.
6. Threw the mouse out the window.
7. Threw myself out the window.
8. Threw a party for the mouse.
9. Threw a party to celebrate the departure of the mouse.
10. Threw my hands up in the air in frustration.
11. Blogged.

(Hint: I did at least three of these things.)

(In an interesting and completely incomprehensible side note to this affair, I had lunch today with my friend James. As I was recounting yesterday's plight to him, I mentioned that I'd decided to rig the traps with real cheese, in contravention of the manufacturer's instructions. (Victor Corp., incidentally, which A.J. and I queried online.) James, who -- it should be noted -- has quite the affinity for affinage and once worked briefly in a cheese shop, suggested, of all things, that I should try some raw milk Morbier. Little did he know that my mouse had such refined tastes for blue cheese culture.)

triumph of the will (pt 2)

2006-04-04T08:41:00.000-04:00

"Yes, it was a real boon to our cause," I wrote to someone in an email yesterday, which made me think about what an odd word "boon" is. It may be apparent to anyone who's read any posts in this space that my co-host and I have a fondness for esoterica that is matched perhaps only by the Australian fondness for beer-- of which, more later.

So I looked it up. The OED reliably (and stuffily) informs me that boon is from the Middle English bene and originally meant a prayer or entreaty before a substantive shift that now sees it mostly used to mean the object of the same. Or that it can refer to "The stalk of flax or hemp after the fibre has been removed; the stalks of cow-parsnip and other umbelliferous plants. " Well, thank god I finally know there's a word for that. What a boon(1). (Naturally I had to look up umbelliferous. Pretty much means like it sounds.)

But that's all neither here nor there. The important thing was that thinking about "boon" (n) made me think about Boon and The 52. David Boon, colloquially known as Boonie (because everything in Australia is colloquially known as something that ends in a vowel), was a member of Australia's national cricket team during the 1980s, and while he was a fabulous player who averaged more than 40 runs in test cricket, he is probably most fondly remembered for the exploits that earned him his other nickname: The Keg on Legs. The story goes that Team Australia in the 1970s realized three things: (1) Australia is far from everywhere (except NZ), thus (2) all of our away series involve very long flights, which provides us (3) more drinking time on average than any other team. What happened on the next team flight to England is as logical as 1+1+1 = beer.

Now, by the time Boonie came along in 1984, things had calmed down a bit and (at least as the story is now told) people weren't making bets on their own ability to consume beers on every flight to England-- perhaps because Rod Marsh's record of 45 beers seemed unbreakable, one of the holy numbers like 755 (shut up, Barry Bonds). But Boonie was a believer. He knew it could be done, that records, though we vaunt them, are not holy things but milestones that spur us, the human race, to greater and greater exercises of the spirit and will.

And so, on a 1989 flight in the middle of what was a slump for Team Australia, Boonie set out on his quest with grit and determination. By all accounts, he made the last push from 22, reached just outside Singapore, toward Marsh's 45 unaccompanied, one man toiling alone against long odds and impending touchdown at Heathrow. One man strode alone into the unknown-- and triumped. By the time London was in sight, Boonie had downed 52 cans of beer (apparently not including the 3 consumed in the Singapore airport, which were outside the rules of the contest) and secured his place in history. He had a pretty good Ashes, too.

The morals of this story are legion. But I think one of the things the legend of Boonie highlights is what we've lost as sports become increasingly professionalized. When games were populated by highly skilled amateurs, we could simultaneously admire them and imagine ourselves in their shoes. (If we were white men in the 1930s.) Now, when athletes in our most watched sports look like oversized well-shaven gorillas crammed into spandex, that kinship is absent. I can no more imagine myself playing linebacker in the NFL than I can imagine myself fully comprehending the Unified Field Theory of Torts. (Though, boy, if I could do either that would be sweet.)

Cricket stayed close to its amateur roots longer than most American sports-- maybe because it was a gentleman's game, maybe because of geographic dislocation, maybe because it's hard to imagine an effective revenue structure if every country that plays your sport has only state-run television stations. But Boonie reminds us of the benefits amateur status brought to the game. Because at some point most of us have been in a bar on a Friday night, surrounded by friends who are having a raucous good time; and we've wrestled with our demons. It's someone else's turn to buy a round and they place the beer gently in front of you on the table and you glance over, half turned away from the joke that is being told, and think: "No. I can't." But then someone, perhaps not even someone you know well, offers an encouraging smile and the next song on the jukebox is one you love and haven't heard in forever and reminds you of a night before when self-doubt also crept up. And you look back at the unopened can, moisture beading and slipping like minutes down its smooth side, and you think: "Yes. I can."

This one's for you, Boonie.

WARNING: Read at your own risk if not a sports fan

2006-03-29T15:21:00.000-05:00

Our Torts professor, after lecturing without student involvement up until halftime and then for fifteen minutes straight thereafter, just called on a boy named Jarrod, who pronounces his name like that guy in the Subway commercials, except that he pronounced it like the Knicks one-time first round draft pick Jarrod Mustaf, which made me think, for the first time in years, about Jarrod Mustaf, who as I recall played at Maryland, where he was good, and only temporarily in New York, where he was bad. Subsequently, he either went into the business of selling neckties or died in a tragic accident, but I'm probably confusing him with Malik Sealy, who did both, despite going to St. John's and never playing for the Knicks, unlike Jarrod Mustaf.

(Break to Wiki "Jarrod Mustaf")
(Wiki, surprisingly, has nothing. Googling 'Jarrod Mustaf')

Apparently I was wrong, though not wrong about Jarrod Mustaf's being notorious. From the abstract of one of the Google hits, I gleaned this tidbit: "He was traded to the KNICKS along with Charles Smith and Gary Grant for Mark Jackson, a #1 Pick and Jarrod Mustaf (wife killer)."

(I'm racking my brains to figure out who the 'He' in the previous sentence is. Incidentally, the emphasis of the font on 'Jarrod Mustaf' is not mine. My suspicion is that it was Bo Kimble.)

Thinking about Jarrod Mustaf makes me think, generally, about the Knicks' abysmal drafting habits, which makes me think of a very silly thing I did on Monday night. Given the choice of playing in a weekly soccer game, on the one hand, and staying put for the duration of a fantasy baseball draft, on the other hand, I irrationall chose the former, even though as a result I'm now stuck with a bunch of guys on my team for the next six months who I'm going to be unhappy about having. Thank you, Yahoo! Sports AutoDraft Applet. Any rational actor, of course, would've sacrificed this one week of soccer for the next six months of happiness and a minimum of angst. But no.

And as a result, here's what I've got.
1. Too many starting pitchers, and not the right ones. Kerry Wood and Roger Clemens, who between them pitched, perhaps, two of the greatest single games ever pitched...and who, between them, might not pitch a single game of any sort in the month of April, let alone for the entire season. But if only I could sign Todd Van Poppel and Ryan Dressendorfer, I could have a stable of Texas Longhorns instead of a pitching rotation. Hook 'em Horns!

2. Willy Taveras. Outstanding. Baseball Prospectus, in its trivially useful "Comparables" category, juxtaposes Willy Taveras with Ty Cline, Jim Wohlford and Jerome Walton. Excellent. The first two no one has ever -- ever -- heard of, while the third was, granted, the 1988 National League Rookie of the Year (and, of course, a 1989 Topps All-Star Rookie)...and then died. Ok, not in the way that Mrs. Jarrod Mustaf died, but let's not split hairs here.

3. Magglio Ordonez. Magglio does have an excellent first name. That much I know is true. I also know that he compares with Chet Lemon, who has both excellent first and last names, and (apocryphally) has been said to have hit a home run at old Tiger Stadium on a checked swing... all of which does nothing to make Magglio a contributing member of my team.

(At this point I should discuss my team, which stands to be mentioned repeatedly on this blog when I have nothing better to say. Currently it's called 'Ryan of Langerhans' after the Braves' outfielder of that name. His middle name is not "of", nor is that short for "outfield". Well, it is short for outfield, but putting it there would be like saying "Chuck (D-NY) Schumer", et on ne fait pas ca. If you still don't understand why we're called 'Ryan of Langerhans', especially given my hatred of the Atlanta Braves, then you should know that (a) our league mandates that all team names be (i) baseball related and (ii) punderful, and (b) that my baseball card collection these days consists entirely of guys with weird names and guys with funny facial hair. If you still don't understand, then look over here, in my pancreas.)

4. Joe Crede. Ok, I've gotta say, I think Baseball Prospectus is giving Crede the shaft here. (Incidentally, 'Crede' rhymes with 'Ally Sheedy', or would if Joe's first name was actually 'Sally' rather than 'Joe', in which case having him on my team would be even more dubiously useful.) Crede is compared with Jeff King, who notably was replaced at 3B on the Pirates in 1988 by the vainglorious Bobby Bonilla, who, at that point, had some right to be vain and was on the brink of a modicum of minimal glory (or would've been, if not for the Sid Bream - Francisco Cabrera tandem.) At which point, if I recall correctly, Jeff King had the unfortunate task of taking over at third for Mike Schmidt in Philly. Or not. Crede is compared, secondly, with Dale Berra, who wasn't a quarter of the player his father was, nor an eighth of the manager his father was, nor a sixteenth of the witticist his father (unwittingly was), nor a thirtysecond of the American treasure his father was. Now I don't know who Joe Crede's father was, but that's neither here nor there, either. Finally, Crede gets stacked up with Kevin Elster, who, despite having a very special place in my heart, is no Joe Crede. Elster did one good thing in his Mets career: When I was 10 or 11, and at a Mets-Dodgers night game with my best friend Isaac and our fathers, the game went into the 12th or 13th inning tied 4-4, thus nearing on 11 p.m., and Isaac's dad said we had to leave after that inning regardless of the score of the game, even though my dad and I never left until the game was absolutely over. And then, miraculously, Kevin Elster, who never did anything good as a Met, hit a game-winning home run onto the blue-and-white striped canopy covering the picnic area beyond the left field bullpen.

Baseball-reference.com reveals that this game in fact occurred on May 31, 1988, which means two things:
(1) I was in fact 8, not 10 or 11.
(2) I've remembered this about Kevin Elster for 18 years now, not 15 or 16.

What does this say about Joe Crede? Not a thing.

separated at birth?

2006-03-27T16:15:00.000-05:00

Kevin Spacey (L) and Israeli prime ministerial candidate Ehud Olmert (R). Who is Keyser Soze?

the best thing about living in new york (a test)

2006-03-22T14:53:00.000-05:00

Multiple-choice. Stay within the bubble and use only a #2 pencil.

(a) You can go anywhere for $2. (Yes, this means Central Park and Coney Island. It also means the South Bronx.)
(b) Not having to own anything that says "Big Apple" on it or involves the words "New York" and a heart-shaped symbol.
(c) Finally, finally, when you're in a foreign country where they speak a foreign language simply being able to smile and nod when someone says: "Amrika? Noo Yawrk?" And then being able to simply walk away: no muss, no fuss, no guilt and no explanations.
(d) Our crazy people are both crazier and louder than your crazy people.

Before... and Laughter

2006-03-21T10:25:00.000-05:00

Look what's he's done. Can you believe it?!? What a ridiculous pom-pom!

2006-03-20T18:09:00.000-05:00

A very mean man just did a very, very bad thing to my head. This is why I never get haircuts. When I was in college I went to get a haircut in anticipation of a job interview. It was a telephone interview, but nevertheless. I went to the International Barber Shop in Princeton and the 'international' barber had apparently never seen Jewish hair before and kept cutting and cutting until there were no more curls to be seen. I just sat there, of course, like a Bonsai shrub. My roommate didn't recognize me. Really.

I never know what to say.

Today I made a return trip to the Ecuadorian establishment on 18th Street that serviced me adequately around New Year's time. The certificate on the wall from the City of New York licenses them to partake in 'Appearance Enhancement,' but not to 'Provide Services,' which is a dubious euphemism at best. I was happy with my previous haircut but my barber smelled very potently of something unnatural, though I can't remember quite what, so I was happy today to get the other guy.

As it turned out, he fancied himself quite the auteur des cheveux. After a cursory initial inquisition, he proceeded to completely ignore my wishes. Moreover, he actively discouraged my participation, telling me to 'shush' when I asked him whether, perhaps, he thought he'd returned to a certain area one too many times; brushing my hand out of the way when I deigned to run it through my erstwhile back locks.

He did ask me how I'd like the sides done -- not, of course, using any words, but with the universal barber shop semiotic of 'I'll-run-my-fingers-over-and-past-your-ears-and-nod-until-you-nod-back'.

I never know what to say.

My father and stepmother were just in Ecuador, on their way to the Galapagos. I don't think they were in Guayaquil. Want to hear about a Guy I'll Kill? You just heard it.

Before and After photos to come, once Blogspot stops rejecting them.

A Surreal Meal

2006-03-06T15:23:00.000-05:00

I'd like to thank the late George Orwell for clearing something up for me. You see, Salvador Dali -- by virtue of having painted our Official Blog Painting, is our Official Blog Painter. But someone suggested to me that having a confirmed shit-eater as our Official Blog Painter might be considered, in certain circles, untoward. Thankfully, Mr. Orwell dispelled any such concerns three score years ago: 1946 ‘G. ORWELL’ Crit. Ess. 122 Is he coprophagic or not? Dali adds firmly that he is not.

Whew. Glad that's over and done with.

ten thousand spoons (B < PL)

2006-03-06T14:32:00.000-05:00

You've all fallen down on the job. You are not spreading The Word. You are letting the terrorists win.

It occurs to us that perhaps you aren't spreading The Word because you are uncertain about how to employ it. Thus, in order to aid you in your mission, I bring you Lex's "Platshamic." To be sung to the tune of "Ironic," just without all of the grammatical errors.

It's when the friend you bring
the host has never met
asks when the baby's due
and she's not pregnant yet.

Isn't it platschamic? Don't you think?

It's when Joe's dealing cards
and Chris asks after Lynn,
and you shift in your seat
because Joe's single again

Isn't it platschamic? Don't you think?

It's watching your classmate
fail when he's called upon
(unless you don't like him,
then schadenfreude has won).

Isn't it platschamic? Don't you think?
A little too platschamic. And yeah, I really do think.

You have a duty (B). Spread the word, because the risk (PL) is very, very high. And if you do not do your duty, your very security is at stake.

The Thrill is Gone

2006-03-01T23:12:00.001-05:00

Well, there it is. Or, isn't. Looks like the narcs over in WikiWorld don't accept the NietzsCheGuevara seal of approval as any sort of valid imprimatur of lexicographical authority.

As Leonard Cohen (Official Blog Canadian-Jew) would say,

Everybody knows that the war is over;
Everybody knows that the good guys lost

Alas. Alack.... or not! If it's a war Wiktionary wants, it's a war we'll give 'em. We'll take the fight to them like James Madison took the fight to Canada! We'll take the fight to them like Cumberland College took it to the Ramblin' Wreck of Georgia Tech! Like McGovern took it to Nixon! They can't take our platscham away from us! Shame on you, Wiktionary, for your strict interpretation of the 'reality' of words. Oh -- and that's no place-filling shame, either. Just shame! Outright shame!

And yes -- this is a manifesto! Come and get us, you lazily moraled Open-Sourcers! Trotskyites! Trollops!

A pox upon your collective appendices!

get it while it's hot

2006-03-01T16:50:00.000-05:00

Not one to rest on his laurels, Dan the Intrepid has taken it upon himself to fulfill the exhortation to go forth and spread the word. Thus, at least until Wiktionary takes it upon itself to demote our word for lack of supporting evidence, it can be found here: Platscham, canonized.

What can you do, you ask? (And we're so glad you do.) Start the campaign now to propagate the word. Use it; tell your friends to use it. Spread it far and wide and then, when Wiktionary threatens us with removal because Samuel Johnson didn't have the foresight to define platscham, we'll say: Wiktionary, I'll show you mine if you'll show me yours.

Poo on You, Gothamist

2006-02-28T18:02:00.000-05:00

I must say, I generally consider myself more of a New York City loyalist than someone with statewide solidarity. However, given Governor Pataki's current bout of solidarity, I think it's about time I took a firm stance behind him. (It certainly seems safe at the moment.) Furthermore, given my current case of writer's block, I feel he and I have something more in common these days than usual.

Thus, with the as-yet-unvoiced-but-fully-expected support of my Carolinian co-conspirator (who is busy analyzing Liddy Dole's stool samples as we speak), I'd like to declare this blog's desire to see the Governor make a swift passage from the hospital bed to the campaign trail. Moreover, I hereby announce our blog's first-ever military alliance and our first ever trade.

In exchange for our support in their ongoing poo-throwing contest against Gothamist, the good folks over at Subpoena This (Dimitri, acting General Manager) will give us a Blogger To Be Named Later.

And herewith, in the ongoing war to better report the latest in Pataki's Appendix v. Pataki, this super-duper-pooper-scooper scoop of our newly mutual rivals at Gothamist, courtesy of some brilliant newsreader at WNYC: "While Pataki has been making progress, no date has yet been set for his discharge."

(I saw you smirk, radio newsreader! Don't deny it!)

random is a random does

2006-02-24T12:49:00.000-05:00

What better to do on a Friday afternoon in Februrary than put my iPod on shuffle and use it kinda like a tarot reading? Oh, great iPod, what does the future hold?

(Big money, big money; no whammies, no whammies; stop!)

1. Little Feat, "Willin'"
I've been from Tuscon to Tucumcari, Tehachapi to Tonapah. I've driven every kind of rig that's ever been made. I've driven the backroads so I wouldn't get weighed.
Maybe the best song ever written about being a long-haul trucker. Also, songs with place names are just that much cooler. Vis CCR's Lodi.

2. The Whitlams, "Royal in the Afternoon"
Won't drink. Won't smoke. Won't get home at a hundred o'clock.
About going or not going to the pub, which is the perfect subject for Friday musings.

3. Mull Historical Society, "Your Love, My Gain"
And I can take the pain and make it mine and take it in
Mopey and Scottish. Everyone needs a favorite lyrical, mopey Scot-- preferably from the Hebrides. This is not my favorite MHS song, but it is very mopey and rather Scottish. If Wilco were Scottish and played more piano and had never listend to Waylon Jennings or Chris LeDoux, they would sound like MHS.

4. The Guild League, "Time Please Gents"
Into the morning of last night, full of ourselves in the half-light: let's get arrested or smashed
More songs about pubs! But a continuation of the mournful theme, this time from Australia.

5. Van Morrison, "Domino"
You get may disgusted, start thinkin' that I'm strange.
I saw Van Morrison in concert two years ago. First of all, I and my crew were the youngest folks at the concert by about twenty years. Secondly, Van Morisson is a hobbit. A hobbit who wears cream-colored suits, sings like his throat is full of marbles, occasionally plays a brass instrument and whose sole dance move consists of imitating a bobble-head doll. All of which just makes him an even badder-ass mofo.

6. The Weakerthans, "Uncorrected Proofs"
Will your readership complain? The stories always end the same.
This is my favorite Canadian band. They are arch and overeducated-- just like us!-- and have a song about Foucault that involves a video with dancing penguins.

7. Queen, "We Are the Champions"
I consider it a challenge before the whole human race and I ain't gonna lose.
Because no other song sounds as good when sung both by the original band and by hundreds of thousands of screaming, drunk sports fans. If you don't have a single good memory to associate with this song, it's probably because you, like me, are a Cubs fan.

8. Billie Holiday, "Billie's Blues"
My man wouldn't give me no breakfast, wouldn't give me no dinner, fought about my supper and put me outdoors
A good man is hard to find and Billie is finding it harder than most. Damn, does she sound good singing about how hard it is, though. It is my suspicion that I never sound this alluring, no matter what I'm whining about.

9. Stark Effect, "Bunnyrabbits, Satan, Cheese and Milk."
I had forgotten about this song, which basically consists of the recitation of the title over Groove Armada-ish beats. Man, is this song weird. It always makes me think of the Big Bunny films.

10. Bonnie Raitt, "Love Me Like a Man"
I want a man to rock me like my backbone was his own
I'm not entirely clear on the biomechanics of this, but it's always struck me as one of the sexiest lines in pop music. Especially when delivered in a honeyed growl by Ms. Raitt over the sound of her slide guitar.

Thus, I believe it is entirely clear what the iPod gods are trying to tell me:
A good man is hard to find, no matter how far you look. So go have a drink! (It is also possible that they are endorsing either bunnyrabbits, satan, dairy products or all of the above. But this conclusion finds less broad support in the evidence.)

Platscham: It's Ubique!

2006-02-21T14:44:00.000-05:00

Subject: Go Forth and Spread the Words

A few years ago I decided that it was high time that I should invent a word. I can't really remember whether I undertook much of a search or whether a word just came to me. In fact, in all likelihood it's quite dubious whether I actually decided that it was high time to invent a word before the new word came to me. But I received the word, and the word was good: 'ubique'. If something was unique when there was only one of it, wouldn't something be ubique if it was everywhere? Nothing is 'uniquitous', so why would anything be 'ubiquitous'. If something could have uniquity or ubiquity, then certainly the unique-ubique parallel should be instant too, no? Moreover, there were other juxtaposable formations: oblique, for instance (notwithstanding the fact that the parallel '-y' word, 'obloquy', has nothing whatsoever to to do with its -ique partner.) So why not ubique?

Well, for starters, I evidently didn't look closely at the OED definition of 'uniquity', which points one directly to 'unicity', which is defined as follows: "The theory that syphilis is caused by only one kind of venereal virus." Either that, or I was confused by the fact that the venerable lexicon was quoting an American comic strip character as its primary citation for the word, to wit: 1861 BUMSTEAD Ven. Dis. 349 "Some explanation..of what was called by its discoverer [Ricord] the ‘unicity’ of syphilis."

And as I recall it, when I got over myself and consulted a dictionary, I discovered much to my dismay that my coinage was not terribly unique at all, for 'ubique' already existed, with precisely the definition which I aspired to attribute to it. And so into my shell I retreated, and with me retreated 'ubique'. But today I discovered that the birth of ubique may, in fact, have been forestalled only by historical error, for I am unable to find any countenance whatsover on the equally venerable Internet that supports my previous supposition that I had been beaten to the 'ubique' punch. Merriam-Webster offers 'hic et ubique', the outer two-thirds of the Lennon-McCartney 'Here, There and Everywhere' troika, but 'ubique' does not stand alone.

So I give you this, the true first word in my word-coining career: Ubique, a. Not merely here or there, but everywhere.

But why stop there? In the interim -- while I thought that my coinage was not-quite-as-clever as I once, and now again, had thought -- I did not abandon my avant garde lexical pursuits. In fact, with the help of my co-bloggers -- a certain silent half-Frenchwoman and the appropriately-named Lex -- this fall marked the debut of a new entry on the Germano-Anglico-linguistic scene. (We're still waiting for you to notice, Oxford.) And while my story of the invention of 'ubique' may have seemed dubious, this one comes with a complete legislative history.

The Birth of Platscham from the Spirit of Contracts

The date: 16 November 2005
The setting: Contracts class
The medium: Simultaneous and Parallel Instant Messages
The cast: Dw, Lex, Frenchie
The Mother of Invention: An email from Vice-Dean Barry Adler, using 'less' when meaning 'fewer.'

*********

Wachy: did you read the email about the lottery?

Lex: Yes.

Wachy: is it that hard to understand the difference between less and fewer?

Lex: Apparently it is. At least for a Vice Dean.

Wachy: it's embarrassing. I'm embarrassed for him.

Wachy: is there some good polysyllablic german word, akin to schadenfreude, for when you're embarrassed with someone, rather than at them?

Lex: I know there's something similar in Dutch.

Lex: Let me google it.

Wachy: if there isn't such a word, there certainly ought to be

Wachy: i count on the germans for things like this. it's all they're good for

Note: To all our German readers: I'll apologize when you do.

Lex: So the Dutch have the mouthful: "plaatsvervangende schaamte" which means something like "place-filling shame" or being embarrassed on behalf of someone else.

Lex: I love the idea but I think the phrase is a little clunky.

Wachy: true

Lex: Maybe we should come up with something and promulgate it.

Wachy: how about just 'plaatschaamte'?

Lex: What if we Anglicize it?

Wachy: i, for one, think that everyone should have their sheets on top of their mattress

Lex: Me, too. For sanitary reasons if nothing else.

Note: This has nothing to do with 'platscham.' Or Germans. And their dirty, dirty sheets.

Wachy: 'place-shame'?

Lex: It's a good place to start.

Wachy: platshame

Lex: It still sounds very Germanic, which might give it some gravitas.

Lex: Platscham.

Lex: Less Anglicized, I know.

Wachy: we're waiting on you, mr. nyahnyah

Lex: I do not feel platscham for (towards?) Mr. Nyahnyah.

Note: Some names have been changed to protect the innocent. Mr. Nyahnyah's name is not one of those.

Lex: For him I feel only scorn.

Wachy: me too

Wachy: for this vice dean, i feel platscham

Wachy: i think you feel schadenfreude towards, because it's hostile, but platscham for, because it's empathetic

Note: Emphasis added.

Lex: Yes. Especially as it might have been a secretarial error: the origin is unclear.

Lex: That's a good argument and I buy it. Thus, we decree "platscham" shall take the preposition "for."

Wachy: amen. let word of it go forth throughout the land

Lex: And it was good.

Wachy: So be it

*********

Wachy: so alexis and I have come up with a neologism

Wachy: we need you to help us promulgate.

Wachy: its for the feeling of schadenfreude when you empathize, rather than laugh at, the other person.

Frenchie: do you mean it's?

Note: Yes, Frenchie really decided to interrupt our neologistic pursuit to correct my typo. That's why we all love her so much. Such a pedant. Engages in pedantry. And pederasty.

Wachy: "Platscham", derived from the Dutch "plaatsvervangendeschaamte" which means something like "place-filling shame" or being embarrassed on behalf of someone else.

Frenchie: is there ever going to be a question here?

Wachy: from fievel, or me?

Note: When I was 12, a girl upon whom I had a big, first-crush type crush, told me that I looked like Fievel. She never met a Jew before, I don't think, nor a mouse. Nevertheless, in this instance I am not Fievel, and Fievel is not me.

Frenchie: from you, dear.

Wachy: there's no Q

Wachy: it's a statement of fact

Wachy: one feels platscham for, for instance, the vice dean who doesn't know the difference between 'less' and 'fewer'

Wachy: whereas one feels schadenfreude towards people

Frenchie: hmm. okay

**********
Wachy: does it rhyme with "hat-scam" or "match 'em"?

Lex: I vote for a longer a. An "ah" sound in both cases, like the first a in schadenfreude. Almost "plahtschahm." And emphasis on the first syllable.

Wachy: good.
**********

Frenchie: plOtshum

Wachy: plOtshahm

Frenchie: fine. I still don't see this as my job :-)

Frenchie: eww

Frenchie: gross smile

Frenchie: he's staring at me

Note: Frenchie: Not comfortable around emoticons.

Wachy: how does one go about promulgating a neologism?

Frenchie: okay, I'll insert it in conversation. I thought you meant through the class, but frankly that takes a lot of IM explanation

Wachy: i mean in conversation. perhaps we should just use it as though it exists

Frenchie: right

Wachy: then explain it, as one typically would, when using 'big words' with 'small people'

Frenchie: you're such an ass

Wachy: thank you, dear

**********

Wachy: how does one go about promulgating a neologism?

Lex: I don't know. One has impressionable friends?

Wachy: perhaps we should just use it as though it exists, in conversation

Lex: I think that would work. There are a lot of people who aren't clear on schadenfreude. This isn't really that different. Except for the part where we took out a lot of letters.

Wachy: and added a few

Lex: Right. That part, too.

Lex: Platscham is a word that the Reality TV era desperately needs.

Wachy: absolutely. I've always thought the world needed such a word. I'm glad you're Germanic-linguistically inclined enough to have been of help

Lex: I'm not. I just once dated a Dutch speaker. But don't let that get out.

Wachy: was he a woofer?

Lex: I don't think so. But I don't quite know what you mean by that: is it a linguistic or an aesthetic judgment?

Wachy: a little of both

Wachy: i like that we've invented a word. it gives meaning to 'go forth and spread the word'

Lex: Also, I just like our word.

Lex: (What I can tell you is this: Dutch is NOT a sexy language.)

Wachy: neither is english

Lex: It's way better, though. There is less back of the throat rumble/spittle involved.

Wachy: i suppose. Also, doesn't Dutch have to be spoken at a very high volume?

Lex: Often. It has to be spoken very, very fast. It's a lot of vowels to get out.

**********

Frenchie: What about when it's a bit self-reflexive, like when you've brought a cousin to a party and you're in high school and your cousin is acting really dumb so you're embarrassed for her but you're also embarrassed for yourself.

Frenchie: we've only got meta-platscham and self-induced platscham, both of which suck.

Wachy: That's platscham, plain and simple, i think

Frenchie: I don't know.

Wachy: You can actually be in the place, also, for which you are feeling their simultaneously located shame

Frenchie: Tell her. I think it's slightly different if it reflects back on you specifically instead of you generally.

**********

Wachy: I think frenchie's example is straight platscham

Wachy: You can actually be in the place, also, for which you are feeling their simultaneously located shame

Wachy: but it's a very Heisenburgian thing

Wachy: simultaneity of locus

Lex: Yes. The question is, I think, should there be a special way to express the self-induced aspect of that platscham.

Wachy: what's the dutch equivalent of 'self'?

Lex: zelf, I think

Wachy: that was gonna be my guess

Wachy: zelfplatscham, then, with a "uh" syllable stuck in: zelf-uh-plaht-schahm

Lex: or vanzelf, which is oneself

Lex: I'm not sure I can say it.

Wachy: what, zelfplatscham?

Wachy: it's very yiddish

Lex: I'm tempted to add an "en" like syllable. "Zelfenplatscham." But that doesn't seem right.

Wachy: no, that's all wrong

Lex: I know, I know. Help.

Wachy: zelfplatscham is good

Wachy: let's go with it

Lex: Ok. You sell Frenchie on it.

Wachy: she's sold

Note: To wit:
Frenchie: well, it's you and Alexis. I love it. Ask her.

Wachy: when someone asks what it means, just say 'it's yiddish'

Wachy: but platscham stands alone, also

Lex: Always. It can stand alone.

*********

Wachy: do you think one of the 'a's in platscham should be doubled?

Lex: Plaatscham?

Wachy: or platschaam

Wachy: i like yours

Lex: Hm. Which is closer to the way you hear it in your head?

Wachy: just to highlight that it's not 'plat-sham'

Wachy: when i spread it, am i supposed to say we made it up?

Lex: Hmm. Maybe we should let that be the lagging rumor.

Lex: Most important is wide promulgation of the word itself, I think.

Wachy: i agree.

Wachy: anytime you use it, and someone gets it, and likes it, you have to say (verbatim): "go forth and spread the word."

Lex: I will. But in my head I'm going to think of it as "Go forth and spread The Word."

Lex: With caps

Wachy: that's fine

Wachy: but check this:

Wachy: i feel such platscham for him

The Bee: huh?

Wachy: it's like schadenfreude, except when you sympathize with the person instead of laughing at them

The Bee: oh. i see. yes - that is appropriate

Wachy: ms. blane and i (and frenchie, a bit) invented it the other day

The Bee: i think it fits in quite nicely here

Wachy: thank you. go forth and spread the word.

The Bee: thy will be done.

Pitchers and Catchers (and Dogs)

2006-02-15T14:25:00.000-05:00

You have to understand that today is the best day of the year. There was a book I had when I was a kid called 'Time Begins on Opening Day' and really, that guy was close but wrong. I know a thing or two about solstices and equinoxes but in reality the only measure of winter to me is from the last out of the World Series until the day pitchers and catchers report to spring training. It matters not one iota whether or not your team was any good last year or promises to be any good this year. Hope springs eternal in the 2nd and 3rd weeks of February, regardless of what Punxsatawney Phil or this new-fangled Staten Island groundhog says, regardless of whether you have Valentine's Day plans, regardless of whether the deserving Dalmatian or the egghead Bull Terrier wins Best in Show at the WKC.

I went to the Dog Show yesterday, I'll have you know, Lex. I had a hot Valentine's Day date with my 10-year old niece. Two years running, now, we've gone. Never in my life seen skirt-suits in wider array of impure colors and tacky patterns, more rhinestones and sparkles and feathers and plaids. Whosoever decided it was a good idea for rural farmers and midwestern housewives running around leading champion dogs on leashes to do so wearing business-casual attire ought to receive perpetual honorable mention from Blackwell and prosecuted somehow under Blackstone.

The thing is, I used to hate dogs. One summer when I was nearly pre-oedipal, a big dog owned by a gardener or hedge-trimmer or painter or something ran into the kitchen of our house and chased me around the island five or six times and I hated dogs forever. Forever lasted until I was 12 and we got a dog. My mother argues that I hated dogs because my best friend Isaac's pug, Bo, chewed the corner of one of my baseball cards.

Here are some facts that should clarify the matter:
1. My mother is one of the most prolific writers of apocrypha in the greater New York area, but knows little about baseball or baseball cards.
2. Bo was a compromise between Isaac, who wanted to name his dog after an athlete (to wit: Bo Jackson) and his mother, who wanted to give him a biblical name (to wit: Boaz).
3. The baseball card at issue was a 1985 Topps Mike Pagliarulo, and it was I who chewed the corner off of it. Look, I was hungry.

1. Dog show people are catty. The woman behind me proclaimed, in not-quite-enough of a whisper to her husband -- about this Rhodesian Ridgeback, adjudged best in breed, no less -- with utter sincerity: "That
dog lacks substance."

2. These dogs are cute, cute enough to (a) make me violate my inviolable rule about not using the word 'cute' in this blog, ever; and (b) potentially move out of New York City to the suburbs.

3. There's a breed of dog called A.S.C.O.B. Spaniel. That sounds awfully fancy and formal, until you find out that A.S.C.O.B. stands for Any Solid Color Other (than) Black. That rises to such a level of stupidity that they lose their right to have a photograph on this blog.

not one to suffer in silence (boyfriend, please)

2006-02-14T22:23:00.000-05:00

On this day in 1929: Al Capone shot up a bunch of people. Kudos to you, Al, a man who knows that when you want to send the very best, bullets say it better than flowers.

It's a mad, mad world out there. But in here, it's a gay, gay night on television. Illustrative dilemma: the men's short program figure skating (interspersed with très butch Alpine combined) on NBC or the Westminster Kennel Club dog show on USA?

What's a lonely gal to do but pull up a sofa, pop open a beer, toggle back and forth blindingly quickly using a right thumb overdeveloped from years of space bar/A-B button control, and set the snark to ENGAGE?

Some highlights:

"Figure skating can have some pretty frightening costumes." You said it; we didn't. (Though we would have, if you'd asked.)

Did you know there is such a thing in pairs figure skating as "the Death Spiral"? Yeah, me either. You know that move where he turns in a circle like a top and she extends herself nearly parallel to the ice as far as her little tiny body will go while he holds onto her in a way that any pediatrician would tell you could result in a shoulder dislocation? That's the Death Spiral. Be afraid, be very afraid. (And stop calling figure skater wusses. They hate it.)

On China's pairs figure skating coach: "In the end it appears that the last laugh [pregnant pause] belongs to Yao." Nothing can match Olympic character studies for gravitas. Especially if they're narrated by Bob Costas.

And the award for flaming-est blog entry by a US athelete goes to Johnny Weir, current US men's figure skating, for the following:
The next morning the papers came out and all of a sudden I was causing a stir because I told Phil Hersh he looked thin and I was wearing a chinchilla scarf that someone thought was a boa. First of all, boas are so out. Secondly, I would never wear a boa to a press conference. Read more.

(Please note that this post is intended in no way to reflect negatively on the homosexual community. The poster understands that housewives in the midwest also share in abundance the failings in taste that result in a love for televised figure skating and dog shows. But the poster doesn't have such high expectations for those housewives in the midwest. The poster just hopes that this doesn't mean gingham or culottes ever make a comeback in women's fashion.)

Clarification

2006-02-13T22:14:00.000-05:00

Here's an important distinction to note.

Trevor Smith : Busta Rhymes :: George Rhymes : Buster Rhymes
<---Trevor --- George --->

George Rhymes: Mediocre 1980s Minnesota Viking running back and kick returner. Arrested for possession of crack in 2004. Not the sort of thing a good upstanding hip-hop provocateur such as Mr. Smith would ever involve himself in. Abstaining from the rock is part and parcel of eschewing violent braggadocio, one supposes.

Trevor Smith: Did not reportedly fire an Uzi into the air after a locker-room confrontation with Brian Bosworth while at Oklahoma University.

I hope that clears up the confusion. I was worried for a minute there.

Happy Birthday to Yew

2006-02-13T14:30:00.000-05:00

If horses had nine-month pregnancies, the stables would be very busy around April Fool's Day. This works from the presupposition that all horses have their birthdays on January 1. This follows in turn from the presupposition that one's birthday is celebrated on the day one is born. One can measure a horse's age by counting the number of rings in its trunk. Similarly, one can do the same for trees. Tu Bishvot is the Jewish New Year for trees, and is today. All the trees get their rings, and presents: if they're lucky, sylvan nymphs and nympheal sylphs bring them new horseshoes. Horsesocks, too, if they live in cold climes. Something was going down in the forest back on May 13.

***
Unrelatedly, it's time to present an award to one of the following trees for having said the best of the following things during the last week. The non-winning nominees are...

Mr. Nick Smallwood, for his brilliant performance in "Dinner in Koreatown Friday night":
"Liberia is the Delaware of the Third World."

Mr. Ian Samuel, for his underhanded-compliment-qua-grave-insult in "Con Law on Wednesday":
"Archibald Cox is a national hero of semi-historical proportions."

The New York Times, for the following doozy that only the Times would ever try (or could ever get away with) about one Trevor Smith* of Brooklyn:
"Considered an elder statesman in the hip-hop world, Mr. Smith largely eschews the verbal backbiting and violence-filled braggadocio embraced by so many rap musicians."

*(Significantly, Rod Smart : He Hate Me :: Trevor Smith : Busta Rhymes.)

And the winner by knockout, and undisputed (and unabashed) champion of anarchism:

Mr. David Young, for the following explanatory email of clarification to the proprietors of this blog.

Subject: I'm Not Genocidal

"hey guys it was fun talking yesterday.  i just wanted to clarify that i'm
not genocidal.  but it was fun pretending i am.
have a great weekend."

Brave, Brave, Brave, Brave Sir Robinson

2006-02-10T10:39:00.000-05:00

What a brave knight, that Edwin Arlington Robinson!
To go through life with one ear, initially.
Like Van Gogh, and the little known Edgar Allen Roe.

And not to turn tail and flee when confronted by the fearsomely subtle
Oaf-Yokel distinction.**
What's in a name?
The recognition that 'an elf's child' and 'a country bumpkin'
are not one and the same.

And to confront face on the overwhelming ebb of fun
And political correctness that swept your nation in 1921.
And to say with no fear the following upon that date
'I do not ask you to forgive the faggots'
In line nineteen-hundred-forty-eight.

We hereby dub thee:
Official Blog Poet.

**If I were patched
And scrapped in what the sorriest fisher-wife
In Orkney might give mumbling to a beggar,
I doubt if oafs and yokels would annoy me
More than I willed they should.

subtext is still text

2006-02-10T00:27:00.000-05:00

(here there be doggerel)

The utter unpalatablity
of hay and dry hopes notwithstanding,
we all know the malleability
of myth is quite truly astounding.

So I beg you: read closer
in Robinson's opus.

You'll find that particular
expression follicular
has a function expressly pellicular.
Beneath Gwennie's surface of gloss
her poem is one about loss.

Lancelot knew for the longest of times
that she wasn't close to his kind.
But what happened in Camelot stayed
in Camelot. (She didn't ask.) And they made
an attractive pair.
But the love wasn't there.

He returned in the end
to the arms of his men,
leaving her in line seventeen hundred and two
to sigh mournfully, as well-bred young ladies do
and cry: "No two queens are alike."

After further review...

2006-02-08T23:52:00.000-05:00

What's this now, 'Lex'? You say the correlation betwixt your excerpted portion of Robinson's 'Camelot' and my need for a hair dryer is as clear as mud? And poetry: irrelevant to the modern gentleman? Piffle! and Read on!, I say to you.

Were you not so busy with some curricular affair;
Were you not so embroiled in some extravaganza.
Perhaps you'd have reached the sixteen-hundred-and-eighty-first
Or seventeen-hundred-and-forty-seventh stanza.

Therein you would have found,
If of the former you were aware,
A reference to sweet Guinevere's
'Glimmering face and hair.'

And perhaps you also would've learned
(If slightly more diligent today)
That Lancelot had nothing for sustinence
Save his 'hopes dryer than hay.'

Could nothing be clearer?
Could any poet possibly strive higher?
Robinson's conjunction is brilliant:
A mere sixty-six lines separate hair from its dryer.

She was too dark for Mark, if not for Tristram

2006-02-08T22:46:00.000-05:00

Query: "What effect do hairdryers have upon wit?"

In an effort to better understand, I visited bartleby.com, wherein lie all good things in the public domain. Intesive research made clear that the answer was somewhere in the brooding verse of Edwin Arlington Robinson.

ALL day the rain came down on Joyous Gard,
Where now there was no joy, and all that night
The rain came down. Shut in for none to find him
Where an unheeded log-fire fought the storm
With upward swords that flashed along the wall
Faint hieroglyphs of doom not his to read,
Lancelot found a refuge where at last
He might see nothing. Glad for sight of nothing,
He saw no more. Now and again he buried
A lonely thought among the coals and ashes
Outside the reaching flame and left it there,
Quite as he left outside in rainy graves
The sacrificial hundreds who had filled them.

Why this should be the sole result of a "hair dryer" search of "All Verse" is as yet not apparent. But clearly query 11 is satisfactorily answered and the question of the relevance of poetry to the modern age put to rest.

Also, for those inclined to humor that is of a more pedestrian ilk but with no lesser homoerotic possibility, I recommend Brokeback to the Future (it complements the filet of sole nicely). You'll never see Doc and Marty in quite the same light again.

The 12 Step Path to Nowhere

2006-02-05T02:10:00.000-05:00

When not to post to your new blog:
1. 2.10 a.m.
2. When you've just returned from some way-too-trendy bar in the East Village because it happened to be the birthday of a good friend from high school, and high school was seven and a half years ago.
3. After many glasses of champagne, a few vodka+tonic+pineapple drinks, two Ketel One & tonics, and a glass or two of Sandeman (est. 1790) Tawny Port.
4. When your head hurts. In the back. Near the corpus callosum. Unless my comprehension of cranial geography is vastly misconceived, which is altogether possible, if not likely.
5. When your head is wet and you smell like a wet dog because you've just walked from 2nd Ave and 9th Street to 8th Ave and 15th Street (Google Maps: 1.3 miles) in the pouring rain for no good reason.
6. Again, when it's 2.16 a.m.
7. Then again, there's always Leonard Cohen and Chinese leftovers from Grand Sichuan.
8. Neither of things make one dry. Happy and sated, yes, respectively, but still: one is wet.
9. Do hair dryers desiccate people?
9a. Maybe
10. Do I have a hair dryer?
10a. No.
11. What effect do hair dryers have upon wit?
11a. Now we've gotten to the essential question.
12. It's now 2.19 a.m.

Official Blog Painting

2006-02-03T10:47:00.000-05:00

This blog has no posts. It has Mae West. It has a surrealist apartment. Put 'em together. What've you got? 'Mae West's Face Which May Be Used As A Surrealist Apartment.' This blog now has one post. And one Official Blog Painting.