Wednesday, January 26, 2005

Memory

I've always thought that I've had a pretty good memory. I recall events from as far back as forty-five years ago, although my short-term memory has been taken over by too much information and a life of scattershot interests.

As I was reading the third chapter of The Bell Jar this afternoon, Plath's telling of her times in graduate school brought on a memory about memory.

I believe that it early 1978... One day, in Psychology 201 (Intro to Psychology) the instructor took us through an exercise involving long-term memory. On the blackboard he wrote:

1. Command
2. Spider
3. Girls
4. Trouble
5. Eagle

then proceeded to show us how to remember them. Basically, the idea was to take the number, rhyme it with something, then figure out a relationship between the rhyming word and the word to be remembered.

One rhymes with bun — "Get your buns in here!" is a command;
Two: shoe &mdash "spider in your shoe" is an old expression (or so I was told);
Three: tree — "girls drive you up a tree" (my contribution!);
Four: door — doors give you trouble (I guess.);
Five: hive &mdash bees live in hives... eagles have wings &ndash just like bees (another of my contributions).

Monday, January 24, 2005

Johnny

My father died a few days after Johnny Carson's last show... I watched the last show while in the hospital waiting room, which was my makeshift hotel room for a few days.

Dad didn't care much for watching The Tonight Show, always complaining about Carson's "dirty jokes" — like he'd never told any!

Thankfully, he would go to bed at about 11:30 anyway, so we'd still be able to watch the show.

I think that he was more turned off by Ed McMahon, actually, and I'd like to believe that one of his better moments while in the hospital was when I told him that the show was going off the air — that Mcmahon was losing a job.

Of all the many laughs I enjoyed watching the show, my favorite Carson moment took place when Richard Pryor made his first public appearance after he'd suffered major burns from a fire. As Johnny was about to go to commercial, he reached over (as he often did with guests) and lightly touched Pryor on his forearm.

Pryor then recoiled and howled as if in pain and Carson about crapped his pants as he thought he had done something to hurt Pryor. The look on Carson's face at that moment was priceless, as was the look of relief when he realized Pryor was joking.

Most Depressing Day

According to a formula created by a part-time tutor at Cardiff University in England, today — January 24th — is the most depressing day of the year.

I don't like Monday 24 January


January has been long regarded as the darkest of months, but a formula from a part-time tutor at Cardiff University shows it gets even worse this Monday.

Foul weather, debt, fading Christmas memories, failed resolutions and a lack of motivation conspire to depress, Cliff Arnalls found.

GPs say exercise and reading up on depression are ways to beat the blues.

"Yes, we do see lots of people with depression and anxiety in the winter months.

"The message is it's not a terrible disorder, people do get better," Royal College of General Practictioners spokesman Dr Alan Cohen said.

"Exercise and bibliotherapy - reading a number of books to allow people to understand their own symptoms and how to control them," were initial treatments, he said.

The formula for the day of misery reads 1/8W+(D-d) 3/8xTQ MxNA.

Where W is weather, D is debt - minus the money (d) due on January's pay day - and T is the time since Christmas.

Q is the period since the failure to quit a bad habit, M stands for general motivational levels and NA is the need to take action and do something about it.

Dr Arnalls calculated the effects of cold, wet and dark January weather after the cosiness of Christmas coupled with extra spending in the sales.

Saturday, January 22, 2005

"Oh, I am fortune's fool!"


Husband Commits Suicide, Then Wife Wakes from Coma


ROME (Reuters) - An Italian pensioner committed suicide after his wife fell into a coma, but just hours after he killed himself the woman woke up, Italian media reported on Saturday.

Recalling the end of "Romeo and Juliet", the 70-year-old man, Ettore, who had sat by his wife's bedside for four months after she slipped into a coma following a heart attack, finally gave up hope and gassed himself in the garage of his family home.

Less than a day later, his wife, Rossana, woke up in her hospital bed in Padua and immediately asked for him.

The northern town of Padua lies just 40 miles from Verona, where star-crossed lover Romeo killed himself believing Juliet to have died. But minutes later Juliet woke up and seeing Romeo dead, stabbed herself.

Wednesday, January 19, 2005

Violencing?!?

During CBS News' Up To The Minute overnight news program, Ibrahim Hooper, National Communications Director for the Council on American-Islamic Relations (CAIR), was speaking of the bad image that Muslim people have due to the "violencing" by a few.

Is no noun safe from being turned into a verb?

Doesn't it just make you want to go out and violence someone?

Jaysus!

Tuesday, January 18, 2005

Creative License

I am probably as bad as it gets when it comes to being obsessively pursuant of good grammar, proper use of words, proper pronunciation, etc.

I also understand, however, that there is such a thing as creative license, that is, the misuse of words intentionally because of the effect that they might create.

I was just thinking how Paul Simon's song "Homeward Bound" is a perfect example of creative license. The song just wouldn't be the same if Simon were to be grammatically correct. "I wish I were homeward bound", while grammatically correct, doesn't sound as good as "I wish I was homeward bound".

That said, had that line not been the chorus, and had the structure of the song not been so that there was a couple of beat delay between "was" and "homeward bound", I might think differently.

Context.

Loss

Yesterday, as I was reading the second chapter of Sylvia Plath's "The Bell Jar", I was struck by a thought as she was describing her character's love of taking hot baths. She gave cursory mention to styles of tubs, specifically mentioning griffon-footed tubs.

The thought came about, possibly, because I'd seen this photograph recently as well. In my comments on the picture at Flickr, I mentioned that seeing the photo made me imagine the handiwork of the people laying the bricks; looking at the photograph, I can almost feel the personal contribution of those who built the structure — brick by brick — whereas today's buildings don't create such a feeling in me.

Getting to the actual thought I got while reading, though...

I wondered how much creativity has been lost since we became this overly consumerist society. Everything now is so mass-produced with the idea of (supposedly) keeping the costs down, that there is hardly any true craftsmanship or artisanship (a word?) required.

Not that that – in and of itself – is such a bad thing (although I can't really see all that much good that's come out of it), but I mourn the fact that we have sacrificed so much of our creative energies for the sake of profits and so-called efficiency. I have imagined all the men and women who have come and gone since we have decided that profits are more important to us than is value. What might they have contributed had their creative skills been desired, encouraged and appreciated?

Is there really any wonder that everyday Americans don't seem to truly appreciate art or the artists who create it? Is it any wonder that art programs are the first things to be cut from state and federal budgets?

People don't appreciate art or creativity because they have been trained not to. They have been trained to produce things instead of creating them. Our appreciation for others' creativity is little to none because our creativity hasn't been nurtured in this society.

In the United States, it seems, that which makes us human — our minds, our intellects, our creative instincts — have been stifled and stepped on. Truly the best part of us — as a people, as a society — has been minimized; reduced to a mere memory recorded by a photograph. What we treasure — if today's spate of "reality" television shows is any indication — is backstabbing and manipulation; our worst traits are rewarded. Our truly creative, cooperative abilities are discouraged.

"Those were the days," we might say. Another generation away, I wonder what will be said when there is very little of value standing.

Monday, January 17, 2005

My Latest Peeve

Today, My Friend Flickr was scheduled to be down for the purposes of physically moving their servers in anticipation of an expansion. Leading up to the downtime, they had posted a message at the top of the website that indicated that the outage would be from "12pm to 5pm"...

I sent them an email informing them that there is no such thing as 12pm (or 12am for that matter) and I got the following response:

"12 p.m. exists as far as I know. It means 12 noon - 5 p.m. PST on Sunday (5 hours total)."

This evening, I walked up to the corner store and they had a sign posted on the door with their new hours: "6am to 12pm". As I walked out, I mentioned to the woman, "There's no such thing as 12pm, you know." She chuckled, but I don't think she understood...

There is a 12 Noon and a 12 Midnight — there is no 12am or 12pm.

It appears, however, that Blogger is deserving of an email as well! (see below)

Edit to add (19 June 2024):Now that I live on the West Coast, the time stamp on this post is 9:00 p.m. versus the original 12:00 a.m. (!!!)

Sunday, January 16, 2005

Liberty

Are we losing our face as a nation? Has the United States of America become such a melting pot that we have lost any sort of identity?

Are we the self-centered, bombastic bastards that mock the country of France for taking a moralistic stand against aggression or are we the charitable people that are ready to lend a hand in time of need, regardless of political or religious persuasion?

It's unclear to me why we can't always (or at least more often) be the latter.

It's unclear to me why our so-called leaders feel the need to denigrate and belittle such countries as France. What has the United States – as a nation, as a people, as a picture of democracy – gained by mocking the French as the miserable failure did with his reference to french fries as "freedom fries"?

Why didn't he simply look out to the Statue of Liberty in New York Harbour and say, "Send it back! We don't need it anymore."?

No doubt Bush's intent was to light the fire under the worst element in this country – those whose deepest thoughts would have trouble filling even one of the bumperstickers on their gas-guzzling cars and SUVs; those who think Toby Keith's songwriting poses are an act of patiotism and heroism.

George W. Bush is all about polarization: "You're either with us or you're against us." He appeals to the baser instincts in people – instead of appealing to the more charitable, side.

As always, Sydney J. Harris had something to say about this...

Hate Is Simple, Love Complex


WE THINK OF OUR EMOTIONS as being either positive or negative — love, on the one hand, or hate, on the other. But there is another important way in which emotions divide: They are also simple or complex. And this is what creates much of the trouble in the world.

Love, for example, is difficult to sustain not because it is a positive emotion, but because it is a complex one. Hate is easy to maintain for a lifetime, because it is a simple one.

That is, love requires the addition of other elements in order to play its proper role; it needs understanding, patience, tact, the willingness to be hurt or disappointed from time to time. Love alone, in its simplicity, is not enough to carry the burden of relationship.

Hate is a totally different matter; it is not the opposite of love. (As St. Augustine pointed out long ago, indifference is the opposite of love.) Hate is a supremely simple emotion that makes it enormously attractive to a certain type of mind and personality.

First, hate makes no demand on our mental processes, and doesn't call on us to expand or change our views. In fact, it tends to remove doubt, and gives us a sense of decision and a feeling of righteous well-being.

It doesn't call on any of the other emotions for support; in-deed, it puts them quite out of court. It rejects understanding, despises tact, condemns patience, and will endure no hurt or disappointment without quick revenge.

Besides being the simplest of emotions, hate can also be the most fulfilling for a certain kind of person, because it provides him or her with a meaning to life, something to oppose, to blame, to relieve the sense of frustration or failure.

Most of all, because of its seductive simplicity, hate seems to remove the need for reasoning (an intolerable burden to many people) and for any of its auxiliary efforts, such as reading, analyzing, estimating, and judging. Hate has only one function and only one object.

Love might be compared to the building of a tall and elaborate sandcastle, taking many hours of painstaking effort, cooperation, balance, and persistence; and hate might be compared to the foot that comes along and with one vicious or thoughtless kick destroys in a moment what has been built up.

There is so little love in the world compared with the amount of hate — both expressed and latent — not because it is harder for us to be positive than negative, but because it is harder to combine and coordinate a complex emotion in a creative act than to live blindly by blaming and attacking some "enemy" for our dissatisfactions and disappointments. It takes a dedicated genius years to build a great cathedral; any desperado can bomb it to obliteration in a second. Why shouldn't hate, being so much easier, be so much more popular?


Somehow, "dedicated genius" is not a phrase I would use in describing George Bush; miserable failure, yes.

Friday, January 14, 2005

Downtime

This blog has been down for a day or so due to something going on with my webhost... They've not been at all responsive to my emails about this or any other of my sites, so I'm thinking of changing webhosts.

I have a friend in California who sells hosting, but I'm not so sure I'll be able to pay him a fair price. He's offered to give me a break, but I'm still not so sure I can make it fair for him. I got a tip from another friend last night about a reasonably-priced hosting service; a responsive one at that. I'll have to seriously consider it.

Because of the black-out blog-wise, I lost whatever urges I might have had to write. I've taken a lot of photographs recently, so I've been spending a lot of time editing them and posting them at Flickr. I've also recently figured out how to get reasonably good scans of slides using my flat-bed scanner and its backlight adapter for transmission scans.

I interviewed for a job on Monday but tanked it, I'm quite sure. During the interview, I sort of realized that the job wasn't quite suited for me anyway as it seemed to have a bit too much administrative work to tend to... In the last couple of years, I've begun to lose the best of my organizational skills (probably not very strong at best anyway!), and I'm not the detail-oriented person I once was. At least, I don't feel like I am. Too many cracks have developed in my life and I somehow keep finding every one of them into which to lose stuff.

Anyway... I doubt I'll get called back for a second interview and, frankly, I'm not so sure I'd accept the offer to interview if it came. I'd prefer to not pose as something I'm not just to get a job (despite my serious need for cash these days), but jobs that are perfect matches for me seem to be fewer and further between these days.

The weather has been rather goofy... We had a couple of days of 50-ish weather and the almost two feet of snow we recently had dumped on us completely melted. Yesterday, as I came home from snapping a few pictures and picking up some groceries, the snow started coming down like crazy and we've got an inch or two on the ground again. The photo above was taken from my balcony and I was thrilled with the way it turned out. I was dinking around, taking a photo of line patterns on the balcony when the fellow apartment dweller happened by.

Saturday, January 08, 2005

Smell

For as long as I can recall, I have had little or no sense of smell. I can smell but two things – a freshly opened can of coffee and a freshly opened jar of peanut butter. Once, while driving – and this is somewhat surprising for reasons I'll get into later – I smelled smoke from burning leaves as it wafted over the highway.

This apparent lack of a sense (don't say it!) has for the most part, not been a huge issue for me. I've had friends tell me that I should "get that checked out," and I suppose I've considered it from time to time, but I've not ever felt that disabled by my inability to smell – to detect odors, that is.

I have, unfortunately, had the ability to smell.

Perhaps the former led to the latter...

Sometimes the most difficult lessons we learn present themselves to us during the four years we spend in high school. I'm probably lucky that I went to high school when I did, as even the tiniest pimple seems to create extreme psychological distress for teenagers these days, sending them into fits of depression and suicidal behaviour.

For me, I recall it almost as if it were yesterday: It was my sophomore year; it was almost time to go to class. It was near the east stairs of the school's cafeteria when (the late) Warren Stacy decided he needed to say, "Why don't you take a bath!" No... it wasn't a question.

At that instant, I didn't quite know what he meant. But then it began to roll over me like a wave.

Of course, I didn't get it. I had bathed the night before. (At the time, we didn't have a shower in our house, so I'd take baths every night.) I recall that in my battle with acne, I'd washed my face that morning and left the soap to dry on my face (the ideas we come up with to fight that bastard acne!) – perhaps that was what prompted Warren's attack...

No... it could mean only one thing — I had body odor. B-O!

I recall the deodorant commercials at the time that were pretty malevolent towards those with (imagine the thundering deific voice echoing in your ear) "B-O" and it became very clear to me that those commercials had me as their target market.

It's funny how one tiny incident can change so much. It turned me into a fairly paranoid kid, thinking that every little whisper might be about me and my problem. In a time in which fitting in is about the only concern for most teenagers, I was not fitting in in the worst possible way.

I remain surprised to this day, actually, that if I'd had a body odor problem that my mother wouldn't have said something. She has always had the nose of a bloodhound and didn't have any qualms about telling me (or my brothers) what was wrong with us.

When I look back on Warren's lack of tact, I always wish – with the ability to turn back time – that my best friend from grade school, Bob Gladieux, would have taken me aside and said, "Listen, Pat..." I suppose that guilt by association might have had something to do with his decision to not reach out. Maybe it was awkward for him. Or, maybe Bob really didn't like me much after all.

While Warren's wake-up call got me to using deodorant (and boy, did I spray, paint and roll it on!), it didn't do much to change the treatment I got. Later that year, Tim Wiegand made an Oh-my-gawd-you-reek sound as we headed down the stairs toward the library one day.

But then, I had no way of knowing if he was being truthful or being hurtful (though I suspected the latter)... I didn't know what B-O smelled like on anyone else, much less myself, so it's not like I could take a whiff under my arm to meter my offensive levels. No doubt, I layered the deodorant on even thicker the next day. For me, fighting body odor was like being blindfolded and given a stick to swing at a piñata that I'd been told was hanging right in front of me.

Somehow I weathered the storm and made it to graduation without further incident, although I still panic a bit if I leave home in the morning without remembering to apply deodorant. Thanks, Warren!

As for my sense of smell, I have three regrets about not having a keen one.

One, I have often heard how memories are keyed by smells and with my seemingly endless interest in recalling my past, I wish I had one more device for helping my ever-thinning memory reach back in time.

Two, once – just once – I'd like to smell the nape of a woman's neck.

Three, I wish I had the ability to recognize when something is burning – it scares me to think that my home could be going up in flames and that I have to rely on smoke detectors to know it.

"But Pat," you say... "you already said you could smell smoke!"

I smelled smoke once and once only – as related back at the beginning of this meaandering post. When it comes to safety, however, I wouldn't trust my nose to be of much help.

While I was in college, I would often bake potatoes using a toaster oven, and one day while preparing to work on a term paper, I turned on the toaster oven, tossed in the potato and got to work. In an hour or so the potato would be ready, right? The oven's timer would let me know, so I didn't think much about it once into the thick of my paper.

From time to time, I'd look up from the typewriter and gaze out the sliding glass door of our apartment, either to ponder an idea or merely to give myself a break. At one point, something looked different. The view out the window, for some reason, looked a little hazy. I paid it little mind, however, and plodded on.

Eventually, I had to go to my room for something and as I entered, I found an even hazier appearance there, but still thought I was just seeing things. As I returned to my chair in the living room, however, I quickly noticed what the problem was – smoke was billowing – rippling from the toaster oven. I (or my roommate) had inadvertently left the on-off light timer (which we used for turning the coffeemaker on in the morning) on top of the oven. It was plastic and didn't do a very good job of holding up to the heat.

I can't recall much else, except that my upstairs neightbor came home shortly after I took care of the disaster. I'm guessing that she and her roommate smelled it for a while after that. I don't know how long my roomie continued to smell it.

Smell.

Yes!

For years, I have thought that something like this was necessary in order to communicate with the lower intelligent life forms!

Tuesday, January 04, 2005

Photo Weekend


Shadow White Blue #1
Not much blogging for the last couple of days as I've been keeping myself busy in other unproductive ways...

I spent about four hours last Friday taking photographs with my new digital camera. I left home and started out on Trowbridge, photographing the ridiculously-designed "turnaround" pattern. At nearly every juncture at which cars and trucks are supposed to make turnarounds from eastbound to westbound Trowbridge, there are tire tracks (some deeper than others) on the grass where trucks have driven up over curbs in order to complete their turns.

I'm intending on emailing my photos to the city manager and suggest that the planner for that project either be fired or that the city get its (our!) money back.

Okay, so...

I headed north on Harrison and was happy to find my "Snow Job" project still intact in front of the Methodist church... I was afraid that someone had picked up the paper before the last snow that we had but was happy to see otherwise. (Hmmm... now what kind of a life does that indicate I have when a piece of paper lying on the ground makes me happy?!?) I'm hoping to document the decay of the paper from now until, well, it decays beyond visibility, I guess.

As I walked, I kept a few of my Flickr groups in mind – I was looking for opposites for the Photographer's Block (Assignment) group, and numbers for the In Numerical Order group. I found plenty of the latter but I got distracted yesterday and forgot to keep up with the group... I managed to contribute 58 and had 98 ready to go, but lost out.

I spent a lot of time near Brody complex, taking a couple of panoramic shots that didn't quiet, um... pan out.

I struck gold (or shall I say, blue and white?) at the old Bud Kouts Honda dealership. I hadn't been aware they'd closed up – I'd bought my Honda Civic Wagon there shortly after Zachary was born a little under twenty years ago and I'd often fantasized about buying another Honda from them... seeing an empty showroom and parking lot was odd. I loved exploring the shapes and patterns and textures of the used car trailer that sits in the middle of the parking lot, and I must have shot a hundred frames around that lot.

I spent the better part of the rest of the evening sorting through and editing images for uploading to the Flickr site and was quite excited about a lot of the results – disappointed in others.


Last evening, I tried catching up on some DVDs I'd rented last Thursday night... I need to get them back tonight, so I crammed three-and-a-half in last night: Dirty Pretty Things, a good but frightful film about people involved with selling their bodily organs for passports (ugh!). Audrey Tatou is in it, and I rarely pass up a chance to see one of her films!

I also watched an old, old one... The Heartbreak Kid with Cybill Shepherd and Charles Grodin. Grodin plays a newlywed who is in Miami Beach on his honeymoon, meets Kelly (Shepherd), then dumps his wife (he'd realized marrying her was a mistake mid-way to Florida) to pursue the amazingly gorgeous Kelly. Eddie Alberts (Green Acres) plays Shepard's surly father wonderfully.

Sylvia was nect on the agenda and Gwyneth Paltrow played what I thought was a pretty good version of poet/novelist Sylvia Plath. There seemed to be so much of the story of her life that was left out (not that I know that much about her), and I think that her relationship with her husband was far too surface-scratching. I recently began reading The Bell Jar and have really enjoyed her use of language so far.

I wrapped up the evening with a surprisingly wicked House Of Sand And Fog. I'd known the concept of the film but didn't realize that it would get as intense as it did. It's a good film, I think, that gets you to take sides with both sides of a story, and i found myself being empathetic for both Ben Kingsley's character as well as Jennifer Connelly's.

Saturday, January 01, 2005

Happy New Year!

Well, I began posting this once, but my browser crashed while I was trying to upload a photograph. One of these days...

I had a rather uneventful New Year's Eve... I stayed home and edited the photographs I took yesterday while out for a four-hour Walk-n-Shoot™.

I was pleased to see that the paper I photographed on December 1st was still in its place awaiting the third installment of a series I hope will last until the spring (which yesterday resembled by the way).

I kept the television off all night, wanting to have nothing to do with the ever-burgeoning foolishness that television has become. No doubt everybody missed Dick Clark... Fuh!

As sunrise came this morning, I woke to it beaming in my windows and had to grab a shot quickly – my first photograph of 2005 isn't the best, but it's my first. A year ago, I probably wouldn't have thought to run grab a camera; neither would I have done it many years before that. This must be a sign of something!

With a very strange year behind me – one in which I've re-invigorated my interest in photography, got inspired to become a bit more vocal politically (albeit mostly in the form of blogging), experienced the hell known as "raging teenage hormones", lost my full-time job thanks to the state having yanked 50% of its funding to the arts...

Doors close. Doors open.

Some open for a second time... Last year, I created an alumni website for my high school (currently down due to problems with hosting), and in the process I was inspired to look up people I'd known long ago.

I found Mike Baird – one of my best friends as a kid – by doing a Google search, and finding so many results that I chose to click on Google's image search link. One of the first images that came up was one in which I recognized Mike after not having seen him in close to thirty years. He's a web developer in California. He has overcome a lot to become a successful businessman.

Alice Wilkinson – a teenage romance that never seemed to quite find its flame – lives near Chicago, two marriages and a couple of children (and step-children) later.

I located Sandy Harley, a woman I'd worked with (and fell for) when I lived in Minneapolis one summer – she's also in California and working on a Masters degree.

Sandy Pfefferle. I met her in the summer of 1978 in the parking lot of Bloomington, Minnesota's Metropolitan Stadium (where the Mall of America now sits, I believe) where I was tailgating (my first time) prior to a Minnesota Kicks (NASL) game. She gave her phone number to me and I must have dialed six of the seven numbers a dozen times – I was seeing the other Sandy at the time (or so I thought), so I couldn't quite get myself to dial the seventh. However, we talked and corresponded for a year or so after I left Minnesota; that I lived in Ohio and she in Minnesota was too difficult a commute to imagine, however, so things just petered out. She's happily married with three boys.

2004 has no doubt been an interesting year for my friends, as they've seen me become a bit more reclusive. I guess that so much of my vocation and avocation are computer-related that I find myself mercilessly tied to one. I am hoping to rectify that this year, as well as loosening up on other commitments.

I have been very lucky to know the people I call my friends; even luckier that they call me their friend. For fear of leaving someone out, I'm just going to say, "You know who you are!" and sincerely hope that covers it.

Here's to a great 2005!